proofreading team half a chance by frederic s. isham author of under the rose the lady of the mount, etc. with illustrations by herman pfeifer indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company october press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n.y. * * * * * contents part one i mr. gillett's charge ii a message to the admiralty iii an unappreciated bounty part two i the wheels of justice ii at the opera iii a lesson in botany iv tides varying v in the park vi a conference vii incidents viii a change of front ix away from the town x a contest xi ways and means xii festivities xiii the princess suite xiv an answer xv currents and counter currents xvi flight xvii the unexpected xviii through the fog xix the last shift xx the paper xxi a condition xxii near the river xxiii past and present * * * * * part one chapter i mr. gillett's charge "by all means, m'deah, let's go down between decks and have a look at them." "of course, if you wish, sir charles, although--do you think we shall be edified, mr. gillett?" "that depends, m'lady,"--and the speaker, a man with official manners and ferret-like eyes, shifted from one foot to another,--"on what degree, or particular class of criminal your ladyship would be interested in," he added. "if in the ordinary category of skittle sharper or thimblerigger," with a suspicion of mild scorn, "then i do not imagine your ladyship would find much attraction in the present cargo. but, on the other hand," in a livelier tone, "if your ladyship has any curiosity, or shall we say, a psychological bent, regarding the real out-and-outer, the excursion should be to your liking. for," rubbing his hands, "a properer lot of cutthroats and bad magsmen, it has never been my privilege to escort across the equator; and this is my sixth trip to australia!" "how interesting! how very interesting!" the lady's voice floated languidly. "sir charles is quite right. we must really go down. at any rate, it will be a change, after having been shut up so long in that terrible state-room." "one moment, m'lady! there's a little formality that must be observed first." "formality?" and the lady, who was of portly appearance and uncertain age, gazed from the speaker standing deferentially before her, to a man of size, weight and importance seated in a comfortable chair at her side. "what does he mean, sir charles?" "regulations, m'lady--m'lord!" was the answer. "no one allowed on the prisoners' deck without the captain's permission. there he is now." "then be good enough to beckon to him!" said the lady. but this mr. gillett, agent of the police, discreetly declined to do; captain macpherson was a man not to be beckoned to by any one; much less by him. as he stood squarely in the center of the ship, he looked like a mariner capable of commanding his boat and all the people aboard; indeed, some of the characteristics of his vessel seemed to have entered into his own make-up; the man matched the craft. broad-nosed, wide of beam, big, massive, obstinate-looking, the _lord nelson_ plowed aggressively through the seas. with every square sail tugging hard at her sturdy masts, she smote and over-rode the waves, and, beating them down, maintained an unvarying, stubborn poise. but although she refused to vacillate or shuffle to the wooing efforts of the uneasy waters, she progressed not without noise and pother; foamed and fumed mightily at the bow and left behind her a wake, receding almost as far as the eyes might reach. captain macpherson looked after the bubbles, cast his glance aloft at the bulging patches of white, and then condescended to observe the agent of the police who had silently approached. "sir charles and lady, and sir charles' party have expressed, captain macpherson, the desire to obtain permission to visit the prisoners' deck." captain macpherson looked toward sir charles and his lady, the other passengers lounging around them, a little girl, at the rail, her hair, blown windward, a splash of gold against the blue sky. "what for?" said the skipper bruskly. "to have a look at the convicts, i suppose." "what good'll that do them?" growled the commander. "idle curiosity, that's what i call it. well, go along. only, i'll hold you accountable, and bear this in your mind, no tracts!" "i don't think," replied mr. gillett with some asperity, "you need be apprehensive on that score, captain macpherson. sir charles and m'lady are not that sort." "well, keep them away from the bars. the weather has nae improved the tempers of a few of the rapscallions, and they'd like naught better than a chance for their claws." "thanks for the permission, and," a little stiffly, "the admonition, which latter," turning away, "a man whose lifelong profession has been dealing with convicts is most likely to stand in need of and heed." captain macpherson frowned, stumped the other way, then looked once more aloft, and, by the exercise of that ingenuity peculiarly his own, found new tasks for the sailors. aboard any ship, especially a ship of this character, it was his theory and practice that discipline could not be too strictly maintained and the men on the _lord nelson_ knew no idle moments. "may i go, too?" the child with the golden hair desisted in her occupation of watching the flying-fish and other _real_-winged creatures, and, leaving the rail, walked toward the group that was about to follow mr. gillett. she was a very beautiful girl of ten or eleven; slim, delicately fashioned, of a definite proud type. but although she held herself erect, in an unconscious patrician sort of way, there was, also, about her something wayward and different from the conventional, aristocratic set. the disordered golden hair proclaimed it, while in the depths of the fine, blue eyes manifold changing lights told of a capriciousness out of the pale of a stiffly decorous and well-contained caste. "may i go, too, aunt?" she repeated. "why, of course!" interposed a blasé, cynical-appearing young man who had just emerged from the cabin. "don't know where she wants to go, or what she wants to do; but don't say she can't; really you mustn't, now." "well, since you insist on spoiling her, lord ronsdale--" he twisted a blond mustache which adorned a handsome face that bore many marks of what is called experience of the world. "couldn't do that! besides, jocelyn and i are great chums, don't you know. we're going to be married some day when she grows up." "_are_ we?" said the child. "the man _i_ marry must be very big and strong, and must _not_ have light hair." lord ronsdale laughed tolerantly. "plenty of time for you to change your mind, don't you know. meanwhile, i'll not despair. faint heart, and so on. but," turning to sir charles, "where is it she 'wants to go?'" "to see the convicts." "convicts? ah!" he spoke rather more quickly than usual, with accent sharper. "you didn't know who your neighbors were going to be when you decided so suddenly to accompany us?" "no." his voice had a metallic sound. sir charles addressed mr. gillett. "tell us something more definite about your charges whom we are going to inspect. meant to have found out earlier in the voyage, but been so jolly seasick, what with one gale after another, i for one, until now, haven't much cared whether we had claude duval and dick turpin themselves for neighbors, or whether we all went straight to davy jones' locker together. a bad lot, you have already informed us! but how bad?" "well, we haven't exactly m. duval or mr. turpin in the pen, but we've one or two others almost as celebrated in their way. there's billy burke, as desperate a cracksman as the country can produce, with," complacently, "a record second to none in his class. he"--and mr. gillett, with considerable zest entered into the details of mr. burke's eventful and rapacious career. "then there's the ''frisco pet,' or the 'pride of golden gate,' as some of the sporting papers call him." "the 'frisco pet!" lord ronsdale started; his color slightly changed; his lashes drooped over his cold eyes. "he is on board this vessel?" "yes; you remember him, my lord, i dare say?" "in common with many others," shortly. "many of the gentry and titled classes did honor him with their attention, i believe." "why," asked jocelyn, whose blue eyes were fastened very intently on the face of the police agent, "did they call him such a funny name, the 'frisco pet?" "because he's a yankee bruiser, prize-fighter, or was, before the drink got him," explained mr. gillett. "and originally, i believe, he hailed from the land of the free. some one brought him to london, found out about his 'talents' and put him in training. he was a low, ignorant sailor; could scarcely write his own name; but he had biceps and a thick head. didn't know when he was whipped. i can see him yet, as he used to look, with his giant shoulders and his swagger as he stepped into the ring. there was no nonsense about him--or his fist; could break a board with that. and how the shouts used to go up; 'the pet!' 'a quid on the pet!' 'ten bob on the stars and stripes!' meaning the costume he wore. oh, he was a favorite in camden town! but one night he failed them; met some friends from the forecastle of a yankee trader that had dropped down the thames. went into the ring with a stagger added to the swagger. well, they took him out unconscious; never was a man worse punished. he never got back to the sawdust, and the sporting gentlemen lost a bright and shining light." "broke his heart, i suppose," observed sir charles. "how could that break his heart?" asked the child wonderingly. "i thought when people had their hearts broken--" "jocelyn, don't interrupt!" said the wife of sir charles. "although," to her husband, in a lower tone, "i must confess these details a little tiresome!" "not a bit!" sir charles' voice rose in lively protest. "i remember out in australia reading about the fellow in the sporting papers from home, and wondering what had become of him. so that was it? go on, mr. gillett! with your permission, m'love!" the police agent proceeded. "after that it was a case of the rum and the toss-pots, and when he was three sheets in the wind, look out for squalls! he got put in quad, broke out, overpowered and nearly killed two guards. took to various means of livelihood, until they got him again. trouble in prison; transferred to the solitary with a little punishment thrown in for a reminder. when he got out of limbo again, he lived in bad company, in one of the tunnels near the adelphi; hard place for the police to rout a cove from. then followed a series of rough bungling jobs he was supposed to have been mixed up in. at any rate, he got the credit. more hazards than loot! he had too heavy fingers for anything fine; but he made it quite interesting for the police, quite interesting! so much so, he attracted _me_, and i concluded to take a hand, to direct the campaign against him, as it were." mr. gillett paused; obviously in his case egotism allied to enthusiasm made his duties a pleasure; he seemed now briefly commending himself in his own mind. "up to this time," he resumed, "our friend, the ex-pugilist, had never actually killed any one, but soon after i engaged myself to look after him, word was brought to the department that a poor woman had been murdered, a cheap music-hall dancer. she had seen better days, however." lord ronsdale, who had been looking away, yawned, as if finding the police agent "wordy," then strolled to the rail. "suspicion pointed strongly in his direction; and we got him after a struggle. it was a hard fight, without a referee, and maybe we used him a little rough, but we had to. then dandy joe was brought in. joe's a plain, mean little gambler and race-track follower, with courage not big enough for broad operations. but he had a wide knowledge of what we term the thieves' catacombs, and, well, he 'peached' on the big fellow. gave testimony that was of great service to the prosecution. the case seemed clear enough; there was some sort of contrary evidence put in, but it didn't amount to anything. his record was against him and he got a heavy sentence, with death as a penalty, if he ever sets foot in england again." "what," asked mr. gillett's youngest listener, "is 'peached'?" "in school-girl parlance, it is, i believe, to 'tell on' some one." "you mean a tattle-tale?" scornfully. "i hate them." "they have their uses," he answered softly. "and i'm rather partial to them, myself. but if you are ready, m'lord--m'lady--" "quite! egad! i'm curious to have a look at the fellow. used to like to see a good honest set-to myself occasionally, before i became--ahem!--governor!" and rising with alacrity, sir charles assisted his lady from her chair. "coming, ronsdale?" "believe i won't go down," drawled the nobleman at the rail. "air better up here," he explained. sir charles laughed, got together the other members of his party and all followed mr. gillett to a narrow companion way. there a strong iron door stopped their progress, but, taking a key from his pocket the police agent thrust it into a great padlock, gave it a turn, and swung back the barrier. before them stretched a long aisle; at each end stood a soldier, with musket; on one side were the cells, small, heavily-barred. the closeness of the air was particularly and disagreeably noticeable; here sunlight never entered, and the sullen beating of the waves against the wooden shell was the only sound that disturbed the tomb-like stillness of the place. one or two of the party looked soberer; the child's eyes were large with awe and wonder; she regarded, not without dread, something moving, a shape, a human form in each terrible little coop. but mr. gillett's face shone with livelier emotions; he peered into the cells at his charges with a keen bright gaze that had in it something of the animal tamer's zest for his part. "well, how are we all to-day?" he observed in his most animated manner to the guard. "all doing well?" "number six complained of being ill, but i say it's only the dumps. number fourteen's been garrulous." "garrulous, eh? not a little flighty?" the guard nodded; mr. gillett whispered a few instructions, asked a number of other questions. meanwhile the child had paused before one of the cells and, fascinated, was gazing within. what was it that held her? the pity of the spectacle? the terror of it? her blue eyes continued to rest on the convict, a young fellow of no more than one-and-twenty, of magnificent proportions, but with face sodden and brutish. for his part he looked at her, open-mouthed, with an expression of stupid surprise at the sight of the figure so daintily and slenderly fashioned, at the tangles of bright golden hair that seemed to have imprisoned some of the sunshine from above. "well, i'm blowed!" he muttered hoarsely. "where'd you come from? looks like one o' them bally christmas dolls had dropped offen some counter in fleet street and got in here by mistake!" a mist sprang to the blue eyes; she held her white, pretty fingers tight against her breast. "it must be terrible--here"--she said falteringly. the convict laughed harshly. "hell!" he said laconically. the child trembled. "i'm sorry," she managed to say. the fierce dark eyes stared at her. "what for?" "because--you have to stay here--" "well, i'm--" but this time he apparently found no adequate adjective. "if this ain't the rummiest christmas doll!" she put out her hand. "here's something for you, poor man," she said, as steadily as she could. "it's my king george gold piece, date , and belonged to my father who wore it on his watch chain and who is dead. perhaps they'll let you buy something with it." he looked at the hand. "if she ain't stickin' out her duke to me, right through the bars. blamed if she ain't! looks like a lily! a bally white lily!" he repeated wonderingly. "one of them kind we wonst run acrost when the cap. turned us adrift on an island, jest to waller in green grass!" "don't you want it?" said the child. he extended a great, coarse hand hesitatingly, as if half-minded to and half-minded not to touch the white finger-tips. "you ain't afraid?" the golden head shook ever so slightly; again the big hand went toward the small one, then suddenly dropped. "right this way m'lord--m'lady!" the face of the convict abruptly changed; fury, hatred, a blind instinct to kill were unmistakably revealed in his countenance as he heard the bland voice of the police agent. from the child's hand the gold disk fell and rolled under the wooden slab that served as a couch in the cell. "jocelyn!" the expostulating tones of the governor's wife preceded the approach of the party. "what are you doing, child, so near the bars?" "good heavens!" mr. gillett seized the girl's arm and abruptly drew her away. "my dear little lady!" he said. "really you don't know the danger you run. and near that cell of all of them!" "that cell?" observed sir charles. "then that is--" "the convict i was telling you about! the 'pet of 'frisco.' the 'pride of golden gate.'" * * * * * chapter ii a message to the admiralty the following night, captain macpherson in his cabin, rolled up carefully the chart he had been scanning, deposited it in a copper cylinder and drew from his pocket a small pipe. as he filled and lighted it, exhaling the smoke of the black weed and leaning more comfortably back in his low, swinging chair, the expression of his iron countenance exhibited, in the slightest degree, that solace which comes from the nicotine. occasionally, however, he would hold his pipe away from his mouth, to pause and listen. the weather had turned nasty again; above, the wind sounded loudly. now it descended on the ship like a fierce-scolding virago, then rushed on with wild, shrieking dissonance. the _lord nelson_ minded not, but continued steadily on her way. her captain emptied his pipe, glanced toward his bunk and started to take off his coat. human nature has its limit; he had passed many sleepless nights and now felt entitled to a brief respite, especially as the chart showed neither reef nor rock anywhere in the neighborhood. but he had only one arm out of the garment when something happened that caused him to change his mind; abruptly hurled to the other end of the cabin, he found himself lying, half-stunned, on the floor. a hubbub of noises filled the air, snappings, crashings, the rending of woodwork. captain macpherson staggered to his feet, and, swaying like a drunken man, stood a few moments holding his hand to his brow. then his fist clenched and he shook it at the cylinder that had fallen from the table. "ye viperous, lying thing!" he cried, and ran from the cabin to the deck. a single glance told all: two of the ship's giant spars had gone by the board; entangled in her own wreckage, the vessel thumped and pounded with ominous violence against some sunken reef. the full scope of the plight of the once noble ship was plainly made manifest. though thick streams of scud sped across the sky, the southern moon at the moment looked down between two dark rivulets, and cast its silvery glow like a lime-light, over the spectacle. captain macpherson groaned. "mr. o'brien!" he called loudly. "aye, aye, sir." "how long do you give her?" "half an hour, sir." the master shook his head. "she'll nae last that long." and holding to a stanchion, he seemed like a man in a dream. "any orders, sir?" asked the chief mate. captain macpherson recovered himself; his tone became once more quick and incisive. "ye're right; i'm gone daffy. we'll get this business over in a decorous and decent manner. and, mr. o'brien--lest i have nae time to speak of it later--should ye get ashore, and ever find yourself in the neighborhood o' piccadilly, be so gude as to drop into the admiralty office and say captain macpherson sends his compliments, and--to the diel with their charts!" "i'll not forget, sir!" a number of orders followed. as the chief mate disappeared to execute the commands he had received, the harsh noises of the breaking ship, the seething of the sea about her, the flapping of canvas, like helpless broken wings, was supplemented by a babel of new and terrifying sounds, the screaming and cursing of the convicts below, their blasphemous shrieking to be let out! to this turmoil and uproar were added the frantic appeals and inquiries of the passengers who, more or less dressed, had hurried to the deck and who were now speaking to the master of the ill-starred vessel. he answered them briefly: what could be done, would be done. "it's a question of the boats, i suppose?" sir charles, one of the calmest of the ship's cabin party, asked quickly. "in ten minutes they'll be ready for the launching with nae lack of water and provision. get plenty of wraps and greatcoats. it'll be a bit disagreeable, nae doubt, out yon in the wee craft!" "wee craft!" the voice of the governor's lady--she was clinging to her husband's arm--rose shrilly. "you surely are not going to send us out there in one of these miserable cockleshells?" "m'love!" sir charles expostulated mildly drawing her closer as he spoke, "it's the only chance, and--" then to the captain half-apologetically--"she'll meet it with me, as she has met danger before, in the bush, like a true english-woman! but what," indicating the convicts' deck, "what about them? it seems inhuman, yet if they were let out--" "they must not be!" lord ronsdale's metallic voice interposed quickly. "i call upon you, captain macpherson, in the name of the women and children--" "i've thought about that," said captain macpherson shortly, and turned to his task. the boat was soon overhauled, the lockers and water-butt were filled, and the passengers, one by one, set into it. on the whole, at that moment for leaving the ship, their conduct left little room for criticism; one or two of the women who had appeared on the verge of hysterics now restrained audible manifestation of emotion. sir charles proved a monument of helpfulness; assisted in placing the women here and there, and extended a helpful hand to lord ronsdale, who had become somewhat dazed and inert. total darkness added to the difficulties of their task, for the moon which until then had shone with much luster now went behind a curtain of cloud. but captain macpherson coolly called out by name the men to handle the life-boat, and, with no evidence of disorder, they crowded in, none too soon! as the boat with its human freight hung in readiness for the lowering, the remaining spar of the _lord nelson_ fell with a mighty crash. "remember the name of your ship, lads!" captain macpherson's voice seemed to anticipate a movement of panic among the seamen on deck; if there had been any intention to "rush" the already well-loaded boat, it was stayed. "mr. gillett, i'll be troubling ye for the keys to the convicts' deck. mr. o'brien, get in and take charge. steer southeast with a bit of rag; it's your best chance to get picked up. hold near the ship until the other boat with the crew can come alongside. it's as well to keep company. are the lines clear? let her go." the boat was lowered and at the right moment touched a receding wave. captain macpherson waited until the chief officer called out that they were safely away, then gave his last order: "and now, lads, ye can be lookin' to yourselves!" they did; the master turned and with some difficulty made his way toward the convicts' cells. her decks soon deserted, the ship, like a living, writhing thing, seemed to struggle and groan, as if every timber were crying out in vain protest against the tragic consummation. but only an irrevocable voice answered, that of the mocking sea beating harder, the cruel sea, spotted here and there with black patches between which splashes of light revealed the wild waves throwing high their curd in the cold, argent glimmer. one of these illuminating dashes, as if in a spirit of irony, moved toward the ship, almost enveloped it and showed suddenly a number of mad, leaping human figures issuing with horrible cries from one of the hatches. "the life rafts! old man said the boats were gone." "rafts good enough for the likes of us, eh? well, he's paid for keeping us down so long. blime if i don't think slick sam killed him." "the rafts!" shrieking, calling down maledictions on the captain, they ran about, when suddenly an angry black wave swept the deck; a few went overboard with the hissing crest; several were hurled against the bulwarks, limp, lifeless things, swirled back and forth. one of their number, a big fellow of unusual strength, was shot toward the open companionway leading to the main cabin; as he plunged down, he clutched at and caught the railing. considerably shaken, dripping with water, he pulled himself together, and, raising a face, sodden and fierce, like a beast brought to bay, he looked around him. the light of one or two swinging lamps that had not yet been shattered revealed dimly the surroundings, the dark leather upholstering, the little tables. uncertainly the convict paused; then suddenly his eyes brightened; the lustful anticipation of the drunkard who had long been denied shone from his gaze as it rested on a sideboard across the cabin. "bottles!" he said, steadying himself. "rum! well, i guess there ain't much chance for any of us, and a man's a fool to go to hell thirsty!" he had started toward the sideboard with its bright gleaming ware and its divers and sundry receptacles of spirits and liqueurs, when suddenly his look changed, and his jaw fell. "what the--" a flow of choice billingsgate, mingled with the sailor's equally eloquent golden-gate, completed the sentence. the convict stood stock-still. from the door of a state-room at the far end of the cabin a figure appeared. a great shawl draped the small form; the golden hair, a flurry of tangles, floated around it. clinging to a brass rail that ran along the side of the cabin, she approached, her eyes all alight as if well satisfied with something. amazed beyond power of action, the man continued to gaze at her, at the tiny feet in the little pink slippers, at something she carried. "by the great horn spoon, the christmas doll!" he muttered hoarsely. then forgetting his purpose, the bottles, he lurched quickly toward her. "wat you doin' here?" he demanded. "i slipped out," said the child, holding the rail tighter, as perforce she paused to answer. "i thought it would take only a moment." "slipped out?" he repeated. "of the life-boat, i mean. it was dark and they didn't see me. i just happened to think, and i had to do it. if i'd told them, they mightn't have let me. it would have been very wicked if i'd gone away and forgotten--don't you think so? and now i'm going back! only i am afraid i've been longer than i thought i would be. the door of my state-room seemed to stick, and i was a few minutes getting it open." beneath disheveled masses of thick dark hair, the brutish face continued to study the fairylike one; for the instant words seemed to fail him. "do ye mean," he observed, "you come back here for that measly dicky-bird?" "it isn't 'measly' and it isn't a 'dicky-bird!'" she answered indignantly. "and i'll thank you not to call it that. it's a love-bird, and its name is dearie!" "'dearie'! ho! ho!" the ship reeled at a dangerous angle, but the convict appeared not to notice; his voice rose in harsh, irresistible rough merriment. "'dearie'! and she thanks me not to call it names! it! no bigger'n my thumb! ho! ho!" his laughter, strange at such a moment, died abruptly. "do you know what you've gone and done on account of what's in that cage?" he demanded almost fiercely. "you've got left!" "left?" said she blankly, shrinking from him a little. "you don't mean--oh, i thought i would be only a minute! they haven't really gone, and--" the great fingers closed on her arm. "they've gone and the crew's gone! both boats are gone!" "oh!" the big blue eyes widened on him; an inkling of her plight seemed to come over her; her lips trembled, but she held herself bravely. "you mean--we must drown?" the thunder of seas breaking on the deck answered; a cascade of water dashed down the companionway and swept round them. the man bent toward the child. "look a' that! now ain't ye sorry ye come back?" "i couldn't leave it to drown!" passionately--"couldn't!--couldn't!" "blow me, she's game!" with difficulty he maintained his equilibrium. "see here: maybe there's a chance, if any of them's left to help with the raft. but we've got to git out o' this!" he passed his hand through her arm, awaited a favorable moment, and then, making a dash for the stairs, drew her, as best he might, to the deck. at the head of the companionway, the wind smote them fiercely with sheets of foam, but his strength stood him in good stead, and bracing himself hard, the man managed to maintain his stand; holding the child close to him, he sheltered her somewhat from the full force of the storm. as he cast his glance over the deck, an oath burst from his lips; the convicts had succeeded in launching one of the rafts and leaving the ship by means of it, or else had been carried away by the seas. of living man, he caught no sight; only a single one of the dead yet remained, sliding about on the slippery planks with the movement of the ship; now to leeward, now rushing in a contrary direction, as if some grotesque spirit of life yet animated the dark, shapeless form. from wave-washed decks the man's glance turned to the sea; suddenly he started; his eyes straining, he stared hard. "maybe they've missed you. one of the ship's boats seems headin' this way!" her gaze followed his; at intervals through driving spray a small craft could be discerned, not far distant, now riding high on a crest, now vanishing in a black furrow. "are they coming back to save us?" asked the child. the convict did not answer. could the boat make the ship, could it hope to, in that sea? it was easier getting away than getting back. besides, the opportunity for a desperate, heroic attempt to come alongside was not to be given her, for scarcely had they caught sight of her, when the stern of the _lord nelson_, now filled with water from the inflow at the bow, began to settle more rapidly. then came a frightful wrenching and the vessel seemed to break in two. "put yer arms round my neck," said the man, stooping. she put one of them around; with the other held up the cage. he opened the door of the wickerwork prison and a tiny thing flew out. then he straightened. both arms were around him now. "'fraid?" he whispered hoarsely. the child shook her head. an instant he waited, then launched himself forward. buffeted hither and thither, he made a fierce fight for the rail, reached it, and leaped far out into the seething waters. * * * * * chapter iii an unappreciated bounty in the prime of his belligerent career the pet of 'frisco had undergone many fierce contests and withstood some terrible punishments, but never had he undertaken a task calling for greater courage and power of endurance than the one he had this night voluntarily assumed. dashed about by the seas, he yet managed to keep to the surface; minutes seemed to lengthen into eternity; many times he called out loudly. the arms about his neck relaxed, but he held the child to him. not for an instant did the temptation come to him to release her that he might the more surely save himself. overwhelmed again and again by the waves, each time he emerged with her tight against his breast; half-strangled, he continued to fight on. but at length even his dogged obstinacy and determination began to flag; he felt his strength going, when raising his eyes he saw one of the small craft from the lost vessel bearing directly down upon him. the sight inspired new energy and effort; nearer, nearer, she drew; now she was but a few yards away. then suddenly the sheet of the life-boat went out and the little sail fluttered like a mad thing, while the men bent with might and main over their ash handles in the endeavor to obey the commands of the chief mate in the stern. but despite skill and strength she was not easy to steer; once she nearly capsized; then eager hands reached over the side. the convict held up the child; a voice--the police agent's--called out that they "had her"; and then the mate broke in with harsh, warning yells. "pull port!--quick!--or we're over!" and at once the outreaching arms returned quickly to their task; as the child was drawn in, oars dragged and tugged; the life-boat came slowly about, shipping several barrels of water. at the same time some one made the loosened sheet taut, the canvas caught the gust and the craft gained sufficient headway to enable her to run over, and not be run down by the seas. as she careened and plunged, racing down a frothing dark billow, the convict, relieved of his burden, clung to the lower gunwale. by a desperate effort he drew himself up, when a face vaguely remembered--as part of a bad dream--looked into his, with a dash of surprise. "eh?--gimme a hand--" the asked-for hand swept suddenly under the one grasping the side of the boat, and shot up sharply. in the darkness and confusion no one saw the act. the convict disappeared, but his half-articulate curses followed. "the fellow's let go," muttered lord ronsdale with a shiver. at the steering oar the chief mate, hearing the cries of the man, cast a swift glance over his shoulder and hesitated. to bring the boat, half-filled with water, around now, meant inevitable disaster; one experiment of the sort had well-nigh ended in their all being drowned. he knew he was personally responsible for the lives in his charge; and with but an instant in which to decide, he declined to repeat the risk. "he's probably gone by this time, anyhow," he told himself, and drove on. the convict, however, was not yet quite "gone"; as the boat receded rapidly from view, becoming smaller and smaller, he continued mechanically to use his arms. but he had as little heart as little strength to go on with the uneven contest. "he's done me! done me!" he repeated to himself. "and i ain't never goin' to git a chance to fix him," he thought, and looked despairingly at the sky. the dark rushing clouds looked like black demons; the stars they uncovered were bright gleaming dagger points. "ain't never!--the slob!" and with a flood of almost sobbing invective he let himself go. but as the waters closed over him and he sank, his hand, reaching blindly out to grip in imagination the foe, touched something round--like a serpent, or an eel. his fingers closed about it--it proved to be a line; he drew himself along, and to his surprise found himself again on the surface, and near a great fragment of wreckage. this he might have discovered earlier, but for the anger and hatred that had blinded him to all save the realization of his inability to wreak vengeance. now, though he managed to reach the edge of the swaying mass from which the line dangled, he was too weak to draw himself up on the floating timbers. but he did pass a loop beneath his arms, and, thus sustained, he waited for his strength to return. finally, his mind in a daze, the convict clambered, after repeated efforts, upon the wreckage, fastened the line about him again, and, falling into a saucer-like hollow, he sank into unconsciousness. the night wore on; he did not move. the sea began to subside; still he lay as if dead. dawn's rosy lips kissed away the black shadows, touched tenderly the waves' tops, and at length the man stirred. he tried to sit up, but at first could not. finally he raised himself and looked about him. no other sign of the vessel than that part of it which had served him so well could he see; this fragment seemed rent from the bow; yes, there was the yellow wooden mermaid bobbing to the waves; but not as of old! poor cast-out trollop,--now the seas made sport of her who once had held her head so high! the convict continued to gaze out over the ocean. far away, a dark fringe broke the sea-line--a suggestion of foliage--an island, or a mirage? tantalizing, it lay like a shadow, illusive, unattainable as the "forgotten isles." the man staggered to his feet; his garments were torn; his hair hung over his brow. he shook his arms at the island;--this phantasy, this vain, empty vision, he regarded it now as some savage creature might a bone just out of its reach; from his lips vile words fell--to be suddenly hushed. between him and what he gazed at, along the range of vision, an object on one of the projecting timbers caught his eye. it was very small, but it gleamed like a spark sprung from the embers of the dawn. "the dicky-bird!" his dried lips tried to laugh. "ef it ain't the dicky-bird!" the bird looked at him. "ef that doesn't beat--" but he could not think what it "beat." the bird cocked its head. "ain't ye afeard o' me?" it gave a feeble chirp. "well, i'm damned!" said the man, and after this mild expression of his feelings, forgot to curse again. he even began to eye the island with a vague questioning wonder, as if asking himself what means might be thought of that would enable him to reach it; but the problem seemed to be beyond solution. the wreckage, like a great lump, lay supinely on the surface of the water; he could not hope to move it. the day slowly passed; the sun dried his clothes; once or twice the bird made a sound--a plaintive little tone--and involuntarily the man moved with care, thinking not to frighten it. but caution in that regard seemed unnecessary, for the bird appeared very tame and not at all averse to company. toward noon the man began to suffer more acutely from thirst, and drawing out a sailors' oilskin pouch, one of the few possessions he had been allowed by the police to retain, he took from it a piece of tobacco which he began to chew. at the same time he eyed the rest of the contents--half a ship's biscuit, some matches and a mariner's thimble. the biscuit he broke, and threw a few crumbs, where the timbers were dry, near the bird. for a long time it looked at the tiny white morsels; but finally, conquering shyness, hopped from its perch and tentatively approached the banquet. hours went by; the man chewed; the bird pecked. that night it rained in real, tropical earnest, and he made a water vessel of his shoe, drank many times, ate a few mouthfuls of biscuit, and then placed the filled receptacle where he had thrown the crumbs. as he did so he found himself wondering if the dawn would reveal his little feathered shipmate or whether it had been swept away by the violence of the rain. the early shafts of day showed him the bird on its perch; it had apparently found shelter from the heavy down-pour beneath some out-jutting timber and seemed no worse for the experience. the man's second glance was in the direction of the island; what he saw brought a sudden exclamation to his lips. the land certainly seemed much nearer; some current was sweeping them toward it slowly, but irresistibly. the 'frisco pet swore joyfully; his eyes shone. "i may do him yet!" he muttered. the bird chirped; he looked at it. "breakfast, eh?" he said and tossed a few more crumbs near the shoe. the second day on the floating bow, he brooded a great deal; the sharper pangs of hunger assailed him; he grew desperately impatient, the distance to the island decreased so gradually. a breeze from the coveted shore fanned his cheek; he fancied it held them back, and fulminated against it,--the beneficent current,--the providential timbers! a feeling of blind helplessness followed; the sun, beating down fiercely, made him light-headed. hardly knowing what he did, he drew forth the last little bit of the biscuit, ground it between his teeth and greedily swallowed it. the act seemed to sober him; he raised his big hand to his brow and looked at "dearie"; through the confusion of his thoughts he felt he had done some despicable thing. "that weren't fair play, were it now?" he said, looking at the bird. "that ain't like a pal," he repeated. the bird remained silent; he fancied reproach in its bead-like eyes, they seemed to bore into him. "and you such a small chap, too!" he muttered; then he turned his back on the island, and, with head resting on his elbow, uttered no further complaint. that second day on the raft seemed much longer than the first; the second night of infinitely greater duration than the preceding one; but dawn revealed the island very near, so near, indeed, the bird made up its mind to try to reach it. it looked at the man for a moment and then flew away. long he watched it, a little dark spot--now that he could no longer see the ruby on its breast! at length it was lost to sight; swallowed up by the green blur. the small winged creature gone, the man missed it. "'peared like 'twas glad to leave such a pal!" he thought regretfully. the floating timbers became well-nigh intolerable; he kept asking himself if he could swim to land, but, knowing his weakness from long fasting, he curbed his impatience. his eyes grew tired with staring at the longed-for spot; he suffered the torments of tantalus, and finally could endure them no longer. so making his clothes into a bundle, he tied them around his neck and slipped into the water. half an hour later found him, prone and exhausted, on the yellow sands. near-by, tall and stately trees nodded at him; close at hand a great crab regarded him with reflective interest, hesitating between prudence and carnivorous desire. gluttonous inclination to sample the goods the gods had provided prevailed over caution; it moved quickly forward, when what it had considered only an unexpected and welcome _pièce de résistance_ abruptly got up. the tables were turned; that which came to dine was dined upon; a crushing blow demonstrated the law of the survival of the fittest; the weaker adorned the board. the man tore it to bits, ate it like the famished animal he was. more freely his blood coursed; he looked around; saw other creatures and laughed. there seemed little occasion for any one to starve here; the isle, a beautiful emerald on the breast of the sea, became a fair battle-ground; all he needed was a club and he soon found that. for a week nothing of moment interrupted the even tenor of his existence; he led the life of a savage and found it to his liking, pounced upon turtles and cooked them, kept his fire going because he had but few matches. lying before the blaze at night, near a little spring, he told himself that this was better than being behind prison bars; true, he lacked company, but he had known worse solitude--the "solitary." in it, he had lain on the hard stones; here he had soft moss. if only he could reach out and touch those he hated--the unknown enemy whose face had bent over him a fleeting instant ere he had struck his hand from the gunwale; dandy joe and the police agent--if only they, too, were here, the place would have been world enough for him. but then, he felt, the time for the reckoning must come,--it lay somewhere in the certain future. unconscious fatalist, he nourished the conviction as he nourished the coals of his fire. other means to enhance his physical comfort chance afforded him; the fleshpots were supplemented with a beverage, stronger and more welcome than that which bubbled and trickled so musically at his feet. one day a box was washed ashore; a message from the civilized centers to the field of primitive man! on its cover were the words, "via sailing vessel, _lord nelson_" followed by the address. the convict pried the boards apart and gave a shout. rum!--and plenty of it!--bottle after bottle, in an overcoat of straw, nestling lovingly one upon another. the man licked his lips; knocked off a neck, drank deep, and then, stopping many times, carried his treasure to his bower. day after day turned its page, merged into the past; sometimes, perforce, he got up, and, not a pleasant thing to look at, staggered to the beach with his club. there he would slay some crawling thing from the sea, return with his prize to mingle eating with drinking, until sated with both, he would fall back unconscious among the flowers. but the prolonged indulgence began to have a marked effect on his store; bottle after bottle was tossed off; the empty shells flung aside to the daisies. at length the day came when only two bottles remained in the case, one full pair, sole survivors of the lot. the man took them out, set them up and regarded them; a sense of impending disaster, of imminent tragedy, shivered through his dulled consciousness. he reached for the bottles and fondled them, started to knock the head from one and put it down. resisting desire, he told himself he would have a look at the beach; the ocean had generously cast one box of well-primed bottles at his feet; perhaps it would repeat its hospitable action and make him once more the recipient of its bounty. the thought buoyed him to the shore; the sea lapped the sand with lydian whispers, and there, beyond the edge of the soft singing ripples, he saw something that made him rub his dazed eyes. a box!--a big box!--a box as tall as he was! no paltry dozen or two this time! perhaps there was whisky, too; and the bubbling stuff the long-necked lords had sometimes pressed upon him in the past, when he had "ousted" his man and put quids in their pockets; or some of that fiery _vin_--something he had once indulged in with a johnny frenchman before he took to the tunnel, when he had been free to swagger through old leicester square. anyhow, he would soon find out, and, rushing through the water, he laid a proprietary hand on the box. but to his disappointment, he could not move it; strong though he was, its great weight defied him. ingenuity came to his aid, for, after a moment's pondering, he left the box to the sea and made his way back to the forest. when he returned he bore on his shoulder a straight, stout limb which he had wrenched from a tree, and in his hand he carried a great stone. the former became a lever, the latter, a fulcrum; and, by patient exercise of one of the simple principles of physics, he managed, at length, to transfer the large box from ocean to land. to break it open was his next problem, and no easy one, for the boards were thick, the nails many and formidable. a long time he battered and battered in vain with his rocks, but, after an hour or so, he succeeded in splintering his way through the tough pine. his exertions did not end here; an inner sheeting of tin caused him to frown; more furiously he attacked this with sharp bits of coral, cutting and bruising his hands. unmindful of pain, he was enabled at length to pull back a portion of the protecting metal and reveal the contents of the packing-case. in his befuddled, half-crazed condition, he had thought only of bottles; what he found proved a different sort of merchandise. maddened, he tossed and scattered the contents of the box on the beach. the ocean had deceived him, laughed at him, cheated him. he turned from the shore unsteadily, walked back to his camp and knocked the neck from one of the two remaining bottles. a few hours later, sodden, sottish, he lay without motion, face to the sky. and as he breathed thickly, one bleeding hand still holding the empty bottle, a bird from an overhanging branch looked down upon him: a tiny bird, little bigger than his thumb, that carried a bright, beautiful spot of red on its breast, cocked its head questioningly. * * * * * part two chapter i the wheels of justice london, in the spring! sunshine; the thames agleam with silver ripples, singing as it flows; red sails! joyous london that has emerged from fogs and basks beneath blue skies! thoroughfares that give forth a glad hum; wheels singing, too; whips that crack in sprightly arpeggios. on the streets, people, not shadows, who walk with a swing; who really seem to breathe and not slink uncannily by! eyes that regard you with human expression; faces that seem capable of emotion; figures adorned in keeping with the bright realities of the moment. london; old london young again; grimy, repulsive london now bright, shimmering, beautiful! in such a london, on such a day, about ten o'clock in the morning, three persons whose appearance distinguished them from the ordinary passers-by, turned into a narrow thoroughfare not far from the strand. "quite worth while going to hear john steele conduct for his client, i assure you!" observed one, a tall, military-looking man, who walked with a slight limp and carried a cane. "he's a new man, but he's making his mark. when he asked to be admitted to the english bar, he surprised even his examiners. his summing-up in the doughertie murder case was, i heard his lordship remark, one of the most masterly efforts he ever listened to. just tore the circumstantial evidence to pieces and freed his man! besides his profession at the bar, he is an unusually gifted criminologist; takes a strong personal interest in the lowest riffraff; is writing a book, i understand--one of the kind that will throw a new light on the subject." "just what is a criminologist?" the speaker, a girl of about eighteen, turned as she lightly asked the question, to glance over her shoulder toward several persons who followed them. "one who seeks to apply to the criminal the methods of psychology, psychiatry and anthropology," he answered with jesting impressiveness. she laughed. "but you said this mr. steele comes from our part of the world, did you not, captain forsythe?" "so i understand, miss jocelyn. not much of a person to talk about himself, don't you know,"--tentatively stroking an imposing pair of mustaches, tinged with gray,--"but he has mentioned, i believe, living in new zealand; or was it australia?" "australia?" the cold, metallic tones of the third person, a man of about three-and-thirty, inquired. "most likely the other place, or we should have heard--" "true, lord ronsdale!" said the other man, pausing before a great door. "but here we are." "'all ye who enter, etc'" laughed the girl. "not if one comes just to 'do' it, you know," was the protesting answer. "quite the thing to take in the criminal courts!" "when one is only a sort of country cousin, a colonial, just come to town!" she added, waving a small, daintily-gloved hand to the little group of friends who now approached and joined them. "captain forsythe is trying to persuade me it is a legitimate part of our slumming plan to take in murder trials, uncle," she said lightly, addressing the foremost of the new-comers. "just because it's a fad of his! speaking of this acquaintance or friend of yours, mr. steele,--you are something of a criminologist, too, are you not, captain forsythe?" "well, every man should have a hobby," returned that individual, "and, although i don't aspire to the long name you call me, i confess to a slight amateur interest." lord ronsdale shrugged his shoulders, as to say, every one to his taste; but the girl laughed. "slight?" she repeated. "would you believe it, aunt"--to a portly lady among those who had approached--"he never misses a murder trial! i believe he likes to watch the poor fellows fighting for their lives, to study their faces, their expressions when they're being sentenced, perhaps, to one of those horrible convict ships!" "don't speak of them, my dear jocelyn!" returned that worthy person, with a shudder. "when i think of the _lord nelson_, and that awful night--" "you were three days in an open boat before being sighted and picked up, i believe, lady wray?" observed captain forsythe. "three days? years!" returned the governor's wife. "at least, they seemed so to me! i thought every moment would be our last and goodness knows why it wasn't! how we managed to survive it--" "narrow squeak, certainly!" said lord ronsdale, his lids lowering slightly. "but all's well that ends well, and--" "every one behaved splendidly," interposed sir charles. "you," gazing contemplatively at the girl, "were but a child then, jocelyn." she did not answer; the beautiful face had abruptly changed; all laughter had gone from the clear blue eyes. "she is thinking of the convict who saved her!" observed sir charles in an explanatory tone to captain forsythe. "quite an interesting episode, 'pon honor! tell you about it later. never saw anything finer, or better. and the amazing part of it is, the fellow looked like a brute, had the low, ignorant face of an ex-bruiser. he'd gone to the bad, taken to drink, and committed i don't know how many crimes! yet that man, the lowest of the low--" "you must not speak of him that way!" the girl's hands were clasped; the slender, shapely figure was very straight. her beautiful blue eyes, full of varying lights, flashed, then became dimmed; a suspicion of mist blurred the long, sweeping lashes. "he had a big, noble spark in his soul. and i think of him many, many times!" she repeated, the sweet, gay lips trembling sensitively. "brave fellow! brave fellow!" the words fell in a whisper. "fortunate fellow, i should say, to be so remembered by you, miss jocelyn!" interposed captain forsythe. "eh, ronsdale?" "fortunate, indeed!" the thin lips replied stiffly. "pity he should have been drowned though!" captain forsythe went on. "he would, i am sure, have made a most interesting study in contrasts!" she, however, seemed not to hear either compliment--or comment, but stood for a moment as in a reverie. "i am almost sorry i was persuaded to come here to-day," she said at length, thoughtfully. "i don't believe i shall like courts, or," she added, "find them amusing!" "nonsense!" sir charles laughed. "i have heard his lordship has a pretty sense of humor, and never fails, when opportunity offers, to indulge it." "even when sentencing people?" "well; there is no need of turning the proceedings into a funeral." "i don't believe i should laugh at his wit," said the girl. "and is this mr. john steele witty, too?" "oh, no! anything irrelevant from any one else wouldn't be allowed by his lordship." here ronsdale lifted his hat. "may happen back this way," he observed. "that is," looking at jocelyn wray, "if you don't object?" "i? not at all! of course, it would bore you--a trial! you are so easily bored. is it the club?" "no; another engagement. thank you so much for permission to return for you--very kind. hope you will find it amusing. good morning!" and lord ronsdale vanished down the narrow way. the others of the party entered the court room and were shown to the seats that captain forsythe had taken particular pains to reserve for them. the case, evidently an interesting one to judge from the number of people present, was in progress as they quietly settled down in their chairs at the back. from the vantage point of a slight eminence they found themselves afforded an excellent and unimpaired view of his lordship, the jury, prisoner, witness and barristers. presumably the case had reached an acute stage, for even the judge appeared slightly mindful of what was going on, and allowed his glance to stray toward the witness. the latter, a little man, in cheap attire flashily debonnaire if the worse for long service, seemed to experience difficulty in speaking, to hesitate before his words, and, when he did answer, to betray in his tone no great amount of confidence. he looked weary and somewhat crestfallen, as if his will were being broken down, or subjected to a severe strain, the truth being ground out of him by some irresistible process. "that's john steele cross-examining now!" captain forsythe whispered to the girl. "and that's dandy joe, as he's called, one of the police spies, cheap race-track man and so on, in the box. he came to the front in a murder trial quite celebrated in its day, and one i always had my own little theory about. not that it matters now!" he added with a sigh. but the girl was listening to another voice, a clear voice, a quiet voice, a voice capable of the strongest varying accents. she looked at the speaker; he held himself with the assurance of one certain of his ground. his shoulders were straight and broad; he stood like an athlete, and, when he moved, it was impossible to be unconscious of a certain physical grace that came from well-trained muscles. he carried his head high, as if from a habit of thought, of looking up, not down, when he turned from the pages of the heavy tomes in his study; his face conveyed an impression of intelligence and intensity; his eyes, dark, deep, searched fully those they rested on. he had reached a point in his cross-examination where he had almost thoroughly discredited this witness for the prosecution, when turning toward a table to take up a paper, his glance, casually lifting, rested on the distinguished party in the rear of the room, or rather it rested on one of them. against the dark background, the girl's golden hair was well-calculated to catch the wandering gaze; the flowers in her hat, the great bunch of violets in her dress added insistent alluring bits of color in the dim spot where she sat. erect as a lily stem, she looked oddly out of place in that large, somber room; there, where the harsh requiem of bruised and broken lives unceasingly sounded, she seemed like some presence typical of spring, wafted thither by mistake. the man continued to regard her. suddenly he started, and his eyes almost eagerly searched the lovely, proud face. his back was turned to the judge, who stirred nervously, but waited a fraction of a second before he spoke. "if the cross-examination is finished--" he began. john steele wheeled; his face changed; a smile of singular charm accompanied his answer. "your lordship will pardon me; the human mind has its aberrations. at the moment, by a curious psychological turn, a feature of another problem seized me; it was like playing two games of chess at once. perhaps your honor has experienced the sensation?" his lordship beamed. "quite so," he observed unctuously. "i have to confess that once in a great while, although following a case very closely, i have found it possible to consider at the same time whether i would later have port or sherry with my canvasback." of course every one smiled; the business of the morning ran on, and john steele, at length, concluded his cross-examination. "i think, your lordship, the question of the reliability of this man, as a witness, in this, or--any other case--fully established." "any other case?" said his lordship. "we are not trying any other case." "not now, your lordship." john steele bowed. "i ask your lordship's indulgence for the"--an instant's ironical light gleamed from the dark eyes--"superfluity." "witness may go," said his lordship bruskly. dandy joe, a good deal damaged in the world's estimation, stepped down; his erstwhile well-curled mustache of brick-dust hue seemed to droop as he slunk out of the box; he appeared subdued, almost frightened,--quite unlike the jaunty little cockney that had stepped so blithely forth to give his testimony. the witnesses all heard, john steele, for the defense, spoke briefly; but his words were well-chosen, his sentences of classic purity. as the girl listened, it seemed to her not strange that captain forsythe, as well as others, perhaps, should be drawn hither on occasions when this man appeared. straight, direct logic characterized the speech from beginning to end; only once did a suggestion of sentiment--curt pity for that gin-besotted thing, the prisoner!--obtrude itself; then it passed so quickly his lordship forgot to intervene, and the effect remained, a flash, illuminating, rembrandt-like! time slipped by; the judge looked at his watch, bethought him of a big silver dish filled with an amber-hued specialty of the ship and turtle, and adjourned court. his address interrupted by the exigencies of the moment, john steele began mechanically to gather up his books; his face that had been marked by the set look of one determined to drive on at his best with a task, now wore a preoccupied expression. the prisoner whined a question; steele did not answer, and some one bustled the man out. having brought his volumes together in a little pile, steele absently separated them again; at the same time sir charles and his party walked toward the bench. they were met by his lordship and cordially greeted. "a privilege, sir charles, to meet one we have heard of so often, in the antipodes." "thank you. his lordship, judge beeson, m'dear, whose decisions--" "allow me to congratulate you, sir!" the enthusiastic voice was that of captain forsythe, addressing john steele. "your cross-examination was masterly; had you been in a certain other case, years ago, when the evidence of that very person on the stand to-day--in the main--convicted a man of murder, i fancy the result then would have been different!" john steele seemed not to hear; his eyes were turned toward the beautiful girl. she was standing quite close to him now; he could detect the fragrance of the violets she wore, a fresh sweet smell so welcome in that close, musty atmosphere. "my niece, your lordship, miss wray." steele saw her bow and heard her speak to that august court personage; then as the latter, after further brief talk, hurried away-- "sir charles, let me present to you mr. steele," said captain forsythe. "lady wray--" "happy to know you, sir," said the governor heartily. "miss jocelyn wray," added the military man, "who," with a laugh, "experienced some doubts about a visit of this kind being conducive to pleasure!" john steele took the small gloved hand she gave him; her eyes were very bright. "i enjoyed--i don't mean that--i am so glad i came," said the girl. "and heard you!" she added. he thanked her in a low tone, looking at her hand as he dropped it. "you,--you are making england your home?" his voice was singularly hesitating! "yes." she looked at him a little surprised. "at least, for the present! but how--" she broke off. "i suppose, though, you could tell by my accent. i've lived nearly all my life in australia, and--" sir charles, interrupting, reminded them of an appointment; the party turned. a slender figure inclined itself very slightly toward john steele; a voice wished him good morning. the man stood with his hands on his books; it did not occur to him to accompany her to the door. suddenly he looked over his shoulder; at the threshold, she, too, had turned her head. an instant their glances met; the next, she was gone. * * * * * chapter ii at the opera when john steele left the court toward the end of the day, he held his head as a man who thinks deeply. from the door he directed his steps toward charing cross. but only to wheel abruptly, and retrace his way. he was not an absent-minded man, yet he had been striding unconsciously not toward his customary destination at that hour, the several chambers at once his office and his home. for a moment the strong face of the man relaxed, as if in amusement at his own remissness; gradually however, it once more resumed its expression of musing thoughtfulness. the stream of human beings, in the main, flowed toward him; he breasted the current as he had for many evenings, only this night he did not look into the faces of these, his neighbors; the great city's concourse of atoms swept unmeaningly by. turning into a narrow way, not far from the embankment, he stopped before the door of a solid-looking brick building, let himself in, and made his way up-stairs. on the third floor he applied another and smaller key to another lock and, from a hall, entered a large apartment, noteworthy for its handsome array of books that reached from floor to ceiling wherever there was shelf space. most of these volumes were soberly bound in conventional legal garb but others in elegant, more gracious array, congregated, a little cosmopolitan community, in a section by themselves. passing through this apartment, john steele stepped into that adjoining, the sitting-and dining-room. the small table had already been set; the sun's dying rays that shot through the window revealed snowy linen, brightly gleaming silver and a number of papers and letters. they showed, also, a large cage with a small bird that chirped as the man came in; john steele looked at it a moment, walked to a mirror and looked at himself. long the deep eyes studied the firm resolute face; they seemed endeavoring to gaze beyond it; but the present visage, like a shadow, waved before him. the man's expression became inscrutable; stepping to the window, he gazed out on the thames. a purplish glimmer lent enchantment to the noble stream; it may be as he looked upon it, his thoughts flowed with the river, past dilapidated structures, between whispering reeds on green banks, to the sea! a discreet rapping at the door, followed by the appearance of a round-faced little man, with a tray, interrupted further contemplation or reverie on john steele's part. seating himself at the table, he responded negatively to the servant's inquiry if "anythink" else would be required, and when the man had withdrawn, mechanically turned to his letters and to his simple evening repast. he ate with no great evidence of appetite, soon brushed the missives, half-read, aside, and pushed back his chair. lighting a pipe he picked up one of the papers, and for some moments his attention seemed fairly divided between a casual inspection of the light arabesques that ascended in clouds from his lips and the heavy-looking columns of the morning sheet. suddenly, however, the latter dissipated his further concern in his pipe; he put it down and spread out the big paper in both hands. amid voluminous wastes of type an item, in the court and society column, had caught his eye: "sir charles and lady wray, who are intending henceforth to reside in england, have returned to the stately wray mansion in piccadilly, where they will be for the season. our well-known governor and his lady are accompanied by their niece, the beautiful and accomplished miss jocelyn wray, only child of sir charles' younger brother, the late honorable mr. richard wray, whose estate included enormous holdings in australia as well as several thousand acres in devonshire. this charming young colonial has already captivated london society." john steele read carefully this bit of news, and then re-read it; he even found himself guilty of perusing all the other paragraphs; the comings and goings, the fine doings! they related to a world he had thought little about; a world within the world; just as the people who lived in tunnels and dark passages constituted another world within the world. her name danced in illustrious company; here were dukes and earls and viscounts; a sprinkling of the foreign element: begums, emirs, the nation's guests. he saw, also, "sir charles, lady wray and miss wray" among the long list of box-holders for that night at the opera, a gala occasion, commanded by royalty for the entertainment of royalty, and, incidentally, of certain barbarian personages who had come across the seas to be diplomatically coddled and fed. folding his newspaper, john steele turned to his legal papers; strove to replace idleness by industry; but the spirit of work failed to respond. he looked at his watch, rang sharply a bell. "put out my clothes," he said to the servant who appeared with a lamp, "and have a cab at the door." the opera had already begun, but pandemonium still reigned about the box-office, and it was half an hour before john steele succeeded in reaching the little aperture, with a request for anything that chanced to be left down-stairs. armed with a bit of pasteboard, steele was stopped as he was about to enter. a thunder of applause from within, indicating that the first act had come to an end, was followed by the usual egress of black and white figures, impatient for cigarettes and light lobby gossip. "divine, eh? the opera, i mean!" a voice accosted john steele, and, turning, he beheld a familiar face with black whiskers, that of captain forsythe. "this is somewhat different from the morning's environment?" "yes," said the other. "but your first question," with a smile, "i'm afraid i can't answer. i've just come; and, if i hadn't--well, i'm no judge of music." "then you must look as if you were!" laughed the captain frankly. "don't know one jolly note from another, but, for goodness' sake, don't betray me. just been discussing trills and pizzicatos with lady wray." for a few moments they continued their talk; chance had made them known to each other some time before, and captain forsythe had improved every opportunity to become better acquainted with one for whom he entertained a frank admiration. steele's reserve, however, was not easily penetrated; he accepted and repaid the other's advances with uniform courtesy but forsythe could not flatter himself the acquaintance had progressed greatly since their first meeting. a bell sounded; john steele, excusing himself, entered the auditorium and was shown to his seat. it proved excellently located, and, looking around, he found himself afforded a comprehensive view of a spectacle brilliant and dazzling. boxes shone with brave hues; gems gleamed over-plentifully; here and there, accentuating the picture, the gorgeous colors of some eastern prince stood out like the brighter bits in a kaleidoscope. steele's glance swept over royalty, rank and condition. it took in persons who were more than persons--personages; it passed over the impassive face of a dark ameer who looked as if he might have stepped from one of the pages of _the arabian nights_, and lingered on a box a little farther to one side. here were seated sir charles and his wife and party; and among them he could discern the features of jocelyn wray--not plainly, she was so far away! only her golden hair appeared distinct amid many tints. the curtain went up at last; the music began; melodies that seemed born in the springtime succeeded one another. perennial in freshness, theme followed theme; what joy, what gladness; what merriment, what madness! john steele, in the main, kept his attention directed toward the stage; once or twice he glanced quickly aside and upward; now in the dimness, however, the people in the boxes conveyed only a vague shadowy impression. how long was the act; how short? it came to a sudden end; after applause and bravos, men again got up and walked out; he, too, left his seat and strolled toward the back. "mr. steele! one moment!" he found himself once more addressed by the good-humored captain forsythe. "behold in me a mercury, committed to an imperative mission. you are commanded to appear--not in the royal box--but in sir charles'." "sir charles wray's?" john steele regarded the speaker quickly. "yes," laughed the other. "you see i happened to mention i had seen you. 'why didn't you bring him with you to the box?' queried sir charles. he, by the by, went in for law himself, before he became governor. 'only had time to shake hands this morning!' 'yes, why didn't you?' spoke up miss jocelyn. 'you _command_ me to bring him?' i inquired. 'by all means!' she laughed, 'i command.' so here i am." john steele did not answer, but captain forsythe, without waiting for a reply, turned and started up the broad stairway. the other, after a moment's hesitation, followed, duly entered one of the larger boxes, spoke to sir charles and his wife and returned the bow of their niece. amid varied platitudes steele's glance turned oftenest to the girl. she was dressed in white; a snowy boa drooped from the slender bare shoulders as if it might any moment slip off; a string of pearls, each one with a pearl of pure light in the center, clasped her throat. in her eyes the brightness seemed to sing of dancing cadenzas; her lips, slightly parted, wore the faint suggestion of a smile, as if some canticle or clear cadence had just trembled from them. the small shoe that peeped from beneath silken folds tapped softly to rhythms yet lingering; on her cheeks two small roses unfolded their glad petals. "i trust captain forsythe did not repeat that absurd remark of mine?" she observed lightly, when john steele, after a few moments' general talk, found himself somehow by her side. "about 'commanding'?" "so he did?" she answered gaily. "he told me he was going to. it is like him; he poses as a _bel esprit_. stupid, was it not?" he answered a word in the negative; the girl smiled; where other men would press the opportunity for a compliment he apparently found no opening. she waved her hand to the seat next to her, and as he sat down--"isn't it splendid!" irrelevantly. "the spectacle, or the opera?" he asked slowly, looking into blue eyes. "it was the opera i meant. i suppose the spectacle is very grand; but," enthusiastically, "it was the music i was thinking of--how it grips one! tell me what you think of _the barber_, mr. steele." "i'm afraid my views wouldn't be very interesting," he answered. "i know nothing whatever about music." "nothing?" her eyes widened a little; in her accent was mild wonder. he looked down at the shimmering white folds near his feet. "in earlier days my environment was not exactly a musical one." "no? i suppose you were engaged in more practical concerns?" he did not answer directly. "perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me something about rossini's music, miss wray?" "i tell you?" her light silvery laugh rang out. "and captain forsythe has only been telling me--all of us--that you were one of the best informed men he had ever met." "you see how wrong he was!" "quite!" the blue eyes regarded him sidewise. he, the keen, strong man, so assured, so invincible in the court room, sat most humbly by her side, confessing his ignorance, want of knowledge about something every school-girl is mistress of! "or, perhaps, it is because your world is so different from mine! music, laughter, the traditions of italian _bel canto_, you have no room for them, they are too light, too trifling. you are above them," poising her fair head a little higher. "perhaps they have been above me," he answered, his tone unconsciously taking an accent of gaiety from the lightness of hers. the abrupt appearance of the musicians and the dissonances attendant on tuning, interrupted her response; steele rose and was about to take his departure, when sir charles intervened. "why don't you stay?" he asked, with true colonial heartiness. "plenty of room! unless you've a better place! two vacant chairs!" john steele looked around; he saw three vacant chairs and took one, a little aside and slightly behind the young girl, while the governor's wife, who had moved from the front at the conclusion of the previous act, now returned to her place, next her niece. during the act, some one came in and took a seat in the background; if steele heard, he did not look around. his gaze remained fastened on the stage; between him and it--or them, art's gaily attired illusions!--a tress of golden hair sometimes intervened, but he did not move. through threads like woven flashes of light he regarded the scene of the poet's fantasy. did they make her a part of it,--did they seem to the man the fantasy's intangible medium, its imagery? threads of gold, threads of melody! he saw the former, heard the latter. they rose and fell wilfully, capriciously, with many an airy and fanciful turn. the man leaned his head on his hand; a clear strain died like a filament of purest metal gently broken. she breathed a little quicker; leaned farther forward; now her slender figure obtruded slightly between him and the performers. he seemed content with a partial view of the stage, and so remained until the curtain went down. the girl turned; in her eyes was a question. "beautiful!" said the man, looking at her. "charming! what colorature! and the bravura!" captain forsythe applauded vigorously. "you've never met lord ronsdale, i believe, mr. steele?" sir charles' voice, close to his ear, inquired. "lord ronsdale!" john steele looked perfunctorily around toward the back of the box and saw there a face faintly illumined in the light from the stage: a cynical face, white, mask-like. had his own features not been set from the partial glow that sifted upward, the sudden emotion that swept steele's countenance would have been observed. a sound escaped his lips; was drowned, however, in a renewed outbreak of applause. the diva came tripping out once more, the others, too--bowing, smiling--recipients of flowers. john steele's hand had gripped his knee tightly; he was no longer aware of the stage, the people, even jocelyn wray. the girl's attention had again centered on the actors; she with the others had been oblivious to the glint of his eyes, the hard, set expression of his features. "old friend, don't you know," went on the voice of sir charles when this second tumult of applause had subsided. "had one rare adventure together. one of the kind that cements a man to you." as he spoke, the light in the theater flared up; john steele, no longer hesitating, uncertain, rose; his face had regained its composure. he regarded the slender, aristocratic figure of the nobleman in the background; faultlessly dressed, lord ronsdale carried himself with his habitual languid air of assurance. the two bowed; the stony glance of the lord met the impassive one of the man. then a puzzled look came into the nobleman's eyes; he gazed at steele more closely; his glance cleared. "thought for an instant i'd seen you somewhere before, b'jove!" he drawled in his metallic tone. "but, of course, i haven't. never forget a face, don't you know." "i may not say so much, may not have the diplomat's gift of always remembering people to the extent your lordship possesses it, but i am equally certain i have never before enjoyed the honor of being presented to your lordship!" said john steele. the words were punctiliously spoken, his accents as cold as the other's. an infinitesimal trace of constraint seemed to have crept into the box; steele turned and holding out his hand, thanked sir charles and his wife for their courtesy. jocelyn wray gazed around. "you are leaving before the last act?" she said with an accent of surprise. he looked down at her. "not through preference!" "ah!" she laughed. "business before--music, of course!" "our day at home, mr. steele, is thursday," put in the governor's lady, majestically gracious. "and you'll meet a lot of learned people only too glad to talk about music," added the young girl in a light tone. "that is, if you were sincere in your request for knowledge, and care to profit by the opportunity?" his face, which had been contained, impassive, now betrayed in the slightest degree an expression of irresolution. her quick look caught it, became more whimsical; he seemed actually, for an instant, asking himself if he should come. she laughed ever so slightly; the experience was novel; who before had ever weighed the pros and cons when extended this privilege? then, the next moment, the blue eyes lost some of their mirth; perhaps his manner made her feel the frank informality she had unconsciously been guilty of; she regarded him more coldly. "thank you," he said. "you are very good. i shall be most glad." and bowing to her and to the others he once more turned; as he passed lord ronadsle, the eyes of the two men again met; those of the nobleman suddenly dilated and he started. "b'jove!" he exclaimed, his gaze following the retreating figure. "what is it?" sir charles looked around. "recall where you thought you saw him?" lord ronsdale did not at once answer and sir charles repeated his question; the nobleman mechanically raised his hand to his face. "yes; a mere fugitive resemblance," he answered rather hurriedly. "some one--you--you never met. altogether quite a different sort of person, don't you know!" regaining his drawl. "well," observed sir charles, "fugitive resemblances will happen!" * * * * * chapter iii a lesson in botany john steele was rather late in arriving at the house of sir charles wray in piccadilly the following thursday. but nearly every one else was late, and, perhaps knowing the fashionable foible, he had purposely held back to avoid making himself conspicuous by being prompt. the house, his destination, was not unlike other dwellings on that historic thoroughfare; externally it was as monotonous as the average london mansion. the architect had disdained any attempt at ornamentation. as if fearful of being accused of emulating his brother-in-art across the channel, he had put up four walls and laid on a roof; he had given the front wall a slightly outward curve. in so doing, he did not reason why; he was merely following precedent that had created this incomprehensible convexity. but within, the mansion made a dignified and at the same time a pleasant impression. john steele, seated at the rear of a spacious room, where he a few moments later found himself among a numerous company, looked around on the old solid furnishings, the heavy rich curtains and those other substantial appurtenances to a fine and stately town house. that funereal atmosphere common to many homes of an ancient period was, however, lacking. the observer felt as if some recent hand, the hand of youth, had been busy hereabouts indulging in light touches that relieved and gladdened the big room. hues, soft and delicate, met the eye here and there; rugs of fine pattern favored the glance, while tapestries of french workmanship bade it wander amid scenes suggestive of arcadia. many found these innovations to their liking; others frowned upon them; but everybody flocked to the house. the program on the present occasion included a poet and a woman novelist. the former, a preraphaelite, led his hearers through dim mazes, hyrcanian wilds. the novelist on the other hand was direct; in following her there seemed no danger of losing the way. at the conclusion of the program proper, an admirer of the poet asked if their young hostess would not play a certain musical something, the theme of one of the bard's effusions, and at once jocelyn wray complied. lord ronsdale stood sedulously near, turning the leaves; steele watched the deft hand; it was slim, aristocratic and suggested possibilities in legerdemain. "an attractive-looking pair!" whispered a woman near john steele to another of her sex, during a louder passage in the number. "are they--" "i don't know; my dear. perhaps. she's extremely well-off in this world's goods, and he has large properties, but--a diminishing income." she lowered her voice rather abruptly as the cadence came to a pause. the music went on again to its appointed and spirited climax. "was formerly in the diplomatic service, i believe;"--the voice also went on--"has strong political aspirations, and, with a wealthy and clever wife--" "a girl might do worse. he is both cold and capable--an ideal combination for a political career--might become prime minister--with the prestige of his family and hers to--" john steele stirred; the whispering ceased. my lord turned the last page; the girl rose and bent for an instant her fair head. and as steele looked at her, again there came over him--this time, it may be, not without a certain bitterness!--an impression of life and its joys--spring-tide and sunshine, bright, remote!--so remote--for him-- a babel of voices replaced melody; the people got up. a number lingered; many went, after speaking to their hostesses and sir charles. john steele, at the rear, looked at the door leading into the main hall toward the young girl, then stepped across the soft rugs and spoke to her. she answered in the customary manner and others approached. he was about to draw back to leave, when-- "oh, mr. steele," she said, "my uncle wishes to see you before you go. he was saying he had some--" "quite right, my dear!" and sir charles, who had approached, took john steele's arm. "some curious old law books i picked up to-day at a bargain and want your opinion of!" he went on, leading the other into a lofty and restful apartment adjoining, the library. steele looked around him; his gaze brightened as it rested on the imposing and finely bound volumes. "you have a superb collection of books," he observed with a sudden quick look at his host. "yes; i rather pride myself on my library," said sir charles complacently. "lost a good many of the choicest though," he went on in regretful tones, "some years ago, as i was returning to australia. a rare lot of law books, a library in themselves, as well as a large collection of the classics, the world's poets and historians, went down with the ill-fated _lord nelson_." "ah?" john steele looked away. "a great mart, london, for fine editions!" he said absently after a pause. "it is. but here are those i spoke of." and sir charles indicated a number of volumes on a large center table. john steele handled them thoughtfully and for some time his host ran on about them. a choice copy of one of the elizabethan poets, intruding itself in that august company, then attracted steele's attention; he picked it up, weighed and caressed it with gentle fingers. "who shall measure the influence of--a little parcel like this?" he said at length lightly. "true." sir charles' eye caught the title. "as portia says: 'it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.' excellent bit of binding that, too! but," with new zest, "take any interest in rare books of the ring, full of eighteenth century colored prints, and so on?" "i can't say, at present, that the doings of the ring or the history of pugilists attract me." "that's because you've never seen an honest, hard-fought battle, perhaps?" "a flattering designation, i should say, of the spectacle of two brutes disfiguring their already repulsive visages!" "two brutes?--disfiguring?"--the drawling voice of lord ronsdale who had at that moment stepped in, inquired. "may i ask what the--talk is about?" sir charles turned. "steele was differing from me about a good, old, honest english sport." "sport?" lord ronsdale dropped into a chair and helped himself to whisky and soda conveniently near. "i refer to the ring--its traditions--its chronicles--" "ah!" the speaker raised his glass and looked at john steele. the latter was nonchalantly regarding the pages of a book he yet held; his face was half-turned from the nobleman. the clear-cut, bold profile, the easy, assured carriage, so suggestive of strength, seemed to attract, to compel lord ronsdale's attention. "for my part," went on sir charles in a somewhat disappointed tone, "i am one who views with regret the decadence of a great national pastime." he regarded ronsdale; the latter set down his glass untasted. "my own opinion," he said crisply; then his face changed; he looked toward the door. "well, it's over!" the light tones of jocelyn wray interrupted; the girl stood on the threshold, glancing gaily from one to the other. "did you tell my uncle, mr. steele, what you thought of his purchase? i see, while on his favorite subject, he has forgotten to offer you a cigar." sir charles hastened to repair his remissness. "but how," she went on, "did it go? the program, i mean. have you forgiven me yet for asking you to come, mr. steele?" "forgiven?" he repeated. lord ronsdale's eyes narrowed on them. "confess," she continued, sinking to the arm of a great chair, "you had your misgivings?" he regarded the supple, slender figure, so airily poised. as she bent forward, he noticed in her hair several flowers shaped like primroses, but light crimson in hue. "what misgivings was it possible to have?" he replied. "oh," she replied, "the usual masculine ones! misgivings, for example, about stepping out of the routine. routine that makes slaves of men!" with an accent slightly mocking. "and stepping into what? society! the bugbear of so many men! poor society! what flings it has to endure! by the way, did your convict get off?" "get off? what--" "the one you represented--is that the word?--when we were in court." "yes; he was acquitted." "i am glad; somehow you made me feel he was innocent." "i believed in him," said john steele. "and yet the evidence was very strong against him! if some one else had appeared for him--do you think many innocent people have been--hanged, or sent out of the country, mr. steele?" her eyes looked brighter, her face more earnest now. "evidence can play odd caprices." "still, your average english juryman is to be depended on!" put in lord ronsdale quickly. "do you think so?" an instant steele's eyes rested on the speaker. "no doubt you are right." a sardonic flash seemed to play on the nobleman. "at all events you voice the accepted belief." "i'm glad you defend, don't prosecute people, mr. steele," said the girl irrelevantly. "a pleasanter task, perhaps!" "speaking of sending prisoners out of the country," broke in sir charles, "i am not in favor of the penal system myself." "rather a simple way of getting rid of undesirables--transportation--it has always seemed to me," dissented lord ronsdale. "don't they sometimes escape and come back to england?" asked the girl. "not apt to, when death for returning stares them in the face," remarked the nobleman. "death!" the girl shivered slightly. john steele smiled. "the penalty should certainly prove efficacious," he observed lightly. "is not such a penalty--for returning, i mean--very severe, mr. steele?" asked jocelyn wray. "that," he laughed, "depends somewhat on the point of view, the criminal's, or society's!" his gaze returned to her; the bright bit of color in her hair again seemed to catch and hold his glance. "but," with a sudden change of tone, "will you explain something to me, miss wray? those flowers you wear--surely they are primroses, and yet--" "crimson," said the girl. "you find that strange. it is very simple. if you will come with me a moment." she rose, quickly crossed the room to a door at the back, and steele, following, found himself in a large conservatory that looked out upon an agreeable, if rather restricted, prospect of green garden. several of the windows of the glass addition were open and the warm sunshine and air entered. a butterfly was fluttering within; in a corner, a bee busied himself buzzing loudly between flowers and sips of saccharine sweetness. jocelyn wray stepped in its direction, stooped. the sunlight touched the white neck, where spirals of gold nestled, and fell over her gown in soft, shifting waves. "you see?" she threw over her shoulder a glance at him; he looked down at primroses, pale yellow; a few near-by were half-red, or spotted with crimson; others, still, were the color of those that nodded in her hair. "you can imagine how it has come about?" he regarded a great bunch of clustering red roses--the winged marauder hovering noisily over. "i think i can guess. the bees have carried the hue of the roses to them." "hue!" cried the girl, with light scorn. "what a prosaic way to express it! say the soul, the heart's blood. some of the primroses have yielded only a little; others have been transformed." "you think, then, some flowers may be much influenced by others?" "they can't help it," she answered confidently. "just as some people," he said in a low tone, "can't help taking into their lives some beautiful hue born of mere casual contact with some one, some time." "what a poetical sentiment!" she laughed. "really, it deserves a reward." as he spoke, she plucked a few flowers and held them out in her palm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints. erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of the flowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, red thing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? as through a mist he saw a spark--where? "only one?" she said in the same tone. "you are modest. and you don't even condescend to put it in your coat?" he did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something so compelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. he seemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; she drew back slightly. the girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicion of faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, in the least degree, perplexed. the man's breast suddenly stirred; a breath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firm lips. he looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, the arrangement of lines one expected. when his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he had first stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon. "thank you for the lesson in botany, miss wray!" he said easily. "i shall not forget it." the other primroses fell from her fingers; with a response equally careless if somewhat reserved, she turned and reëntered the library. lord ronsdale regarded both quickly; then started, as he caught sight of the flower in john steele's coat. a frown crossed his face and he looked away to conceal the singularly cold and vindictive gleam that sprang to his eyes. * * * * * chapter iv tides varying one evening about a fortnight later lord ronsdale, in a dissatisfied frame of mind, strolled along piccadilly. his face wore a dark look, the expression of one ill-pleased with fortune's late attitude toward him. plans that he had long cherished seemed to be in some jeopardy; he had begun to flatter himself that the flowery way to all he desired lay before him and that he had but to tread it, when another, as the soothsayers put it, had crossed his path. a plain man, a man without title! lord ronsdale told himself miss jocelyn wray was no better than an arrant coquette, but the next moment questioned this conclusion. had she not really been a little taken by the fellow? certainly she seemed not averse to his company; when she willed, and she willed often, she summoned him to her aide. nor did he now appear reluctant to come at her bidding; self-assertive though he had shown himself to be he obeyed, _sans_ demur, the wave of my lady's little hand. was it a certain largeness and reserve about him that had awakened her curiosity? from her high social position had she wished merely to test her own power and amuse herself after a light fashion, surely youth's and beauty's privilege? but whatever the girl's motive, her conduct in the matter reacted on my lord; the fellow was in the way, very much so. how could he himself pay court to her when she frivolously, if only for the moment, preferred this commoner's company? that very afternoon my lord, entering the music-room of the great mansion, had found her at the piano playing for him, her slim fingers moving over the keys to the tune of one of chopin's nocturnes. he had surprised a steady, eloquent look in the fellow's eye turned on her when she was unconscious of his gaze, a glance the ardency of which there was no mistaking. it had altered at my lord's rather quiet and abrupt appearance, crystallized into an impersonal icy light, colder even than the nobleman's own stony stare. he had, perforce, to endure the other's presence and conversation, an undercurrent to the light talk of the girl who seemed, lord ronsdale thought, a little maliciously aware of the constraint between the two men, and not at all put out by it. what made the situation even more anomalous to ronsdale and the less patiently to be borne, was that sir charles understood and sympathized with his desires and position in the matter. and why not? ronsdale's father and sir charles had been old and close friends; there were reasons that pointed to the match as a suitable one, and sir charles, by his general manner and attitude, had long shown he would put no obstacle in the way of the nobleman's suit for the hand of his fair niece. as for lady wray, lord ronsdale knew that he had in that practical and worldly person a stanch ally of his wishes; these had not become less ardent since he had witnessed the unqualified success of the beautiful colonial girl in london; noted how men, illustrious in various walks of life, grave diplomats, stately ambassadors, were swayed by her light charm and impulsive frankness of youth. and to have her who could have all london at her feet, including his distinguished self, show a predilection, however short-lived and capricious, for-- "confound the cad! where did he come from? who are his family--if he has one!" thus ruminating he had drawn near his club, a square, imposing edifice, when a voice out of the darkness caused him abruptly to pause: "if it isn't 'is lordship!" the tones expressed surprise, satisfaction; the nobleman looked down; gave a slight start; then his face became once more cold, apathetic. "who are you? what do you want?" he said roughly. the countenance of the fellow who had ventured to accost the nobleman fell; a vindictive light shone from his eyes. "it's like a drama at old drury," he observed, with a slight sneer. "only your lordship should have said: 'who the devil are you?'" lord ronsdale looked before him to where, in the distance, near a street lamp, the figure of a policeman might be dimly discerned; then, with obvious intention, he started toward the officer; but the man stepped in front of him. "no, you don't," he said. the impassive, steel-like glance of ronsdale played on the man; a white, shapely hand began to reach out. "one moment, and i'll give you in charge as--" the fellow saw that ronsdale meant it; he had but an instant to decide; a certain air of cheap, jaunty assurance he had begun to assume vanished. "all right," he said quickly, but with a ring of suppressed venom in his voice. "i'll be off. your lordship has it all your own way since the _lord nelson_ went down." there was a note of bitterness in his tones. "besides, dandy joe's not exactly a favorite at headquarters just now, after the drubbing john steele gave him." "john steele!" lord ronsdale looked abruptly round. the fellow regarded him and ventured to go on: "i was witness for the police and mr. gillett, and he--steele," with a curse, "had me on the stand. he knows every rook and welsher and every swell magsman, and all their haunts and habits. and he knows me--blame--" he made use of another expression more forcible--"if he don't know me as well as if he'd once been a pal. and now," in an injured tone, "mr. gillett calls me hard names for bringing discredit, as he terms it, on the force." "what's this to me?" the fellow stopped short in what he was saying; his small eyes glistened and he took a step forward. "your lordship remembers the 'frisco pet? your lordship remembers him?" he repeated, thrusting an alert face closer. "i believe there was a prize-fighter of that name," was the calm reply. "i say!" the fellow let his jaw fall slightly; he gazed at the nobleman with mingled shrewdness and admiration. "your lordship remembers him _only_," with an accent, "as a patron of sport. tossed a quid on him"--with a look of full meaning--"as your lordship would a bone to a dog. perhaps," gaining in audacity, "your lordship would be so generous as to throw one or two now at one he once favored with his bounty." "i--favored you? you lie!" the answer was concise; it cut like a lash; it robbed the man once more of all his hardihood. he slunk back. "very good," he muttered. lord ronsdale turned and with a sharp swish of his cane walked on. the other, his eyes resentfully bright, looked after the tall, aristocratic, slowly departing figure. as the nobleman ascended the steps of his club he seemed again to be thinking deeply; within, his preoccupation did not altogether desert him. in a corner, with the big pages of the _times_ before him, he read with scant interest the doings of the day; even a perennial telegram concerning a threatened invasion of england did not awaken momentary interest. he passed it over as casually as he did the markets, or a grudging, conservative item from the police courts, all that the blue pencil had left of the hopeful efforts of some poor penny-a-liner. from the daily fulminator he had turned to the weekly medium of fun and fooling, when, from behind another paper, the face of a gray-haired, good-natured appearing person, quite different off the bench, chanced to look out at him. "eh? that you, ronsdale?" he said, reaching for a steaming glass of hot beverage at his elbow. "what do you think of it, this talk of an invasion by the monseers?" "don't think anything of it." "answered in the true spirit of a briton!" laughed the other. "i fancy, too, it'll be a long time before john bull ceases to stamp around, master of his own shores, or britannia no longer rules the deep. but how is your friend, sir charles wray? i had the pleasure of meeting him the other morning in the court room." "same as usual, i imagine, judge beeson." "and his fair niece, she takes kindly to the town and its gaieties?" "very kindly," dryly. "a beautiful girl, our young australian!" the elder man toyed with his glass, stirred the contents and sipped. "by the way, didn't i see john steele in their box at the opera the other night?" "it is possible," shortly. "rising man, that!" observed the other lightly. "combination of brains and force! did you ever notice his fist? it might belong to a prize-fighter, except that the hands are perfectly kept! you'd know at once he was a man accustomed to fighting, who would sweep aside obstacles, get what he wanted!" "think so?" lord ronsdale smoked steadily. "you, as a magistrate, i suppose, know him well?" "should hardly go that far; taciturn chap, don't you know! i don't believe any one really knows him." "or about him?" suggested the other, crossing his legs nonchalantly. "not much; only that he is an alien." "an alien?" quickly. "not a colonial?" "no; he has lived in the colonies--tasmania, and so on. but by birth he's an american." "an american, eh? and practising at the british bar?" "not the first case of the kind; exceptions have been made before, and aliens 'called,' as we express it. steele's hobby of criminology brought him to london, and his earnestness and ability in that line procured for him the privilege he sought. as member of the incorporated society that passes upon the qualifications of candidates it was my pleasure to sit in judgment on him; we raked him fore and aft but, bless you, he stood squarely on his feet and refused to be tripped." "so he came to england to pursue a certain line?" said lord ronsdale half to himself. "a man with a partiality for criminal work would naturally look to the modern babylon. steele apparently works more to gratify that predilection than for any reward in pounds and pence. must have private means; have known him to spend a deal of time and money on cases there couldn't have been a sixpence in." "how'd he happen to get down in tasmania? odd place for a yankee!" "that's one of the questions he wasn't asked," laughingly. "perhaps what our teutonic friends would call the _wander-lust_ took him there." rising, "my compliments to sir charles when you see him." lord ronsdale remained long at the club and the card-table that night; over the bits of pasteboard, however, his zest failed to flare high, although instinctively he played with a discernment that came from long practice. but the sight of a handful of gold pieces here, of a little pile there, the varying shiftings of the bright disks, as the vagaries of chance sent them this way or that, seemed to move him in no great degree,--perhaps because the winning or losing of a few hundred pounds, more or less, would have small effect on his fortunes or misfortunes. at a late, or rather, early, hour he pushed back his chair, richer by a few coins that jingled in his pocket, and, yawning, walked out. summoning a cab, he got in, but as he found himself rattling homeward to the chambers he had taken in a fashionable part of town, he was aware that any emotions of annoyance and discontent experienced earlier that night, had suffered no abatement. "tasmania!" the horse's hoofs beat time to vague desultory thoughts; he stared out, perhaps, in fancy, at southern seas, looked up at stars more lustrous than those that hung over him now. then the divers clusters of points, glowing, insistent, swam around, and he fell into a half doze, from which he was awakened by the abrupt stopping of the cab. having paid the man he went up to his rooms. on the table in an inner apartment, his study, something bright, white, met his gaze: a note in jocelyn wray's handwriting! quickly he reached for it and tore it open. "a party of us ride in the park to-morrow morning. will you join us?" that was all; brief and to the point; lord ronsdale frowned. "a party!" that would include john steele perhaps. once before on a morning, the girl's fair face and dancing eyes had wooed steele away from his desk, or the court, to the park. should he go? the note slipped from his fingers to the carpet; he permitted it to lie there; the importance to himself and others of his decision he little realized. could he have foreseen all that was involved by his going, or staying away, he would not so carelessly have thrown off his clothes and retired, dismissing the matter until the morrow, or rather, until he should chance to waken. * * * * * chapter v in the park close at hand, the trees in hyde park seemed to droop their branches, as if in sympathy with the gray aspect of the day, while afar, across the green, the sylvan guardians of the place had either receded altogether in the gray haze or stood forth like shadowy ghosts. in the foreground, not far from the main entrance, a number of sheep and their young nibbled contentedly the wet and delectable grass, and as some bright gown paused or whisked past, the juxtaposition of fine raiment and young lamb suggested soft, shifting bouchers or other dainty french pastorals in paint. the air had a tang; the dampness enhanced the perfumes, made them fuller and sweeter, and a joyous sort of melancholy seemed to hold a springtime world in its grasp. into this scene of rural tranquillity rode briskly about the middle of the morning jocelyn wray and others. the glow on the girl's cheeks harmonized with the redness of her lips; the sparkling blue eyes mocked at all neutral hues; her gown and an odd ribbon or two waved, as it were, light defiance to motionless things--still leaves and branches, flowers and buds, drowsy and sleeping. her mount was deep black, with fine arching neck and spirited head; on either side of the head, beneath ears sensitive, delicately pointed, had been fastened a rose, badge of favor from a bunch nestling at the white throat of the young girl. she rode with a grace and rhythmical ease suggestive of large experience in the pastime; the slender, supple figure swayed as if welcoming gladly the swing and the quick rush of air. sometimes at her side, again just behind, galloped the horse bearing john steele, and, as they went at a fair pace, preceded and followed by others of a gay party, the eyes of many passers-by turned to regard them. "by jove, they're stunning! it isn't often you see a man put up like that." "or a girl more the picture of health!" "and beauty!" unconscious of these and other comments from the usual curious contingent of idlers filling the benches or strolling along the paths, the girl now set a yet swifter gait, glancing quickly over her shoulder at her companion: "do you like a hard gallop? shall we let them out?" his brightening gaze answered; they touched their horses and for some distance raced madly on, passed those in front and left them far behind. now steele's eyes rested on the playing muscles of her superb horse, then lifted to the lithe form of jocelyn wray, the straight shoulders, a bit of a tress, disordered, floating rebelliously to the wind. as abruptly as she had pressed her horse to that inspiring speed, she drew him in to a walk. "wasn't that worth coming to the park for?" she said gaily. he looked at her, at the flowers she readjusted, at the lips, half-parted to her quick breath. "more than worth it." "you see what you missed in the past," she observed in a tone slightly mocking. "you were not here to suggest it," he returned quietly, with gaze only for blue eyes. she suffered them to linger. "i suppose i should feel nattered that a suggestion from little me--" "a suggestion from little you would, i fancy, go a long ways with many people." a spark shone now in the man's steady look; the girl seemed not afraid of it. "i am fortunate," she laughed. "a compliment from mr. john steele!" "why not say--the truth?" he observed. she stroked her horse's glossy neck and smiled furtively at the soft, velvet surface. "the truth?" she replied. "what is it? where shall we find it? isn't it something the old philosophers were always searching for? plato, and--some of the others we were taught of in school." he started as if to speak, but his answer remained unuttered; the man's lips closed tighter; a moment he watched the small gloved hand, then his gaze turned to the gray sky. "so you see, i call compliments, compliments," she ended lightly. he offered no comment; the horses moved on; suddenly she looked at him. one of those odd changes she had once or twice noticed before had come over john steele; his face appeared too grave, too reserved; she might almost fancy a stormy play of emotion behind that mask of immobility. the girl's long lashes lowered; a slightly puzzled expression shone from her eyes. it may be she had but the natural curiosity of her sex, that her interest was compelled, because, although she had studied this man from various standpoints, his personality, strong, direct in some ways, she seemed unable to fathom. the golden head tilted; she allowed an impression of his profile to grow upon her. "do you know," she laughingly remarked, "you are not very interesting?" he started. "interesting!" "a penny for your thoughts!" ironically. "they're not worth it." "no?" he bent a little nearer; she swept back the disordered lock; an instant the man seemed to lose his self-possession. "ah," he began, as if the words forced themselves from his lips, "if only i might--" what he had been on the point of saying was never finished; the girl's quick glance, sweeping an instant ahead, had lingered on some one approaching from the opposite direction, and catching sight of him, she had just missed noting that swift alteration in john steele's tones, the brief abandonment of studied control, a flare of irresistible feeling. "isn't that lord ronsdale?" asked the girl, continuing to gaze before her. a black look replaced the sudden flame in steele's gaze; the hand holding the reins closed on them tightly. "rather early for him, i fancy," she said, regarding the slim figure of the approaching rider. "with his devotion to clubs and late hours, you know! do you, mr. steele, happen to belong to any of his clubs?" "no." he spoke in a low voice, almost harshly. her brow lifted; his face was turned from her. had he been mindful he might have noted a touch of displeasure on the proud face, that she regarded him as from a vague, indefinite distance. "lord ronsdale is a very old friend of my uncle's," she observed severely, "and--mine!" was it that she had divined a deep-seated prejudice or hostility toward the nobleman hidden in john steele's breast, that she took this occasion to let him know definitely that her friends were her friends? "even when i was only a child he was very nice to me," she went on. he remained silent; she frowned, then turned to the nobleman with a smile. lord ronsdale found that her greeting left nothing to be desired; she who had been somewhat unmindful of him lately on a sudden seemed really glad to see him. his slightly tired, aristocratic face lightened; the sunshine of jocelyn wray's eyes, the tonic of youth radiating from her, were sufficient to alleviate, if not dispel, ennui or lassitude. "so good of you!" she murmured conventionally, as steele dropped slightly back among the others who had by this time drawn near. "to arrive at such an unfashionable hour, i mean!" his pleased but rather suspicious eyes studied her; he answered lightly; behind them now, he who had been riding with my lady could hear their gay laughter. lord ronsdale was apparently telling her a whimsical story; he had traveled much, met many people, bizarre and otherwise, and could be ironically witty when stimulated to the effort. john steele did not look at them; when the girl at a turn in the way allowed her glance a moment to sweep aside toward those following, she could see he was riding with head slightly down bent. "good-looking beggar, isn't he," observed the nobleman suddenly, his gaze sharpened on her. "who?" asked the girl. "that chap, steele," he answered insinuatingly. "is he?" her voice was flute-like. "what is that noise?" abruptly. "noise?" lord ronsdale listened. "that's music, or supposed to be! unless i am mistaken, _the campbells are coming_," he drawled. "the campbells? oh, i understand! let us wait!" they drew in their horses; the black one became restive, eyed with obvious disapproval a gaily bedecked body of men swinging smartly along toward them. at their head marched pipers, blowing lustily; behind strode doughty clansmen, heads up, as became those carrying memories of battles won. they approached after the manner of veterans who felt that they deserved tributes of admiration from beholders: that in the piping times of peace they were bound to be conquerors still. louder shrieked the wild concords; bare legs flashed nearer; bright colors flaunted with startling distinctness. and at the sight and sound, the girl's horse, unaccustomed to the pomp and pride of martial display, began to plunge and rear. she spoke sharply; tried to control it but found she could not. lord ronsdale saw her predicament but was powerless to lend assistance, being at the moment engaged in a vigorous effort to prevent his own horse from bolting. the bagpipes came directly opposite; the black horse reared viciously; for the moment it seemed that jocelyn would either be thrown or that the affrighted animal would fall over on her, when a man sprang forward and a hand reached up. he stood almost beneath the horse; as it came down a hoof struck his shoulder a glancing blow, grazed hard his arm, tearing the cloth. but before the animal could continue his rebellious tactics a hand like iron had reached for, grasped the bridle; those who watched could realize a great strength in the restraining fingers, the unusual power of steele's muscles. the black horse, trembling, soon stood still; the bagpipes passed on, and steele looked up at the girl. "if you care to dismount--" "thank you," she said. "i'm not afraid. especially," she added lightly, "with you at the bridle!" "few riders could have kept their seats so well," he answered, with ill-concealed admiration. "i have always been accustomed to horses. in australia we ride a great deal." "for the instant," his face slightly paler, "i thought something would happen." "it might have," she returned, a light in her eyes, "but for a timely hand. my horse apparently does not appreciate scotch airs." "ugly brute!" lord ronsdale, a dissatisfied expression on his handsome countenance, approached. "a little of the whip--" the words were arrested; the nobleman stared at john steele, or rather at the bare arm which the torn sleeve revealed well above the elbow. the white, uplifted arm suddenly dropped; steele drew the cloth quickly about it, but not before his eyes had met those of lord ronsdale and caught the amazement, incredulity, sudden terror--was it terror?--in their depths. "told you not to trust him, jocelyn!" sir charles' loud, hearty voice at the same moment interrupted. "there was a look about him i didn't like from the beginning." "perhaps he needs only a little toning down to be fit," put in captain forsythe, as he and the others drew near. "a few seasons with the hounds, or--" "chasing some poor little fox!" said the girl with light scorn. "one might be doing something worse!" "one might!" her accents were dubious. "you don't believe in the chase, or the hunt? allow me to differ; people always must hunt _something_, don't you know; primeval instinct! used to hunt one another," he laughed. "sometimes do now. fox is only a substitute for the joys of the man-hunt; sort of sop to cerberus, as it were. eh, ronsdale?" but the nobleman did not answer; his face looked drawn and gray; with one hand he seemed almost clinging to his saddle. john steele's back was turned; he was bending over the girth of his saddle and his features could not be seen, but the hand, so firm and assured a moment before, seemed a little uncertain as it made pretext to readjust a fastening or buckle. "why, man, you look ill!" captain forsythe, turning to lord ronsdale, exclaimed suddenly. "it's--nothing--much--" with vacant expression the nobleman regarded the speaker; then lifted his hand and pressed it an instant to his breast. "heart," he murmured mechanically. "beastly bad heart, you know, and sometimes a little thing--slight shock--miss wray's danger--" "take some of this!" the captain, with solicitude, pressed a flask on him; the nobleman drank deeply. "there; that'll pick you up." "beastly foolish!" a color sprang to lord ronsdale's face; he held himself more erect. "not at all!" sir charles interposed. "a man can't help a bad liver or a bad heart. one of those inscrutable visitations of providence! but shall we go on? you're sure you're quite yourself?" "quite!" the nobleman's tone was even harder and more metallic than usual; his thin lips compressed to a tight line; his eyes that looked out to a great distance were bright and glistening. "are you ready, mr. steele?" jocelyn wray waited a moment as the others started, looked down at that gentleman. her voice was gracious; its soft accents seemed to say: "you may ride with me; it is your reward!" for one restored so quickly to favor, with a felicitous prospect of gay words and bright glances, john steele seemed singularly dull and apathetic. he exhibited no haste in the task he was engaged in; straightened slowly and mounted with leisure. once again in the saddle, and on their way, it is true he appeared to listen to the girl; but his responses were vague, lacking both in vivacity and humor. it was impossible she should not notice this want of attention; she bit her lips once; then she laughed. "do you know, mr. steele, if i were vain i should feel hurt." "hurt?" he repeated. "you haven't heard what i have been saying." her eyes challenged his. "haven't i?" "deny it." he did not; again she looked at him merrily. "of course, i can't afford to be harsh with my rescuer. perhaps"--in the same tone--"you really did save my life! have you ever really saved any one--any one else, shall i say?--you who are so strong?" a spasm as of pain passed over his face; his look, however, was not for her; and the girl's eyes, too, had now become suddenly set afar. was she thinking of another scene, some one her own words conjured to mind? her mood seemed to gain in seriousness; she also became very quiet; and so almost in silence they went on to the entrance, down the street, to her home. "_au revoir_, and thank you!" she said there, regaining her accustomed lightness. "good-by! at least for the present," he added. "i am leaving london," abruptly. "leaving?" she regarded him in surprise. "to be gone long?" "it is difficult to say. perhaps." "but--you must have decided suddenly?" "yes." "while we have been riding home?" again he answered affirmatively; the blue eyes looked at him long. "is it--is it serious?" "a little." "men make so much of business, nowadays," she observed, "it--it always seems serious, i suppose. we--we are moving into the country in a few weeks. shall i--shall we, see you before then?" "to my regret, i am afraid not." "and after"--in a voice matter-of-fact--"i think aunt has put you down for july; a house party; i don't recall the exact dates. you will come?" "shall we say, circumstances permitting--" "certainly," a little stiffly, "circumstances permitting." she gave him her hand. "_au revoir!_ or good-by, if you prefer it." he held the little gloved fingers; let them drop. there was a suggestion of hopelessness in the movement that fitted oddly his inherent vigor and self-poise; she started to draw away; an ineffable something held her. "good luck in your business!" she found herself saying, half-gaily, half-ironically. he answered, hoarsely, something--what?--rode off. with color flaming high, the girl looked after him until lord ronsdale's horse, clattering near, caused her to turn quickly. * * * * * chapter vi a conference the book-worms' row, hardly a street, more a short-cut passage between two important thoroughfares, had through the course of many years exercised a subtle fascination for pedant, pedagogue or itinerant litterateur. at one end of the way was rush and bustle; at the other, more rush and bustle; here might be found the comparative hush of the tiny stream that for a short interval has left the parent current. dusty and musty shops looked out on either side, and within on shelves, or without on stands, unexpected bargains lay carelessly about, rare horaces or ovids, greek tragedies, ponderous volumes of the golden age of the english poets and philosophers. truth nestled in dark corners; knowledge lay hidden in frayed covers and beauty enshrined herself behind cobwebs. not that the thoroughfare, in its entirety, was devoted to books; nor that it housed no other people than bibliomaniacs or antiquarians! higher, above the little shops, small rooms, reached by rickety stairways, offered quiet corners for divers and sundry gentlemen whose occupations called for discreet and retired nooks. in one of these places, described on the door as "a private, confidential, inquiry office," sat, on the morning following john steele's ride in the park, a little man with ferret-like eyes at a dusty desk near a dusty window. he did not seem to be very busy, was engaged at the moment in drawing meaningless cabalistic signs on a piece of paper, when a step in the hallway and a low tapping at the door caused him to throw down his pen and straighten expectantly. a client, perhaps!--a woman?--no, a man! with momentary surprise, he gazed on the delicately chiseled features of his caller; a gentleman faultlessly dressed and wearing a spring flower in his coat. "mr. gillett?" the visitor's glance veiled an expression of restlessness; his face, although mask-like, was tinted with a faint flush. the police agent at once rose. "the same, sir, at your service; i--but i beg your pardon; unless i am mistaken--haven't we--" "yes; a number of years ago on the _lord nelson_," said the caller in a hard matter-of-fact tone. "we were fellow passengers on her, until--" "we became fellow occupants of one of her small boats! an aging experience! but won't you," with that deference for rank and position those of his type are pleased to assume, "honor me by being seated, lord ronsdale?" as he spoke, he dusted vigorously with his handkerchief a chair which his caller, after a moment's hesitation, sank into; mr. gillett regarded the one he himself had been occupying; then, in an apologetic manner ventured to take it. "your lordship is well? your lordship looks it. your lordship was, last i heard, in australia, i believe. a genuine pleasure to see your lordship once more." the visitor offered no acknowledgment to this flattering effusion; his long fingers rubbed one another softly. he looked at the table, the window, anywhere save at the proprietor of the establishment, then said: "i saw by an advertisement in the morning papers that you had severed your connection with the force and had opened this--a private consultation bureau." "quite so!" the other looked momentarily embarrassed. "a little friction--account of some case--unreliable witness that got tangled up--they undertook to criticize me, after all my faithful service--" he broke off. "besides, the time comes when a man realizes he can do better for himself by himself. i am now devoting myself to a small, but strictly high-class," with an accent, "clientele." lord ronsdale considered; when he spoke, his voice was low, but it did not caress the ear. "you know john steele, of course?" the ferret eyes snapped. "that i do, your lordship. what of him?" quickly. the caller made no reply but tapped the floor lightly with his cane, and--"what of him?" repeated mr. gillett. lord ronsdale's glance turned; it had a strange brightness. his next question was irrelevant. "ever think much about the _lord nelson,_ gillett?" "she isn't a boat one's apt to forget, after what happened, your lordship," was the answer. "and if i do say it, her passengers were of the kind to leave pleasant recollections," the police agent diplomatically added. "her passengers?" the caller's thin lips compressed; a spark seemed to leap from his gaze, but not before he had dropped it. "among them, if memory serves me, were a number of convicts?" "a job lot of precious jailbirds that i was acting as escort of, your lordship!" "but who never reached australia!" quickly. "drowned!--every mother's son of them!" observed mr. gillett, with a possible trace of complacency. "not that i fancy the country they were going to mourned much about that. i understand a strong sentiment's growing out there against that sort of immigration." the visitor's white hand held closer the head of his cane; the stick bent to his weight. "_were_ they all drowned, by the way?" he observed as if seeking casual information on some subject that had partly passed from his mind. "no doubt of it. they were not released until the second boat got off, and then there was no time to get overboard the life rafts!" "true." lord ronsdale gazed absently out of the window, through a film, as it were, at a venerable figure below; one of the species _helluo librorum_ standing before a book-stall opposite. "recall the day on that memorable voyage you were telling us about them--who they were, and so on?" "very well," replied mr. gillett, good-humoredly. if his caller cared to discuss generalities rather than come at once to the business at hand, whatever had brought him there, that was none of his concern. these titled gentry had a leisurely method, peculiar to themselves, of broaching a subject; but if they paid him well for his time he could afford to appear an amiable and interested listener. in this case, the thought also insinuated itself, that his visitor had something of the manner of a man who had been up late the night before; the glint of his eye was that of your fashionable gamester; mr. gillett smiled sympathetically. "one, if i recall rightly," went on lord ronsdale, "was known as--let me see"--the elastic stick described a sharper curve--"the 'frisco pet? remember?" he bent slightly nearer. "that i do. not likely to forget him. unmanageable; one of the worst! was transported for life, with death as a penalty for returning." a slight sound came from the nobleman's throat. "a needless precaution," laughed the speaker, "for he's gone to his reward. and so your lordship remembers--" "i remember when he used to step into the ring," said lord ronsdale, his voice rising somewhat. "truth is, sight of you brought back old recollections. things i haven't thought of for a long time, don't you see!" "quite so! delighted, i am sure. i didn't know so much about him then; that came after; except that the gentlemen found him a figure worth looking at when he got up at the post--" "yes; he was worth looking at." lord bonsdale's eyes half closed. "a heavy-fisted, shapely brute; with muscles like steel. but ignorant--" he lingered on the word; then his glance suddenly lifted--"had something on his arm; recall noticing it while the bout was on!" mr. gillett with a knowing expression rose, took a volume from a bookcase and opened it. "the 'something' you speak of, my lord," he observed proudly, "should be here; i will show it that you may appreciate my system; the method i have of gathering and tabulating data. you will find an encyclopedia of information in that bookcase. all that scotland yard has, and perhaps a little besides." "really?" the nobleman's eyes fastened themselves on the book. "to illustrate: here's his case." gillett's fingers moved lightly over the page. "'testimony of dandy joe, down-stairs at the time with landlady who kept the house where the crime was committed. heard 'frisco pet, who had been drinking, come in; go up-stairs, as they supposed, to his own room; shortly after, loud voices; pistol shot. landlady and joe found woman, amy gerard, dead in shabby little sitting-room. pet, the worse for liquor, in a dazed condition at a table, head in his hands. testimony of joe corroborated by landlady; she swore no one had been in house except parties here mentioned, all lodgers. "'private mem.--house in bad neighborhood, near the adelphi catacombs. son of landlady, red-headed giant, also one-time prize-fighter, used to live here; the pet's last fight in the ring was with him. later tom took to the road; was wanted by the police at the time of the crime for some brutal highway work--' but," breaking off, "i am wearying your lordship. here is what i was especially looking for, the markings on the arm of the 'frisco pet. perhaps, however, your lordship doesn't care to listen further--" "go on!" the words broke sharply from the visitor's lips; then he gave a metallic laugh. "i am interested in this wonderful system of yours." mr. gillett read slowly: "'on the right arm of the 'frisco pet, just below the elbow, appears the figure of a man, in sparring attitude, done in sailor's tattooing; about the waist a flag, the stars and stripes in their accustomed colors; crudely drawn but not to be mistaken by noting following defects and details--' which," closing the book, "i won't read." his lordship's head had turned; at first he did not speak. "a good system," he remarked after an interval. "and a very good description, and yet--" his voice died away; for a moment he sat motionless. "but my purpose--the purpose of my visit--i--we have wandered quite from that. let us, i beg of you, talk business." mr. gillett started as if to venture a mild expostulation, but thought better of the impulse. "what _is_ your lordship's business with me?" he observed in his most professional tone. "i believe"--the visitor moistened his lips--"i believe i mentioned--john steele when i came in?" "your lordship did." "it--concerns him." "i am all attention, your lordship." mr. gillett's manner was keen, energetic; if he felt surprise he suppressed it. "good! your lordship's business concerns john steele." "for reasons that need not be mentioned, i want to find out all i can about him. that, i believe, is the sort of work you undertake. the terms for your services can be arranged later. it is unnecessary to say you will be well paid. i assume you can command competent and trustworthy help, that you have agents, perhaps, in other countries?" mr. gillett nodded. "if your lordship would give me some idea of the scope of the inquiry--" the long fingers opened, then closed tightly. "in the first place, you are to ascertain where john steele was before he came to england; how he got there; what he did. naturally, if he has lived in a far-away port you would seek to know the ship that brought him there; the names of the captain and the crew." "your lordship thinks, then, our investigation may lead us to distant lands?" "who can tell?" the nobleman's voice was sharp, querulous. "that is what you are to find out." "it shall be done, your lordship," replied the other quickly. "i shall embark in the matter with great zest, and, i may add, interest." "interest?" the nobleman looked at him. "oh, yes!" "if i might be so bold, may i ask, does your lordship expect to find anything that would--ahem!--cast any reflection on the high standing john steele is building up for himself in the community, or---" a shadow seemed to darken the mask-like features of the visitor; his gaze at once glittering, vaguely questioning, was fastened on the wall; then slowly, without answering, he got up. "surmises are not to enter into this matter," he said shortly. "it is facts, i want--facts!" "and your lordship shall have them. the case appears simple; not hard to get at the bottom of!" an odd expression shone from the visitor's eyes. "which reminds me he has left town," added gillett. "left town!" lord ronsdale wheeled abruptly. "you mean--" "for a little trip to the continent i should imagine; heard of it because he got some unimportant court matter put over." "gone away!" the nobleman, his back to the other, lifted a hand to his brow. "when?" "last night." "it was only yesterday morning i was riding with him!" "and he didn't mention the matter?" the visitor did not answer. "why should he have gone away?" he murmured, half aloud. "was it because--" he walked to the door; at the threshold stopped and looked back. "you might begin your inquiry by learning all you can about this little trip," he suggested. "and by the by, whatever you may find out, if anything, you will regard as belonging to me exclusively; to be mentioned, under no circumstances, without my permission, to any one whosoever--" "your lordship!" mr. gillett's hurt voice implied the little need for such admonition. "in my profession absolute integrity toward one's client demands that secrecy should be the first con--" "it is understood then. let me hear from you from time to time," and the nobleman went out. mr. gillett looked after him, then, reflectively, at the closed door. outside the sound of shuffling feet alone broke the stillness; before the book-stand the bibliomaniac buried his face deeper in the musty pages of an old tragedy. * * * * * chapter vii incidents several months went by and john steele saw nothing further, although he heard often, of miss jocelyn wray. his business to the continent, whatever its nature, had seemed sufficiently important to authorize from him to her, in due process of time, a short perfunctory message regretting his inability to present himself at the appointed hour at strathorn house. whether the young girl found in the letter a vagueness warranting a suspicion that john steele preferred the heavy duties of the city to the light frivolities of the country matters not; suffice it the weeks passed and no further invitations, in the ponderous script of the wife of sir charles, arrived to tempt him from his accustomed ways. but the days of this long interim had not passed altogether uneventfully; a few incidents, apart from the routine of his work, obtruded themselves upon his attention. a number of supposedly prospective clients had called to ask for him at his office during his sojourn on the other side of the channel. that was to have been expected; but one or two of these, by dint of flattery, or possibly silver-lined persuasion, had succeeded in gaining access to his chambers. "i should like to have a look into john steele's library; i've heard it's worth while," one had observed to the butler at the door. "only a bit of a peep around!" his manner of putting his desire, supplemented by a half-crown, left the butler no alternative save to comply with the request, until the "peep around" began to develop into more than cursory examination, when his sense of propriety became outraged and the visitor's welcome was cut short. "he was that curious, a regular paul pry!" explained the servant to john steele, in narrating the incident on the latter's return to london. "seemed specially taken by the reports of the old trials you have on the shelves, sir. 'what an interesting collection of _causes célèbres!_' he kept remarking. 'i suppose your master makes much of them?' he would have been handling of them, too, and when i showed him the door--trusting i did right, sir, even if he should happen to be a client!--he asked more questions before going." "what questions?" quietly. "personal-like. but i put a stop to that." for a few moments john steele said nothing; his face, on his reappearance in london, had looked slightly paler, more set and determined, not unlike that of a man, who, strongly assailed, has made up his mind to do battle to the end. with whom? how many? he might put out his hand, clench it; the thin air made no answer. he regarded the shadows now; they seemed to wave around him, intangible, obscure. a dark day in town, the streets were oppressive; the people below passed like poorly done replicas of themselves; the rattle of the wheels resembled a sullen, disgruntled mumble. "you will admit no one to my chambers during my absence in the future," said steele at length, to the man, sternly. "no one, you understand, under any pretext whatever; even," a flicker of grim humor in the deep eyes, "if he should say he was a client of mine!" the butler returned a subdued answer, and john steele, after a moment's thought, stepped to a large safe in the corner, and applying a somewhat elaborate combination, swung open the door. taking from a compartment a bundle of papers carefully rolled, he unfastened the tape, spread them on a table and examined them, one after the other. they made a voluminous heap; here and there on the white pages in bold regular script appeared the name of a woman; her life lay before him, the various stages of an odd and erratic career. at a cabaret at montmartre; at a casino in the paris bohemian quarter; in london--at a variety hall of amusement. and afterward!--wastrel, nomad! throughout the writing, in many of the documents, another name, too, a titled name, a man's, often came and went, flitted elusively from leaf to leaf. the reader looked at this name, wrote a page or two, and inserted them. but his task seemed to afford him little satisfaction; his face wore an expression not remote from discouragement; none knew better than he the actual value, for his purpose, of the material before him. the chaff, froth, bubble of the case!--almost contemptuously he regarded it. had he sought the unattainable? certainly he had left no stone unturned, no stone, and yet the head and front of what he sought had ever escaped him--should he ever grasp it?--with these new secret activities menacing him?--harassing the future? he drew himself up suddenly, as if to shake off momentary doubt or depression. replacing his documents in the safe and locking it, he walked into a room adjoining; in a bare, square place on the wall hung foils and broadswords, and the only furnishings were the conventional appointments of a home gymnasium. here, having doffed his street clothes and assumed the scant costume of the athlete, for an hour or more he exercised vigorously, every muscle responding to its task with an untiring ease that told of a perfect system of training. as he stood in the glow, breathing deep and full, his figure, with its perfect lines of strength and litheness, the superb but not too pronounced swell of limb and shoulder, would have been the delight of the professional expounder of dumb-bells, bars and clubs, as the most proper medium of "fitness" and condition. whether he exercised for the sake of exercising, or because bodily movement served to stimulate his mind in the consideration of problems of moment, john steele certainly had never been in finer physical fettle than at this particular period of his varied and eventful career. which proved of service to him and his well-being, for one night, not long thereafter, he was called upon to defend himself from a number of footpads who set upon him. the episode occurred in his own street near a corner, where the shadows were black at an hour when the narrow way seemed silent and deserted. for a block or more footfalls had sounded behind him, now quickening, then becoming more deliberate, in unison with his own steps, as from time to time he purposely altered his pace. once he had stopped; whereupon they too had paused. a moment he stood looking up at st. paul's, immense, ominous, casting at that late hour a dim patch of shadow over scores of pigmy buildings and paltry byways; when he went on, patter!--patter!--the trailing of feet, inevitable as fate, followed through the darkness. but they came no nearer until, abruptly wheeling, he entered the short street where his chambers were located; at the same time two men, apparently sauntering from the river in that side thoroughfare, approached him somewhat rapidly, separating slightly as they did so. john steele seemed oblivious. he moved into a doorway and drawing from his pocket a cigar, unconcernedly lighted a match. the fellows looked at him, at the tiny flame; it flickered and went out. they hesitated; he felt in his pocket, giving them time to move by. they did not do so; in a moment the others from the main highway would join them. as if disappointed in not finding what he sought, steele, looking around, appeared to see for the first time the evil-looking miscreants who had came from the direction of the thames, and striding toward them asked bruskly for a light. one of the fellows thus unceremoniously addressed had actually begun to feel in his shabby garments for the article required when his companion uttered a short derisory oath. it served as a sudden stimulus to him against whom it was directed; the old precept that he who strikes first strikes best, john steele seemed fully to appreciate. his heavy stick flashed in the air, rang hard; the way before him cleared, he did not linger. but close behind now the others came fast; his door, however, was near. now he reached it, fitted the heavy key. had it turned as usual, the episode would have been brought to a speedy conclusion, but, as it was, the key stuck. the foremost of those who had been trailing fell upon steele but soon drew back; one of them, unable to repress a groan, held his hand to a broken wrist, while from his helpless fingers a knife dropped to the ground. a hoarse voice in thieves' jargon, unintelligible to the layman, cursed them for cowards; john steele on a sudden laughed loudly, exultantly; whereupon he who had thus spoken from the background stared. a ponderous, hulking fellow, about six feet three, with a shock of red hair and a thick hanging lip,--obviously this one of his assailants possessed immense, unusual strength. in appearance he was the reverse of pleasing; his bloodshot eyes seemed to shine like coals from the darkness, the huge body to quiver with rage or with lust for the conflict. "let me at him, ye--!" he cried in foul and flash tongue, when john steele suddenly called him by name, said something in that selfsame dialect of pickpurses and their ilk. whatever the words or their portent, the effect was startling. steele's bulky assailant paused, remained stock-still, his purpose arrested, all his anger gone out of him. "how the--? who--?" the man began. "call off your fellows!" john steele's voice seemed to thrill; a fierce elation shone from his glance. "i want to talk with you. it'll be more worth your while than any prigging or bagging you've ever yet done." "well, i'm blowed!" the man's tone was puzzled; surprise, suspicion gleamed from the bloodshot eyes. "how should a swell gent like you know--? and you want to talk with me? here's a gamey cove!" "i tell you i must talk with you! and it will be better for you, my man--" a sharp metallic click told that the speaker had turned the key in the lock behind him--"to step in here with me. you needn't be afraid i'm going to nab you; i've got a lay better than hooking you for the dock. as for the others, they can go, for all of me." "oh, they can!" the big man's face expressed varying feelings--vague wonder; at the same time he began to edge cautiously away. "that would be a nice plant, wouldn't it? let's out of this, blokies!" suddenly, "this cove knows too much, and--" "wait!" steele stepped slightly toward him. "i want you, tom rogers, and i'm going to have you; it'll be quids in your pocket and not newgate." "slope for it, mates!" the big man's voice rang out; around the corner in the direction of the thames the burly figure of a policeman appeared in the dim light. "that's his little game!" and turned. but john steele sprang savagely forward. "you fool! you'll not get away so easily!" he exclaimed, when one of the others put out a foot. it caught the pursuing man fairly and tripped him. john steele went down hard; his head struck the stone curb violently. for some moments he lay still; when at length he did move, to lift himself on his elbow, as through a mist he made out the broad and solicitous face of a policeman bending over him. "that was a nasty fall you got, sir." "fall?" john steele arose, stood swaying. "that man!--must not escape--do you hear? must not!" as he spoke he made as if to rush forward; the other laid steadying fingers on his arm. "hold hard a bit, sir," he said. "not quite yourself; besides, they're well out of sight now. no use running after." steele moved, grasped the railing leading up the front step; his brow throbbed; a thousand darting pains shot through his brain. but for the moment these physical pangs were as nothing; disappointment, self-reproach moved him. to have allowed himself to go down like that; to have been caught by such a simple trick! clumsy clod!--and at a moment when--he laughed fiercely; from his head the blood flowed; he did not feel that hurt now. the officer regarded the strong, noble figure moving just a little to and fro, the lips set ironically, the dark eyes that gleamed in the night as with sardonic derision. "pardon me, sir," he said in a brisker tone, "but hadn't we better go in? this, i take it, is your house; you can look after yourself somewhat, and afterward describe your assailants. then we'll start out to find and arrest them, if possible!" "arrest?" john steele looked at the officer; his gaze slowly regained its accustomed steadiness. "i am afraid i can't help you; the darkness, the suddenness of the attack--" "but surely you must have noticed something, sir; whether they were large, or small; what sort of clothes they wore--" the other shook his head; the man appeared disappointed. "well, i'll make a report of the attack, but--" steele loosened his hold on the railing; he appeared now to have recovered his strength. "that's just what i don't want you to do. my name is john steele, you know of me?" and, as the other returned a respectful affirmative, "it is my desire to escape any notoriety in this little matter, you understand? as one whose profession brings him in connection with these people, the episode seems rather anomalous as well as humiliating. it might even," his accents had a covert mocking sound, "furnish a paragraph for one of the comic weeklies. so you see--" something passed from his hand to the policeman's. "i didn't think of that, sir; but i suppose there is something in your way of looking at it, and as there isn't much chance of getting them, anyhow, without any clue, or description--" his voice died away. walking quickly up the steps john steele opened the door, murmured a perfunctory "good night" and let himself in. but as he mounted to his chambers, some of the moment's exultation that had seized him at sight of the man, revived. "he has come back--he is here--in london. i surely can lay hands on him--i must! i will!" * * * * * chapter viii a change of front he found the task no easy one, however, although he went at it with his characteristic vigor and energy. few men knew the seamy side of london better than john steele: its darksome streets and foul alleys, its hovels and various habitations. and this knowledge he utilized to the best advantage, always to find that his efforts came to naught. the snares he set before possible hiding-places proved abortive; the artifices he employed to uncover the quarry in maze or labyrinth were fruitless. the man had appeared like a vision from the past, and vanished. whither? out of the country, once more? over the seas? had he taken quick alarm at steele's words, and effected a hasty retreat from the scenes of his graceless and nefarious career? reluctantly john steele found himself forced to entertain the possibility of this being so; otherwise the facilities at his command were such that he should most likely, ere this, have been able to attain his end, find what he sought. soberly attired, he attracted no very marked attention in the slums,--breeding spots of the criminal classes; the denizens knew john steele; he had been there oft before. he had, on occasion, assisted some of them with stern good advice or more substantial services. he was acquainted with these men and women; had, perhaps, a larger charity for them than most people find it expedient to cherish. his glance had always seemed to read them through and through, with uncompromising realization of their infirmities, weaknesses of the flesh and inherited moral imperfections. his very fearlessness had ever commended him to that lower world; it did now, enabling him the better to cast about in divers directions. to hear nothing, to learn nothing, at least, very little! one man had seen the object of steele's solicitude and to this person, a weazened little "undesirable," the red-headed giant had confided that london was pretty hot and he thought of decamping from it. "'arter all this time that's gone by,' he says to me, bitter-like, 'to think a man can't come back to 'is native 'ome without being spied on for what ought long ago to be dead and forgot!' but you're not trying to lay hands on 'im, to put 'im in the pen, gov'ner?" "i?" a singular glint shot from steele's gaze. "no, no, my man, i'm not seeking him for that. but he didn't say where he expected to go?" "not he." "nor what had brought him to london?" "i expect it was 'omesickness, sir. 'e's been a bad lot, but 'e has a heart, arter all. it was to see 'is mother 'e came back; the old woman drew 'im 'ere. you see 'e had written 'er from foreign parts, but could never 'ear; 'cause she had moved; used to keep a place where a woman was found--" "dead?" "murdered!" said the man; john steele was silent. "and she, 'is mother 'ad gone, 'aving saved a bit, out into a peaceable-like little 'amlet, where there weren't no bobbies, only instead, bits of flower gardens and bright bloomin' daffy-down-dillies. but, blime me, when tom come and found out where she 'ad changed to, if she 'adn't gone and shuffled off, and all 'e 'ad for 'is pains was the sight of a mound in the churchyard." "yes; she's buried," said john steele thoughtfully, "and all she might have told about the woman who was--murdered, is buried with her." "but she did tell, sir; at the time," quickly, "of the trial." "true." the visitor's tone changed. "if you can find tom, give him this note; you'll be well paid--" "i ain't askin' for that; you got me off easy once and gave me a lift, arter i was let out--" "well, well!" steele made a brusk gesture. "we all need a helping hand sometimes," he said turning away. and that was as near as he had come to attainment of his desires. summer passed; sometimes, the better to think, to plan, to keep himself girded by constant exercise, he repaired to the park, now neglected by fashion and given over to that nebulous quantity of diverse qualities called the people. where fine gentlemen and beaux had idled, middle-class nurse-maids now trundled their charges or paused to converse with the stately guardians of the place. almost deserted were roads and row; landau, victoria and brougham, with their varied coats-of-arms, no longer rolled pompously past; only the occasional democratic cab, of nimble possibilities, speeding by with a fare lent pretext of life to the scene. true, the nomad appeared in ever increasing numbers, holding his right to the sward for a couch as an inalienable privilege; john steele encountered him on every hand. once, beneath a great tree, where jocelyn wray and he had stopped their horses to talk for a moment, the bleared, bloated face of what had been a man looked up at him. the sight for an instant seemed to startle the beholder; a wave of anger at that face, set in a place where imagination had an instant before played with a picture altogether different, passed over him; then quickly went. as he strode forward at a swinging pace, his thoughts swept swiftly again into another channel, one they had been flowing in when he had first entered the park that day. above him the leaves rustled ceaselessly; their restless movements seemed in keeping with his mood wherein impatience mingled with other and fiercer emotions. fate had been against him, the inevitable "what must be," which, in the end, crushes alike faintheart or strongheart. of what avail to square his shoulders? the danger pressed close; he felt it, by that intuition men sometimes have. what if he left, left the field, this england? who could accuse him of cowardice if in that black moment he yielded to the hateful course and went, like the guilty, pitiable skulkers? "how do you do, steele? just the man i wanted to see!" near the main exit, toward which john steele had unconsciously stepped, the sound of a familiar voice and the appearance of a well-known stocky form broke in, with startling abruptness, on the dark train of thought. "deep in some point of law?" went on sir charles. "'pon honor, believe you would have cut me. however, don't apologize; you're forgiven!" "most amiable of you to say so, sir charles!" perfunctorily. "not at all! especially as our meeting is quite apropos. obliged to run up to town on a little matter of business; but, thank goodness, it's done. never saw london more deserted. dined at the club, nobody there. supped at the hotel, dining-room empty. strolled up piccadilly, not a soul to be seen. that is," he added, "no one whom one has seen before, which is the same thing. but how did you enjoy your trip to the continent?" "it was not exactly a trip for pleasure," returned the other with a slight accent of constraint. "ah, yes; so i understood. but fancy going to the continent on business! one usually goes for--which reminds me, how would you like to go back into the country with me?" "i? it is impossible at the moment for--" but sir charles seemed not to listen. "deuced dull journey for a man to take alone; good deal of it by coach. you'll find a few salmon to kill--trout and all that. think of the joy of whipping a stream, after having been mewed up all these months in the musty metropolis! besides, i made a wager with jocelyn you wouldn't refuse a second opportunity to bask in arcadia." he laughed. "'i really couldn't presume to ask him again,' is the way she expressed it, 'but if you can draw a sufficiently eloquent picture of the rural attractions of strathorn to woo him from his beloved dusty byways, you have my permission to try.'" "did she say that?" john steele spoke quickly. then, "i am sorry, it is impossible, but," in a low tone, "how is miss wray?" "never better. enjoying every moment. jolly party and all that. lord ronsdale and--" here sir charles enumerated a number of people. "lord ronsdale is there?" "yes; couldn't keep him away from strathorn house now," he laughed. "as a matter of fact he has asked my permission to--there!" sir charles stopped, then laughed again with a little embarrassment. "i've nearly let the cat out of the bag." john steele spoke no word; his face was set, immovable; his lashes shaded his eyes. a flood of traffic at a corner held them; he appeared attentive only for it. the wheels pounded and rattled; the whips snapped and cracked. "you mean he has proposed for her hand and she--" steele seemed to speak with difficulty--"has consented?" the noise almost drowned the question but sir charles heard. "well, not exactly. she appears complaisant, as it were," he answered. "but really, i shouldn't have mentioned the matter at all; quite premature, you understand. let's say no more about it. and--what was it you said about going back with me?" "yes," said john steele with a sudden strength and energy that sir charles might attribute to the desire to make himself understood above the din of the street. "i'll go back with you at"--the latter words, lower spoken, the other did not catch--"no matter what cost!" sir charles dodged a vehicle; he did not observe the light, the fire, the sudden play of fierce, dark passion on his companion's face. "good!" he said. "and when you get tired of 'books in the running brooks'--" steele's hand closed on his arm. "when do you leave?" he asked abruptly. "to-day--to-morrow--suit your convenience." "let it be to-day, then! to-day!" sir charles looked at him quickly; john steele's face recovered its composure. "i believe i have become weary of what your niece calls the 'dusty byways,'" he explained with a forced laugh. * * * * * chapter ix away from the town when john steele, contrary to custom, set aside, in deciding to leave london that day, all logical methods of reasoning and acted on what was nothing more than an irresistible impulse, he did not attempt to belittle to himself the possible consequences that might accrue from his action. he was not following the course intelligence had directed; he was not embarking on a journey his best interests would have prompted; on the contrary, he knew himself mad, foolish. but not for one moment did he regret his decision; stubbornly, obstinately he set his back toward the town; with an enigmatical gleam in his dark eyes he looked away from the blur sir charles and he had left behind them. green pastures, bright prospects! whence were they leading him? his gaze was now somber, then bright; though more often shadows passed over his face, like clouds in the sky. outwardly his manner had become unconcerned, collected; he listened to sir charles' jokes, offered casual comments of his own. he even performed his wonted part in relieving the tedium of a long journey with voluntary contributions to conversations on divers topics in which he displayed wide and far-reaching knowledge. he answered the many questions of his companion on the different habits of criminals; how they lived; the possibilities for reforming the worst of the lot; the various methods toward this end advocated by the idealist. these and other subjects he touched on with poignant, illuminating comment. sir charles regarded him once or twice in surprise. "you have seen a deal in your day," he observed, "of the under world, i mean!" john steele returned an evasive answer. the nobleman showed a tendency to doze in his seat, despite the jolts and jars of the way, and, thereafter, until they arrived at strathorn the two fellow travelers rode on in silence. this little hamlet lay in a sleepy-looking dell; as the driver swung down a hill he whipped up his horses and literally charged upon the town; swept through the main thoroughfare and drew up with a flourish before the principal tavern. sir charles started, stretched his legs; john steele got down. "conveyance of any kind here, waiting to take us to strathorn house?" called out the former as he stiffly descended the ladder at the side of the coach. the landlord of the golden lion, who had emerged from his door, returned an affirmative reply and at the same time ushered the travelers into a tiny private sitting-room. as they crossed the hall, turning to the right to enter this apartment, some one in the room opposite, a more public place, who had been furtively peering through the half-opened door to observe the new-comers, at sight of john steele drew quickly back. not, however, before that gentleman had caught a glimpse of him. a strange face, indeed,--but the fellow's manner--his expression--the act itself somehow struck the observer,--unduly, no doubt, and yet--a moment later this door closed, and from beyond came only a murmur of men's voices over pots. "trap will be in front directly, sir charles," said the landlord lingering. "meanwhile if there is anything--" "nothing, thank you! only a short distance to strathorn house," he explained to john steele, "and i fancy we'll do better by waiting for what we may require there. but what is the latest news at strathorn? anything happened? business quiet?" "it 'asn't been so brisk, and it 'asn't been so dull, your lordship, what with now and then a gentleman from london!" "from london? isn't that rather unusual?" "somewhat. but as for your lordship's first question, i don't know of any news, except squire thompson told me to inform your lordship he would have the three hunters he was telling your lordship about, down at his stud farm this afternoon, and if your lordship cared to have a look at them--" "if?" cried sir charles. "there isn't any 'if.' three finer animals man never threw leg over, judging from report," he explained to john steele. "stud farm's about a mile in the opposite direction from strathorn house. mind a little jog to the farm first?" "not at all!" john steele had been looking thoughtfully toward the door that had closed upon the man whose quick regard he had detected. "only, if you will allow me to make a counter proposal,--strathorn house, you say, is near; i am in the mood for exercise, after sitting so long, and should like to walk there." "by all means," returned the other, "since it's your preference. pretty apt to overtake you," he went on, after giving his guest a few directions. "especially if you linger over any points of interest!" the trap drew up; the two men separated. sir charles rattled briskly down one way, steele turned to go the other. but before setting out, he asked a casual question or two of the landlord, relating to the occasional "gentleman from london"; the host, however, appeared to know little of any cosmopolitan visitors who had happened to drift that way, and john steele, eliciting no information in this regard, finally started on his walk. whatever his thoughts, many quaint and characteristic bits of the town failed to divert them; he looked neither to the right, at a james i. sun-dial; nor to the left, where a small sign proclaimed that an event of historical importance had made noteworthy that particular spot. over the cobblestones, smoothed by the feet of many generations, he walked with eyes bent straight before him until he reached an open space on the other side of the village, where he paused. on either side hedges partly screened undulating meadows, the broad sweeps of emerald green interspersed here and there with small groups of trees in whose shadows cattle grazed. a stream with lively murmur meandered downward; in a bush, at his approach, a bird began to sing, and involuntarily the man stopped; but only for a moment. soon rose before him the top of a modest steeple; then a church, within the sanctuary of whose yard old stones mingled with new. he stepped in; "straight on across the churchyard!" had been sir charles' direction. john steele moved quickly down the narrow path; his eye had but time to linger a moment on the monuments, ancient and crumbling, and on headstones more recently fashioned, when above, another picture caught and held his attention. strathorn house! a noble dwelling, massive, gray! and yet one that lifted itself with charming lightness from its solid, baronial-like foundation! it adorned the spot, merged into the landscape. behind, the forest, a dark line, penciled itself against the blue horizon; before the ancient stone pile lay a park. noble trees guarded the walks, threw over them great gnarled limbs or delicately-trailing branches. between, the interspaces glowed bright with flowers; amid all, a little lake shone like a silver shield bearing at its center a marble pavilion. long the man looked; through a faint veil of mist, turret and tower quivered; strong lines of masonry vibrated. wavering as in the spell of an optical illusion, the structure might have seemed but a figment of imagination, or one of those fanciful castles sung by the elizabethan brotherhood of poets. did the image occur to john steele, did he feel for the time, despite other disquieting, extraneous thoughts, the subtle enchantment of the scene? the minutes passed; he did not move. "you find it to your liking?" a voice, fresh, gay, interrupted; with a great start, he turned. jocelyn wray, for it was she, laughed; so absorbed had he been, he had not heard her light footstep on the grass behind. "you find it to your liking?" she repeated, tilting quizzically her fair head. his face changing, "entirely!" he managed to say. and then, "i--did not know you were near." "no? but i could see that. confess," with accent a little derisory, "i startled you." as she spoke she leaned slightly back against the low stone wall of the churchyard; the shifting light through the leaves played over her; her eyes seemed to dance in consonance with that movement. "perhaps," he confessed. the girl laughed again; one would have sworn there was; oy in her voice. "you must have been much absorbed," she continued, "in the view!" "it is very fine." he saw now more clearly the picture she made: the details of her dress, the slender figure, closely sheathed in a garb of blue lighter in shade than her eyes. she put out her hand. "i am forgetting--you came down with my uncle, i suppose?" in a matter-of-fact tone. "a pleasure we hardly expected! let me see. i haven't seen you since--ah, when was it?" he told her. "yes; i remember now. wasn't that the day the scotch bagpipes went by? you had business that called you away. something very important, was it not? you were successful?" "quite." "how oddly you say that!" she looked at him curiously. "but shall we walk on toward the house? i went down into the town thinking to meet my uncle," she explained, "but as i had a few errands, on account of a children's fête we are planning, reached the tavern after he had gone." "he went to a farm not far distant." as he spoke, she stepped into the path leading from the churchyard; it was narrow and she walked before him. "yes; so the landlord said," she remarked without looking around. and then, irrelevantly, "the others went hunting. are you a nimrod, mr. steele?" "not a mighty one." "oh, you wouldn't have to be that--for rabbits!" she shot a glance over her shoulder; her eyes were glad; but to the man they were bright merely with the joy of youth that drops glances like sunshine for all alike. perhaps he would have found pleasure in thinking she appeared gayer for sight of him; but if the thought came, bitterly, peremptorily it was dismissed. sir charles' words rang through his mind; lord ronsdale!--john steele's hat shaded his eyes; he stopped to pick a small flower from the hedge. when he looked up he saw her face no longer; only the golden hair seemed to flash in his eyes, the beautiful, bright meshes, and the light, slender figure, so graceful, so buoyant, so near he could almost touch it, but moving away, moving from him-- it may be, amid other thoughts, at that moment, he asked himself why he had come. what had driven him to this folly? why was he stepping on blindly, oblivious of definite plan or policy, like a man walking in the dark? no, not in the dark; all was too bright. he could see but too plainly--her!--felt impelled to draw nearer-- but at that instant, she stepped quickly from the byway into the main road. "there it is," she said, pointing with a small white finger. he held himself abruptly back. "what?" fell from his lips. "the way in, of course," said the girl. he moved now at her side; at the entrance, broad, imposing, she paused; a thousand perfumes seemed wafted from the garden; the rustling of myriad wings fell on the senses, like faint cadences of music. the girl made a courtesy; her red lips curved. "welcome to strathorn house, mr. john steele!" she said gaily. within the stately house, near a recessed window at the front, a man stood at that moment, reading a letter handed to him but a short time before. this document, though brief, was absorbing: "shall be down to see you soon. am sending this by private messenger who may be trusted. case coming on; links nearly all complete. involve a new and bewildering possibility that i must impart to you personally. have discovered the purpose of s.'s visit to the continent. it was--" lord ronsdale perused the words more rapidly; paused, on his face an expression of eagerness, expectancy. "so that was it," he said to himself slowly. "i might have known--" voices without caught his attention; he glanced quickly through the window. jocelyn wray and some one else had drawn near, were walking up the marble steps. "john steele!" he, lord ronsdale, crumpled the paper in his hand. "here!" * * * * * chapter x a contest a few days passed; the usual round of pastimes inseparable from house parties served to while away the hours; other guests arrived, one or two went. lord ronsdale had greeted john steele perfunctorily; the other's manner was likewise mechanically courteous. it could not very well have been otherwise; a number of people were near. "come down for a little sport?" the nobleman, his hands carelessly thrust into the pockets of his shooting trousers, had asked with a frosty smile. "perhaps--if there is any!" steele allowed his glance for the fraction of a moment to linger on lord ronsdale's face. "i'll answer for that." a slight pause ensued. "decided rather suddenly to run down, didn't you?" "rather." "heard you were on the continent. from sir charles, don't you know. pleasant time, i trust?" he drawled. "thank you!" john steele did not answer directly. "your solicitude," he laughed, "honors me--my lord!" and that had been all, all the words spoken, at least. to the others there had been nothing beneath the surface between them; for the time the two men constituted but two figures in a social gathering. a rainy spell put a stop to outdoor diversions; for twenty-four hours now the party had been thrown upon their own resources, to devise such indoor amusement as occurred to them. strathorn house, however, was large; it had its concert stage, a modern innovation; its armory hall and its ball-room. pleasure seekers could and did find here ample facilities for entertaining themselves. the second morning of the dark weather discovered two of the guests in the oak-paneled smoking-room of strathorn house. one of them brushed the ash from his cigar meditatively and then stretched himself more comfortably in the great leather chair. "no fox-hunt or fishing for any of us to-day," he remarked with a yawn. the other, who had been gazing through a window at a prospect of dripping leaves and leaden sky, answered absently; then his attention centered itself on the small figure of a boy coming up through the avenue of trees toward a side entrance. "believe i shall run over to germany very soon, steele," went on the first speaker. "indeed?" john steele's brows drew together; the appearance of the lad was vaguely familiar. he remembered him now, the hostler boy at the golden lion. "yes; capital case coming on in the criminal courts there." "and you don't want to miss it, forsythe?" "not i! weakness of mine, as you know. most people look to novels or plays for entertainment; i find mine in the real drama, unfolded every day in the courts of justice." forsythe paused as if waiting for some comment from his companion, but none came. john steele watched the boy; he waved a paper in his hand and called with easy familiarity to a housemaid in an open window above: "telegram from london, miss. my master at the golden lion said there'd be a sixpence here for delivering it!" "well, i'll be down in a moment, impudence." the silence that followed was again broken by captain forsythe's voice: "there are one or two features in this german affair that remind me of another case, some years back--one of our own--that interested me." "ah?" the listener's tone was only politely interrogatory. "a case here in london--perhaps you have heard of it? the murder of a woman, once well-known before the footlights, by a one-time champion of the ring--the 'frisco pet, i think he was called." the other moved slightly; his back had been toward forsythe; he now half-turned. "yea, i have heard of it," he said slowly, after a pause. "but why should this case across the water interest you; because it is like--this other one you mention?" "because i once puzzled a bit over that one; investigated it somewhat on my own account, don't you know." "in what way?" steele's manner was no longer indifferent. "i'm rather familiar with some of the details myself," he added. "then it attracted you, too, as an investigator?" murmured the captain in a gratified tone. "for your book, perhaps?" "not exactly. but you haven't yet told me," in a keen, alert tone, "why you looked into it, 'on your own account.' it seems simple, obvious. not of the kind that would attract one fond of nice criminal problems." "that is just it," said captain forsythe, rising. "it was, perhaps, a little too simple! too obvious." "how," demanded john steele, "can a matter of this sort be too obvious? but," bending his eyes on the other, "you attended the trial of this fellow?" his tone vibrated a little oddly. "the last part of it; wasn't in england when it first came on; and what i heard of it raised some questions and doubts in my mind. not that i haven't the greatest respect for english justice! however, i didn't think much more about the case until a good many months later, when chance alone drew my attention more closely to it." "chance?" "was down in the country--jolly good trout district--when one night, while riding my favorite hobby, i happened to get on this almost-forgotten case of the 'frisco pet. whereupon the landlord of the inn where i put up, informed me that one of the villagers in this identical little town had been landlady at the place where the affair occurred." "the woman who testified no one had been to her place that night except--" john steele spoke sharply. "this fellow? quite so." captain forsythe walked up and down. "now, i'd always had a little theory. could never get out of my mind one sentence this poor, ignorant fellow uttered at the trial. 'seems as if i could remember a man's face, a stranger's, that looked into mine that night, your lordship, but i ain't exactly cock-sure!' 'ain't exactly cock-sure,'" repeated captain forsythe. "that's what caught me. would a man, not telling the truth, be not quite 'cock-sure'; or would he testify to the face as a fact?" the other did not answer. "so the impression grew on me. can you understand?" "hum! very interesting, forsythe; very ingenious; quite plausible!" "now you're laughing at me, steele?" "on the contrary, my dear fellow, go on." "the landlady's testimony excluded the face, made it a figment of an imagination, disordered by drink!" captain forsythe waved his hand airily as he stepped back and forth. "you went to see this woman?" "out of curiosity, and found she was, indeed, the same person. she seemed quite ill and feeble; i talked with her about an hour that day. tried in every way to get her to remember she had possibly let in some other person that night, but--" "but?" "bless you, she stuck to her story," laughed captain forsythe. "couldn't move her an iota." one of the listener's arms fell to his side; his hand closed hard. "quite bowled over my little theory, don't you know! of course i told myself it didn't matter; the man convicted was gone, drowned. however,--" he broke off. a swish of silk was heard in the hallway; forsythe stopped before the door. "ah, miss jocelyn! haven't you a word in passing?" she paused, looked in. amid neutral shades the girl's slender figure shone most insistent; her gown, of a color between rose and pink, was warm-hued rather than bright, like the tints in an ancient embroidery. around her neck gleamed a band of old cloth of silver but the warmth of tone did not cease at the argent edge, but leaped over to kiss the fair cheeks and soft, smiling lips. "is this the way you men amuse yourselves?" she asked with a laugh. "talking shop, no doubt?" "afraid we must plead guilty," said captain forsythe. "and that is why," with a quick sidelong glance, drawing her skirts around her as she stood gracefully poised, "mr. steele appears so interested?" "interested?" the subject of her comment seemed to pull himself together with a start, regarded her. was he, in the surprise of the moment, just in the least disconcerted by that bright presence, the beautiful clear eyes, straight, direct, though laughing? "perhaps appearances are--" he found himself saying. "deceptive!" she completed lightly. "well, if you weren't interested, captain forsythe was. he, i know, is quite incorrigible when you get him on his hobby." "oh, i say, miss jocelyn!" she came forward; light and brightness entered the room with her. "quite!" the slender figure stood between the two men. "we expect any time he'll be looking around here next, to find something to investigate!" "here?" john steele smiled. "what should he find here?" "in sleepy strathorn? true!" a shrill whistle smote the air; steele's glance turned to the window. the boy, having delivered his message, had left the door; with lips puckered to the loud and imperfect rendition of a popular street melody, he was making his way through the grounds. involuntarily the man's look lingered on him. "a telegram from london? for whom?" "i'm afraid it's hopeless, captain forsythe. nothing ever happens at strathorn." at the instant the girl's laughing voice seemed a little farther off. "if something only would--to help pass the time. don't you agree with me, mr. steele?" "i--" his glance returned to her quickly, "by all means!" she looked at him; had she detected that momentary swerving from the serious consideration of her light words? her own eyes turned to the window where they saw nothing but rain. she smiled vaguely, stood with her hands behind her; it was he now who regarded her, straight, slender, lithe. there was also something inflexible appearing in that young form, though so replete with grace and charm. "to help pass the time!" john steele laughed. "i--let us hope so." there had been moments in the past when she had felt she could not quite understand him; they were moments like these when she seemed to become aware of something obscuring, falling before her--between them--that seemed to hold him aloof from her, from the others, to invest him almost with mystery. mystery,--romantic idea! a slight laugh welled from the white throat. in these prosaic days! "by the way, what particular case were you discussing when i happened by?" "nothing very new," answered the military man, "an old crime perpetrated by a fellow called the--" "beg pardon!" a footman stood in the doorway. "sir charles' compliments to the gentlemen, and will they be good enough to join him in armory hall?" john steele turned quickly to the servant, so quickly a close observer might have fancied he welcomed the interruption. "captain forsythe's and mr. steele's compliments to sir charles," he said at once, "and say it will give them pleasure to comply. that is," he added, bowing, "with your permission, miss wray." she assented lightly; preceded by the girl, the two men left the room and mounted the broad stairway leading to the second story. armory hall was a large and lofty chamber with vaulted ceiling, that dated back almost to the early norman period; its walls, decorated in geometrical designs, were covered with many varieties of antique weapons of warfare; halberd and mace gleamed and mingled with harquebus, poleax or lance. at one end of the hall were ranged in a row suits of armor which at first glance looked like real knights, drawn up in company front; then the empty helmets dawned on the beholder, transforming them into mere vacuous relics. as steele and his companion together with jocelyn wray entered, sounds of merriment and applause greeted the ear; two men in fencing array who had apparently just ended a match were the center of an animated company. "a little contest with the foils! a fencing bout! good!" exclaimed forsythe. jocelyn wray walked over to the group and forsythe followed. "bravo, ronsdale!" a number of people applauded. "he has won. now the reward! what is it to be?" "not so fast! here are others." "true!" ronsdale looked around with his cold smile; his glance vaguely included john steele and captain forsythe. "count me out!" laughed the latter. "not in my line, don't you know, since i joined the retired list!" "however, there's steele," sir charles, pipe in hand, remarked. ronsdale had stepped to the girl's side; his eyes, regarding her in the least degree too steadily, shone with a warmer gleam. she appeared either not to notice, or to mind; with look unreservedly bright, she smiled back at him; then her gaze met john steele's. "do you use the foils, mr. steele?" he moved forward; lord ronsdale stood near her, bending over with a slightly proprietary air. "i--" steele looked at them, at the girl's questioning eyes. "only a little!" "then you must try conclusions with lord ronsdale!" called out sir charles. "as victor over the rest he must meet all comers." a light swept john steele's face; perhaps the situation appealed to a certain sense of humor; he hesitated. "nothing to be put out by, being beaten by ronsdale," interposed an observer. "had the reputation of being one of the best swordsmen on the continent; has even had, i believe," with a laugh, "one or two little affairs of honor." "honor!" steele's glance swung around, played brightly on the nobleman. the latter's face remained impassive; he lifted his foil carelessly and swung it; the hiss that followed might have been construed as a challenge. john steele tossed aside his coat. "can't promise this contest will be as interesting as the other little affairs you speak of!" he laughed. through the fine, white linen of his shirt could be discerned the superb swell and molding of the muscles, as he now, with the gleaming toy in hand, stood before ronsdale. the latter's eyes suddenly narrowed; a covert expectancy made itself felt in his manner. "aren't you going to roll up your sleeve?" he asked softly. "usually find it gives greater freedom of movement, myself." steele did not at once reply; in his eyes bent on ronsdale a question seemed to flash; then a bolder, more daring light replaced it. "perhaps you are right!" he said coolly, and following the nobleman's example he pushed back his sleeve. the action revealed the splendid arm of the perfectly-trained athlete marked, however, by a great scar extending from just above the wrist to the elbow. lord ronsdale's eyes fastened on it; his lips moved slightly but if any sound fell from them, it was rendered inaudible by sir charles' exclamation: "bad jab, that, steele! looks as if it might have been made by an african spear!" "no." john steele smiled, encountering other glances, curious, questioning. "can't include the land of ivory among the countries i've been in," he added easily. lord ronsdale breathed quickly. "recent wound, i should say." "not very old," said john steele. "if there's a good story back of it, we'll have it later," captain forsythe remarked. "perhaps mr. steele is too modest to tell it," ronsdale again interposed. "your good opinion flatters me." steele's eyes met the other's squarely; then he made a brusk movement. "but if you are ready?" their blades crossed. ronsdale's suppleness of wrist and arm, his cold steadiness, combined with a knowledge of many fine artifices, had already made him a favorite with those of the men who cared to back their opinions with odd pounds. as he pressed his advantage, the girl's eyes turned to john steele; her look seemed to express just a shade of disappointment. his manner, or method, appeared perfunctory, too perfunctory! why did he not enter into the contest with more abandon? between flashes of steel she again saw the scar on his arm; it seemed to exercise a sort of fascination over her. what had caused it, this jagged, irregular mark? he had not said. lord ronsdale's words, "a recent wound--perhaps mr. steele is too modest--" returned to her. it was not so much the words as the tone, an inflection almost too fine to notice, a covert sneer. or, was it that? her brows drew together slightly. of course not. and yet she felt vaguely puzzled, as if some fine instinct in her divined something, she knew not what, beneath the surface. absurd! her eyes at that moment met john steele's. did he read, guess what was passing through her brain? an instant's carelessness nearly cost him the match. "ten to five!" one of the men near her called out jovially. "odds on ronsdale! any takers?" "done!" she saw john steele draw himself back sharply just in time; she also fancied a new, ominous gleam in his eyes. his demeanor underwent an abrupt change. if ronsdale's quickness was cat-like, the other's movements had now all the swiftness and grace of a panther. the girl's eyes widened; all vague questioning vanished straightway from her mind; it was certainly very beautiful, that agility, that deft, incessant wrist play. "hello!" through the swishing of steel she heard again the man at her side exclaim, make some laughing remark: "perhaps i'd better hedge--" but even as he spoke, with a fiercer thrusting and parrying of blades the end came; a sudden irresistible movement of john steele's arm, and the nobleman's blade clattered to the floor. "egad! i never saw anything prettier!" sir charles came forward quickly. "met your match that time, ronsdale," in a tone the least bantering. the nobleman stooped for his foil. "that time, yes!" he drawled. if he felt chagrin, or annoyance, he concealed it. "lucky it wasn't one of those real affairs of honor, eh?" some one whom ronsdale had defeated laughed good-naturedly. again he replied. steele found himself walking with jocelyn wray toward the window. across the room a footman who had been waiting for the conclusion of the contest, and an opportune moment, now approached lord ronsdale and extended a salver. "it came a short time ago, my lord!" john steele heard; his glance flashed toward ronsdale. the telegram, then, had been for--? he saw an inscrutable smile cross the nobleman's face. "any more aspirants?" the military man called out. "only myself left," observed sir charles. "and i resign the privilege!" "then," said the girl, standing somewhat apart with john steele, near one of the great open windows, "must you, mr. steele, be proclaimed victor?" "victor!" he looked down. between them bright colors danced, reflections of hues from the old stained glass above; they shone like red roses fallen from her lap at his feet. for a moment he continued to regard them; then slowly gazed up to the soft colored gown, to the beautiful young face, the hair that shone brightly against the background of branches and twigs, gleaming with watery drops like thousands of gems. "victor!" he-- a door closed quietly as lord ronsdale went out. * * * * * chapter xi ways and means the afternoon of that same day there arrived at the village of strathorn from london a discreet-looking little man who, descending at the golden lion, was shown to a private sitting-room on the second story. calling for a half-pint from the best tap and casually surveying the room, he settled himself in a chair with an air of nonchalance, which a certain eagerness in his eyes seemed to belie. "any mail or message for me, landlord?" he inquired, giving his name, when that worthy reappeared with the tankard. "no, sir." "nor any callers?" "none that i've heard of--" a sound of wheels at that moment interrupted; the landlord went to the window. "why, it's his lordship," he remarked. "and such weather to be out in!" as a sudden gust of rain beat against the pane. "lord ronsdale who is staying at strathorn house," he explained for the stranger's benefit. "and he's coming in!" the host hurried to the door but already a footstep was heard on the stairway and the voice of the nobleman inquiring for the new-comer's room. "right up this way! the gentleman is in here, your lordship," called down the landlord. lord ronsdale mounted leisurely and entered the room. "i didn't expect to have the honor of a call from your lordship," said the guest of the golden lion, bowing low. "if your lordship had indicated to me his pleasure--" the nobleman whipped a greatcoat from his shoulders and tossed it to the landlord. "was coming to the village on another little matter, and thought i might as well drop in and see you," he observed to the guest, "instead of waiting for you to come to strathorn house. you have the stock-lists and market prices with you?" he queried meaningly. the other answered in the affirmative. "very good, we will consider the matter, and--you may go, landlord." but when the innkeeper had taken his departure no further word was said by the nobleman of securities or values; lord ronsdale gazed keenly at his companion. without, the wind swept drearily down the little winding street, and sighed about the broad overhanging eaves. "well," he spoke quickly, "i fancy you have a little something to tell me, mr. gillett?" "'a little something?'" the latter rubbed his hands. "more than a little! your lordship little dreamed, when--" "spare me your observations," broke in the nobleman. "come at once to the business on hand." his voice, though low, had a strident pitch; behind it might be fancied strained nerves. "as your lordship knows, good fortune or chance favored me at the start; that is, along one line, the line of general investigation. the special inquiry which your lordship mentioned, just as he was leaving my office, proved for a time most illusive." "you mean the object of john steele's visit to the continent?" "exactly. and the object of that visit solved, i have now a matter of greatest importance to communicate, so important it could only be imparted by word of mouth!" the police agent spoke hastily and moved nearer. "indeed?" lord ronsdale's thin, cold lips raised slightly, but not to suggest a smile; his eyes met the police agent's. "you have reached a conclusion? one that you sought to reject, perhaps, but that wouldn't be discarded?" mr. gillett looked at him earnestly. "you don't mean--it isn't possible that you knew all the while--?" the white, aristocratic hand of lord ronsdale waved. "let us start at the beginning." "true, your lordship," mr. gillett swallowed. "as your lordship is aware, we were fortunate enough in the beginning to find out through our agent in tasmania that john steele came to that place in a little trading schooner, the _laura deane_, of portsmouth; that he had been rescued from a tiny uncharted reef, or isle, on december twenty-first, some three years before. the spot, by longitude and latitude, marks, through an odd coincidence, the place where the _lord nelson_ met her fate." "a coincidence truly," murmured the nobleman. "but at this stage in your reasoning you recalled that all on board were embarked in the ships' boats and reached civilization, except possibly--" "a few of my charges between decks? true; i remembered that. a bad lot of ugly brutes!" mr. gillett paused; lord ronsdale raised his head. "the story of john steele's rescue," went on mr. gillett, "as told by himself," significantly, "was well known in tasmania and not hard to learn. a man of splendid intellect, a lawyer by profession, he had been passenger on a merchant vessel, the _mary vernon_, of baltimore, united states. this vessel, like the _lord nelson_, had come to grief; after being tossed about, a helpless, water-logged wreck, it had finally been abandoned. all of those in john steele's boat had perished except him; some had gone mad through thirst and suffering; others had killed their fellows in a frenzy. being of superb physique, having been through much physical training--" the listener stirred in his chair--"he managed to survive, to reach the little isle, where, according to his story, he remained almost a year." "a year? then he set foot in tasmania about four years after the _lord nelson_ went down," observed the nobleman, a curious glitter in his eyes. "four years after," he repeated, accenting the last word. "such were the details gathered in tasmania," answered the police agent. "go on," said lord ronsdale. "you subsequently learned with more definiteness the actual circumstances of his rescue?" "from the mate of the _laura deane_, the schooner that rescued him from the isle, and one of her crew whom i managed to locate at plymouth, as i have informed your lordship by letter," answered mr. gillett. "these men now furnish lodgings to seamen, and incidentally shanghai a few of them for dubious craft! both of them, the mate and the sailor, recalled the man of fine bearing and education whom they found on the little isle, a sort of greek statue, half-clothed in rags, so to speak, who made his personality felt at once on these simple, ignorant fellows!" mr. gillett paused to look at lord ronsdale, seemed waiting for the latter to say something, but the nobleman only leaned forward and pushed at the coals with a poker. "which brings to my mind the one point," with emphasis, "that i haven't been able so far to reconcile or to explain. your lordship, who seems to have divined a great deal, can, perhaps. a man of fine education and bearing, as i said, yet the other had been--" "it is your business, not mine, to explain," interrupted the listener. "tell all you know." "at the spring on the little island the seamen filled their water-butts; this kept them several days, mixing labor with skylarking, during which time one of them picked up something, a pouch marked with a name." "which was--?" mr. gillett leaned forward, spoke softly; lord ronsdale stared straight ahead. "of course," he said, "of course!" "this, i will confess, startled, puzzled me," continued the police agent after a pause. "what did it mean? i tried to explain it in a dozen different ways but none of them seemed exactly to fit. then it was that the line of special investigation helped. john steele's outing to which you directed my attention was passed on the continent. what did he do there; was it business; was it pleasure took him there? after a good deal of pains, we discovered that he visited a certain large building, centrally located. this proved a starting-point; why did he go there? at the top was a studio; from the concierge we learned that he had asked for the artist. from the artist we ascertained that john steele had bought a picture; that he had called several times to watch the painter at his work. so far, so good, or bad! for was it likely john steele had come to paris to buy a bit of canvas, or was his interest in art assumed to cover his real purpose? when he left the studio, did he, without the knowledge of the concierge, call on some one else in the building? "this thought led to an inspection of the tenants. they proved of all sorts and kinds; the place was a beehive; hundreds of people entered and left every day. at this time i happened on an item in a periodical about some remarkable work in a certain line by a high-class medical specialist. here is the paragraph." lord ronsdale took the slip of paper the other handed him and briefly looked at it. "you visited this person?" "yes, as his office address was mentioned as being in the large building we were interested in. but at the moment i had no suspicion that john steele's pilgrimage to paris could have been for the purpose of consulting,--" "an eminent specialist in the line of removing birth-marks," glancing at the slip of paper, "or other disfigurements--" "such as i described to your lordship from the book that day in the office," murmured the police agent. for some moments both were again silent; only the sounds of the wind and the rain, mingled with monotonous creakings, broke the stillness. "you say this shipwrecked man was like a greek statue, half clothed in rags. perhaps then," slowly, "since he was only half-clothed the rescuers might have noticed--" "i sought them at once," with sudden eagerness, "to verify what your lordship suggests, and i have their full corroboration; what the evidence of their eyes told them, that the rescued man bore on his arm the exact markings described in my book." "a coincidence not easily accounted for." the speaker's tones had a rasping sound. "and now--" "one question, my lord. he is discerning--knows that you--" "knows? yes; he found that out one day in hyde park, never mind how; about the same time i, too, learned something." "and yet he deliberately comes down here, dares to leave london where at least his chances are better for--but why? it is unreasonable; i don't understand." "why?" lord ronsdale's smile was not agreeable. "when does a man become illogical, stray from the path good reasoning should keep him in? when does he accept chances, however desperate?" "when?" the police agent's tones expressed vague wonder. "why, when--there is a woman in the case!" suddenly. "a woman, or a girl." "your lordship means--" "one who is beautiful enough to enmesh any man's fancy," he spoke as to himself, "whose golden hair is a web to draw lovers like the fleece of old; whose eyes like the sunny heavens tempt them to bask in their light." the words were mocking yet seemed to force themselves from his lips. "when you add that she has high position; is as opulent in the world's goods as she is rich in personal--" abruptly he paused. "but this is irrelevant," he added almost angrily. "is there anything else you have to tell me?" "only one thing, and it may have no bearing on the case; some one who has not been seen in these parts in years, the red-headed son of the landlady where the gerard murder occurred has been back in london, and--steele's been looking for him. for what purpose, i don't know." the nobleman moved quickly. "but he hasn't found him--yet; apparently the fellow took alarm, knowing the police agent might want him, and vanished again." lord ronsdale moistened his lips; then got up, walked back and forth. a brisker gust, without, and the tin symbol of the golden lion over the entrance to the inn swung with a harsh rattle almost around the bar that held it. the nobleman stopped short; from the dim corner where he stood his eyes gleamed with animal brightness. "and now?" suggested mr. gillett. "your lordship of course knows what this means, if your lordship uses the weapons you have in your hands? the penalty for one transported returning to england is--" "i know," interrupted the other. "he has, however, dared to come back, to incur that risk. any plea he could hope to make," lord ronsdale spoke with studied deliberation, "to justify the act, he could not--substantiate." the speaker lingered on the word then went on more crisply. "he stands in the position of a person who has broken one of the most exacting laws of the realm and one which has on all occasions been rigorously enforced. he has presumed to trespass in the highest circles, to mingle with people of rank, our gentry, our ladies--" "then your lordship will--" "i have made my plans. and--i intend to act." "where?" "here." "but would it not be better to wait until he returns to london, my lord?" "and give him more time to--" he broke off. "we act here, at once!" lord ronsdale again seated himself; his face had regained its hard mask; he motioned the other man to draw his chair closer. "i'll tell you how to proceed." * * * * * chapter xii festivities the windows in strathorn house shone bright; from within came the sound of music; in the billiard room, adjoining the spacious hall, a number of persons were smoking, playing, or watching the dancers. at one of the tables two men had about finished a game; by the skilful stroke of him who showed the better score, the balls clicked briskly, separated, and came together once more. "enough to go out with!" the player, captain forsythe, counted his score. "shall we say another, steele?" "not for me!" john steele placed his cue in the rack. "i'm out for a breath of air." and he stepped through an open french window, leading upon a balcony that almost spanned the rear of the house. "mr. steele seems to be rather out of form to-night." a plump, short woman with doll-like eyes, who had been watching the game from a seat near-by, now spoke, with subtle meaning in her accents. "quite so. can't really understand it. steele can put up a deuced strong game, don't you know, but to-night--did you notice how he failed at one of the easiest shots?" "that was when jocelyn wray looked in," murmured the other. "miss wray!" captain forsythe set the balls for a practice shot. "well, steele's a splendid chap," he said irrelevantly. "you have known him for some time?" "not a great while; he's rather a new man, don't you know. but sir charles is quite democratic; took him up, well, as one might in australia, without," good-naturedly, "inquiring into his family or his antecedents, or all that sort of rubbish." "indeed?" her voice was non-committal. "but as for its being rubbish--" "oh, i say, mrs. nallis!" the other's tone was expostulating. "strong man; splendid sort of chap, steele! a jolly good athlete, too! witness our little fencing contest of this morning!" "true! you are an evident admirer of mr. steele, captain forsythe. and if i am not mistaken," she laughed, "others share your opinion. sir charles, for example, and jocelyn wray. she didn't look displeased this morning, did she? when the contest was over, i mean. not that i would imply--of course, her position and his--so far apart from a social standpoint." a retort of some kind seemed about to spring from the listener's lips but she did not give him the opportunity to speak; went on: "besides, when i came here, i understood a marriage had been, or was about to be arranged between sir charles' niece and--" "not interrupting a bit of gossip, i trust?" a cynical voice inquired; at the same time a third person, who had quietly approached, paused to regard them. "ah, lord ronsdale!" just for an instant the lady was disconcerted. "gossip?" she repeated in a tone that meant: "how can you?" he waved his hand; leaned against the table. "beg your pardon! very wrong of me, no doubt; only the truth is--" his lashes drooped slightly to veil his eyes, "i like a bit of gossip myself occasionally!" "we were talking about your friendly set-to with john steele," said captain forsythe bluntly. the nobleman's long fingers lifted, pulled at his mustache; in the bright glare, his nails, perfectly kept, looked sharp and pointed. "ah, indeed!" he remarked. "steele is handy with the foils; an all-round sportsman, i fancy; or once was!" softly. "never heard of him, though, in the amateur sporting world!" observed the lady. "never saw his name mentioned in any gentlemen's events--tennis or golf tournaments, track athletics, rowing, and all that." "no?" lord ronsdale gazed down; half-sitting on the corner of the table, he swung one glossy shoe to and fro. "perhaps he's hiding his light under a bushel?" said the lady. the nobleman made a sound. "perhaps!" "i was asking captain forsythe about his antecedents. no one here seems to know. possibly you can enlighten us." "i?" lord ronsdale's tone was purring. "why should i be able to? but i see miss wray," rising and walking toward the door. "my dance, don't you know." she gazed after him. "i wonder why lord ronsdale does not approve of, or shall we say, dislikes mr. john steele?" "eh?--what?--i never noticed." "a man notice?" she laughed. "but your game of billiards? you are looking for some one. if i will do--?" "delighted!" he said with an accent of reserve. meanwhile the principal subject of this conversation had been walking slowly on the broad stone balcony toward the ball-room; there he had stopped; then stepping to the balustrade, he stood looking off. the night was warm; in the sky, stars seemed trying to maintain their places between dark, floating clouds. near at hand the foliage shimmered with pale flashes of light; the perfumes of dew-laden flowers were like those of an oriental bower. faint rustlings, soft undertones broke upon the ear from dark places; mists seemed drawn like phantom ribbons, now here, now there. he looked at the stars; watched one of them, very small, drop into the maw of a black-looking monster of vapor. as it vanished the sound of music was wafted from within; john steele listened; they were beginning once more to dance. he glanced around; splashes of color met the eye; hues that shifted, mingled; came swiftly and went. in the great hall, staring lelys and knellers looked down from their high, gilded frames; the glaring lights of a great crystal chandelier threw a flood of rays over the scene at once brilliant and dazzling. steele stepped toward the window, paused; his eyes seemed searching the throng. they found what they sought, a slender, erect form, the gown soft, white, like foam; a face, animated, joyous. for an instant only, however, he saw the beautiful features; then as jocelyn turned in the dance, around her waist glimpsed a black band, tipped by slender masculine fingers; above, a cynical countenance. or was it all cynical now? a brief glance showed more than the habitual expression, a sedulousness--some passionate feeling? lord ronsdale's look seemed once more to say he held and claimed her; that she was his, or soon would be. a fleeting picture; she was gone and other figures intervened. john steele stood with hands tightly clasped. then his gaze gradually lowered; he moved restlessly back and forth; but the music sounded louder and he walked away from it, to the end of the balcony and again looked off--into darkness. the moments passed; a distant buzz replaced melody; the human murmur, the scraping of strings. from the forest came a far-away cry, the melancholy sound of some wood-creature. he continued motionless, suddenly wheeled swiftly. "that is you, mr. steele?" a voice, young, gay, sounded near; jocelyn wray came toward him; from her shoulders floated a white scarf. "you have come out for the freshness of the garden? although," she added, "you shouldn't altogether seclude yourself from the madding crowd." "no?" in the eyes that met hers flashed a question, the question that he had ever been asking himself since coming to strathorn house, that had driven him there. did she note the strangeness of the look she seemed to have surprised on his face? her own glance grew on the instant slightly puzzled, showed a passing constraint; then her manner became light again. "no. especially as--you are leaving to-morrow, i believe?" "yes." he tried to speak in conventional tones; but his gaze swerved from the graceful figure with its dim, white lines that changed and fluttered in the faint breath of air, stealing so gently by them and away. "my time is almost up; the allotted period of my brief elysium!" he half-laughed. "and yet it was rather hard to get you here, wasn't it? you remember you quite scorned our first invitation," gaily. "scorned?" in the semi-darkness he could only divine her features. "that is hardly the word." "isn't it? well, then, you had business more important," she laughed. "not more important,--imperative." was his voice, beneath an assumption of carelessness, just a shade uncertain? again it became conventional. "i--have enjoyed myself immensely." "have you?" she glanced at him; a flicker of light touched the strong face. "so good of you to say so! i believe that answer is the proper formula. invented by our ancestors," lightly, "and handed down!" he did not at once reply; again she caught a suggestion of that searching look she had noted before, and after a moment the girl turned; walking to a rose-bush that partly screened one end of the balcony, she bent over the flowers. "of course i might use my influence with my aunt to have the time allotted you, as you put it, extended. especially as you are so appreciative!" she laughed. "until after the children's fête, for example! what do you say? shall i plead for you until then? if you will promise to make yourself very useful!" "i--you are very good--but--" "don't!" she spread out her hands. "forgive me for presuming to think that strathorn house and its poor attractions could longer keep mr. john steele from smoky london-town and the drone of its courts!" "it is not that"--he began, stopped. "go; we abandon you to your fate." it may be that he had made her feel she had been somewhat over gracious, as he had, once or twice before,--that night at the opera, when they had first met; afterward on taking leave of him on the return from hyde park. but she only laughed again, perhaps a little constrainedly this time. "you will miss the revival of a few old rural pastimes!" she went on. "that sounds quite trivial to you though, does it not? several of our present guests will stay, however; others are coming; lord ronsdale," lightly, "has even begged to remain; we shall probably lead the old country-dance." "lord ronsdale!--you!"--the flame again played in the dark eyes, more strongly now, no longer to be suppressed. "mr. steele!" her brows arched in sudden surprise; she drew back a little. he seemed about to speak but with an effort checked himself and looked down. "i beg your pardon." his face was half-turned; for a moment he did not go on. "i beg your pardon." he again raised his head; his face was steady, very steady now; his words too. "your mentioning lord ronsdale reminded me of a social obligation; which i have neglected, or forgotten; the pleasure," with a slight laugh, "of congratulating you--is that the word? or lord ronsdale,--he, i believe, is the one to be congratulated!" "congratulated?" her face had changed, grown colder. his hand grasped the stone balustrade, but he forced a smile to his lips. "i can not imagine who has started--why you speak thus. lord ronsdale is an old friend of my uncle, and--mine, too. but that is all; i am not--have not been. you are mistaken." "mistaken?" the word broke from him quickly; the strained expression of his face gave way to another he could ill conceal. before the light in his gaze, the fire, the ardency, her own slowly fell; she turned slightly as if to go. but he made no effort to stop her, spoke no word. she took a step, hesitated; john steele moved. "good-by," he said slowly. "i am leaving rather early in the morning; i shall not see you again." "good-by." she raised her head with outward assurance. "at least until we meet in london," she ended lightly. "that may not be--" "why, you are not thinking of leaving london?" with gaiety perhaps a trifle forced, "of deserting your dingy metropolis?" he did not answer; she looked at him quickly; something in his face held her; a little of the lightness went from hers. "once more, good-by, miss--jocelyn." his look was now resolute; but his voice lingered on her name. he extended his hand in the matter-of-fact manner of one who knew very well what he had to do; the girl's eyes widened on him. did she realize he was saying "good-by" to her for all time? she held her head higher, pressed her lips slightly closer. then she sought to withdraw her hand but he, as hardly knowing what he did, or yielding to sudden, irresistible temptation, clasped for an instant the slim fingers closer; they seemed to quiver in his. the girl's figure moved somewhat from him; she stood almost amid the roses, dark spots that nodded around her. the bush was a mass of bloom; did she tremble ever so slightly? or was it but the fine, sensitive petals behind her that stirred when kissed by the sweet-scented breeze? john steele breathed deeply; he continued to regard her, so fair, so beautiful! a leaf fell; she made a movement; it seemed to awaken him to realization. he started and threw back his head; the dark, glowing eyes became once more resolute. an instant, and he bent; a breath, or his lips, swept the delicate, white fingers; then he dropped them. her hand swung back against the cold stone; on her breast, something bright--an ornament--fluttered, became still. behind, a bird chirped; her glance turned toward the ball-room. "i--" other voices, loud, merry, coming from one of the open french windows interrupted. "jocelyn!" they called to her; faces looked out. "jocelyn!" "yes!" she was walking rapidly from him now, a laugh, a little forced, on her lips. on the balcony a number of persons appeared. "a cotillion! we're going to have a cotillion; that is, if you--" "of course, if you wish." the gay group surrounded her; light, heedless voices mingled; then she, all of them, vanished into the ball-room. john steele moved slowly down the stone steps leading to the garden below. one thought vibrated in his mind. sir charles had erred when he told him that day in the park of his niece and ronsdale. perhaps because the wish was father to the thought--but the girl's own assurance dispelled all doubts and fears. he, john steele, had been mistaken. those were her words, "mistaken!" he could go away now, gladly, gladly! no; not that, perhaps; but he could go. if need be,--far from england; never to be seen, heard of, more by her. he could go, and she would never know she had honored by her friendship, had sheltered beneath her roof, one who--as he walked down the dimly lighted path somebody--a man--standing under the trees, at one side, at that moment touched his arm. "i should like to speak with you, sir!" said a voice, and turning with a quick jerk, steele saw the familiar features of gillett, the former police agent; behind him, other men. "what do you want?" the scotland yard man coughed significantly. "out here is a nice, quiet place for a word, or so," he said in his blandest manner. "and if you will be so good--" john steele's reply was as emphatic as it was sudden; he had been dreaming; the awakening had come. a glint like lightning flashed from his eyes; well, here was something tangible to be grappled with! a laugh burst from his throat; with the quickness of thought he launched himself forward. * * * * * chapter xiii the princess suite a house maid, some time later that night, moved noiselessly over the heavy rugs in the boudoir of the princess suite, next to armory hall on the second story of strathorn house. glancing nervously about her from time to time, the woman trimmed a candle here and set another there; then lifted with ponderous brass tongs a few coals and placed them on the smoldering bed in the delicately tinted fireplace. after which she stood before it in the attitude of one who is waiting though not with stolid and undisturbed patience. a clock ticked loudly on the mantel; she looked at it, around her at the shadows of two beautiful marbles on pedestals of malachite. moving into the bedroom beyond, she took from a wardrobe of old french workmanship a rose dressing-gown; this, and a pair of slippers of like color she brought out and placed near the fire. as she did so, she started, straightened suddenly; then her expression changed; the voice of lord ronsdale without was followed by that of jocelyn wray. "never fear! they'll get the fellow yet," my lord had said. jocelyn answered mechanically; the door opened; the maid caught a glimpse of ronsdale's face, of the cold eyes that looked the least bit annoyed. "although it was most bungling on their part to have permitted him to get away!" he went on. "i hope, however, this little unexpected episode won't disturb your rest." an instant the steely eyes seemed to contemplate her closer. "many going away to-morrow?" he asked, as if to divert her thoughts from the exciting experience of the evening before leaving her. "only captain forsythe and--mr. steele." did he notice the slightest hesitation, on her part, before speaking the last name? my lord's eyes fell; an odd expression appeared on his face. he murmured a few last perfunctory words; then--"they'll get him yet. he can't get away," he repeated. the words had a singular, a sibilant sound; he bowed deferentially and strode off, not toward his own chamber, however, but toward the great stairway leading down to the first story. as the door closed behind her young mistress, the maid came quickly forward. "did you learn anything more, miss jocelyn, if i may be so bold as to ask, from the police agent? who the criminal was, or--" "the police agent only said he was an ex-convict, no ordinary one, who had escaped from london and was making for the sea. they got word he was at the village and followed him there but he managed to elude them and they traced him to strathorn house park, where he had taken refuge. the police did not acquaint sir charles, lord ronsdale or any one with their purpose, thinking not to alarm us needlessly beforehand. and--i believe that is all." a moment the woman waited. "i--shall i--" the girl looked before her; tiny flames from the grate heightened the sheen on her gown; they threw passing lights on the somewhat tired, proud face. "i shall not need you, dobson," she said. "you may go. a moment." the woman, who had half-turned, waited; jocelyn's glance had lowered to the fire; in its reflection her slim, delicate fingers were rosy. she unclasped them, smoothed the brocade absently with one hand. "one or two are leaving early to-morrow. you will see--you will give instructions that everything is provided for their comfort." the maid responded and left the room; jocelyn stood as if wrapped in reverie. at length she stirred suddenly and extinguishing all but one dim light, sank back into a chair. her eyes half closed, then shut entirely. one might have thought her sleeping, except that her breathing was not deep enough; the golden head remained motionless against the soft pink of the dressing-gown; the hand that dropped limply from the white wrist over the arm of the chair did not stir. around, all was stillness; time passed; then a faint shout from somewhere in the gardens, far off, aroused her. the girl looked around; but immediately silence again reigned; she got up. leaning against the shaft holding one of the marbles, she regarded without seeing a chaste, youthful canova, and beyond, painted on boards and set against satin, a botticelli face, spiritual, sphinx-like. her brows were slightly drawn; she breathed deeply now, as if there were something in the place, its quiescence, the immobility of the lovely but ghost-like semblance of faces with which it was peopled that oppressed her. she seemed to be thinking, or questioning herself, when suddenly her attention was attracted again by a sound of a different kind, or was it only fancy? she looked toward a large flemish tapestry covering one entire end of the room; behind the antique landscape in green threads she knew there was a disused door leading into armory hall. drawing back the heavy folds she stepped a little behind them; the door was locked and bolted; moreover, several heavy nails had fastened it, completely isolating her suite, as it were, from that spacious, general apartment. again the sound! this time she placed it--the creaking of the giant branch of ivy that ran up and around her own balcony. the girl paused irresolutely, her hand on the heavy ancient hanging. leaning forward she waited; but the noise stopped; she heard nothing more, told herself it was nothing and was about to move out again when her gaze was suddenly held by something that passed like a shadow--a man's arm?--on the other side of the nearest window, between the modern french curtains, not quite drawn together. in that inconsiderable space between the silk fringes she was sure she had seen it, and anything suggestive of _dolce far niente_ disappeared from the girl's blue eyes. the window opened wider, noiselessly but quickly; then a hand, strong, shapely, pushed the curtains aside. had the intruder first satisfied himself that the room was vacant? he acted as one certain of his ground; now drawing the window draperies quickly together behind him as if seeking to escape observation from any one below, he stepped out into the room. something he saw seemed to surprise him; a low exclamation fell from his lips; his eyes, searching in the dim light his surroundings, swiftly passed from the rich furnishings, the artistic decorations, to the bright-colored robe, the little slippers before the fire. here they lingered, but only for a moment! did the intruder hear a sound, a quick breath? his gaze swerved to the opposite end of the room where it saw a living presence. for a moment they looked at each other; the man's face turned very pale; his hand touched the back of a chair; he steadied himself. "i thought--to enter armory hall--did not know your rooms were here," he managed to say in a low tone, "at this corner of strathorn house." she did not answer; so they stood, silently, absurdly. her face was like paper; her hair, in contrast, most bright; her eyes expressed only incomprehension. the man had to speak first; he pulled himself together. the bad fortune that had dogged him so long, that he had fought against so hard, now found its culmination: it had cast him, of all places, hither, at her feet. so be it; well, destiny now could harm him little more! his eyes gleamed; a reckless light shone out, a daredevil luster. he continued to look at her, then threw back his head. "i had hoped you would never know; but the gods, it seems," he could even laugh, "have ordained otherwise. '_fata obstant_.'" still that startled, uncomprehending look on the girl's white face! he went on more quickly, like a man driven to bay. "you do not understand; you are credulous; take people for what they seem,--not for what they are; or have been." he stopped; a suggestion of pain creeping into her expression, as if, behind wonderment, she was conscious of something being rudely torn, wrenched in her inmost being, held him. his face grew set; the nails of his closed fingers cut his palms. but the laugh returned to his lips, the luster to his eyes. "or have been!" he repeated. "a good many people have their pasts. can you imagine what mine may have been?" but she scarcely followed his words; she did not think, she could not; she seemed to stand in a hateful dream! looking at him--the torn evening clothes!--his face, pale, different! listening to him!--to what--? "a convict!" said the man. "yes; that's what i was. had been in jails, jails! and was sent out of the country, years ago, transported. but time went by and the convict thought he might safely come back--boldly--with impunity. the years and--circumstances had altered him--wrought great changes. he felt compelled to return--why, is of no moment!--believed himself secure in so doing--and was--until chance led him out of his accustomed way--to new walks--new faces--where lay the danger--the ambush, into which he, who thought himself strong, like a weak fool, walked--or was led--blindly." he caught himself up with a laugh. "but what is this to you? enough, the convict found himself recognized, his identity thoroughly established." he waited; still she was silent; the little hands clasped tightly the heavy drapery that moved as if she were putting part of her weight on it. her expression showed still that she had not yet had time to comprehend; that for her what he said remained, even now, but words, confused, inexplicable. a strange sequel to a strange night, a night that had begun with such gaiety and blitheness; that had been interrupted, after he had left her, by the shouting and rough voices from the garden! she seemed to hear them anew, and afterward, the explanation of that odd little person, the police agent, his apologies for breaking in upon the cotillion. but he had said--? the blue eyes bent like stars now on this man in her room, standing before her with bold, mocking face, as if his dark eyes read, understood every thought that passed through her brain. "you!--then it was you--john steele--that they--" "the convict they tried to arrest? yes." "you? i don't--" her voice was almost childlike. "i will help you to--understand!" an ashen shade came over his face, but it passed quickly; his voice sounded brusk. "for months, since a fatal evening all light, brilliancy, beauty!--the convict has been trying to hold back the inevitable; but the net whose first meshes were then woven, has since been drawing closer--closer. in the world two forces are ever at work, the pursuers and the pursued. in this instance the former," harshly, "were unusually clever. he struggled hard to keep up the deception until he could complete a defense worthy of the name. but to no avail! he felt the end near; did not expect it so soon, however, this night!--this very night--!" the man paused; there was a strange gleam in the dark eyes that lingered on her; its light was succeeded by another, a fiercer expression. for the first time she moved, shrank back slightly. "i'm afraid i used a few of them roughly," he said with look derisory. "there was no time for soft talk; it was cut and run--give 'leg bail,' as the thieves say." did he purposely relapse into coarser words to clench home the whole damning, detestable truth? her fine soft lips quivered; it may be she felt herself awakening--slowly; one hand pressed now at her breast. in the grate the fire sank, although a few licking flames still thrust their fiery tongues between black lumps of coal. "but it was a close call, out there in the garden! they were before the convict in the woods; he must needs double back to the shadow of the house! at the bottom of a moat he looked up to a balcony overhead, small as juliet's---though i swear he thought it led to armory hall, not here; had he known the truth, he would have stayed there first, and--but, as it was, he heard voices around the corner; afar, men approaching. the ivy at strathorn house is almost as old as the house itself, the main branches larger than a man's arm. it was not difficult to get here, though i wish now--" he dared smile bitterly--"they had come on me first." the breeze at the window slightly shook the curtain; it waved in and out; the tassels struck faint taps on the sill. "but why--?" she began at length, then stopped, as if the question were gone almost as soon as it suggested itself. "--did i return here,--reenter strathorn house?" he completed it for her. "because there seemed nothing else to do; it was probably only temporizing with the inevitable--but one always temporizes." she moved slowly out into the room; his face was half-averted; all the light that came from the grate, rested now on hers. at that instant she seemed like a shadow, beautiful, but a shadow, going toward him as through no volition of her own. the thick texture on the floor drowned the sound of her steps; she paused with her fingers on the gilded frame of a settee. he did not turn, although he must have known she was near; with his back toward her he gazed down at the soft, bright hues of the rug, and on it a white thing, a tiny bit of lace, a handkerchief that some time before had fluttered to the floor and had been left lying there. "but--" she spoke now--"you--you who seemed all that was--i can't believe--it is impossible--inconceivable--" his features twitched, the nerves seemed moving beneath the skin; but he answered in a hard tone. "i have told you the truth; because," the words broke from him, "i had to! must i," despite himself there was an accent of acutest pain in his voice, "repeat it?" "no!" said the girl. "oh, no." "you guessed i was going away. i was going so that you might never learn what you know now." "i--guessed you were going? ah, to-night--on the balcony!" did he divine what her words recalled, could not but bring to mind? a tint sprang to her white face; it spread even to the white throat. the blue eyes grew hard, very hard; the little hand he had so short a while before held in his, closed; the slender figure which had then seemed to waver, straightened. he read the thought his words had evoked, did not meet her eyes now. "you tell me what you have--and yet you have come--dared to come here--under this roof--?" it may be she also recalled his look when first he had entered this room, and, turning, had seen her; that her mind retained the impress of a bearing, bold, mocking. "oh," she said, "it was infamous!" the word struck him like a whip, lashed his face to a dull red; the silence grew. "i would not presume to dispute or to contradict any conclusion you may have reached," he spoke at length in a low, even voice. "i had not, as i said, intended this last, this most inexcusable intrusion. you have now only one course to pursue--" his gaze turned to the long silken bell-rope on the wall. "and i promise not to resist." her glance followed his, returned to his face, to his eyes, quietly challenging. she took a step. "well?" he said. she had suddenly stopped; in the hall voices were heard approaching; he too caught them. "that simplifies matters," he remarked. her breast stirred; she stood listening; they came nearer--now were at the door. a measured knocking broke the stillness. "jocelyn!" the voice was that of sir charles. "are you there?" she did not answer. "kindly unlock the door." * * * * * chapter xiv an answer the girl made no motion to obey and the knocking was repeated; mechanically she moved toward the threshold. "yes?" all the color had left her face. "what--what is it?" "don't mean to alarm you, my dear, but mr. gillett thinks the convict might be concealing himself somewhere in the house; indeed, that it is quite likely. so we are making a little tour of inspection. shall we not go through your rooms? there! don't be frightened!" quickly, "only as a matter of precaution, you know." "i," she seemed to catch her breath, "it is really quite unnecessary. i have been through them myself." "might have known that!" with an attempt at jocoseness. "but thought we would make sure. your balcony, you have looked there?" "yes." "very well; lock your window leading to it. only as a matter of precaution," he repeated hastily. "no need of our coming in, i fancy. you had retired?" "i--was about to." "quite right." a moment the party lingered. "shall i send one of the maids to sleep in your dressing-room? company, you know! your voice sounds a little nervous." "does it? not at all!" she said hastily. "i am--not in the least nervous." "good night, then!" they went. "one of my men in the garden felt sure he had seen him return toward the house," mr. gillett's voice was wafted back, became fainter, died away. the man in the room stood motionless now, his face like that of a statue save for the light and life of his eyes. the clock beat the moments; he looked at her. the girl was almost turned from him; he saw more of the bright hair than the pale profile, so still against the delicately carved arabesques of the panel. "the other way would have been--preferable!" there was nothing reckless or bold in his bearing now; but, looking away, she did not see. was he tempted, if only in an infinitesimal degree, to suggest a plea of mitigating circumstances--not for his own sake but for hers; that she might feel less keenly that sense of hurt, of outraged pride, for having smiled on him, admitted him to a certain frank, free intimacy? before the words fell from his lips, however, she turned; her gaze arrested his purpose, made him feel poignantly, acutely, the distance now between them. "what were you," she hesitated, emphasized over-sharply the word, "transported for?" an instant his eyes flashed suddenly back at her, as if he were on the point of answering, telling her all, disavowing; but to what end? to ask more of her than of others, throw himself on her generosity? "what does it matter?" true; what did it matter to her; he had been in prisons before, by his own words. "your name, of course, is not john steele?" he confessed it a purloined asset. "what was it?" he looked at her--beyond! to a storm-tossed ship, a golden-haired child, her curls in disorder, moving with difficulty, yet clinging so steadfastly to a small cage. his name? it may be he heard again the loud pounding and knocking; held her once more to his breast, felt the confiding, soft arms. "what does it matter?" he repeated. what, indeed? that which she had not been able to penetrate, to understand in him, this was it! this! "but why"--fragments of what he had said recurred to her; she spoke mechanically--"when you found yourself recognized, did you not leave england; why did you come here--to strathorn house; incur the danger, the risk?" "why?" he still continued to look straight before him. "because you--were here!" he spoke quietly, simply. "i?" she trembled. "oh, you need not fear!" quickly. "you!" a bitter smile crossed his face. "one may see a star and long to draw nearer it, though one knows it is always beyond reach, unattainable! may even stumble forward, led by its light--bright, beautiful! whither?" he laughed abruptly. "one has not asked, nor cared." "cared?" her figure swayed; he too stood uncertainly; the lights seemed to tremble. the man suddenly straightened; then turned. "and now," his voice sounded harsh, tense; he stepped toward the balcony. his words, the abrupt action--what it portended, aroused her. "no; no!" the exclamation broke from her involuntarily; she seemed to waken as from something unreal that had momentarily held her. "there--there may be a safer way!" she hardly knew what she was saying; one thought alone possessed her mind; she looked with strained, bright glance before her. "the queen elizabeth staircase leading into the garden from my--" the words were arrested; her blue eyes, dark, dilated, lingered on him in an odd, impersonal way. "wait!" bright spots of color now tinted her cheeks; she went quickly toward the door she had left, her manner that of one who hastens to some course on impulse, without pausing to reason. "a few minutes!" she listened, turned the key; then opening the door, stepped hastily out into the hall. the latch clicked; the man stood alone. whatever her purpose, only the desire to act quickly, to have done with an intolerable situation moved him. once more he looked toward the window through which he had entered; first, however, before going, he bethought himself of something, an answer to one of her questions. she should find the answer after he was gone! his fingers thrust themselves into a breast-pocket; he took out a small object, wrapped in velvet. an instant his eyes rested upon it; then, stooping, he picked up the bit of lace handkerchief from the floor and laying the dark velvet against it placed the two on the table. would she understand? the debt he had felt he owed her long before to-night, that sense of obligation to the child who had reached out her hand, in a different life, a different world! no; she had, of course, forgotten; still he would leave it, that talisman so precious, which he had cherished almost superstitiously. when a few minutes later the girl hastily reëntered the room, she carried on her arm a man's coat and hat; her appearance was feverish, her eyes wide and shining. "your clothes are torn--would attract attention! these were on the rack--i don't know whose--but i stole them!--stole them!" she spoke quickly with a little hard note of self-mockery. her voice broke off suddenly; she looked around her. the coat and hat slipped from her arm; she looked at the window; the curtain still moved, as if a hand had but recently touched it. she stared at it--incredulously. he had gone; he would have none of her assistance then; preferred--she listened, but caught only the rustling of the heavy silk. when? minutes passed; at her left, a candle, carelessly adjusted by the maid, dripped to the dresser; its over-long wick threw weird, ever-changing shadows; her own silhouette appeared in various distorted forms on hangings and wall. still she heard nothing, nothing louder than the faint sounds at the window; the occasional, mysterious creakings of old woodwork. he must have long since reached the ground--the bottom of the old moat; perhaps, as the police agent and several of his men were in the house, he might even have attained the fringe of the wood. it was not so far distant,--the space intervening from the top of the moat contained many shrubs; in their friendly shadows-- she stole to the corner of the window now and cautiously peered out. the sky was overcast; below, faint markings could just be discerned; beyond, cimmerian gloom--strathorn wood. had he reached, could he reach it? a cool breeze fanned her cheeks without lessening the flush that burned there; her lips were half-parted. she stepped uncertainly back; a reaction swept over her; the most trivial thoughts came to mind. she remembered that she had not locked the door of her boudoir; that sir charles had told her to do so. she almost started to obey; but laughed nervously instead. how absurd! what, however, should she do? she looked toward the next room. go to bed? it seemed the commonplace, natural conclusion, and, after all, life was very commonplace. but the coat and hat she had brought there? consideration of them, also, came within the scope of the commonplace. it did not take her long to dispose of them, not on the rack, however. standing again, a few moments later, at the head of the stairway, in the upper hall, she heard voices approaching. whereupon she quickly dropped both hat and coat on a chair near-by and fled to her room. none too soon! from above footsteps were descending; people now passed by; they evidently had been searching the third story. she could hear their low, dissatisfied voices; the last persons to come she at once recognized by their tones. "you have made a bungling job of it," said lord ronsdale. there was a suppressed fierce bitterness in his accents, which, however, in the excitement of the moment, the girl failed to notice. "he had made up his mind not to be taken alive, my lord." "then--" the other interrupted mr. gillett harshly, but she failed to catch more of his words. "we've not lost him, my lord," mr. gillett spoke again. "if he's not in the house, he's near it, in the garden, and we have every way guarded." "every way guarded!" the girl drew her breath; as they disappeared, the striking of the clock caused her to start. one! two! about four hours of darkness, hardly that long remained for him! and yet she would have supposed it later; it had been after one o'clock when she had come to her room. she became aware of a throbbing in her head, a dull pain, and mechanically seating herself near one of the tables, she put up her hand and started to draw the pins from her hair, but soon desisted. again she began to think, more clearly this time, more poignantly, of all she had experienced--listened to--that night! she, a wray, sprung from a long line of proud, illustrious folk! and he? the breath of the roses outside was wafted upward; her eyes, deep, self-scoffing, rested, without seeing, on a small dark object on a handkerchief on the table. what was it to her if they took him?--what indeed? her fingers played with the object, closed hard on it. why should she care if he paid the penalty; he, a self-confessed--- something fell from the velvet covering in her hand and struck with a musical sound on the hard, polished top. amid a turmoil of thoughts, she was vaguely aware of it gleaming there on the cold white marble, a small disk--a gold coin. at first it seemed only to catch without interesting her glance; then slowly she took it, as if asking herself how it came there, on her handkerchief, which, she dimly remembered, had been lying on the floor. some one, of course, must have picked up the handkerchief; but no one had been in the room since she had noticed it except-- her gaze swung to the window; he, then, had left it. why? what had she to do with anything that had been his? more closely she scrutinized it, the shining disk on her rosy palm; a king george gold piece! above the monarch's face and head with its flowing locks, appeared a tiny hole, as if some one had once worn it; beneath, just discernible, was the date, . she continued to regard it; then looked again at the bit of velvet, near-by. it had been wrapped in that, carefully; for what reason? like something more than what it seemed--a mere gold piece! " ." why, even as she gazed at the cloth, felt it, did the figures seem to reiterate themselves in her brain? " ." there could be nothing especially significant about the date; yet even as she concluded thus, by some introspective process she saw herself bending over, studying those figures on another occasion. herself--and yet-- she was looking straight before her now; suddenly she started and sprang up. "a king george gold piece!" her hair, unbound, fell around her, below her waist; her eyes like sapphires, gazed out from a veritable shimmer of gold. "date--" she paused. "why, this belonged to me once, as a child, and i--" the blue eyes seemed searching--searching; abruptly she found what she sought. "i gave it to the convict on the _lord nelson_." she almost whispered the words. "the brave, brave fellow who sacrificed his life for mine." her warm fingers closed softly on the coin; she seemed wrapped in the picture thus recalled. "then how--" her brows knitted, she swept the shining hair from her face. "if he were drowned, how could it have been left here by--" her eyes were dark now with excitement. "him? him?" she repeated. "unless," her breast suddenly heaved--"he was not drowned, after all; he--" a sudden shot from the park rang out; the coin fell from the girl's hand; other shots followed. she ran out upon the balcony, a stifled cry on her lips; she stared off, but only the darkness met her gaze. * * * * * chapter xv currents and counter currents not far from one of the entrances to regent's park or the hum of camden town's main artery of traffic, lay a little winding street which, because of its curving lines, had long been known as spiral row. although many would not deign in passing to glance twice down this modest thoroughfare, it presented, nevertheless, a romantic air of charm and mystery. the houses nestled timidly behind time-worn walls; it was always very quiet within this limited precinct, and one wondered sometimes, by day, if the various secluded abodes were really inhabited, and by whom? an actress, said vague rumor; a few scribblers, a pair of painters, a military man or two. here madam grundy never ventured, but calliope and the tuneful nine were understood to be occasional callers. one who once lived in the row has likened it to a tiny utopia where each and every one minded his own business and where the comings and goings of one's neighbor were matters of indifference. into this delectable byway there turned, late in the night of the second day after that memorable evening at strathorn house, a man who, looking quickly around him, paused before the closed gate of one of the dwellings. the street, ever a quiet one, appeared at that advanced hour absolutely deserted, and, after a moment's hesitation, the man pulled the bell; for some time he waited; but no response came. he looked in; through the shrubbery he could dimly make out the house, set well back, and in a half uncertain way he stood staring at it, when from the end of the street, he heard a vehicle coming rapidly toward him. more firmly the man jerked at the handle of the bell; this time his efforts were successful; a glimmer as from a candle appeared at the front door, and a few minutes later a dark form came slowly down the graveled walk. as it approached the vehicle also drew nearer; the man regarded the latter sidewise; now it was opposite him, and he turned his back quickly to the flare of its lamps. but in a moment it had whirled by, with a note of laughter from its occupants, light pleasure seekers; at the same time a key turned in a lock and the gate swung open. "good evening, dennis," said the caller. the faint gleam of the candle revealed the drowsy and unmistakably celtic face of him he addressed, a man past middle age, who regarded the new-comer with a look of recognition. "i'm afraid i've interrupted your slumbers. this is rather a late hour at which to arrive." "no matter, sir. sure and i sat up expecting you, mr. steele, until after midnight, and had only just turned in when--" "what--?" the new-comer, now fairly within the garden, could not suppress a start of surprise, which however the other, engaged in relocking the gate, did not appear to notice. "expecting--?" "although i'd given up thinking you'd be here to-night," the latter went on. "but won't you be stepping in, sir?" the other silently followed, walking in the manner of one tired and worn; he did not, however, at that moment seem concerned with fatigue or physical discomfort; the uncertain light of the candle before him showed his brows drawn, his eyes questioning, as if something had happened to cause him to think deeply, doubtfully. at the door the servant stood aside to allow him to enter; then ushered him into a fairly commodious and comfortable sitting-room. "my master did not come back with you, sir, from strathorn house?" "no; captain forsythe's gone on to germany." "to attend some court, i suppose. sure, 'tis a dale he has done of that, mr. steele, after the both of us were wounded by those black devils in india and retired from active service." the servant's voice had an inquiring accent; his glance rested now in some surprise on the new-comer's garments,--a gamekeeper's well-worn coat and cap,--and on the dusty, almost shabby-looking shoes. "a wager," said john steele, noting the old orderly's expression. "from strathorn house to london by foot, within a given time, don't you know; fell in with some rough customers last night who thought my coat and hat better than these." "i beg your pardon, sir, but--" the man's apprehensive look fastened itself on a dark stain on the coat, near the shoulder. "just winged me--a scratch," replied john steele with an indifferent shrug, sinking into a chair near the fire which burned low. "it's lucky you came off no worse, sir, and you'll be finding a change of garments up-stairs; i put them out for you myself--" "i'm afraid, dennis, i'm rather large for your master's clothes," was the visitor's reply in a voice that he strove vainly to make light. "sure, they're your own, sir." the other looked up quickly. "i'll get everything ready for a bath, and if you've a mind for anything to eat afterward--" "i think i'll have a little of the last, first," said the visitor slowly. "right you are, sir. you do look a bit done up, sir," sympathetically, "but there's a veal and 'ammer in the cupboard that will soon make you fit." "one moment, dennis." john steele leaned back; the dying embers revealed a haggard face; his eyes half closed as if from lack of sleep but immediately opened again. "you spoke of expecting me; how," he stretched out his legs, "did you know--?" "sure, sir, by your luggage; it arrived with my master's heavier boxes that he didn't take along with him over the wather." the listener did not stir; was he too weary to experience surprise or even deeper emotion? his luggage there!--where no one knew--could have known, he was going! the place he had selected, under what he had considered propitious circumstances, as a haven, a refuge; where he might find himself for a brief period comparatively safe, could he reach it, turn in, without being detected! this last he believed he had successfully accomplished; and then to be told by the man--all john steele's excuses for coming in this unceremonious fashion that he had planned to put to the servant of captain forsythe were at the moment forgotten. who could have guessed that he would make his way straight hither--or had any one? an enemy, divining a lurking place for which he was heading, would not have obligingly forwarded his belongings. what then? had jocelyn wray ordered them sent on with captain forsythe's boxes and bags, in order that they might be less likely to fall into the hands of the police? this line of reasoning seemed to lead into most unwonted channels; it was not probable she would concern herself so much further about a common fugitive. the cut and bruised fingers of the man before the fireplace linked and unlinked; an indefinable feeling of new dangers he had not calculated on assailed him. suppose the police should have learned--should elect to trace, those articles of his? it was a contingency, a hazard to be considered; he knew that every possible effort would be made to find him; that if his antagonists were eager before, they would embark on the present quest with redoubled zeal. he had been in their hands and had got away; disappointment would drive them more fiercely on to employ every expedient. they might even now be at the gate; at the moment, however, he felt as if he hardly cared, only that he was very tired, too exhausted to move on. his exertions of the last few days had been of no ordinary kind; his shoulder was stiff and it pained. "here you are, sir." the servant had entered and reëntered, had set the table without the man in the arm-chair being conscious of his coming and going. "remembered my master inviting you once, when you were here, to pitch your camp at rosemary villa any time you should be after yearning for that quietood essential for literary composition and to windin' up the campaign on your book. so when i saw your luggage--" "exactly." it was curious the man should have spoken thus, should have voiced one of the very subterfuges steele had had in mind himself to utter, to show pretext for his too abrupt appearance. but now--? the situation was changed; yet he felt too exhausted to disavow the servant's conclusion. certainly the episode of the luggage had made his task easier at this point; only, however, to enhance the greater hazards, as if fate were again laughing at him, offering him too much ease, too great comfort, seeking to allure him with a false estimate of his security. as he ate, mechanically, but with the zest of one who had long fasted, he listened; again a vehicle went by; then another. "rather livelier than usual to-night?" he observed and received an affirmative answer. some evenings now you'd hardly ever hear anything passing from sunset to sunrise and find it as quiet as the tomb. who lived on the right, on the left? the visitor asked several questions casually; the house to the right, the man thought, might be vacant; no one appeared to live in it very long. at least the moving van seemed to have acquired a habit of stopping there; the one on the left had a more stable tenant; a lady who appeared in the pantomime, or the opera, he wasn't sure which,--only, foreign people sometimes went in and out. john steele rose with an effort; no, there was nothing more he required, except rest! which room would he prefer, he was asked when he found himself on the upper landing; the man had put his things in a front chamber; but the back one was larger. john steele forced himself to consider; he even inspected both of the rooms; that on the front floor had one window facing the row; the second chamber looked out over a rear wall separating the vegetable garden of rosemary villa from the shrub-adorned confines of a place which fronted on the next street. the visitor decided on the former chamber; he carefully closed the blinds and drew across the window the dark, heavy curtains. this would answer very well; excellent accommodations for a man whose own chambers in the city were now in the hands of renovators--the painters, the paper-hangers, the plumbers. and the back room? he paused, as if considering the servant's assumption of his purpose in coming hither. he might as well let the fellow think-- yes, he would venture to make use of that for his work; could thus take advantage of the force of circumstances that had arisen to alienate him from prosaic citations, writs or arraignments. but he must, with strained lightness, emphasize one point; for a brief spell he did not wish to be disturbed. people might call; people probably would, anxious clients, almost impossible to get rid of, unless-- no one must know where he was, under any circumstances; his voice sounded almost jocular, at singular variance with the heaviness, the weariness of his face. he, the old servant, had been a soldier; knew how to fulfil, then, a request or an order. something crinkled in the speaker's hand, passed to the other who was now busying himself with the bath; the man's moist fingers did not hesitate to close on the note. he had been a hardened campaigner and incidentally a good forager; he remarked at once he would carry out to the letter all his master's visitor asked. half an hour later, john steele, clad in his dressing-gown, sat alone near the fire in his room; every sound had ceased save at intervals a low creaking of old timber. now it came from overhead, then from the hall or near the window, as if spirit feet or fingers were busy in that venerable, quaint domicile. but these faint noises, inseparable from houses with a history, john steele did not hear; the food and the bath had awakened in him a momentary alertness; he seemed waiting--for what? something that did not happen; heaviness, depression again weighed on him; to keep awake he stirred himself and again glanced about. here were evidences of odd taste on the part of the tenant in the matter of household decoration; a chain and ball that had once been worn by a certain famous convict reposed on an _étagère_, instead of the customary vase or jug of pottery; other souvenirs of prisons and the people that had been in them adorned a few shelves and brackets. john steele smiled grimly; but soon his thoughts seemed floating off beyond control, and rising suddenly, he threw himself on the bed. for a moment he strove to consider one or two tasks that should have been accomplished this night but which he must defer; was vaguely conscious of the slamming of a blind next door; then over-strained nature yielded. hours passed; the sun rose high in the heavens, began to sink; still the heavy sleep of utter exhaustion claimed him. once or twice the servant came to the door, listened, and stole away again. the afternoon was well advanced when, as half through a dream, john steele heard the rude jingling of a bell,--the catmeat man, or the milkman, drowsily he told himself. in fancy he seemed to see the broad, flowing river from a window of his own chambers, the dawn stealing over, marshaling its tints,--crimson until-- slowly through the torpor of his brain realization began also to dawn; this room?--it was not his. the gleaming lances of sunlight that darted through the half-closed shutters played on the strange wall-paper of a strange apartment; no, he remembered it now--last night! the loud and emphatic closing of the front gate served yet more speedily to arouse him; hastily he sat up; his head buzzed from a long-needed sleep that had been over sound; his limbs still ached, but every sense on an instant became unnaturally keen. footsteps resounded on the gravel; he heard voices; those of two men, who were coming toward the house. "so it's the meter man you are?" john steele recognized the inquiring voice as that of the caretaker. "sure, you're a new one from the last that was here." "yes; we change beats occasionally," was the careless answer, as the men passed around the side of the house and entered a rear door. for a time there was silence; john steele sprang from his bed and crept very softly toward the hall. "a new man--" he heard them talking again after a few minutes; he remained listening at his door, now slightly ajar. "there must be a leak somewhere from the quantity you've burned. i'll have a look around; might save your master a few shillings." the man moved from room to room and started, at length, up the stairs. john steele closed and noiselessly locked his door; the "meter man" crossed the upper hall and stepped, one after the other, into the several rooms. having apparently made there the necessary examination, he walked over and tried the door of john steele's room. "this room's occupied by a visitor," interposed the servant quickly in a hushed voice. "and he's asleep now; he wouldn't thank you for the disturbing of his repose." "all right." did the listener detect an accent of covert satisfaction in the caller's low tones? "i'll not wake him. don't find the leak i was looking for; will drop in again, though, when i have more time." their footsteps receded and shortly afterward, the man left the house; as he did so, john steele, pushing back the blinds a little, looked out of his room; the man who had reached the front of the place glanced back. his gaze at that instant, meeting the other's, seemed to betray a momentary eagerness; quickly steele turned away; no doubt now lingered in his mind as to the purpose of the visit. * * * * * chapter xvi flight the half-expected had happened; bag and baggage had led his pursuers hither; the fellow could now go back and report. after his bath, before lying down, john steele had partly dressed in the garments laid out for him; now he threw the dressing-gown from his shoulders and hastily put on the rest of his clothes. he felt now only the need for action--to do what? impatience was capped by the realization of his own impotence; rosemary villa was, no doubt, at that very moment, subjected to a close espionage. he heard the man-servant in the garden, and unable to restrain a growing restlessness to know the worst, steele mounted the stairs to the attic. from the high window there he could see, around a curve in the row, a loitering figure; in the other direction a neighboring house concealed the byway, but he could reasonably conclude that some one also sauntered there, sentinel at that end of the street. quickly coming down to the second story, he began cautiously to examine from the windows the situation of the house, in relation to adjoining grounds and neighboring dwellings. to the right, the top of the high wall shone with the customary broken bits of glass; the rear defenses glistened also in formidable fashion. he noted, however, several places where this safeguard against unwonted invasion showed signs of deterioration; in one or two spots the jagged fragments had been broken, or had fallen off. these slight breaks in the continuity of irregular, menacing glass bits, he fixed in mind by a certain shrub or tree. against the rear wall, which was of considerable height, leaned his neighbor's low conservatory, almost spanning it from side to side. "sure, sir, i don't know whether it's breakfast or supper that's waiting for you." captain forsythe's man had reappeared and stood now at the top of the landing looking in at him. "it's a sound sleep you've had." john steele glanced at the clock; the afternoon was waning. why did not his enemies force their way in, surround him at once? unless--and this might prove a momentary saving clause!--these people without were but an advance guard, an outpost, awaiting orders. in this event gillett would hastily be sent for; would soon be on his way--- "'tis a rasher of real irish bacon that is awaiting your convenience, sir." the servant was now eying the visitor dubiously; john steele wheeled, a perfunctory answer on his lips, and going to the dining-room swallowed hastily a few mouthfuls. from where he sat he could command a view of the front gate, and kept glancing toward it when alone. to go now,--or wait? the daylight did not favor the former course unless his pursuers should suddenly appear before the locked gate, demanding admission. he made up his mind as to his course then, the last desperate shift. amid a turmoil of thoughts a certain letter he had had in mind to send to captain forsythe occurred to him, and calling for paper and pen, he wrote there, facing the window, feverishly, hastily, several pages; then he gave the letter to the servant for the postman, whose special call at the iron knocker without had just sounded. the letter would have served john steele ill had it fallen into his enemies' hands, but once in the care of the royal mails it would be safe. if it were, indeed, that person at the gate, and not some one-- "one moment, dennis!" the man paused. "of course you will make sure it is the postman--?" the servant stared at this guest whose demeanor was becoming more and more eccentric. "as if i didn't know his knock!" he said, departing. the afternoon waned; the shadows began to fall; john steele's pulses now throbbed expectantly. he called for a key to the gate and moved toward the front door; by this time the darkness had deepened, and, key in hand, he stepped out. at first he walked toward the front on the gravel that the servant might hear him, but near the entrance he paused, hesitating, to look out. as he remained thus, some one, who had been standing not far off, drew near. this person steathily passed; in doing so he glanced around; but john steele felt uncertain whether the fellow had or had not been able to distinguish him in the gloom. john steele waited, however, until the other moved a short distance on; then he retraced his own way quietly, keeping to the grass, toward the house; near it he swerved and in the same rapid manner stole around the place until he reached the back wall. there he examined his position, felt the top, then placed his fingers on the wall. it was about six feet high, but seizing hold, he was about to spring into the air, when behind him, from the direction of the row, a low metallic sound caught his attention. the front gate to the forsythe house had suddenly clicked; some one had entered,--not the servant; john steele had seen him but a few moments before in the kitchen; some one, then, who had quietly picked the lock, as the surest way of getting in. john steele looked back; even as he did so, a number of figures abruptly ran forward from the gate. he waited no longer but drew himself up to a level with the top of the wall. the effort made him acutely aware of his wounded shoulder; he winced but set his teeth hard and swung himself over until one foot came in contact with the iron frame of the greenhouse next to the masonry. to crawl to the end of the lean-to, bending to hold to the wall, and then to let himself down, occupied but a brief interval. as he stood there, trying to make out a path through shrubs and trees, he heard behind him an imperative knocking at the front door of captain forsythe's house; the expostulating tones of the serving-man; the half-indistinct replies that were succeeded by the noise of feet hastening into the house. for some time nothing save these sounds was wafted to the listener; then a loud disappointed voice, sounding above another voice, came from a half-opened window. john steele stood still no longer; great hazard, almost certain capture, lay before him in the direction he was going; the street this garden led to would be watched; but he could not remain where he was. already his enemies were moving about in the neighboring grounds; soon they would flash their lights over the wall, would discover him, unless--he moved quickly forward. as he neared the house, more imposing than captain forsythe's, a stream of light poured from a window; through this bright space he darted quickly, catching a fleeting view of people within, several with their faces turned toward him. close to a side of the square-looking house, he paused, his heart beating fast--not with fear, but with a sudden, fierce anger at the possibility that he would be caught thus; no better than a mere-- but needs must, when the devil drives; the devil was driving him now hard. to attempt to reach the gate, to get out to surrey road,--little doubt existed as to what awaited him there; so, crouching low, he forced himself to linger a little longer where he was. as thus he remained motionless, sharp twinges again shot through his shoulder; then, on a sudden, he became unmindful of physical discomfort; a plan of action that had flashed through his brain, held him oblivious to all else; it offered only the remotest chance of escape--but still a chance, which he weighed, determined to take! it had come to him while listening to the merry voices within the room near him talking of the gay dinner just ended, of the box party at the theater that was to follow. already cabs were at the door; the women and the men, several of the latter flushed with wine, were ready to go. a servant walked out and unlocked the gate and with light badinage the company issued forth. as they did so, john steele, unobserved, stepped forward; in the semi-darkness the party passed through the entrance into the street. taking his place among the last of the laughing, dimly-seen figures, john steele walked boldly on and found himself a moment later on the sidewalk of surrey road. he was aware that some one, a woman, had touched his arm, as if to take it; of a light feminine voice and an abrupt exclamation of surprise, of the quick drawing back of fluttering skirts. but he did not stop to apologize or to explain; walking swiftly to one of the last cabs he sprang in. "a little errand first, driver," he called out. "to--" and mentioned a street--"as fast as you can." his tone was sharp, authoritative; it implied the need for instant obedience, rang like a command. the man straightened, touched his horse with his whip, and wheeling quickly they dashed away. as they did so, john steele thought he heard exclamations behind; looking through the cab window he saw, at the gate, the company gazing after him, obviously not yet recovered from their thrill of surprise following his unexpected action. he observed, also, two men on the other side of the street who now ran across and held a brief altercation with one of the cabmen. as they were about to enter the cab several persons in the party apparently intervened, expostulating vigorously. it was not difficult to surmise the resentment of the group at this attempted summary seizure of a second one of their cabs. by the time the men had explained their imperative need, and after further argument were permitted to drive off, john steele had gained a better start than he had dared to hope. but they would soon be after him, post-haste; yes, already they were dashing hard and furiously behind; he lifted the lid overhead, in his hand a sovereign. "those men must not overtake us, cabby. go where you will! you understand?" the man did; his fingers closed quickly on the generous tip and once more he lashed his horse. for some time they continued at a rapid pace, now skirting the confines of the park, now plunging into a puzzling tangle of streets; but wherever they went, the other cab managed always to keep them in sight. it even began to creep up, nearer. from his pocket john steele drew a weapon; his eyes gleamed ominously. the pursuing hansom drew closer; casting a hurried glance over his shoulder, he again called up to the driver. "it's no use, gov'ner," came back the reply. "this 'oss 'as been out longer than 'is." "then turn the first dark corner and slow up a bit,--for only a second; afterward, go on your very best as long as you can." another sovereign changed hands and shortly afterward the vehicle dashed into a side street. it appeared as likely a place as any for his purpose; john steele, hardly waiting for the man to draw rein, leaped out as far as he might. he landed without mishap, heard a whip snap furiously, and darted back into a doorway. he had just reached it when the other cab drew near; for an instant he felt certain that he had been seen; but the pursuers' eyes were bent eagerly ahead. "this'll mean a fiver for you, my man," he heard one of them shout to the driver. "we've got him, by--" a harsh, jubilant cry cut the air; then they were gone. john steele did not wait; replacing the weapon in his pocket he started quickly around the corner; his cabman could not lead them far; they would soon return. as fast as possible, without attracting undue attention, he retraced his way; passed in and out of tortuous thoroughfares; by shops from whence came the smell of frying fish; down alleys where squalor lurked. although he had by this time, perhaps, eluded the occupants of the cab, he knew there were others keenly alert for his capture whom he might at any moment encounter. to his fancy every corner teemed with peril; he did not underestimate the resources of those who sought him or the cunning of him who was the chief among his enemies. which way should he move? at that moment the city's multitudinous blocks seemed like the many squares of an oriental checker-board; the problem he put to himself was how to cross the city and reach the vicinity of the river; there to make a final effort to look for--what? a hopeless quest! his face burned with fever; he did not heed it. a long, broad thoroughfare, as he walked on, had suddenly unfolded itself to his gaze; one side of this highway shone resplendent with the flaring lights of numerous stands and stalls displaying vegetables and miscellaneous articles. a hubbub assailed the ear, the voices of hucksters and hawkers, vying with one another to dispose of their wares; like ants, people thronged the sidewalk and pavement near these temporary booths. about to turn back from this animated scene, john steele hesitated; the road ran straight and sure toward the destination he wished to reach, while on either hand lay a network of devious ways. amid these labyrinths, even one familiar with the city's maze might go astray, and again he glanced down the single main road, cutting squarely through all intricacies; noted that although, on one side, the lamps and the torches flared high, revealing every detail of merchandise, and, incidentally, the faces of all who passed, the other side of the thoroughfare seemed the more murky and shadowy by comparison. he decided, crossed the street; lights gleamed in his face. he pushed his way through the people unmolested and strode on, followed only by the noise of passing vehicles and carts; then found himself walking on the other side, apart from the headlong busy stream. a suspicion of mist hung over the city; through it, people afar assumed shapes unreal; above the jagged sky-line of housetops the heavens had taken on that sickly hue, the high dome's jaundiced aspect for london in autumn. on!--on! john steele moved; on!--on!--the traffic pounded, for the most part in the opposite direction; a vast, never-ending source of sound, it seemed to soothe momentarily his sense of insecurity. time passed; he had, apparently, evaded his pursuers; he told himself he might, after all, meet the problem confronting him; meet and conquer. it would be a hard battle; but once in that part of the city he was striving to reach, he might find those willing to offer him shelter--low-born, miserable wretches he had helped. he would not disdain their succor; the end justified the way. in their midst, if anywhere in london, was the one man in the world who could throw a true light on the events of the past; enable him to--- behind him some one followed; some one who drew ever nearer, with soft, skulking steps which now he heard-- "mr. steele!" even as he wheeled, his name was called out. * * * * * chapter xvii the unexpected before the sudden fierce passion gleaming on john steele's face, the bright flame of his look, the person who had accosted him shrank back; his pinched and pale face showed surprise, fear; almost incoherently he began to stammer. steele's arm had half raised; it now fell to his side; his eyes continued to study, with swift, piercing glance, the man who had called. he was not a fear-inspiring object; hunger and privation seemed so to have gripped him that now he presented but a pitiable shadow of himself. did john steele notice that changed, abject aspect, that bearing, devoid totally of confidence? all pretense of a certain coster smartness that he remembered, had vanished; the hair, once curled with cheap jauntiness, hung now straight and straggling; a tawdry ornament which had stood out in the past, absurdly distinct on a bright cravat, with many other details that had served to build up a definite type of individual, seemed to have dropped off into oblivion. steele looked about; they two, as far as he could see, were alone. he regarded the man again; it was very strange, as if a circular stage, the buskined world's tragic-comic wheel of fortune, had turned, and a person whom he had seen in one character had reappeared in another. "i ask your pardon." the fellow found his voice. "i'll not be troubling you further, mr. steele." the other's expression altered; he could have laughed; he had been prepared for almost anything, but not this. the man's tones were hopeless; very deferential, however. "you were about to beg--of me?" john steele smiled, as if, despite his own danger, despite his physical pangs, he found the scene odd, unexampled, between this man and himself--this man, a sorry vagrant; himself, become now but a--"you were about to--?" "i had, sir, so far forgotten myself as to venture to think of applying for temporary assistance; however--" dandy joe began to shuffle off in a spiritless way, when-- "you are hungry?" said john steele. "a little, sir." "a modest answer in view of the actual truth, i suspect," observed the other. but although his words were brusk, he felt in his pocket; a sovereign--it was all he had left about him. when he had departed post-haste for strathorn house, he had neglected to furnish himself with funds for an indefinite period; a contingency he should have foreseen had risen; for the present he could not appear at the bank to draw against the balance he always maintained there. his own future, how he should be able to subsist, even if he could evade those who sought him, had thus become problematical. john steele fingered that last sovereign; started to turn, when he caught the look in the other's eyes. did it recall to him his own plight but a short twenty-four hours before? "very well!" he said, and was about to give the coin to the man and walk away, when another thought held him. this fellow had been a link in a certain chain of events; the temptation grew to linger with him, the single, tangible, though paltry and useless, figure in the drama he could lay hands on. john steele looked around; in a byway he saw the lighted window of a cheap oyster buffet. it appeared a place where they were not likely to be interrupted, and motioning to the man, he wheeled abruptly and started for it. a few minutes later found them seated in the shabby back room; a number of faded sporting pictures adorned the wall; one--how john steele started!--showed the 'frisco pet in a favorite attitude. absorbed in studying it, he hardly heard the proprietor of the place, and it was joe who first answered him; he had the honor of being asked there by this gentleman, and--he regarded john steele expectantly. steele spoke now; his dark eyes shone strangely; a sardonic expression lurked there. the proprietor could bring his companion a steak, if he had one. large or small?--large--with an enigmatical smile. the "hexibition styke" in the window; would that do, queried the proprietor, displaying it. would it? the eyes of the erstwhile dandy of the east side asked of john steele; that gentleman only answered with a nod, and the supplemental information that he would take "half a dozen natives himself." the proprietor bustled out; from an opposite corner of the room, the only other occupant regarded with casual curiosity the two ill-assorted figures. tall, florid, amazonian, this third person represented a fair example of the london grisette, the _petite dame_ who is not very petite, of its thoroughfares. setting down a pewter pot fit for a guardsman, she rose and sauntered toward the door; stopping there, with one hand on her hip, she looked back. "ever see 'im?" she observed, nodding her bonnet at the portrait. "noticed you appeared hinterested, as if you 'ad!" "perhaps!" steele laughed, not pleasantly. "in my mind's eye, as the poet says." "wot the--!" she retorted elegantly. "'ere's a swell toff to chawf a lidy! 'owever," reflectively, "i'ave 'eard 'e could 'it 'ard!" "but that," said the gentleman, indicating the tankard, "could hit harder." "my hyes; wot's the name of yer missionary friend, ragbags?" to joe. "the gentleman's a lawyer, and when i tell you his name is--" john steele reached over and stopped the speaker; the woman laughed. "perhaps it ayn't syfe to give it!" her voice floated back now from the threshold; predominated for a moment later in one of the corners of the bar leading to the street: "oi soi, you cawn't go in for a 'arf of bitters without a bloomin' graveyard mist comin' up be'ind yer back!" then the door slammed; the modern prototype of the "roaring girl" vanished, and another voice--hoarse, that of a man--was heard: "the blarsted fog is coming down fast." for some time the two men in the little back room sat silent; then one of them leaned over: "she might have asked you that question, eh, joe?" the speaker's eyes had turned again to the picture. the smaller man drew back; a shiver seemed to run over him. "they're a long while about the steak," he murmured. "for your testimony helped to send him over the water, i believe?" went on the other. "how do you--? i ain't on the stand now, mr. steele!" a spark of defiance momentarily came into dandy joe's eyes. "no; no!" john steele leaned back, half closed his eyes; again pain, fatigue seemed creeping over him. outside sounded the clicking and clinking of glasses, a staccato of guffaws, tones _vivace_. "the harm's been done so far as you are concerned; you, as a factor, have disappeared from the case." "glad to hear you say so, mr. steele. i mean," the other's voice was uncertain, cautious, "that's a matter long since dead and done with. didn't imagine you ever knew about it; because that was before your time; you weren't even in london then." the keen eyes of the listener rested steadily on the other; seemed to read deeper. "but as for my testimony helping to send him over the water--" "or under!" _sotto voce_. joe swallowed. "it was true, every word of it." "good!" john steele spoke almost listlessly. "always stick by any one who sticks to you,--whether a friend, or a pal, or a patron." "a patron!" from the other's lips fell an oath; he seemed about to say something but checked himself; the seconds went by. "but even if there had been something not quite--strictly in accord--which there wasn't"--quickly--"a man couldn't gainsay what had been said," dandy joe began. "he could," indifferently. "but that would be--" "confessing to perjury? yes." "hold on, mr. steele!" the man's eyes began to shine with alarm. "i'm not on the---" "i know. and it wouldn't do any good, if you were." "you mean--" in spite of himself, the fellow's tones wavered--"because he's under the water?" "no; i had in mind that even if he hadn't been drowned, your---" "wot! hadn't---" "a purely hypothetical case! if the sea gave up its dead"--joe stirred uneasily--"any retraction on your part wouldn't serve him. in the first place, you wouldn't confess; then if you did--which you wouldn't--to employ the sort of irish bull you yourself used--you would be discredited. and thus, in any contingency," leaning back with folded arms, his head against the wall, "you have become _nil_!" "blest if i follow you, sir!" "that, also," said john steele, "doesn't matter. the principal subject of any consequence, relating to you, is the steak, which is now coming." as he spoke, he rose, leaving dandy joe alone at the table. for a time he did not speak; sitting before a cheerless fire, that feebly attempted to assert itself, he looked once or twice toward the door, as if mindful to go out and leave the place. but for an inexplicable reason he did not do so; there was nothing to be gained here; yet he lingered. perhaps one of those subtle, illusory influences we do not yet understand, and which sometimes shape the blundering finite will, mysteriously, without conscious volition, was at work. one about to stumble blindly forward, occasionally stops; why, he knows not. john steele continued to regard the dark coals; to divers and sundry sounds from the table where the other ate, he seemed oblivious. once when the proprietor stepped in, he asked, without looking around, for a certain number of grains of quinine with a glass of water; they probably kept it at the bar. yes, the man always had it on hand and brought it in. a touch of fever, might he ask, as the visitor took it; nothing to speak of, was the indifferent answer. well, the gentleman should have a care; the gentleman did not reply except to ask for the reckoning; the proprietor figured a moment, then departed with the sovereign that had been tossed to the table. by this time dandy joe had pushed back his chair; his dull eyes gleamed with satisfaction; also, perhaps, with a little calculation. "thanking you kindly, sir, it's more than i had a right to expect. if ever i can do anything to show--" "you can't!" "i don't suppose so," humbly. joe looked down; he was thinking; a certain matter in which self-interest played no small part had come to mind. john steele was known to be generous in his services and small in his charges. joe regarded him covertly. "asking your pardon for referring to it--but you've helped so many a poor chap--there's an old pal of mine what is down on his luck, and, happenin' across him the other day, he was asking of me for a good lawyer, who could give him straight talk. one moment, sir! he can pay, or soon would be able to, if--" "i am not at present," steele experienced a sense of grim humor, "looking for new clients." "well, i thought i'd be mentioning the matter, sir, although i hadn't much hopes of him being able to interest the likes of you. you see he's been out of old england for a long time, and was goin' away again, when w'at should he suddenly hear but that his old woman that was, meaning his mother, died and left a tidy bit. a few hundred pounds or so; enough to start a nice, little pub. for him and me to run; only it's in the hands of a trustee, who is waiting for him to appear and claim it." "you say he has been out of england?" john steele stopped. "how long?" "a good many years. there was one or two little matters agin him when he left 'ome; but he has heard that certain offenses may be 'outlawed.' not that he has much 'ope his'n had, only he wanted to see a lawyer; and find out, in any case, how he could get his money without--" "the law getting hold of him? what is his name?" "tom rogers." for some minutes john steele did not speak; he stood motionless. on the street before the house a barrel-organ began to play; its tones, broken, wheezy, appealed, nevertheless, to the sodden senses of those at the bar: "down with the liberals, tories, parties of all degree." dandy joe smiled, beat time with his hand. "you can give me," john steele spoke bruskly, taking from his pocket a note-book, "this tom rogers' address." joe looked at the other, seemed about to speak on the impulse, but did not; then his hand slowly ceased its motion. "i, sir--you see, i can't quite do that--for tom's laying low, you understand. but if you would let him call around quiet-like, on you--" john steele replaced the note-book. "on me?" he spoke slowly; dandy joe regarded him with small crafty eyes. "i hardly think the case will prove sufficiently attractive." the other made no answer; looked away thoughtfully; at the same moment the proprietor stepped in. steele took the change that was laid on the table, leaving a half-crown, which he indicated that dandy joe could appropriate. "better not think of going now, sir," the proprietor said to john steele. "never saw anything like it the way the fog has thickened; a man couldn't get across london to-night to save his neck." "couldn't he?" dandy joe stepped toward the door. "i'm going to have a try." a mist blew in; dandy joe went out. john steele waited a moment, then with a perfunctory nod, walked quietly to the front door. the man had not exaggerated the situation; the fog lay before him like a thick yellow blanket. he looked in the direction his late companion had turned; his figure was just discernible; in a moment it would have been swallowed by the fog, when quickly john steele walked after him. * * * * * chapter xviii through the fog the dense veil overhanging the city, while favorable to john steele in some respects, lessening for the time his own danger, made more difficult the task to which he now set himself. he dared not too closely approach the figure before him, lest he should be seen and his purpose divined; once or twice dandy joe looked around, more, perhaps, from habit than any suspicion that he was followed. then the other, slackening his steps, sometimes held back too far and through caution imperiled his plan by nearly losing sight of dandy joe altogether. as they went on with varying pace, the shuffling form ahead seemed to find the way by instinct; crossed unhesitatingly many intersecting thoroughfares; paused only on the verge of a great one. here, where opposing currents had met and become congested, utter confusion reigned; from the masses of vehicles of all kinds, constituting a seemingly inextricable blockade, arose the din of hoarse voices. with the fellow's figure a vague swaying shadow before him, john steele, too, stopped; stared at the dim blotches of light; listened to the anathemas, the angry snapping of whips. would dandy joe plunge into the mêlée; attempt to pass through that tangle of horses and men? apparently he found discretion the better part of valor and moving back so quickly he almost touched john steele, he walked down the intersecting avenue. several blocks farther on, the turmoil seemed less marked, and here he essayed to cross; by dint of dodging and darting between restless horses he reached the other side. a sudden closing in of cabs and carts midway between curbs held john steele back; he caught quickly at the bridle of the nearest horse and forced it aside. an expostulating shout, a half-scream from somewhere greeted the action; a whip snapped, stung his cheek. an instant he paused as if to leap up and drag the aggressor from his seat, but instead with closed hands and set face he pushed on; to be blocked again by an importunate cab. "turn back; get out of this somehow, cabby!" he heard familiar tones, saw the speaker, sir charles, and, by his side--yes, through the curtain of fog, so near he could almost reach out and touch her, he saw as in a flash, jocelyn wray! she, too, saw him, the man in the street, his pale face lifted up, ghost-like, from the mist. a cry fell from her lips, was lost amid other sounds. an instant eyes looked into eyes; hers, dilated; his, unnaturally bright, burning! then as in a daze the beautiful head bent toward him; the daintily clad figure leaned forward, the sensitive and trembling lips half parted. john steele sprang back, to get free, to get out of there at once! did she call? he did not know; it might be she had given voice to her surprise, but now only the clatter and uproar could be heard. in the fog, however, her face seemed still to follow; confused, for a moment, he did not heed his way. something struck him--a wheel? he half fell, recovered himself, managed to reach the curb. he was conscious now of louder shoutings; of the sting on his cheek; of the traffic, drifting on--slowly. then he, too, started to walk away, in the opposite direction; it mattered little whither he bent his footsteps now. dandy joe had disappeared; the hope of attaining his end through him, of being led to the retreat of one he had so long desired to find, had proved illusive. the last moment's halt had enabled him to escape, to fade from view like a will-o'-the-wisp. john steele did not go far in mere aimless fashion; leaning against a wall he strove once more to plan, but ever as he did so, through his thought the girl's fair face, looking out from enshrouding lace, intruded. again he felt the light of her eyes, all the bitterness of spirit their surprise, consternation, had once more awakened in him. he looked out at the wagons, the carts, the nondescript vehicles of every description; but a moment before she had been there,--so near; he had caught beneath filmy white the glitter of gold,--her hair, the only bright thing in that murk and gloom. he recalled how he had once sat beside her at the opera. how different was this babel, this grinding and crunching of london's thundering wheels! but around her had always been dreams that had led him into strange byways, through dangerous, though flowery paths! to what end? to see her start, her eyes wide with involuntary dread, shrinking? could he not thus interpret that look he had seen by the flare of a carriage lamp, when she had caught sight of him? dread of him? it seemed the crowning mockery; his blood surged faster; he forgot his purpose, when a figure coming out of a public house, through one of the doors near which he had halted, caught his attention. dandy joe, a prodigal with unexpected riches, wiped his lips as he sauntered past john steele and continued his way, lurching a little. how long did steele walk after him? the distance across the city was far; groping, occasionally stumbling, it seemed interminable now. once or twice dandy joe lost his way, and jocularly accosted passers-by to inquire. at seven dials he experienced difficulty in determining which one of the miserable streets radiating as from a common hub, would lead him in the desired direction; but, after looking hastily at various objects--a barber's post, a metal plate on a wall--he selected his street. narrow, dark, it wormed its way through a cankered and little-traversed part of old london. for a time they two seemed the only pedestrians that had ventured forth that night in a locality so uninviting. on either side the houses pressed closer upon them. touching a wall here and there, john steele experienced the vague sensation that he had walked that way on other occasions, long, long ago. or was it only a bad dream that again stirred him? through the gulch-like passage swept a cold draft of air; it made little rifts in the fog; showed an entrance, a dim light. at the same time the sound of the footsteps in front abruptly ceased. for a few minutes steele waited; he looked toward the place dandy joe had entered. it was well-known to him, and, what seemed more important, to mr. gillett; the latter would remember it in connection with the 'frisco pet; presumably turn to it as a likely spot to search for him who had been forced to leave captain forsythe's home. that contingency--nay, probability--had to be considered; the one person he most needed to find had taken refuge in one of the places he would have preferred not to enter. but no time must be lost hesitating; he had to choose. dismissing all thought of danger from without, thinking only of what lay before him within, he moved quickly forward and tried the door. it yielded; had dandy joe left it unfastened purposely to lure him within, or had his potations made him unmindful? the man outside neither knew nor cared; the mocking consciousness that he had turned that knob before, knew how to proceed, held him. he entered, felt his way in the darkness through winding passages, downward, avoiding a bad step--did he remember even that? how paltry details stood out! the earthen floor still drowned the sound of footsteps; the narrow hall took the same turns; led on and on in devious fashion until he could hear, like the faint hum of bees, the distant rumble from the great thoroughfares, somewhere above, that paralleled the course of the river. at the same time a slant of light like a sword, from the crack of a door, gleamed on the dark floor before him; he stepped toward it; the low sound of men's tones could be heard--joe's; a strange voice! no, a familiar one!--that caused the listener's every fiber to vibrate. "and what did you say, when he pumped you for the cote?" "that you would rather call on him." "and then he cared nought for the job? you're sure"--anxiously--"he wasn't playing to find out?" the other answered jocosely and walked away; a door closed behind him. for a time the stillness remained unbroken; then a low rattle, as of dice on a table, caused john steele to glance through a crevice. what he saw seemed to decide him to act quickly; he lifted a latch and stepped in. as he did so a huge man with red hair sprang to his feet; from one great hand the dice fell to the floor; his shaggy jowl drooped. casting over his shoulder the swift glance of an entrapped animal, he seemed about to leap backward to escape by a rear entrance when the voice of the intruder arrested his purpose, momentarily held him. "oh, i'm alone! there are no police outside." he spoke in the dialect of the pick-purse and magsman. to prove it, john steele stooped and locked the door. the small bloodshot eyes lighted with wonder; the heavy brutish jaws began to harden. "alone?" the other tossed the key; it fell at the man's feet; john steele walked over to the opposite door and shot a heavy bolt there. "looks as if it would hold," he said in thieves' argot as he turned around. "are ye a gaby?" the red-headed giant stared ominously at him. "on the contrary," coolly, "i know very well what i am doing." a question interlarded with oaths burst from the other's throat; john steele regarded the man quietly. "i should think it apparent what i want!" he answered. as he spoke, he sat down. "it is you," bending his bright, resolute eyes on the other. "and you've come alone?" he drew up his ponderous form. john steele smiled. "i assure you i welcomed the opportunity." "you won't long." the great fists closed. "do you know what i am going to do to you?" "i haven't any curiosity," still clinging to thieves' jargon or st. giles greek. "but i'm sure you won't play me the trick you did the last time i saw you." the fellow shot his head near; in his look shone a gleam of recognition. "you're the swell cove who wanted to palaver that night when--" "you tried to rob me of my purse?" john steele laughed; his glance lingered on his bulky adversary with odd, persistent exhilaration, as if after all that had gone before, this contest royal, which promised to become one of sheer brute strength, awoke to its utmost a primal fighting force in him. "do you know the penalty for attempting that game, tom rogers, alias tom-o'-the-road; alias---" the man fell back, in his eyes a look of ferocious wonderment. "who are you? by---!" he said. "john steele." "john steele?" the bloodshot eyes became slightly vacuous. "the--? then you used him," indicating savagely the entrance at the back, "for a duck to uncover?" steele nodded. "and you're the one who's been so long at my heels?" rage caused the hot blood to suffuse the man's face. "i'll burke you for that." john steele did not stir; for an instant his look, confident, assured, seemed to keep the other back. "how? with the lead, or--" the fellow lifted his hairy fists. "those are all i--" "in that case--" steele took the weapon, on which his hand had rested, from his pocket; rising with alacrity he placed it on a rickety stand behind him. "you have me a little outclassed; about seventeen stone, i should take it; barely turn thirteen, myself. however," tossing his coat in the corner, "you look a little soft; hardly up to what you were when you got the belt for the heavy-weight championship. do you remember? the 'frisco pet went against you; but he was only a low, ignorant sailor and had let himself get out of form. you beat him, beat him," john steele's eyes glittered; he touched the other on the arm, "though he fought seventeen good rounds! you stamped the heart out of him, tom." the red-headed giant's arms fell to his side. "how do you--" "i was there!" an odd smile crossed steele's determined lips. "lost a little money on that battle. recall the fourteenth round? he nearly had you; but you played safe in the fifteenth, and then--you sent him down--down," john steele's voice died away. "it was a long time before he got up," he added, almost absently. the listener's face had become a study; perplexity mingled with other conflicting emotions. "you know all that--?" "and all the rest! how for you the fascination of the road became greater than that of the ring; how the old wildness would crop out; how the highway drew you, until--" "see here, what's your little game? straight now; quick! you come here, without the police, why?" john steele's reply was to the point; he stated exactly what he wanted and what he meant that the other should give him. as the fellow heard, he breathed harder; he held himself in with difficulty. "and so that's what you've come for, mister?" he said, a hoarse guffaw falling from the coarse lips. john steele answered quietly. "and you think there is any chance of your getting it? may i be asking," with an evil grin, "how you expect to make me, tom rogers," bringing down his great fist, "do your bidding?" "in the first place by assuring you no harm shall come to you. it is in my power to avert that, in case you comply. in the second place, you will be given enough sovereigns to--" "quids, eh? let me have sight of them, mister. we might talk better." "do you think i'd bring them here, tom-o'-the-road? no, no!" bruskly. "that settles it." the other made a gesture, contemptuous, dissenting. john steele's manner changed; he turned suddenly on the fellow like lightning. "in the next place by giving you your choice of doing what i ask, or of being turned over to the traps." "the traps!" the other fellow's face became contorted. "you mean that you--" "will give you up for that little job, unless--" for answer the man launched his huge body forward, with fierce swinging fists. what happened thereafter was at once brutish, terrible, homeric; the fellow's reserves of strength seemed immense; sheer animal rage drove him; he ran amuck with lust to kill. he beat, rushed, strove to close. his opponent's lithe body evaded a clutch that might have ended the contest. john steele fought without sign of anger, like a machine, wonderfully trained; missing no point, regardless of punishment. he knew that if he went down once, all rules of battle would be discarded; a powerful blow sent him staggering to the wall; he leaned against it an instant; waited, with the strong, impelling look people had noticed on his face when he was fighting in a different way, in the courts. the other came at him, muttering; the mill had unduly prolonged itself; he would end it. his fist struck at that face so elusive; but crashed against the wall; like a flash steele's arm lifted. the great form staggered, fell. quickly, however, it rose and the battle was resumed. now, despite john steele's vigilance, the two came together. tom rogers' arm wound round him with suffocating power; strove, strained, to hurl him to earth. but the other's perfect training, his orderly living, saved him at that crucial moment; his strength of endurance lasted; with a great effort he managed to tear himself loose and at the same time with a powerful upper stroke to send rogers once more to the floor. again, however, he got to his feet; john steele's every muscle ached; his shoulder was bleeding anew. the need for acting quickly, if he should hope to conquer, pressed on him; fortunately rogers in his blind rage was fighting wildly. john steele endured blow after blow; then, as through a mist, he found at length the opening he sought; an instant's opportunity on which all depended. every fiber of his physical being responded; he threw himself forward, the weight of his body, the force of a culminating impetus, went into his fist; it hit heavily; full on the point of the chin beneath the brutal mouth. tom rogers' head shot back as if he had received the blow of a hammer; he threw up his arms; this time he lay where he struck the ground. john steele swayed; with an effort he sustained himself. was it over? still rogers did not move; steele stooped, felt his heart; it beat slowly. mechanically, as if hardly knowing what he did, john steele began to count; "time!" rogers continued to lie like a log; his mouth gaped; the blow, in the parlance of the ring, had been a "knock-out"; or, in this case, a _quid pro quo_. yes, the last, but without referee or spectators! the prostrate man did stir now; he groaned; john steele touched him with his foot. "get up," he said. the other half-raised himself and regarded the speaker with dazed eyes. "what for?" john steele went to the stand, picked up his revolver, and then sat down at a table. "you're as foul a fighter as you ever were," he said contemptuously. * * * * * chapter xix the last shift the candle burned low; it threw now on grimy floor and wall the shadows of the two men, one seated at the table, the other not far from it. before john steele lay paper and ink, procured from some niche. he had ceased writing; for the moment he leaned back, his vigilant gaze on the figure near-by. from a corner of the room the rasping sound of a rat, gnawing, broke the stillness, then suddenly ceased. "where were you on the night this woman, amy gerard, was found dead?" a momentary expression of surprise, of alarm, crossed the bruised and battered face; it was succeeded by an angry suspicion that glowed from the evil eyes. "you're not trying to fix that job on---" "you? no." "then what did you follow him here for, to pump me? the yankee that got transported is--" "as alive as when he stepped before you in the ring!" "alive?" the fellow stared. "not in england? it was death for him to come back!" "never mind his whereabouts." the man looked at steele closer. "blame, if there isn't something about you that puzzles me," he said. "what?" laconically. the fellow shook his head. "and so he's hired you?" "not exactly. although i may say i represent him." "well, he got a good one. you know how to use your fists, mister." "better than this 'frisco pet did once, eh, tom?" the man frowned. "but to return to the subject in hand. that question you seemed afraid to answer just now was superfluous; i know where you were the night the woman was shot." "you do?" "yes; you were--" john steele leaned forward and said something softly. "how'd you find that out?" asked the man. "the 'frisco pet knew where you were all the time; but did not speak, because he did not wish to get you into trouble. also, because he did not know, then, what he long afterward learned,--indirectly!--that you could have cleared him!" "indirectly? i? what do you--?" "through your once having dropped a few words. wine in, wits out!" the fellow scowled; edged his chair closer. "keep where you are!" john steele's hand touched the revolver now on the table before him; even as it did so, the room seemed to sway, and it was only by a strong effort of will he kept his attention on the matter in hand, fought down the dizziness. "and let's get through with this! i don't care to waste much more of my time on you." "you're sure nothing will happen to me, if--" the man watched him closer. "this paper need never be made public." "then what--" "that's my business. it might be useful in certain contingencies." "such as the police discovering he hadn't gone to davy jones' locker?" shrewdly. john steele's answer was short, as if he found this verbal contest trite, paltry, after the physical struggle that had preceded it. "and what am i to get if i do what you--" the pupils of the fellow's eyes, fastened on him, were now like pin-points. the other smiled grimly; this bargaining and trafficking with such a man, in a place so foul! it seemed grotesque, incongruous; and yet was, withal, so momentous. he knew just what rogers should say; what he would force him to do! in his overwrought state he overlooked one or two points that would not have escaped him at another time: a certain craftiness, or low cunning that played occasionally on that disfigured face. "what did you say i was to get if--" "you shall have funds to take you out of the country, and i will engage to get and forward to you the money left in trust. the alternative," he bent forward, "about fifteen years, if the traps--" the fellow pondered; at last he answered. for a few minutes then john steele wrote, looking up between words. his head bent now closer to the paper, then drew back from it, as if through a slight uncertainty of vision or because of the dim light. the fellow's eyes, watching him, lowered. "you know--none better!--that on that particular night some one else--some one besides the 'frisco pet--entered your mother's house?" oaths mingled with low filchers' slang; but the reply was forthcoming; other questions, too, were answered tentatively; sometimes at length, with repulsive fullness of detail. the speaker hesitated over words, shot sharp, short looks at the other; from the hand that wrote, to the fingers near that other object,--strong, firm fingers that seemed ready to leap; ready to act on any emergency. unless--a shadow appeared to pass over the broad, white brow, the motionless hand to waver, ever so little. then quickly the hand moved, rested on the brown handle of the weapon, enveloped it with light careless grasp. "you can state of your own knowledge what happened next?" john steele spoke sharply; the fellow's red brows suddenly lifted. "oh, yes," he replied readily. john steele's manner became shorter; his questions were put fast; he forced quick replies. he not only seemed striving to get through his task as soon as possible; but always to hold the other's attention, to permit his brain no chance to wander from the subject to any other. but the fellow seemed now to have become as tractable as before he had been sullen, stubborn; gave his version in his own vernacular, always keenly attentive, observant of the other's every motion. his strength had apparently returned; he seemed little the worse for his late encounter. at length came an interval; just for an instant john steele's eyes shut; the fingers that had held the pen closed on the edge of the table. a quick passing expression of ferocity hovered at the corners of the observer's thick lips; he got up; at the same time john steele rose and stepped abruptly back. "you know how to write your name?" his voice was firm, unwavering; the revolver had disappeared from the table and lay now in his pocket. "all right, gov'ner!" the other spoke with alacrity. "i'm game; a bargain is a bargain, and i'll take your word for it," leaning over and laboriously tracing a few letters on the paper. "you'll do your part. you'll find me square and above board, although you did use me a little rough. there, here's your affadavy." john steele moved back to a corner of the room and pulled a wire; in some far-away place a bell rang faintly. "are----," he spoke a woman's name, obviously a sobriquet, "and her daughter still here?" "how?" "never mind; answer." "yes, they're here, gov'ner. you'll want them for witnesses, i suppose. well, i'll not be gainsaying you." his tones were loud; conveyed a sense of rough heartiness; the other made no reply. not long after, the paper, duly witnessed, lay on the table; the landlady and her daughter had gone; john steele only waited for the ink to dry. he had no blotter, or sand; the fluid was old, thick; the principal signature in its big strokes, with here and there a splutter, would be unintelligible if the paper were folded now. so he lingered; both men were silent; a few tense minutes passed. john steele leaned against the wall; his temples throbbed; the fog seemed creeping into the room and yet the door was closed. he moved toward the paper; still maintaining an aspect of outward vigilance, took it and held it before him as if to examine closer. the other said nothing, made no movement. when the women had come in, his accents had been almost too frank; the gentleman had called on a little matter of business; he, tom rogers, had voluntarily signed this little paper, and they could bear witness to the fact. now all that profanely free air had left him; he stood like a statue, his lips compressed; his eyes alone were alive, speaking, alert. john steele folded the paper and placed it in an inside pocket. the other suddenly breathed heavily; john steele, looking at him, walked to the door leading to the street. he put his hand on the key and was about to turn it, but paused. something without held his attention,--a crunching sound as of a foot on a pebble. it abruptly revived misgivings that had assailed him before entering the place, that he had felt as a vague weight while dealing with the fellow. the police agent! time had passed, too great an interval, though he had hastened, hastened as best he might, struggling with his own growing weakness, the other's reviving power. again the sound! involuntarily he turned his head; it was only an instant's inattention, but tom rogers had been waiting for it. springing behind in a flash, he seized john steele by the throat. it was a deadly, terrible grip; the fingers pressed harder; the other strove, but slowly fell. as dizziness began to merge into oblivion, rogers, without releasing his hold, bent over. "you fool! did you think i would let you get away with the paper? that i couldn't see you were about done for?" he looked at the white face; started to unbutton the coat; as he reached in, his attention was suddenly arrested; he threw back his head. "the traps!" voices below resounded without. "so that was your game! well," savagely, "i think i have settled with you." he had but time to run to the rear door, unbolt it and dash out, when a crashing of woodwork filled the place, and mr. gillett looked in. * * * * * chapter xx the paper when john steele began to recover, he was dimly aware that he was in a four-wheeler which rattled along slowly through streets, now slightly more discernible; by his side sat a figure that stirred when he did; spoke in crisp, official accents. he, mr. steele, would kindly not place any further obstacles in the way of justice being done; it was useless to attempt that; the police agent had come well armed, and, moreover, had taken the precaution for this little journey of providing a cab in front and one behind, containing those who knew how to act should the necessity arise. john steele heard these words without answering; his throat pained him; he could scarcely swallow; his head seemed bound around as by a tight, inflexible band. the cool air, however, gradually revived him; he drank it in gratefully and strove to think. a realization of what had occurred surged through his brain,--the abrupt attack at the door; the arrival of the police agent. furtively the prisoner felt his pocket; the memorandum book containing the paper that had cost so much was gone; he looked at the agent. had it been shifted to mr. gillett's possession, or, dimly he recalled his assailant's last words, had rogers succeeded in snatching the precious evidence from his breast before escaping? in the latter case, it had, undoubtedly, ere this, been destroyed; in the former, it would, presumably, soon be transferred to the police agent's employer. to regain the paper, if it existed, would be no light task; yet it was the pivot upon which john steele's fortunes hung. the principal signer was, in all likelihood, making his way out of london now; he would, in a few hours, reach the sea, and after that disappear from the case. at any rate, john steele could have nothing to hope from him in the future; the opportune or inopportune appearance of the police agent would savor of treachery to him. john steele moved, quickly, impatiently; but a hand, swung carelessly behind him, moved also,--a hand that held something hard. thereafter he remained outwardly quiescent; resistance on his part, and the consequences that would ensue, might not be displeasing to his chief enemy; it would settle the case in short and summary fashion. justification for extreme proceedings would be easily forthcoming and there would be none to answer for john steele. where were they going? john steele could not surmise; he saw, however that they had left behind the neighborhood of hovels, narrow passages and byways, and traversed now one of the principal circuses. there the street traffic moved smoothly; they seemed but an unimportant part of an endless procession which they soon left to turn into a less public, more aristocratic highway. a short distance down this street, the carriages suddenly stopped before an eminently respectable and sedate front, and, not long after, john steele, somewhat to his surprise, found himself in lord ronsdale's rooms and that person's presence. the nobleman had been forewarned of john steele's coming. he sat behind a high desk, his figure and part of his face screened by its massive back. one drawer of the desk was slightly opened. what could be seen of his features appeared sharper than usual, as if the inner virulence, the dark hidden passions smoldering in his breast had at length stamped their impression on the outer man. when he first spoke his tones were more irascible, less icily imperturbable, than they had been hitherto. they seemed to tell of a secret tension he had long been laboring under; but the steady cold eyes looked out from behind the wood barrier with vicious assurance. the police agent he addressed first; his services could be dispensed with for the present; he should, however, remain in the hall with his men. mr. gillett looked from the speaker to him he had brought there and after a moment turned and obeyed; but the instant's hesitation seemed to say that he began to realize there was more to the affair than he had fathomed. "there is no need for many words between us, mr. steele." lord ronsdale's accents were poignant and sharp. "had you listened to what mr. gillett, on my behalf, would have said to you that night in the gardens at strathorn house, we might, possibly, both of us, have been saved some little annoyance. we now start at about where we were before that little contretemps." john steele silently looked at lord ronsdale; his brain had again become clear; his thoughts, lucid. the ride through the cool and damp air, this outré encounter at the end of the journey, had acted as a tonic on jaded sense and faculty. he saw distinctly, heard very plainly; his ideas began to marshal themselves logically. he could have laughed at lord ronsdale, but the situation was too serious; the weakness of his defenses too obvious. proofs, proofs, proofs, were what the english jury demanded, and where were his? he could build up a story; yes, but--if he could have known what had taken place between mr. gillett and this man a few minutes before, when the police agent had stepped in first and tarried here a brief period before ushering him in! had mr. gillett delivered to his noble patron the memorandum book and other articles filched from john steele's pockets? that partly opened drawer--what did it contain? the nobleman's hand lingered on the edge of it; with an effort the other resisted allowing his glance to rest there. he even refused to smile when lord ronsdale, after a sharper look, asked him to be seated; he seemed to sift and weigh the pros and cons of the invitation in a curious, calm fashion; as if he felt himself there in some impersonal capacity for the purpose of solving a difficult catechetical problem. "yes; i think i will." he sat down in a stiff, straight-backed chair; it may be he felt the need of holding in reserve all his physical force, of not refusing to rest, even here. lord ronsdale's glance narrowed; he hesitated an instant. "to go back to strathorn house--a very beautiful place to go back to," his tones for the moment lapsed to that high pitch they sometimes assumed, "mr gillett had there received from me certain instructions. whatever you once were," seeming not to notice the other's expression, "you have since by your own efforts attained much. how--?" his brows knit as at something inexplicable. "but the fact remained, was perhaps considered. exposure would have meant some--unpleasantness for your friends." the eyes of the two men met; those of lord ronsdale were full of sardonic meaning. "friends who had trusted you; who," softly, "had admitted you to their firesides, not knowing--" he broke off. "they," he still adhered to the plural, "would have been deeply shocked, pained; would still be if they should learn--" "if?" john steele did manage to contain himself, but it was with an effort; perhaps he saw again through the fog a girl's face, white and accusing, which had appeared; vanished. "you spoke of certain instructions?" he even forced himself to say. "mr. gillett, in the garden at strathorn house, was authorized by me to offer you one chance of avoiding exposure, and," deliberately, "the attendant consequences; you were to be suffered to leave london, this country, with the stipulation that you should never return." john steele shifted slightly. "you did not expect this," quickly, "you had not included that contingency in your calculations?" "i confess," in an even, emotionless voice, "your lordship's complaisance amazes me." "and you would have accepted the alternative?" the nobleman's accents were now those of the service, diplomatic; they were concise but measured. "why discuss what could never have been considered?" was the brusk answer. lord ronsdale frowned. "we are still fencing; we will waste no more time." perhaps the other's manner, assured, contemptuously distant, goaded him; perhaps he experienced anew all that first violent, unreasoning anger against this man whose unexpected coming to london had plunged him into an unwelcome and irritating role. "that alternative is still open. refuse, and--you will be in the hands of the authorities to-night. resist--" his glittering eyes left no doubt whatever as to his meaning. "i shall not resist," said john steele. "but--i refuse." he spoke recklessly, regardlessly. "in that case--" lord ronsdale half rose; his face looked drawn but determined; he reached as if to touch a bell. "you force the issue, and--" "one moment." as he spoke john steele stepped toward the fireplace; he gazed downward at a tiny white ash on the glowing coals; a little film that might have been--paper? "in a matter so important we may consider a little longer, lest," still regarding the hearth, "there may be after-regrets." his words even to himself sounded puerile; but what they led to had more poignancy; he lifted now his keen glowing eyes. "in one little regard i did your lordship an injustice." "in what way?" the nobleman had been studying him closely, had followed the direction of his glance; noted almost questioningly what it had rested on--the coals, or vacancy? "in supposing that you yourself murdered amy gerard," came the unexpected response. the other started violently. "your lordship will forgive the assumption in view of what occurred on a certain stormy night at sea, when a drowning wretch clung with one hand to a gunwale, and you, in answer to his appeal for succor, bent over and--" "it's a lie!" the words fell in a sharp whisper. "what?" john steele's laugh sounded mirthlessly. "however, we will give a charitable interpretation to the act; the boat was already overcrowded; one more might have endangered all. call it an impulse of self-preservation. self-preservation," he repeated; "the struggle of the survival of the fittest! let the episode go. especially as your lordship incidentally did me a great service; a very great service." the other stared at him. "i should have looked at it only in that light, and then it would not have played me the trick it did of affording a false hypothesis for a certain conclusion. your lordship knows what i mean, how the true facts in this case of amy gerard have come to light?" john steele's glance was straight, direct; if the other had the paper, had read it, he would know. lord ronsdale looked toward the bell, hesitated. "i think you had better tell me," he said at last. "if your lordship did not kill the woman--if the 'frisco pet did not, then who did?" ronsdale leaned forward just in the least; his eyes seemed to look into the other's as if to ask how much, just what, he had learned. john steele studied the nobleman with a purpose of his own. "why, she killed herself," he said suddenly. "how?" the nobleman uttered this word, then stopped; john steele waited. had lord ronsdale been surprised at his knowledge? he could hardly tell, from his manner, whether or not he had the affidavit and had read it. "how--interesting!" the nobleman was willing to continue the verbal contest a little longer; that seemed a point gained. "may i ask how it occurred?" "oh, it is all very commonplace! your lordship had received a threatening letter and called on the woman. she wanted money; you refused. she already had a husband living in france, a ruined gambler of the bourse, but had tricked you into thinking she was your wife. you had discovered the deception and discarded her. from a music-hall singer she had gone down--down, until she, once beautiful, courted, had become a mere--what she was, associate of one like dandy joe, cunning, unscrupulous. at your refusal to become the victim of their blackmailing scheme, she in her anger seized a weapon; during the struggle, it was accidentally discharged." was lord ronsdale asking himself how the other had learned this? if rogers had escaped with the paper, john steele knew ronsdale might well wonder that the actual truth should have been discovered; he would not, under those circumstances, even be aware of the existence of a witness of the tragedy. but was lord ronsdale assuming a manner, meeting subtlety with subtlety? john steele went on quietly, studying his enemy with close, attentive gaze. "at sound of the shot, joe, who had been waiting below in the kitchen with the landlady, rushed up-stairs. you explained how it happened; were willing enough to give money now to get away quietly without being dragged into the affair. the dead woman's confederate, greedy for gain even at such a moment, would have helped you; but there was a difficulty: would the police accept the story of suicide? there were signs of a struggle. at that instant some one entered the house, came stumbling up the stairs; it was the--'frisco pet." john steele paused; his listener sat stiff, immovable. "joe hurried you out, toward a rear exit, but not before," leaning slightly toward lord ronsdale, "an impression of your face, pale, drawn, had vaguely stamped itself on the befuddled brain," bitterly, "of the fool-brute. you lost no time in making your escape; little was said between you and joe; but he proved amenable to your suggestion; the way out of the difficulty was found. he hated the pet, who had once or twice handled him roughly for abusing this poor creature. you gave joe money to have the landlady's testimony agree with his; she never got that money," meaningly, "but gave the desired evidence. joe had found out something." once more the speaker stopped; there remained a crucial test. if lord ronsdale had the paper, what john steele was about to say would cause him no surprise; he would be prepared for it. the words fell sharply: "the landlady's son, tom rogers, was at the time in the house, in hiding from the police. he was concealed above in a small room or garret; through a stove-pipe opening, disused, he looked down into the sitting-room below and heard, saw all!" the effect was instantaneous, magical; lord ronsdale sprang to his feet; john steele looked at him, at the wavering face, the uncertain eyes. no doubt existed now in his mind; gillett had not secured the paper, or he would have given it to his patron when they were alone. that fact was patent; the document was gone, irretrievably; there could be no hope of recovering it. the bitter knowledge that it had really once existed would not serve john steele long. but with seeming resolution he went on: "i had the story from his own lips," deliberately, "put in the form of an affidavit, duly signed and witnessed." "you did?" lord ronsdale stared at him a long time. "this is a subterfuge." "it is true." "where--is the paper?" "not in my pocket." the other considered. "you mean it is in a safe place?" "one would naturally take care of such a document." "you did not have any such paper at strathorn." "no?" john steele smiled but he did not feel like smiling. "not there certainly." "i mean no such paper existed then, or you would have taken advantage of it." john steele did not answer; he looked at the drawer. the affidavit was not there; but something else was. "you are resourceful, that is all." lord ronsdale had now quite recovered himself; he sank back into his chair. "you have, out of fancy, constructed a libelous theory; one that you can not prove; one that you would be laughed at for advancing. a cock-and-bull story about a witness who was not a witness; a paper that doesn't exist, that never existed." a sound at the door caused him to turn sharply; a knocking had passed unheeded. the door opened, closed. mr. gillett, a troubled, perturbed look on his face, stood now just within. "your lordship!" "well?" the nobleman's manner was peremptory. the police agent, however, came forward slowly. "i have here something that one of our men has just turned over to me." john steele started; but neither of the others noticed. "he found it at the last place we were; evidently it had been dropped by the fellow who was there and who fled at our coming." as he spoke, he stepped nearer the desk, in his hand a paper. "what is it?" lord ronsdale demanded testily. mr. gillett did not at once answer; he looked at john steele; the latter stood like a statue; only his eyes were turned toward the nobleman, to the thin aristocratic hand yet resting on the edge of the drawer. "if your lordship will glance at it?" said mr. gillett, proffering the sheet. the nobleman did so; his face changed; his eyes seemed unable to leave the paper. suddenly he gave a smothered explanation; tore the sheet once, and started up, took a step toward the fire. "stop!" the voice was john steele's; he stood now next to the partly-opened drawer, in his hand that which had been concealed there, something bright, shining. lord ronsdale wheeled, looked at the weapon and into the eyes behind it. "place those two bits of paper there--on the edge of the desk!" * * * * * chapter xxi a condition lord ronsdale hesitated; his thin jaws were set so that the bones of the cheek showed; his eyes gleamed. when he did move it was as if blindly, precipitately, to carry out his first impulse. "i wouldn't!" what john steele held vaguely included, in the radius of its possibilities, mr. gillett. "unless--" "you wouldn't dare!" lord ronsdale trembled, but with impotent passion, not fear. "it would be--" "self-defense! the paper would remain--full vindication. in fact the paper already is mine. whether i kill you or not is merely incidental. and to tell you the truth i don't much care how you decide!" again lord ronsdale seemed almost to forget caution; almost, but not quite; perhaps he was deterred by the look on john steele's face, scornful, mocking, as half-inviting him to cast all prudence to the winds. this bit of evidence that he had not calculated upon, it was hard to give it up; but no other course remained. besides, another, gillett, knew of its existence; lord ronsdale felt he could not depend on that person in an emergency of this kind; the police agent's manner was not reassuring. he seemed inclined to be more passive than aggressive; perhaps he had been somewhat overcome by this unexpected revelation and the deep waters he who boasted of an "eminently respectable and reputable agency" had unwittingly drifted into; in climaxes of this character one's thoughts are likely to center on self, to the exclusion of patron or employer, however noble. the police agent looked at ronsdale and waited to see what he would do. the nobleman moved toward the desk; the paper fluttered from his cold fingers; when once more john steele buttoned his coat the affidavit had again found lodgment in his waistcoat pocket. it seemed a tame, commonplace end; but it was the end; all three men knew it. john steele's burning glance swept from lord ronsdale to gillett; lingered with mute contemplation. what now remained to be done should be easily, it seemed almost too easily, accomplished. he felt like one lingering on the stage after the curtain had gone down; the varied excitement, the fierce play of emotion was over; the actors hardly appeared interesting. what he said was for lord ronsdale alone; after gillett had gone, he laid down a condition. in certain respects it was a moment of triumph; but he experienced no exultation, only a supreme weariness, an anxiety to be done with the affair, to go. but the one point had first to be made, emphasized; to be accepted by the other violently, quietly, resignedly,--john steele did not care what his attitude might be; what he chiefly felt was that he did not wish to waste much time on him. "and if i refuse to let you dictate in a purely private concern?" lord ronsdale, white with passion, had answered. "the end will be the same for you. as matters stand, sir charles no doubt thinks still that you would make a desirable _parti_ for his niece. his wife, lady wray, unquestionably shares that opinion. their combined influence might in time prevail, and jocelyn wray yield to their united wishes. this misfortune," with cutting deadliness of tone, "it is obvious must be averted. you will consent to withdraw all pretensions in that direction, or you will force me to make public this paper. a full exposition of the case i think would materially affect sir charles and lady wray's attitude as to the desirability of an alliance between their family and yours." "and yourself? you forget," with a sneer, "how it would affect you!" "myself!" john steele laughed. "you fool! do you imagine i would hesitate for that reason?" the nobleman looked at him, at the glowing, contemptuous eyes. "hesitate? perhaps not! you love her yourself, and--" john steele stepped toward him. "stop, or--i have once been almost on the point of killing you to-night--don't--" he broke off. "the condition? you consent or not?" "and if i--? you would--?" "keep your cowardly secret? yes!" to this the other had replied; of necessity the scene had dragged along a little farther; then john steele found himself on the stairway, going down. it was over, this long, stubborn contest; he hardly heard or saw a cab drive up and stop before the house as he went out to the street, was scarcely conscious of some one leaving it, some one about to enter who suddenly stopped at sight of him and exclaimed eagerly, warmly. he was not surprised; with apathy he listened to the new-comer's words; rambling, disconnected, about a letter that had intercepted him at brighton and brought him post-haste to london. a letter? john steele had entered the cab; he sank back; when had he written a letter? weeks ago; he looked at this face, familiar, far-off; the fog was again rising around him. he could hardly see; he was glad he did not have to stir; he seemed to breathe with difficulty. "where--are we going?" "to rosemary villa." "i--should prefer--my own chambers"--john steele spoke with an effort--"it is nearer--and i'm a bit done up. besides, after a little rest, there are--some business matters--to be attended to--that will need looking after as soon as--" his head fell forward; captain forsythe looked at him; called up loudly, excitedly to the driver. * * * * * chapter xxii near the river a dubious sort of day, one that seemed vainly trying to appear cheerful! a day that threw out half-promises, that showed tentatively on the sky a mottled blur where the sun should have been! on such a day, a month after that night in lord ronsdale's rooms, captain forsythe, calling on john steele, found himself admitted to the sitting-room. while waiting for an answer to his request to see mr. steele, he gazed disapprovingly around him. the rooms were partly dismantled; a number of boxes littering the place indicating preparations to move. captain forsythe surveyed these cases, more or less filled; then he shook his head and lighted a cigar. but as he smoked he seemed asking himself a question; he had not yet found the answer when a footstep was heard and the subject of his ruminations entered the room. john steele's face was paler than it had been; thinner, like that of a man who had recently suffered some severe illness. "ah, forsythe!" he said, with an assumption of cheeriness. "so good of you!" "that's all very well," was the answer. "but what about those?" with his cigar he indicated vaguely the boxes. "those? not yet all packed, are they? lazy beggars, your london servants, just before leaving you!" he laughed. "see here!" forsythe looked at him. "you're not well enough yet to--" "never felt better!" "no chance to get you to change your mind, i suppose?" "not in the least!" for a few moments forsythe said nothing; then, "weed?" he asked, offering steele a cigar. "don't believe i'll begin just yet a while." "oh!" significantly. "quite fit, eh?" forsythe's tone sounded, in the least, scoffing; john steele went to the window; stood with his back to it. a short time passed; the military man puffed more quickly. it seemed the irony of fate, or friendship, that now that he was just beginning to get better acquainted with steele the latter should inconsistently determine to leave london. "anything i can do for you when you're away?" began captain forsythe. "command me, if there is. needn't say--" "there's only one thing," john steele looked at him; his voice was steady, quiet. "and we've already spoken about that. you will let me know if ronsdale doesn't keep to the letter of the condition?" "very well." captain forsythe's expression changed slightly, but the other did not appear to notice. "although i don't imagine the contingency will arise," he added vaguely, looking at his cigar rather than john steele. "nevertheless i shall leave with you certified copies of all the papers," said steele in a short matter-of-fact tone. "these, together with the one you furnished me, are absolutely conclusive." "the one i furnished you!" captain forsythe rested his chin on the knob of his stick. "odd about that, wasn't it?--that the day in the library at strathorn house, when i was about to tell you how i had better success the second time i visited the landlady, we should have been interrupted. and," looking at the other furtively, "by jocelyn wray!" steele did not answer. "if i had only seen the drift of your inquiries, had detected more than a mere perfunctory interest! with the confession given me on her death-bed by the landlady, that she had testified falsely to protect her good-for-nothing son, and acknowledging that another whom she did not know by name, but whom she described minutely, had entered the house on the fatal night--with this confession in your hands, a world of trouble might have been saved. as it is," he ended half-ruefully, "you have found me most unlike the proverbial friend in need, who is--" "a friend, indeed!" said john steele, placing a hand on the other's shoulder, while a smile, somewhat constrained, lighted his face for a moment. "who at once rose to the occasion; hastened to london on the receipt of a letter that was surely a test of friendship--" "oh, i don't know about that!" quickly. "test of friendship, indeed!" captain forsythe looked slightly embarrassed beneath the keen searching eyes. "don't think of it, or--besides," brightening, "i had to come; telegram from miss wray, don't you know." "miss wray!" steele's hand fell suddenly to his side; he looked with abrupt, swift inquiry at the other. captain forsythe bit his lips. "by jove!--forgot--" he murmured. "wasn't to say anything about that." "however, as you have--" john steele regarded him steadily. "you received a telegram from--" "at the same time that your letter intercepted me at brighton." "asking you to return to london?" "exactly. she--wanted to see me." "about?" john steele's eyes asked a question; the other nodded. "of course; not difficult to understand; her desire to hush up the affair; her fear," with a short laugh, "lest the scandal become known. a guest at strathorn house had been--" "i don't think it was for--" "you found out," shortly, "that she, too, had learned--knew--" "yes; she made me aware of that at once when she came to see me with sir charles. it was she sent your luggage--" "sir charles? then he, also?--" "no. you--you need feel no apprehension on that score." a peculiar expression came into the other's glance. "you see his niece told him it was not her secret; asked him to help her, to trust her. never was a man more perplexed, but he kept the word he gave her on leaving for london, and forebore to question her. even when they drove through london in that fog--" "yes, yes. i know--" "you? how--?" john steele seemed not to hear. "she saw you that night?" "she did, alone in the garden of rosemary villa. sir charles behaved splendidly. 'all right, my dear; some day you'll tell me, perhaps,' he said to her. 'meanwhile, i'll possess my soul in patience.' so while he smoked in the cab, we talked it over." an instant he regarded john steele as if inviting him to look behind these mere words; but john steele's half-averted face appeared set, uncommunicative. perhaps again he saw the girl as he had last seen her at strathorn house; her features, alive, alight, with scorn and wounded pride. "well?" he said shortly. "and the upshot of it all was--" "she suggested my going to lord ronsdale." "to invoke his assistance, perhaps!" steele once more laughed. "as an old friend!" captain forsythe started to speak; the other went on: "well, we'll keep his secret, as long as he keeps his compact." "but--" "i promised. what does it matter? sir charles may be disappointed at not being able to bring about--but for her sake--that is the main consideration." "and you, the question of your own innocence--to her?" forsythe looked at him narrowly, smiled slightly to himself. "is--inconsequential! the main point is--the 'frisco pet is dead. gillett won't speak; you won't; lord ronsdale can't. another to whom i am about to tell the story, will, i am sure, be equally silent." "another? you don't mean to say you are deliberately going to--" captain forsythe frowned; a bell rang. john steele smiled. "can you think of no one to whom i am bound to tell the truth, the whole truth? who extended me his hand in friendship, invited me to his home? of course it would be easier to go without speaking; it is rather difficult to own that one has accepted a man's hospitality, stepped beneath his roof and sat at his board, as--not to mince words--an impostor. i could have delegated you--to tell him all; but that wouldn't do. it is probably a part of the old, old debt; but i must meet him face to face; so i have sent for--" a servant opened the door of the library; sir charles wray walked in. * * * * * below, in the cab, jocelyn waited; her pale face expressed restlessness; her eyes, deep and shining, were bent on the river, fixed unseeingly on a small boat that struggled, struggled almost in vain, against the current. then they lowered to something she held in her hand, a bit of crumpled paper. it was john steele's note to sir charles asking him to call; stating nothing beyond a mere perfunctory request to that end, giving no reason for his wish to see him. her eyes lingered on the message; beneath the bright golden hair, her brows drew together. the handwriting was in the least unlike his, not quite so bold and firm as that she remembered in one or two messages from him to her--some time ago. but then he had been ill, captain forsythe had told her, and was still, he thought, far from well. she made a movement; the little fingers crumpled the message; then one of them thrust it within her glove. she continued to sit motionless, how long? the small boat, with sail at the bow and plodding oar at stern, at length drew out of sight; the paper made itself felt in her warm palm. why did not her uncle return? he had been gone some time now; what--what could detain him? "can you drop in at my chambers for a few minutes?" john steele had written. "a few minutes;" the blue eyes shone with impatience. he was leaving london, captain forsythe had informed her; and, she concluded, he wanted to see her uncle before he left. but not her, no; she had driven there, however, with sir charles, on some light pretext--for want of something better to do--to be out in the air-- "i'll wait here in the cab," she had said to her uncle, when he had left it before john steele's dwelling. "at least," meeting the puzzled gaze that had rested on her more than once lately, "i may, or may not wait. if i get tired--if when you come back, you don't find me, just conclude," capriciously, "i have gone on some little errand of my own. shopping, perhaps." "jocelyn!" he had said, momentarily held by her eyes, her feverish manner. "there is something wrong, isn't there? hasn't the time come yet, to tell?" "something wrong? what nonsense!" she had laughed. she recalled these words now, found it intolerable to sit still. abruptly she rose and stepped from the cab. "my uncle is gone a long while," she said to the man, up behind. "oh, no, miss; not so werry!" consulting a watch. "a matter of ten minutes; no more." no more! she half started to move away; looked toward the house. brass plates, variously disposed around the entrance and appearing nearly all alike as to form and size, stared at her. one metal sign a shock-headed lad was removing--"john steele"--she read the plain, modest letters, the inscription, "barrister" beneath; she caught her breath slightly. "he certainly is very long," she repeated mechanically. "why don't you go in and see wot's detaining of him?" vouchsafed the cabby in amicable fashion as he regarded the hesitating, slender figure. "that's wot my missus allus does, when she thinks the occasion--which i'll not be mentioning--the proper one." "third floor to the right, miss!" said the boy, occupied in removing the sign and stepping aside as he spoke, to allow her to pass. "if it's mr. steele's office you're looking for! you'll see 'barrister' in brass letters, as i said to the old gentleman; i haven't got at them yet; to take them down, i mean." "thank you," she said irresolutely, and without intending to enter, found herself within the hall. there a narrow stairway lay before her; he pointed to it; with an excess of juvenile solicitude and politeness, boyhood's involuntary tribute to youth and beauty in need of assistance, he told her to go on, "straight up." and she did, unreasoningly, mechanically; one flight, two flights! the steps were well worn; how many people had walked up and down here carrying burdens with them. poor people, crime-laden people! before many doors, she saw other signs, "barristers." and of that multitude of clients, how many left these offices with heavy hearts! in that dim, vague light of stairway and landings she seemed to feel, to see, a ghostly procession, sad-eyed, weary. but captain forsythe had said that john steele had helped many, many. her own heart seemed strangely inert, without life; she stood suddenly still, as if asking herself why she was there. near his door! about to turn, to retrace her steps--an illogical sequence to the illogical action that had preceded it, she was held to the spot by the door suddenly opening; a man--a servant, broom in hand--who had evidently been engaged in cleaning one of the chambers within, was stepping out! in surprise he regarded her, this unusual type of visitor, simply yet perfectly gowned. a lady, or a girl--patrician, aristocratic to her finger-tips; very fair, striking to look upon! so different from most of the people who came hither to air their troubles, to seek assistance. "you wished to see mr. steele?" for an instant the servant's words and his direct, almost challenging look held the girl. usually self-contained as she was, she felt that perhaps he had caught some fleeting expression in her eyes, when at his abrupt appearance she had lifted them with a start from the brass letters. the proud head nodded affirmatively to the inquiry. "well, you can be stepping into the library, miss," said the man. "mr. steele is engaged just now; but--" "that is just it," she said, straightening. "my uncle is with him, and i wished to see--" "if you will walk in," he said. "you can wait here." jocelyn on the instant found no reason for refusing; the door closed behind her; she looked around. she stood in a library alone; beyond, in another chamber, she heard voices--her uncle's, john steele's. * * * * * chapter xxiii past and present and yet those tones were not exactly like john steele's; they sounded familiar, yet different. what made the difference? his recent illness? the character of what he was saying, the fact that he represented himself, not another, in this case? he was speaking quickly, clearly, tersely. very tersely, thought the girl; not, however, to spare himself; a covert ring of self-scorn precluded that idea. "those boxes contained books; yours, sir charles!" were the first words the girl caught. "mine! bless my soul!" her uncle's surprised voice broke in. "you don't mean to tell me that all those volumes i had boxed for australia and which i thought lost on the _lord nelson_ came ashore on your little coral isle?" came ashore on his coral isle; the girl caught at the words. of course he had been saved, he who had saved her from the wild sea; she had realized that after their last meeting at strathorn house. but how? he had reached an island, then--by what means? some day her uncle would tell her; she understood now why he had sent for sir charles, the motive that had prompted him to an ordeal, not at all easy. she was glad; she would never have told herself, and yet she could realize, divine, the poignant pain this lifting of the curtain, this laying bare the past, must cost him. she, too, seemed to feel a part of that pain; why? it was unaccountable. "exactly!" said john steele succinctly. "and never were angels in disguise more foully welcomed!" "bless my soul!" sir charles' amazed voice could only repeat. "i remember most of those books well--a brave array; poets, philosophers, lawmakers! then that accounts for your--! it is like a fairy tale." "a fairy tale!" jocelyn wray gazed around her; at books, books, on every side. she regarded the door leading out; was half-mindful to go; but heard the man-servant in the hall--and lingered. "nothing so pleasant, i assure you," john steele answered sir charles shortly. then with few words he painted a picture uncompromisingly; the girl shrank back; perhaps she wished she had not come. this, truly, was no fairy tale, but a wild, savage drama, primeval, the picture of a soul battling with itself on the little lonely isle. she could see the hot, angry sun, feel its scorching rays, hear the hissing of the waves. all the man's strength for good, for ill, went into the story; the isle became as the pit of acheron; at first there were no stars overhead. the girl was very pale; she could not have left now; she had never imagined anything like this. she had looked into greek books, seen pictures of men chained to rocks and struggling against the anger of the gods--but they had appeared the mere fantasies of mythology. the drama of the little coral isle seemed to unfold a new and real vista of life into which she had unconsciously strayed. she hardly breathed; her hand had leaped to her breast; she felt alternately oppressed, thrilled. her eyes were star-like; but like stars behind mist. strange! strange! "when the man woke," he had said, "he cursed the sea for bringing him as he thought nothing. one desire tormented him. it became intolerable. day after day he went down to the ocean, but the surf only leaped in derision. for the thousandth time he cursed it, the isle to which he was bound. weeks passed, until, almost mad through the monotony of the long hours, one day he inadvertently picked up a book. the brute convict could just read. where, how he ever learned, i forget. he began to pick out the words. after that--" "after that?" the girl had drawn closer; his language was plain, matter-of-fact. the picture that he drew was without color; she, however, saw through a medium of her own. the very landscape changed now, remained no longer the terrible, barren environment. she seemed to hear the singing of the birds, the softer murmur of the waves, the purring of the stream. it was like a mask, one of those poetic interpolations that the olden poets sometimes introduced in their tragedies. john steele paused. was it over?--almost; the coral isle became a study; there was not much more to tell. through the long months, the long years, the man had fought for knowledge as he had always fought for anything; with all his strength, passion, energy. "incredible! by jove!" she heard sir charles' voice, awed and admiring. "i told you, steele, when you were about to begin, that we people of the antipodes take a man for what he is, not for what he was. but i am glad to have had your confidence and--and--tell me, how did you happen to light on the law, for special study and preparation?" "you forget that about half your superb library was law-books, sir charles. a most comprehensive collection!" "so they were! but you must have had wonderful aptitude." "the law--the ramifications it creates for the many, the attendant restraints for the individual--i confess interested me. you can imagine a personal reason or--an abstract one. from the lonely perspective of a tiny coral isle, a system, or systems,--codes of conduct, or morals, built up for the swarming millions, so to speak!--could not but possess fascination for one to whom those millions had become only as the far-away shadows of a dream. you will find a few of those books, minus fly-leaf and book-plate, it shames me to say!--still in my library, and--" "bless you; you're welcome to them," hastily. "no wonder that day in my library you spoke as you did about books. 'gad! it's wonderful! but you say at first you could hardly read? your life, then, as a boy--pardon me; it's not mere idle curiosity." "as a boy!" john steele repeated the words almost mechanically. "my parents died when i was a child; they came of good stock--new england." he uttered the last part of the sentence involuntarily; stopped. "i was bound out, was beaten. i fought, ran away. in lumber camps, the drunken riffraff cursed the new scrub boy; on the mississippi, the sailors and stevedores kicked him because the mate kicked them. everywhere it was the same; the boy learned only one thing, to fight. fight, or be beaten! on the plains, in the mountains, before the fo'castle, it was the same. fight, or--" he broke off. "it was not a boyhood; it was a contention." "i believe you." sir charles' accents were half-musing. "and if you will pardon me, i'll stake a good deal that you fought straight." he paused. "but to go back to your isle, your magic isle, if you please. you were rescued, and then?" "in a worldly sense, i prospered; in new zealand, in tasmania. fate, as if to atone for having delayed her favors, now lavished them freely; work became easy; a mine or two that i was lucky enough to locate, yielded, and continues to yield, unexpected returns. without especially desiring riches, i found myself more than well-to-do." "and then having fairly, through your own efforts, won a place in the world, having conquered fortune, why did you return to england knowing the risk, that some one of these fellows like gillett, the police agent, might--" "why," said john steele, "because i wished to sift, to get to the very bottom of this crime for which i was convicted. for all real wrong-doing--resisting officers of the law--offenses against officialdom--i had paid the penalty, in full, i believe. but this other matter--that was different. it weighed on me through those years on the island and afterward. a jury had convicted me wrongfully; but i had to prove it; to satisfy myself, to find out beyond any shadow of a doubt, and--" "he did." for the first time captain forsythe spoke. "steele has in his possession full proofs of his innocence and i have seen them; they go to show that he suffered through the cowardice of a miserable cad, a titled scoundrel who struck his hand from the gunwale of the boat when the _lord nelson_ went down, yes, you told that story in your fevered ramblings, steele." "forsythe!" the other's voice rang out warningly. "didn't i tell you the part he played was to be forgotten unless--" "all right, have your way," grudgingly. "a titled scoundrel! there was only one person of rank on the _lord nelson_ besides myself, and--forsythe"--the old nobleman's voice called out sharply--"you have said too much or too little." john steele made a gesture. "i have given my word not to--" "but i haven't!" said captain forsythe. "the confession i procured, and what i subsequently learned, led me directly to--here is the tale, sir charles." * * * * * it was over at last; they were gone, sir charles and captain forsythe; their hand-clasps still lingered in his. that was something, very much, john steele told himself; but, oddly, with no perceptible thrill of satisfaction. had he become dead to approval? what did he want? or what had been wanting? sir charles had been affable, gracious; eminently just in his manner. but the old man's sensibilities had been cruelly shocked; ronsdale, the son of his old friend, a miserable coward who, if the truth were known, would be asked to resign from every club he belonged to! and he, sir charles, had desired a closer bond between him and one he loved well, his own niece! perhaps john steele divined why the hearty old man's face had grown so grave. sir charles might well experience shame for this retrogression of one of his own class, the broken obligations of nobility; the traditions shattered. but he thanked john steele in an old-fashioned, courtly way for what he had once done for his niece whose life he had saved. perhaps it was the reaction in himself; perhaps john steele merely fancied a distance in the other's very full and punctilious expression of personal indebtedness; his courteous reiteration that he should feel honored by his presence at any and all times at his house! for a few moments now john steele remained motionless, listening to their departing footsteps; then turned and gazed around him. never had his rooms appeared more cheerless, more barren, more empty. no, not empty; they were filled with memories. hardly pleasant ones; recollections of struggles, contentions that had led him to--what? his chambers seemed very still; the little street very silent. time had been when he had not felt its solitude; now he experienced only a sense of irksomeness, isolation. the man squared his shoulders and looked out again from the window toward that small bit of the river he could just discern. once he had gazed at it when its song seemed to be of the green banks and flowers it had passed by; but that had been on a fairer occasion; at the close of a joyous, spring day. how it came back to him; the solemn court of justice, the beautiful face, an open doorway, with the sunshine golden without and a figure that, ere passing into it, had turned to look back! it was but for an instant, yet again his gaze seemed to leap to that luring light, the passing gleam of her eyes, that had lingered-- that he saw now! or was it a dream? at the threshold near-by, some one looked out; some one as fair, fairer, if that could be, whose cheeks wore the tint of the wild rose. "pardon me; i came up to see if my uncle--" he stared at her, at the beautiful, tremulous lips, the sheen of her hair-- "you!--" "yes." she raised a small, gloved hand and swept back a disordered tress. "your--your uncle has just gone," he said. "i know." "you do?" he knew it was no dream, that the fever had not returned, that she really stood there. yet it seemed inexplicable. "i was in the library when they--went out. i had come up to see--i was with my uncle in the cab--and wondered why he--" she stopped; he took a quick step toward her. "you were in there, that room, when--" "yes," she said, and threw back her head, as if to contradict a sudden mistiness that seemed stupidly sweeping over her gaze. "why did you not tell me--you did not?--that you were innocent?" "you were in there?" he did not seem to catch her words. "heard--heard--?" a moment they stood looking at each other; suddenly she reached out her hands to him. with a quick exclamation he caught and held them. but in a moment he let them fall. what had he been about to say, to do, with the fair face, the golden head, so near? he stepped back quickly--madness! had he not yet learned control? had the lessons not been severe enough? but he was master of himself now, could look at her coldly. fortunately she had not guessed, did not know he had almost--she stood near the back of a chair, her face half-averted; perhaps she appeared slightly paler, but he was not sure; it might be only the shadow of the thick golden hair. "you--are going away?" she was the first to speak. her voice was, in the least, uncertain. "to-morrow," without looking at her. "where, if i may ask?" "to my own country." "america." "yes." "it is very large," irrelevantly. "i remember--of course, you are an american; i--i have hardly realized it; we, we australians are not so unlike you." "perhaps," irrelevantly on his part, "because your country, also, is--" "big," said the girl. her hands moved slightly. "are--are you going to remain there? in america, i mean?" he expected to; john steele spoke in a matter-of-fact tone; he could trust himself now. the interview was just a short, perfunctory one; it would soon be over; this he repeated to himself. "but--your friends--here?" her lips half-veiled a tremulous little smile. "my friends!" something flashed in his voice, went, leaving him very quiet. "i am afraid i have not made many while in london." her eyes lifted slightly, fell. "call it the homing instinct!" he went on with a laugh. "the desire once more to become part and parcel of one's native land; to become a factor, however small, in its activities." "i don't think you--will be--a small factor," said the girl in a low tone. he seemed not to hear. "to take up the fight where i left it, when a boy--" "the fight!" the words had a far-away sound; perhaps she saw once more, in fancy, an island, the island. life was for strong people, striving people. and he had fought and striven many times; hardest of all, with himself. she stole a glance at his face; he was looking down; the silence lengthened. he waited; she seemed to find nothing else to say. he too did not speak; she found herself walking toward the door. "good-by." the scene seemed the replica of a scene somewhere else, sometime before. ah, in the garden, amid flowers, fragrance. there were no flowers here-- "good-by." he spoke in a low voice. "as i told captain forsythe, you--you need not feel concern about the story ever coming out--" "concern? what do you mean?" "your telegram to captain forsythe, the fear that brought you to london--" "the--you thought that?"--swiftly. "what else?" the indignation in her eyes met the surprise in his. "thank you," she said; "thank you for that estimate of me!" "miss wray!" contrition, doubt, amazement mingled in his tone. "good-by," she said coldly. and suddenly, as one sees through a rift in the clouds the clear light, he understood. * * * * * "you will go with me? you!" "why, as for that--" fleece of gold! heaven of blue eyes! they were so near! "and if i did, you who misinterpret motives, would think--" "what?" "that i came here to--" "i should like to think that." "well, i came," said the girl, "i don't know why! unless the boy who was taking down the signs had something to do with it!" "the--?" "he said to go 'straight up'!" she laughed. he laughed, too; all the world seemed laughing. he hardly knew what he said, how she answered; only that she was there, slender, beautiful, as the springtime full of flowers; that a miracle had happened, was happening. the mottled blur in the sky had become a spot of brightness; sunshine filled the room; in a cage above, a tiny feathered creature began to chirp. "and sir charles? lady wray?" he spoke quietly, but with wild pulsing of temples, exultant fierce throbbing of heart; he held her from all the world. "they?" she was silent a moment; then looked up with a touch of her old, bright imperiousness. "my uncle loves me, has never denied me anything, and he will not in this--that is, if i tell him--" "what?" did her lips answer; or was it only in her wilful, smiling eyes that he read what he sought? "jocelyn!" above the little bird, with a red spot on its breast, bent its bead-like eyes on them; but neither saw, noticed. besides, it was only a successor to the bird that had once been hers; that had flown like a flashing jewel from her soul to his, in that place, seawashed, remote from the world. personal reminiscences of early days in california, with other sketches. by stephen j. field. to which is added the story of his attempted assassination by a former associate on the supreme bench of the state. by hon. george c. gorham. printed for a few friends. not published. copyright, , by stephen j. field. * * * * * the following sketches were taken down by a stenographer in the summer of , at san francisco, from the narrative of judge field. they are printed at the request of a few friends, to whom they have an interest which they could not excite in others. * * * * * personal reminiscences of early days in california, with other sketches. index. why and how i came to california. first experiences in san francisco.--visit to marysville, and elected first alcalde of that district. experiences as alcalde. the turner controversy. running for the legislature. the turner controversy continued. life in the legislature. friendship for david c. broderick. legislation secured and beginning a new life. the barbour difficulty. removal from marysville.--life on the supreme bench.--end of judge turner. career on the supreme bench of california, as described by judge baldwin. the annoyances of my judicial life. rosy views of judicial life gradually vanishing.--unsettled land titles of the state.--asserted ownership by the state of gold and silver found in the soil.--present of a torpedo. hostility to the supreme court after the civil war.--the scofield resolution. the moulin vexation. the hastings malignity. appendix. ex. a.--notice of departure from new york for california, november , . ex. b.--aid at election of alcalde by wm. h. parks.--a sketch of my opponent. ex. c.--oath of office as alcalde. ex. d.--order of district court imprisoning and fining me for alleged contempt of court; also order expelling messrs. goodwin and mulford and myself from the bar; and order imprisoning and fining judge haun for releasing me from imprisonment upon a writ of habeas corpus, and directing that the order to imprison me be enforced. ex. e.--record of proceedings in the court of sessions, when attempt was made to arrest its presiding judge; and the testimony of the clerk of the district court in reference to its proceedings relating to myself and judge haun. ex. f.--petition of citizens of marysville to the governor to suspend judge turner from office . ex. g.--letters of ira a. eaton and a.m. winn. ex. h, no. i.--letters from surviving members of the legislature of , who voted to indefinitely postpone the proceedings for the impeachment of judge turner. ex. h, no. ii.--letter of judge mott on the difficulty with judge barbour. ex. i.--letter of l. martin, the friend of judge barbour in his street attack. ex. j.--sections , , and of the act of july , , to expedite the settlement of titles to lands in california; and the act of march , , to quiet the title to certain lands in san francisco. ex. k.--letter of judge lake giving an account of the torpedo. ex. l.--extract from the report of the register and receiver of the land-office in the matter of the contests for lands on the soscol ranch * * * * * the attempted assassination of mr. justice field index. attempted assassination of justice field by a former associate on the state supreme bench chapter i the sharon-hill-terry litigation. chapter ii proceedings in the superior court of the state. chapter iii proceedings in the united states circuit court. [transcriber's note: there is no chapter iv] chapter v decision of the case in the federal court. chapter vi the marriage of terry and miss hill. chapter vii the bill of revivor. chapter viii the terrys imprisoned for contempt. chapter ix terry's petition to the circuit court for a release--its refusal--he appeals to the supreme court--unanimous decision against him there. chapter x president cleveland refuses to pardon terry--false statements of terry refuted. chapter xi terry's continued threats to kill justice field--return of the latter to california in . chapter xii further proceedings in the state court.--judge sullivan's decision reversed. chapter xiii attempted assassination of justice field, resulting in terry's own death at the hands of a deputy united states marshal. chapter xiv sarah althea terry charges justice field and deputy marshal neagle with murder. chapter xv justice field's arrest and petition for release on habeas corpus. chapter xvi judge terry's funeral--refusal of the supreme court of california to adjourn on the occasion. chapter xvii habeas corpus proceedings in justice field's case. chapter xviii habeas corpus proceedings in neagle's case. chapter xix expressions of public opinion. chapter xx the appeal to the supreme court of the united states, and the second trial of sarah althea's divorce case. chapter xxi concluding observations. * * * * * why and how i came to california. some months previous to the mexican war, my brother david dudley field, of new york city, wrote two articles for the democratic review upon the subject of the northwestern boundary between the territory of the united states and the british possessions. one of these appeared in the june, and the other in the november number of the review for .[ ] while writing these articles he had occasion to examine several works on oregon and california, and, among others, that of greenhow, then recently published, and thus became familiar with the geography and political history of the pacific coast. the next spring, and soon after the war broke out, in the course of a conversation upon its probable results, he remarked, that if he were a young man, he would go to san francisco; that he was satisfied peace would never be concluded without our acquiring the harbor upon which it was situated; that there was no other good harbor on the coast, and that, in his opinion, that town would, at no distant day, become a great city. he also remarked that if i would go he would furnish the means, not only for the journey, but also for the purchase of land at san francisco and in its vicinity. this conversation was the first germ of my project of coming to california. some months afterwards, and while col. stevenson's regiment was preparing to start from new york for california, my brother again referred to the same subject and suggested the idea of my going out with the regiment. we had at that time a clerk in the office by the name of sluyter, for whom i had great regard. with him i talked the matter over, it being my intention, if i should go at all, to induce him if possible to accompany me. but he wished to get married, and i wished to go to europe. the result of our conference was, that the california project was deferred, with the understanding, however, that after my return from europe we should give it further consideration. but the idea of going to california thus suggested, made a powerful impression upon my mind. it pleased me. there was a smack of adventure in it. the going to a country comparatively unknown and taking a part in fashioning its institutions, was an attractive subject of contemplation. i had always thought that the most desirable fame a man could acquire was that of being the founder of a state, or of exerting a powerful influence for good upon its destinies; and the more i thought of the new territory about to fall into our hands beyond the sierra nevada, the more i was fascinated with the idea of settling there and growing up with it. but i was anxious first to visit, or rather to revisit, europe. i was not able, however, to make the necessary arrangements to do so until the summer of . on the first of may of that year, i dissolved partnership with my brother, and in june started for europe. in the following december, while at galignani's news room in paris, i read in the new york herald the message of president polk, which confirmed previous reports, that gold had been discovered in california, then recently acquired. it is difficult to describe the effect which that message produced upon my mind. i read and re-read it, and the suggestion of my brother to go to that country recurred to me, and i felt some regret that i had not followed it. i remained in europe, however, and carried out my original plan of seeing its most interesting cities, and returned to the united states in , arriving at new york on the st of october of that year. there was already at that early period a steamer leaving that city once or twice every month for chagres. it went crowded every trip. the impulse which had been started in me by my brother in , strengthened by the message of president polk, had now become irresistible. i joined the throng, and on november th, , took passage on the "crescent city;" and in about a week's time, in company with many others, i found myself at the little old spanish-american town of chagres, on the isthmus of panama. there we took small boats and were poled up the river by indians to cruces, at which place we mounted mules and rode over the mountain to panama. there i found a crowd of persons in every degree of excitement, waiting for passage to california. there were thousands of them. those who came on the "crescent city" had engaged passage on the pacific side also; but such was the demand among the multitude at panama for the means of transportation, that some of the steerage passengers sold their tickets from that place to san francisco for $ apiece and took their chances of getting on cheaper. these sales, notwithstanding they appeared at the time to be great bargains, proved, in most cases, to be very unfortunate transactions; for the poor fellows who thus sold their tickets, besides losing their time, exposed themselves to the malaria of an unhealthy coast. there was in fact a good deal of sickness already among those on the isthmus, and many deaths afterwards occurred; and among those who survived there was much suffering before they could get away. the vessel that conveyed us, and by "us" i mean the passengers of the "crescent city," and as many others as could by any possibility procure passage from panama to san francisco was the old steamer "california." she was about one thousand tons burden; but probably no ship of two thousand ever carried a greater number of passengers on a long voyage. when we came to get under way, there did not seem to be any spare space from stem to stern. there were over twelve hundred persons on board, as i was informed.[ ] unfortunately many of them carried with them the seeds of disease. the infection contracted under a tropical sun, being aggravated by hardships, insufficient food, and the crowded condition of the steamer, developed as the voyage proceeded. panama fever in its worst form broke out; and it was not long before the main deck was literally covered with the sick. there was a physician attached to the ship; but unfortunately he was also prostrated. the condition of things was very sad and painful. among the passengers taken sick were two by the name of gregory yale and stephen smith; and i turned myself into a nurse and took care of them. mr. yale, a gentleman of high attainments, and who afterwards occupied a prominent place at the bar of the state, was for a portion of the time dangerously ill, and i believe that but for my attentions he would have died. he himself was of this opinion, and afterwards expressed his appreciation of my attention in every way he could. in the many years i knew him he never failed to do me a kindness whenever an opportunity presented. finally, on the evening of december , , after a passage of twenty-two days from panama, we reached san francisco, and landed between eight and nine o'clock that night. [ ] the first article was entitled "the oregon question," and the second "the edinburgh and foreign quarterly on the oregon question." [ ] note.--the number of passengers reported to the journals of san francisco on the arrival of the steamer was much less than this, probably to avoid drawing attention to the violation of the statute which restricted the number. first experiences in san francisco. upon landing from the steamer, my baggage consisted of two trunks, and i had only the sum of ten dollars in my pocket. i might, perhaps, have carried one trunk, but i could not manage two; so i was compelled to pay out seven of my ten dollars to have them taken to a room in an old adobe building on the west side of what is now known as portsmouth square. this room was about ten feet long by eight feet wide, and had a bed in it. for its occupation the sum of $ a week was charged. two of my fellow-passengers and myself engaged it. they took the bed, and i took the floor. i do not think they had much the advantage on the score of comfort. the next morning i started out early with three dollars in my pocket. i hunted, up a restaurant and ordered the cheapest breakfast i could get. it cost me two dollars. a solitary dollar was, therefore, all the money in the world i had left, but i was in no respect despondent over my financial condition. it was a beautiful day, much like an indian summer day in the east, but finer. there was something exhilarating and exciting in the atmosphere which made everybody cheerful and buoyant. as i walked along the streets, i met a great many persons i had known in new york, and they all seemed to be in the highest spirits. every one in greeting me, said "it is a glorious country," or "isn't it a glorious country?" or "did you ever see a more glorious country?" or something to that effect. in every case the word "glorious" was sure to come out. there was something infectious in the use of the word, or rather in the feeling, which made its use natural. i had not been out many hours that morning before i caught the infection; and though i had but a single dollar in my pocket and no business whatever, and did not know where i was to get the next meal, i found myself saying to everybody i met, "it is a glorious country." the city presented an appearance which, to me, who had witnessed some curious scenes in the course of my travels, was singularly strange and wild. the bay then washed what is now the east side of montgomery street, between jackson and sacramento streets; and the sides of the hills sloping back from the water were covered with buildings of various kinds, some just begun, a few completed,--all, however, of the rudest sort, the greater number being merely canvas sheds. the locality then called happy valley, where mission and howard streets now are, between market and folsom streets, was occupied in a similar way. the streets were filled with people, it seemed to me, from every nation under heaven, all wearing their peculiar costumes. the majority of them were from the states; and each state had furnished specimens of every type within its borders. every country of europe had its representatives; and wanderers without a country were there in great numbers. there were also chilians, sonorians, kanakas from the sandwich islands, and chinese from canton and hong kong. all seemed, in hurrying to and fro, to be busily occupied and in a state of pleasurable excitement. everything needed for their wants; food, clothing, and lodging-quarters, and everything required for transportation and mining, were in urgent demand and obtained extravagant prices. yet no one seemed to complain of the charges made. there was an apparent disdain of all attempts to cheapen articles and reduce prices. news from the east was eagerly sought from all new comers. newspapers from new york were sold at a dollar apiece. i had a bundle of them, and seeing the price paid for such papers, i gave them to a fellow-passenger, telling him he might have half he could get for them. there were sixty-four numbers, if i recollect aright, and the third day after our arrival, to my astonishment he handed me thirty-two dollars, stating that he had sold them all at a dollar apiece. nearly everything else brought a similarly extravagant price. and this reminds me of an experience of my own with some chamois skins. before i left new york, i purchased a lot of stationery and the usual accompaniments of a writing-table, as i intended to practise my profession in california. the stationer, learning from some remark made by my brother cyrus, who was with me at the time, that i intended to go to california, said that i ought to buy some chamois skins in which to wrap the stationery, as they would be needed there to make bags for carrying gold-dust. upon this suggestion, i bought a dozen skins for ten dollars. on unpacking my trunk, in marysville, these chamois skins were of course exposed, and a gentleman calling at the tent, which i then occupied, asked me what i would take for them. i answered by inquiring what he would give for them. he replied at once, an ounce apiece. my astonishment nearly choked me, for an ounce was taken for sixteen dollars; at the mint, it often yielded eighteen or nineteen dollars in coin. i, of course, let the skins go, and blessed the hunter who brought the chamois down. the purchaser made bags of the skins, and the profit to him from their sale amounted to two ounces on each skin. from this transaction, the story arose that i had sold porte-monnaies in marysville before practising law, which is reported in the interesting book of messrs. barry and patten, entitled "men and memories of san francisco in the spring of ." the story has no other foundation. but i am digressing from the narrative of my first experience in san francisco. after taking my breakfast, as already stated, the first thing i noticed was a small building in the plaza, near which a crowd was gathered. upon inquiry, i was told it was the court-house. i at once started for the building, and on entering it, found that judge almond, of the san francisco district, was holding what was known as the court of first instance, and that a case was on trial. to my astonishment i saw two of my fellow-passengers, who had landed the night before, sitting on the jury. this seemed so strange that i waited till the case was over, and then inquired how it happened they were there. they said that they had been attracted to the building by the crowd, just as i had been, and that while looking on the proceedings of the court the sheriff had summoned them. they replied to the summons, that they had only just arrived in the country. but he said that fact made no difference; nobody had been in the country three months. they added that they had received eight dollars each for their services. at this piece of news i thought of my solitary dollar, and wondered if similar good fortune might not happen to me. so i lingered in the court-room, placing myself near the sheriff in the hope that on another jury he might summon me. but it was not my good luck. so i left the temple of justice and strolled around the busy city, enjoying myself with the novelty of everything. passing down clay street, and near kearney street, my attention was attracted by a sign in large letters, "jonathan d. stevenson, gold dust bought and sold here." as i saw this inscription i exclaimed, "hallo, here is good luck," for i suddenly recollected that when i left new york my brother dudley had handed me a note against stevenson for $ or $ ; stating that he understood the colonel had become rich in california, and telling me, that if such were the case, to ask him to pay the note. i had put the paper in my pocket-book and thought no more of it until the sight of the sign brought it to my recollection, and also reminded me of my solitary dollar. of course i immediately entered the office to see the colonel. he had known me very well in new york, and was apparently delighted to see me, for he gave me a most cordial greeting. after some inquiries about friends in new york, he commenced talking about the country. "ah," he continued, "it is a glorious country. i have made two hundred thousand dollars." this was more than i could stand. i had already given him a long shake of the hand but i could not resist the impulse to shake his hand again, thinking all the time of my financial condition. so i seized his hand again and shook it vigorously, assuring him that i was delighted to hear of his good luck. we talked over the matter, and in my enthusiasm i shook his hand a third time, expressing my satisfaction at his good fortune. we passed a long time together, he dilating all the while upon the fine country it was in which to make money. at length i pulled out the note and presented it to him. i shall never forget the sudden change, from wreaths of smiles to an elongation of physiognomy, expressive of mingled surprise and disgust, which came over his features on seeing that note. he took it in his hands and examined it carefully; he turned it over and looked at its back, and then at its face again, and then, as it were, at both sides at once. at last he said in a sharp tone, "that's my signature," and began to calculate the interest; that ascertained, he paid me the full amount due. if i remember rightly he paid me $ in spanish doubloons, but some of it may have been in gold dust. if it had not been for this lucky incident, i should have been penniless before night. the good fortune which the colonel then enjoyed has not always attended him since. the greater part of his property he lost some years afterwards, but he has always retained, and now in his seventy-eighth year[ ] still retains, great energy and vigor of mind, and a manly independence of character, which have made him warm friends. in all the changes of my life his name is pleasantly associated with the payment of the note, and the timely assistance which he thus gave me. his career as commander of the well-known regiment of new york volunteers which arrived in california in march, , and subsequently in the state, are matters of public history. as soon as i found myself in funds i hired a room as an office at the corner of montgomery and clay streets for one month for $ , payable in advance. it was a small room, about fifteen feet by twenty. i then put out my shingle as attorney and counsellor-at-law, and waited for clients; but none came. one day a fellow-passenger requested me to draw a deed, for which i charged him an ounce. he thought that too much, so i compromised and took half an ounce. for two weeks this was the only call i had upon my professional abilities. but i was in no way discouraged. to tell the truth i was hardly fit for business. i was too much excited by the stirring life around me. there was so much to hear and see that i spent half my time in the streets and saloons talking with people from the mines, in which i was greatly interested. i felt sure that there would soon be occasion in that quarter for my services. whilst i was excited over the news which was daily brought from the mines in the interior of the state, and particularly from the northern part, an incident occurred which determined my future career in california. i had brought from new york several letters of introduction to persons who had preceded me to the new country, and among them one to the mercantile firm of simmons, hutchinson & co., of san francisco, upon whom i called. they received me cordially, and inquired particularly of my intentions as to residence and business. they stated that there was a town at the head of river navigation, at the junction of sacramento and feather rivers, which offered inducements to a young lawyer. they called it vernon, and said they owned some lots in it which they would sell to me. i replied that i had no money. that made no difference, they said; they would let me have them on credit; they desired to build up the town and would let the lots go cheap to encourage its settlement. they added that they owned the steamer "mckim," going the next day to sacramento, and they offered me a ticket in her for that place, which they represented to be not far from vernon. accordingly i took the ticket, and on january th, , left for sacramento, where i arrived the next morning. it was the time of the great flood of that year, and the entire upper country seemed to be under water. upon reaching the landing place at sacramento, we took a small boat and rowed to the hotel. there i found a great crowd of earnest and enthusiastic people, all talking about california, and in the highest spirits. in fact i did not meet with any one who did not speak in glowing terms of the country and anticipate a sudden acquisition of fortune. i had already caught the infection myself, and these new crowds and their enthusiasm increased my excitement. the exuberance of my spirits was marvelous. the next day i took the little steamer "lawrence," for vernon, which was so heavily laden as to be only eighteen inches out of water; and the passengers, who amounted to a large number, were requested not to move about the deck, but to keep as quiet as possible. in three or four hours after leaving sacramento, the captain suddenly cried out with great energy, "stop her! stop her!"; and with some difficulty the boat escaped running into what seemed to be a solitary house standing in a vast lake of water. i asked what place that was, and was answered, "vernon,"--the town where i had been advised to settle as affording a good opening for a young lawyer. i turned to the captain and said, i believed i would not put out my shingle at vernon just yet, but would go further on. the next place we stopped at was nicolaus, and the following day we arrived at a place called nye's ranch, near the junction of feather and yuba rivers. no sooner had the vessel struck the landing at nye's ranch than all the passengers, some forty or fifty in number, as if moved by a common impulse, started for an old adobe building, which stood upon the bank of the river, and near which were numerous tents. judging by the number of the tents, there must have been from five hundred to a thousand people there. when we reached the adobe and entered the principal room, we saw a map spread out upon the counter, containing the plan of a town, which was called "yubaville," and a man standing behind it, crying out, "gentlemen, put your names down; put your names down, all you that want lots." he seemed to address himself to me, and i asked the price of the lots. he answered, "two hundred and fifty dollars each for lots by feet." i replied, "but, suppose a man puts his name down and afterwards don't want the lots?" he rejoined, "oh, you need not take them if you don't want them: put your names down, gentlemen, you that want lots." i took him at his word and wrote my name down for sixty-five lots, aggregating in all $ , . this produced a great sensation. to the best of my recollection i had only about twenty dollars left of what col. stevenson had paid me; but it was immediately noised about that a great capitalist had come up from san francisco to invest in lots in the rising town. the consequence was that the proprietors of the place waited upon me and showed me great attention. two of the proprietors were french gentlemen, named covillaud and sicard. they were delighted when they found i could speak french and insisted on showing me the town site. it was a beautiful spot, covered with live-oak trees that reminded me of the oak parks in england, and the neighborhood was lovely. i saw at once that the place, from its position at the head of practical river navigation, was destined to become an important depot for the neighboring mines, and that its beauty and salubrity would render it a pleasant place for residence. in return for the civilities shown me by mr. covillaud, and learning that he read english, i handed him some new york papers i had with me, and among them a copy of the new york "evening post" of november th, , which happened to contain a notice of my departure for california with an expression of good wishes for my success.[ ] the next day mr. covillaud came to me and in an excited manner said: "ah, monsieur, are you the monsieur field, the lawyer from new york, mentioned in this paper?" i took the paper and looked at the notice with apparent surprise that it was marked, though i had myself drawn a pencil line around it, and replied, meekly and modestly, that i believed i was. "well, then," he said, "we must have a deed drawn for our land." upon making inquiries i found that the proprietors had purchased the tract upon which the town was laid out, and several leagues of land adjoining, of general--then captain--john a. sutter, but had not yet received a conveyance of the property. i answered that i would draw the necessary deed; and they immediately dispatched a couple of vaqueros for captain sutter, who lived at hock farm, six miles below, on feather river. when he arrived the deed was ready for signature. it was for some leagues of land; a considerably larger tract than i had ever before put into a conveyance. but when it was signed there was no officer to take the acknowledgment of the grantor, nor an office in which it could be recorded, nearer than sacramento. i suggested to those present on the occasion, that in a place of such fine prospects, and where there was likely in a short time to be much business and many transactions in real property, there ought to be an officer to take acknowledgments and record deeds, and a magistrate for the preservation of order and the settlement of disputes. it happened that a new house, the frame of which was brought in the steamer, was put up that day; and it was suggested by mr. covillaud that we should meet there that evening and celebrate the execution of the deed, and take into consideration the subject of organizing a town by the election of magistrates. when evening came the house was filled. it is true it had no floor, but the sides were boarded up and a roof was overhead, and we improvised seats out of spare planks. the proprietors sent around to the tents for something to give cheer to the meeting, and, strange as it may seem, they found two baskets of champagne. these they secured, and their contents were joyously disposed of. when the wine passed around, i was called upon and made a speech. i started out by predicting in glowing colors the prosperity of the new town, and spoke of its advantageous situation on the feather and yuba rivers; how it was the most accessible point for vessels coming up from the cities of san francisco and sacramento, and must in time become the depot for all the trade with the northern mines. i pronounced the auriferous region lying east of the feather river and north of the yuba the finest and richest in the country; and i felt certain that its commerce must concentrate at the junction of those rivers. but, said i, to avail ourselves of all these advantages we must organize and establish a government, and the first thing to be done is to call an election and choose magistrates and a town council. these remarks met with general favor, and it was resolved that a public meeting should be held in front of the adobe house the next morning, and if it approved of the project, that an election should be held at once. accordingly, on the following morning, which was the th of january, , a public meeting of citizens was there held, and it was resolved that a town government should be established and that there should be elected an ayuntamiento or town council, a first and second alcalde, (the latter to act in the absence or sickness of the former,) and a marshal. the alcalde was a judicial officer under the spanish and mexican laws, having a jurisdiction something like that of a justice of the peace; but in the anomalous condition of affairs in california at that time, he, as a matter of necessity, assumed and exercised very great powers. the election ordered took place in the afternoon of the same day. i had modestly whispered to different persons at the meeting in the new house the night before, that my name was mentioned by my friends for the office of alcalde; and my nomination followed. but i was not to have the office without a struggle; an opposition candidate appeared, and an exciting election ensued. the main objection urged against me was that i was a new comer. i had been there only three days; my opponent had been there six. i beat him, however, by nine votes.[ ] on the evening of the election, there was a general gathering of people at the adobe house, the principal building of the place, to hear the official announcement of the result of the election. when this was made, some one proposed that a name should be adopted for the new town. one man suggested "yubafield," because of its situation on the yuba river; and another, "yubaville," for the same reason. a third, urged the name "circumdoro," (surrounded with gold, as he translated the word,) because there were mines in every direction round about. but there was a fourth, a solid and substantial old man, evidently of kindly domestic affections, who had come out to california to better his fortunes. he now rose and remarked that there was an american lady in the place, the wife of one of the proprietors; that her name was mary; and that, in his opinion, her name ought to be given to the town, and it should be called, in her honor, "marysville." no sooner had he made the suggestion, than the meeting broke out into loud hurrahs; every hat made a circle around its owner's head, and we christened the new town "marysville," without a dissenting voice. for a few days afterwards, the town was called both yubaville and marysville, but the latter name was soon generally adopted, and the place is so called to this day. the lady, in whose honor it was named was mrs. covillaud. she was one of the survivors of the donner party, which suffered so frightfully while crossing the sierra nevadas in the winter of - , and had been living in the country ever since that terrible time. with my notions of law, i did not attach much importance to the election, but i had a certificate of election made out and signed by the inspectors, stating that at a meeting of the residents of the district of yubaville, on the day named, an election for officers had been held, and designating the inspectors who were appointed, the number of votes that had been cast for the office of alcalde, and the number received by myself, and the number received by my opponent, and that as i had received a majority of all the votes cast, i was elected to that office. it was made out with all possible formality, and when completed, was sent to the prefect of the district. this officer, a mr. e.o. crosby, afterwards minister to one of the south american republics, wrote back approving my election, and advising me to act. his advice, under the circumstances, was a matter of some moment. the new constitution of the state had gone into effect, though it was still uncertain whether it would be recognized by congress. mr. crosby, therefore, thought it best for me to procure, in addition to my commission as alcalde, an appointment as justice of the peace; and through his kind offices, i obtained from governor burnett the proper document bearing his official seal. after my election, i went to sacramento, and on the d of january, , was sworn into office as first alcalde of yubaville, by the judge of the court of first instance, as that was the name of the district in the certificate of election; but i was always designated, after the name of the town had been adopted, as first alcalde of marysville.[ ] captain sutter, whose deed i had drawn, was a remarkable character. he was about five feet nine inches in height, and was thick-set. he had a large head and an open, manly face, somewhat hardened and bronzed by his life in the open air. his hair was thin and light, and he wore a mustache. he had the appearance of an old officer of the french army, with a dignified and military bearing. i subsequently became well acquainted with him, and learned both to respect and to pity him. i respected him for his intrepid courage, his gentle manners, his large heart, and his unbounded benevolence. i pitied him for his simplicity, which, while suspecting nothing wrong in others, led him to trust all who had a kind word on their lips, and made him the victim of every sharper in the country. he was a native of switzerland and was an officer in the swiss guards, in the service of the king of france, in , and for some years afterwards. in , he emigrated to america, and had varied and strange adventures among the indians at the west; in the sandwich islands, at fort vancouver, in alaska, and along the pacific coast. in july, , the vessel which he was aboard of, was stranded in the harbor of san francisco. he then penetrated into the interior of california and founded the first white settlement in the valley of the sacramento, on the river of that name, at the mouth of the american river, which settlement he named helvetia. he built a fort there and gathered around it a large number of native indians and some white settlers. in , the mexican government granted to him a tract of land eleven square leagues in extent; and, subsequently, a still larger concession was made to him by the governor of the department. but the governor being afterwards expelled from the country, the concession was held to be invalid. the emigrants arriving in the country after the discovery of gold proved the ruin of his fortunes. they squatted upon his land, denied the validity of his title, cut down his timber, and drove away his cattle. sharpers robbed him of what the squatters did not take, until at last he was stripped of everything; and, finally, he left the state, and for some years has been living with relatives in pennsylvania. even the stipend of $ , , which the state of california for some years allowed him, has been withdrawn, and now in his advanced years, he is almost destitute. yet, in his days of prosperity, he was always ready to assist others. his fort was always open to the stranger, and food, to the value of many thousand dollars, was, every year, so long as he had the means, sent out by him for the relief of emigrants crossing the plains. it is a reproach to california that she leaves the pioneer and hero destitute in his old age. [ ] col. stevenson was born at the commencement of the century, and is therefore now, , in his ninety-fourth year. [ ] see exhibit a, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit b, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit c, in appendix. experiences as alcalde. under the mexican law, alcaldes had, as already stated, a very limited jurisdiction. but in the anomalous condition of affairs under the american occupation, they exercised almost unlimited powers. they were, in fact, regarded as magistrates elected by the people for the sake of preserving public order and settling disputes of all kinds. in my own case, and with the approval of the community, i took jurisdiction of every case brought before me. i knew nothing of mexican laws; did not pretend to know anything of them; but i knew that the people had elected me to act as a magistrate and looked to me for the preservation of order and the settlement of disputes; and i did my best that they should not be disappointed. i let it be known that my election had been approved by the highest authority. the first case i tried was in the street. two men came up to me, one of them leading a horse. he said, "mr. alcalde, we both claim this horse, and we want you to decide which of us is entitled to it." i turned to the man who had the horse, administered an oath to him, and then examined him as to where he got the horse, of whom and when, whether he had a bill of sale, whether there was any mark or brand on the animal, and, in short, put all those questions which would naturally be asked in such a case to elicit the truth. i then administered an oath to the other man and put him through a similar examination, paying careful attention to what each said. when the examination was completed i at once decided the case. "it is very plain, gentlemen," i said, "that the horse belongs to this man (pointing to one of them) and the other must give him up." "but," said the man who had lost and who held the horse, "the bridle certainly belongs to me, he does not take the bridle, does he?" i said, "oh no, the bridle is another matter." as soon as i said this the owner of the bridle turned to his adversary and said, "what will you take for the horse?" "two hundred and fifty dollars," was the instant reply. "agreed," retorted the first, and then turning to me, he continued: "and now, mr. alcalde, i want you to draw me up a bill of sale for this horse which will stick." i, of course, did as he desired. i charged an ounce for trying the case and an ounce for the bill of sale; charges which were promptly paid. both parties went off perfectly satisfied. i was also well pleased with my first judicial experience. soon after my election i went to san francisco to get my effects; and while there i purchased, on credit, a frame house and several zinc houses, which were at once shipped to marysville. as soon as the frame house was put up i opened my office in it, and exercised not only the functions of a magistrate and justice, but also of a supervisor of the town. i opened books for the record of deeds and kept a registry of conveyances in the district. i had the banks of the river graded so as to facilitate the landing from vessels. the marshal of my court, elected at the same time with myself, having refused to act, i appointed an active and courageous person in his place, r.b. buchanan by name, and directed him to see that peace was preserved, and for that purpose to appoint as many deputies as might be necessary. he did so, and order and peace were preserved throughout the district, not only in marysville, but for miles around. as a judicial officer, i tried many cases, both civil and criminal, and i dictated the form of process suited to the exigency. thus, when a complaint was made to me by the owner of a river boat, that the steamer, which plied between marysville and sacramento, had run down his boat, by which a part of its cargo was lost, i at once dictated process to the marshal, in which the alleged injury was recited, and he was directed to seize the steamer, and hold it until further orders, unless the captain or owner gave security to appear in the action commenced by the owner of the boat, and pay any judgment that might be recovered therein. upon service of the process the captain appeared, gave the required security, and the case was immediately tried. judgment was rendered and paid within five hours after the commission of the injury. in civil cases, i always called a jury, if the parties desired one; and in criminal cases, when the offence was of a high grade, i went through the form of calling a grand jury, and having an indictment found; and in all cases i appointed an attorney to represent the people, and also the accused, when necessary. the americans in the country had a general notion of what was required for the preservation of order and the due administration of justice; and as i endeavored to administer justice promptly, but upon a due consideration of the rights of every one, and not rashly, i was sustained with great unanimity by the community. i have reported a civil case tried before me as alcalde. i will now give a few criminal prosecutions and their circumstances. one morning, about five o'clock, a man tapped at my window, and cried, "alcalde, alcalde, there has been a robbery, and you are wanted." i got up at once, and while i was dressing he told his story. nearly every one in those days lived in a tent and had his gold dust with him. the man, who proved to be gildersleeve, the famous runner, upon going to bed the previous evening had placed several pounds of gold dust in his trunk, which was not locked. in the night some one had cut through his tent and taken the gold dust. i asked him if he suspected anybody; and he named two men, and gave such reasons for his suspicion that i immediately dictated a warrant for their arrest; and in a short time the two men were arrested and brought before me. the gold dust was found on one of them. i immediately called a grand jury, by whom he was indicted. i then called a petit jury, and assigned counsel for the prisoner. he was immediately placed upon his trial, and was convicted. the whole proceeding occupied only a part of the day. there was a great crowd and much excitement, and some talk of lynching. curiously enough, my real trouble did not commence until after the conviction. what was to be done with the prisoner? how was he to be punished? imposing a fine would not answer; and, if he had been discharged, the crowd would have immediately hung him. when at san francisco, mayor geary, of that place, told me if i would send my convicts to him, with money enough to pay for a ball and chain for each one, he would put them in the chain-gang. but at that time the price of passage by steamer from marysville to san francisco was fifty dollars, which, with the expense of an officer to accompany the prisoner, and the price of a ball and chain, would have amounted to a much larger sum than the prosecution could afford; so it was clearly impracticable to think of sending him to san francisco. nor is it at all likely that the people would have consented to his removal. under these circumstances there was but one course to pursue, and, however repugnant it was to my feelings to adopt it, i believe it was the only thing that saved the man's life. i ordered him to be publicly whipped with fifty lashes, and added that if he were found, within the next two years, in the vicinity of marysville, he should be again whipped. i, however, privately ordered a physician to be present so as to see that no unnecessary severity was practiced. in accordance with this sentence, the fellow was immediately taken out and flogged; and that was the last seen of him in that region. he went off and never came back. the latter part of the sentence, however, was supererogatory; for there was something so degrading in a public whipping, that i have never known a man thus whipped who would stay longer than he could help, or ever desire to return. however this may have been, the sense of justice of the community was satisfied. no blood had been shed; there had been no hanging; yet a severe public example had been given. on another occasion a complaint was made that a man had stolen fifteen hundred dollars from a woman. he was arrested, brought before me, indicted, tried, and convicted. i had the same compunctions about punishment as before, but, as there was no other course, i ordered him to receive fifty lashes on his back on two successive days, unless he gave up the money, in which case he was to receive only fifty lashes. as soon as the sentence was written down the marshal marched the prisoner out to a tree, made him hug the tree, and in the presence of the crowd that followed, began inflicting the lashes. the man stood it for awhile without flinching, but when he had received the twenty-second lash he cried out, "stop, for god's sake, and i will tell you where the money is." the marshal stopped and, accompanied by the crowd, took the man to the place indicated, where the money was recovered; and the thief was then made to carry it back to the woman and apologize for stealing it. the marshal then consulted the sentence, and, finding that it prescribed fifty lashes at any rate, he marched the wretch back to the tree and gave him the balance, which was his due. but the case which made the greatest impression upon the people, and did more to confirm my authority than anything else, was the following: there was a military encampment of united states soldiers on bear river, about fifteen miles from marysville, known as "camp far west." one day an application was made to me to issue a warrant for the arrest of one of the soldiers for a larceny he had committed. it was stated that a complaint had been laid before the local alcalde near the camp; but that the officer in charge had refused to give up the soldier unless a warrant for that purpose were issued by me, it being the general impression that i was the only duly commissioned alcalde in the district above sacramento. on this showing i issued my warrant, and a lieutenant of the army brought the soldier over. the soldier was indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be publicly whipped with the usual number of lashes, and the officer stood by and saw the punishment inflicted. he then took the soldier back to camp, where it was afterwards reported that he received an additional punishment. but before the lieutenant left me that day, and while we were dining together, he took occasion to say that, if at any time i had any trouble in enforcing the law, i had but to send him word and he would order out a company of troops to support me. this offer i permitted to become known through the town; and people said--and with what effect may be imagined--"why here is an alcalde that has the troops of the united states at his back." i have already stated that i had the banks of the yuba river graded so as to facilitate the landing from vessels. i will now mention another instance of my administration as general supervisor of the town. there were several squatters on the landing at the river, which, according to the plan of the town, was several hundred feet wide. the lots fronting on this landing being the best for business, commanded the highest prices. but on account of the squatters the owners were deprived of the benefit of the open ground of the landing in front of their property, and they complained to me. i called upon the squatters and told them that they must leave, and that if they were not gone by a certain time, i should be compelled to remove them by force, and, if necessary, to call to my aid the troops of the united states. this was enough; the squatters left, the landing was cleared, and business went on smoothly. in addition to my ordinary duties as a judicial officer and as general supervisor of the town, i acted as arbitrator in a great number of controversies which arose between the citizens. in such cases the parties generally came to my office together and stated that they had agreed to leave the matter in dispute between them to my decision. i immediately heard their respective statements--sometimes under oath, and sometimes without oath--and decided the matter at once. the whole matter was disposed of without any written proceedings, except in some instances i gave to parties a memorandum of my decision. thus on one occasion a dispute arose as to the rate of wages, between several workmen and their employer; the workmen insisting upon twelve dollars a day and the employer refusing to give more than ten. to settle the dispute they agreed to leave the matter to me. i heard their respective statements, and after stating that both of them ought to suffer a little for not having made a specific contract at the outset, decided that the workingmen should receive eleven dollars a day, with which both appeared to be well satisfied. on another occasion parties disputed as to whether freight on a box of crockery should be charged by measurement or by weight, a specific contract having been made that all articles shipped by the owner should be carried at a fixed price per hundred pounds. they agreed to leave the matter to my determination, and i settled it in five minutes. again, on one occasion a woman, apparently about fifty-six, rushed into my office under great excitement, exclaiming that she wanted a divorce from her husband, who had treated her shamefully. a few moments afterwards the husband followed, and he also wanted relief from the bonds of matrimony. i heard their respective complaints, and finding that they had children, i persuaded them to make peace, kiss, and forgive; and so they left my office arm-in-arm, each having promised the other never to do so again, amid the applause of the spectators. in this way i carried out my conception of the good cadi of the village, from which term (al cadi) my own official designation, alcalde, was derived. to make a long story short, until i was superseded by officers under the state government, i superintended municipal affairs and administered justice in marysville with success. whilst there was a large number of residents there of high character and culture, who would have done honor to any city, there were also unfortunately many desperate persons, gamblers, black-legs, thieves, and cut-throats; yet the place was as orderly as a new england village. there were no disturbances at night, no riots, and no lynching. it was the model town of the whole country for peacefulness and respect for law. and now a word about my speculations. in a short time after going to marysville and writing my name down for sixty-five town lots, property increased ten-fold in value. within ninety days i sold over $ , worth, and still had most of my lots left. my frame and zinc houses brought me a rental of over $ , a month. the emoluments of my office of alcalde were also large. in criminal cases i received nothing for my services as judge, and in civil cases the fees were small; but as an officer to take acknowledgments and affidavits and record deeds, the fees i received amounted to a large sum. at one time i had $ , in gold dust in my safe, besides the rentals and other property. one day whilst i was alcalde, a bright-looking lad, with red cheeks and apparently about seventeen years of age, came into the office and asked if i did not want a clerk. i said i did, and would willingly give $ a month for a good one; but that i had written to sacramento and was expecting one from there. the young man suggested that perhaps the one from sacramento would not come or might be delayed, and he would like to take the place in the meanwhile. i replied, very well, if he was willing to act until the other arrived, he might do so. and thereupon he took hold and commenced work. three days afterwards the man from sacramento arrived; but in the meanwhile i had become so much pleased with the brightness and quickness of my young clerk that i would not part with him. that young clerk was george c. gorham, the present secretary of the united states senate. i remember him distinctly as he first appeared to me, with red and rosy cheeks. his quickness of comprehension was really wonderful. give him half an idea of what was wanted, and he would complete it as it were by intuition. i remember on one occasion he wanted to know what was necessary for a marriage settlement. i asked him why. he replied that he had been employed by a french lady to prepare such a settlement, and was to receive twenty-five dollars for the instrument. i gave him some suggestions, but added that he had better let me see the document after he had written it. in a short time afterwards he brought it to me, and i was astonished to find it so nearly perfect. there was only one correction to make. and thus ready i always found him. with the most general directions he would execute everything committed to his charge, and usually with perfect correctness. he remained with me several months, and acted as clerk of my alcalde court, and years afterwards, at different times was a clerk in my office. when i went upon the bench of the supreme court, i appointed him clerk of the circuit court of the united states for the district of california, and, with the exception of the period during which he acted as secretary of gov. low, he remained as such clerk until he was nominated for the office of governor of the state, when he resigned. through the twenty-seven years of our acquaintance, from to the present time, july, , his friendship and esteem have been sincere and cordial, which no personal abuse of me could change and no political differences between us could alienate. his worldly possessions would have been more abundant had he pursued the profession of the law, which i urged him to do; and his success as a public man would have been greater, had he been more conciliatory to those who differed from him in opinion. the turner controversy. towards the end of may, , william e. turner, who had been appointed judge of the eighth judicial district of the state by the first legislature which convened under the constitution, made his appearance and announced that he intended to open the district court at marysville on the first monday of the next month. we were all pleased with the prospect of having a regular court and endeavored, as far as lay in our power, to make the stay of the judge with us agreeable. i had been in the habit of receiving a package of new york newspapers by every steamer, and among them came copies of the new york "evening post," which was at that time the organ of the so-called free-soil party. when judge turner arrived, i waited on him to pay my respects, and sent him the various newspapers i had received. he had lived for years in texas, and, as it proved, was a man of narrow mind and bitter prejudices. he seems to have had a special prejudice against new yorkers and regarded a free-soiler as an abomination. i have been told, and i believe such to be the fact, that my sending him these newspapers, and particularly the "evening post," led him to believe that i was an "abolitionist"--a person held in special abhorrence in those days by gentlemen from the south. at any rate he conceived a violent dislike of me, which was destined in a short time to show itself and cause me great annoyance. what was intended on my part as an act of courtesy, turned out to be the beginning of a long, bitter, and on his part, ferocious quarrel. at that time my affairs were in a very prosperous condition, as i have already stated. i had $ , in gold dust, a rental of over a thousand dollars a month, and a large amount of city property constantly increasing in value. such being the case, i thought i would go east on a visit, and accordingly began making arrangements to leave. but shortly before the opening of the june term of the district court, captain sutter came to me and told me he had been sued by a man named cameron, and wished me to appear as his counsel. i answered that i was making arrangements to go east and he had better retain some one else. he replied that i ought to remain long enough to appear for him and assist his attorney, and begged of me as an act of friendship to do so. i finally consented, and deferred my departure. soon after the opening of the court, some time during the first week, the case of captain sutter was called. a preliminary motion, made by his attorney, was decided against him. mr. jesse o. goodwin, a member of the bar, sitting near, said to me that the practice act, passed at the recent session of the legislature, contained a section bearing upon the question; and at the same time handed me the act. i immediately rose, and addressing the court, remarked that i was informed there was a statutory provision applicable to the point, and begged permission to read it; and commenced turning over the pages of the act in search of it, when judge turner, addressing me and apparently irritated, said in a petulant manner;--"the court knows the law--the mind of the court is made up--take your seat, sir." i was amazed at hearing such language; but in a respectful and quiet manner stated that i excepted to the decision, and appealed, or would appeal from the order. the judge instantly replied, in a loud and boisterous manner, "fine that gentleman two hundred dollars." i replied quietly, "very well," or "well, sir." he immediately added, in an angry tone, "i fine him three hundred dollars, and commit him to the custody of the sheriff eight hours." i again replied, "very well." he instantly exclaimed, in the same violent manner, "i fine him four hundred dollars and commit him twelve hours." i then said that it was my right by statute to appeal from any order of his honor, and that it was no contempt of court to give notice of an exception or an appeal, and asked the members of the bar present if it could be so regarded. but the judge, being very ignorant of the practice of the law, regarded an exception to his decision as an impeachment of his judgment, and, therefore, something like a personal affront. and so, upon my statement, he flew into a perfect rage, and in a loud and boisterous tone cried out, "i fine him five hundred dollars and commit him twenty-four hours--forty-eight hours--turn him out of court--subpoena a posse--subpoena me." i then left the court-room. the attorney in the case accompanied me, and we were followed by the deputy sheriff. after going a few steps we met the coroner, to whom the deputy sheriff transferred me; and the coroner accompanied me to my office, and after remaining there a few moments left me to myself. on the way an incident occurred, which probably inflamed judge turner against me more than anything else that could have happened. the attorney, who was much exasperated at the conduct of the judge, said to me as we met the coroner, "never mind what the judge does; he is an old fool." i replied, "yes, he is an old jackass." this was said in an ordinary conversational tone; but a man by the name of captain powers, with whom turner boarded, happened to overhear it, and running to the court-house, and opening the door, he hallooed out, "judge turner! oh, judge turner! judge field says you are an old jackass." a shout followed, and the judge seemed puzzled whether or not he should send an officer after me, or punish his excitable friend for repeating my language. i remained in my office the remainder of the day, and many people who were present in court, or heard of what had occurred, called to see me. i immediately wrote out a full statement of everything that happened in the court-room, and had it verified by a number of persons who were eye and ear witnesses of the affair. towards evening the deputy sheriff met the judge, who asked him what he had done with me. the deputy answered that i had gone to my office and was still there. the judge said, "go and put him under lock and key, and, if necessary, put him in irons." the deputy came to me and said, "the judge has sent me to put you under lock and key; let me turn the key upon you in your own office." at this i became indignant, and asked for his warrant or commitment to hold me. he replied that he had none, that only a verbal order was given to him by the judge in the street. i then told him he must go away from me and leave me alone. he replied that, "as he was acting by the orders of the sheriff, whose deputy he was, in obeying the judge, he must do as he had been directed." he added, "i will lock the door anyway," and doing so he went off. i immediately sued out a writ of habeas corpus returnable before henry p. haun, the county judge. the writ was executed forthwith, and the same evening i was taken before the judge. there was a great crowd present. i called the sheriff to the stand and asked him if he had any writ, process, commitment, or order by which he held me in custody. he replied that he had none. i then put on the stand samuel b. mulford and jesse o. goodwin and several others, who were present in the district court where the scenes narrated had occurred, and they testified that there was nothing disrespectful in my language or manner; that i had not used an expression at which anybody could justly take offence; and that they had been utterly surprised at the conduct of the judge, which was violent and tyrannical; and that they saw no possible excuse for it. this testimony was of course of no consequence on the question presented by the habeas corpus; because, as there was no order or warrant for my arrest in the possession of the officer, i could not, under any circumstances, be held; but i wished to show my friends, who had not been present in the court-room, the facts of the case. i was of course at once discharged. but the matter did not end there. an excited crowd was present, and as i left the court-room they cheered enthusiastically. i thereupon invited them to the covillaud house, a public house in the town, and directed the keeper to dispense to them the good things of his bar. the champagne was accordingly uncorked without stint, and the best havana boxes were soon emptied of their most fragrant cigars. a bill of $ paid the next day settled the account. whilst the boys were thus enjoying themselves, judge turner, who was not far off, entered the covillaud house, perfectly furious, and applied obscene and vile epithets to the county judge, declaring with an oath that he would teach "that fellow" that he was an inferior judge, and that the witnesses before him were a set of "perjured scoundrels" who should be expelled from the bar. similar threats were made by him in different saloons in the town, to the disgust of every one. that evening he was burned in effigy in the public plaza. i had nothing to do with that act, and did not approve of it. i did not know then, and do not know to this day who were engaged in it. he attributed it to me, however, and his exasperation towards me in consequence became a malignant fury. on the monday following, june th, which was the first day on which the court was held after the scenes narrated, judge turner, on the opening of the court, before the minutes of the previous session were read, and without notice to the parties, or any hearing of them, although they were present at the time, ordered that judge haun be fined fifty dollars and be imprisoned forty-eight hours for his judicial act in discharging me from arrest, under some pretence that the order of the court had been thus obstructed by him. at the same time he ordered that i should be re-imprisoned, and that mr. mulford, mr. goodwin, and myself should be expelled from the bar; myself for suing out the writ, and those two gentlemen for being witnesses on its return, under the pretence that we had "vilified the court and denounced its proceedings." judge haun paid his fine and left the court-room, and i was again taken into custody by the sheriff.[ ] it happened to be the day appointed by law for the opening of the court of sessions of the county, over which the county judge presided. judge haun proceeded from the district court to the room engaged for the court of sessions, and there, in connection with an associate justice, opened that court. immediately afterwards i sued out another writ of _habeas corpus_, returnable forthwith, and whilst before the court arguing for my discharge under the writ, the sheriff entered and declared his intention of taking me out of the room, and of taking judge haun from the bench and putting us in confinement, pursuant to the order of judge turner. judge haun told the sheriff that the court of sessions was holding its regular term; that he was violating the law, and that the court must not be disturbed in its proceedings. judge turner was then informed that the court of sessions was sitting; that judge haun was on the bench, and that i was arguing before the court on a writ of habeas corpus. judge turner immediately ordered a posse to be summoned and appealed to gentlemen in the court-room to serve on it, and directed the sheriff to take judge haun and myself into custody by force, notwithstanding judge haun was on the bench, and i was arguing my case; and if necessary to put judge haun in irons--to handcuff him. soon afterwards the sheriff, with a posse, entered the room of the court of sessions, and forced me out of it, and was proceeding to seize judge haun on the bench, when the judge stepped to a closet and drew from it a navy revolver, cocked it, and, pointing it towards the sheriff, informed him in a stern manner that he was violating the law; that whilst on the bench he, the judge, could not be arrested, and that if the sheriff attempted to do so he would kill him. at the same time he fined the sheriff for contempt of court $ , and appointed a temporary bailiff to act, and directed him to clear the court-room of the disturbers. the new bailiff summoned all the bystanders, who instantly responded, and the court-room was immediately cleared. judge haun then laid his revolver on a drawer before him, and inquired if there was any business ready; for if so the court would hear it. there being none, the court adjourned. i regret to be compelled to add, that notwithstanding the manly and courageous conduct which judge haun had thus shown, no sooner was the court adjourned than he was persuaded to make a qualified apology to the district court for discharging me, by sending a communication to it, stating "that if he was guilty of obstructing the order of the court in releasing field, he did it ignorantly, not intending any contempt by so doing;" and thereupon the district court ordered that he be released from confinement, and that his fine be remitted.[ ] of course there was great excitement through the town as soon as these proceedings became known. that night nearly all marysville came to my office. i made a speech to the people. afterwards some of them passed in front of turner's house, and gave him three groans. they then dispersed, and in returning home some of them fired off their pistols as a sort of finale to the proceedings of the evening. the firing was not within three hundred yards of turner's house; but he seized hold of the fact of firing, and stated that he had been attacked in his house by an armed mob. he also charged that i had instigated the crowd to attack him, but the facts are as i have stated them. there was a great deal of feeling on the part of the people, who generally sided with me; but i did nothing to induce them to violate the law or disturb the peace. even if i wished to do so, prudence and policy counselled otherwise. when turner caused the names of mulford, goodwin, and myself, to be stricken from the roll of attorneys, we, of course, could no longer appear as counsel in his court. i at once prepared the necessary papers, and applied to the supreme court of the state for a mandamus to compel him to vacate the order and reinstate us. i took the ground that an attorney and counsellor, by his admission to the bar, acquired rights of which he could not be arbitrarily deprived; that he could not, under any circumstances, be expelled from the bar without charges being preferred against him and an opportunity afforded to be heard in his defence; that the proceedings of judge turner being ex-parte, without charges preferred, and without notice, were void; and that a mandate, directing him to vacate the order of expulsion and restore us to the bar, ought to be issued immediately. in addition, to this application, i also moved for a mandamus to him to vacate the order imposing a fine and imprisonment upon me for the alleged contempt of his court, or for such other order in the premises as might be just. i took the ground, that as the order did not show any act committed which could constitute a contempt of court, it was void on its face, and should be so declared. my old friend, gregory yale, assisted me in the presentation of these motions. in deciding them, the court delivered two opinions, in which these positions were sustained. they are reported under the titles of people, ex rel. mulford et al., vs. turner, cal., ; and people, ex rel. field vs. turner, cal., . in the first case, a peremptory writ of mandamus was issued, directed to judge turner, ordering him to reinstate us as attorneys; in the second, a writ of certiorari was issued to bring up the order imposing a fine, which was subsequently reversed and vacated, as shown in ex-parte field, cal., . the opinions referred to were delivered by judge bennett, and are models of their kind. many years afterwards, when a somewhat similar question came before the supreme court of the united states, i was called upon to announce its judgment; and in doing so, i followed these opinions, as may be seen by reference to the case of ex-parte robinson, wallace, . i there repeated substantially the doctrine of judge bennett, which is the only doctrine that will protect an attorney and counsellor from the tyranny of an arbitrary and capricious officer, and preserve to him his self-respect and independence. when the order for our restoration came down from the supreme court, turner refused to obey it; and wrote a scurrilous "address to the public" about us, which he published in one of the newspapers. we replied in a sharp and bitter article, signed by ourselves and five other gentlemen; and at the same time we published a petition to the governor, signed by all the prominent citizens of marysville, asking for judge turner's removal. there was a general impression in those days that judges appointed before the admission of the state into the union held their offices subject to removal by the governor. i hardly know how this impression originated, but probably in some vague notions about the powers of mexican governors. however this may be, such was the general notion, and in accordance with it, a petition for turner's removal was started, and, as i have said, was very generally signed.[ ] the matter had by this time assumed such a serious character, and the judge's conduct was so atrocious, that the people became alarmed and with great unanimity demanded his deposition from office. in the article referred to as published by us, we said, after setting forth the facts, that "judge turner is a man of depraved tastes, of vulgar habits, of an ungovernable temper, reckless of truth when his passions are excited, and grossly incompetent to discharge the duties of his office." unfortunately the statement was perfectly true. he refused to obey the mandate of the supreme court, even talked of setting that court at defiance, and went around saying that every one who had signed an affidavit against him was a "perjured villain," and that as to goodwin, mulford, and field, he would "cut their ears off." he frequented the gambling saloons, associated with disreputable characters, and was addicted to habits of the most disgusting intoxication. besides being abusive in his language, he threatened violence, and gave out that he intended to insult me publicly the first time we met, and that, if i resented his conduct, he would shoot me down on the spot. this being reported to me by various persons, i went to san francisco and consulted judge bennett as to what course i ought to pursue. judge bennett asked if i were certain that he had made such a threat. i replied i was. "well," said the judge, "i will not give you any advice; but if it were my case, i think i should get a shot-gun and stand on the street, and see that i had the first shot." i replied that "i could not do that; that i would act only in self-defence." he replied, "that would be acting in self-defence." when i came to california, i came with all those notions, in respect to acts of violence, which are instilled into new england youth; if a man were rude, i would turn away from him. but i soon found that men in california were likely to take very great liberties with a person who acted in such a manner, and that the only way to get along was to hold every man responsible, and resent every trespass upon one's rights. though i was not prepared to follow judge bennett's suggestion, i did purchase a pair of revolvers and had a sack-coat made with pockets in which the barrels could lie, and be discharged; and i began to practice firing the pistols from the pockets. in time i acquired considerable skill, and was able to hit a small object across the street. an object so large as a man i could have hit without difficulty. i had come to the conclusion that if i had to give up my independence; if i had to avoid a man because i was afraid he would attack me; if i had to cross the street every time i saw him coming, life itself was not worth having. having determined neither to seek him nor to shun him, i asked a friend to carry a message to him, and to make sure that it would reach him, i told different parties what i had sent, and i was confident that they would repeat it to him. "tell him from me," i said, "that i do not want any collision with him; that i desire to avoid all personal difficulties; but that i shall not attempt to avoid him; that i shall not cross the street on his account, nor go a step out of my way for him; that i have heard of his threats, and that if he attacks me or comes at me in a threatening manner i will kill him."[ ] i acted on my plan. i often met him in the streets and in saloons, and whenever i drew near him i dropped my hand into my pocket and cocked my pistols to be ready for any emergency. people warned me to look out for him; to beware of being taken at a disadvantage; and i was constantly on my guard. i felt that i was in great danger; but after awhile this sense of danger had a sort of fascination, and i often went to places where he was, to which i would not otherwise have gone. whenever i met him i kept my eye on him, and whenever i passed him on the street i turned around and narrowly watched him until he had gone some distance. i am persuaded if i had taken any other course, i should have been killed. i do not say turner would have deliberately shot me down, or that he would have attempted anything against me in his sober moments; but when excited with drink, and particularly when in the presence of the lawless crowds who heard his threats, it would have taken but little to urge him on. as it turned out, however, he never interfered with me, perhaps because he knew i was armed and believed that, if i were attacked, somebody, and perhaps more than one, would be badly hurt. i have been often assured by citizens of marysville that it was only the seeming recklessness of my conduct, and the determination i showed not to avoid him or go out of his way, that saved me. but at the same time my business was ruined. not only was i prevented, by his refusal to obey the mandate of the supreme court, from appearing as an advocate, but i could not, on account of the relation i occupied towards him, practice at all; nor could i, under the circumstances, leave marysville and make my intended visit east. having nothing else to do, i went into speculations which failed, and in a short time--a much shorter time than it took to make my money--i lost nearly all i had acquired and became involved in debt. [ ] see exhibit d, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit e, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit f, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit g, in appendix. running for the legislature. one morning about this time i unexpectedly found myself in the newspapers, nominated by my friends as a candidate for the lower house of the legislature. who the friends were that named me i did not know; but the nomination opened a new field and suggested new ideas. i immediately accepted the candidacy. judge turner had threatened, among other things, to drive me into the yuba river. i now turned upon him, and gave out that my object in wishing to go to the legislature was to reform the judiciary, and, among other things, to remove him from the district. i canvassed the county thoroughly and was not backward in portraying him in his true colors. he and his associates spared no efforts to defeat me. their great reliance consisted in creating the belief that i was an abolitionist. if that character could have been fastened upon me it would have been fatal to my hopes, for it was a term of great reproach. yuba county then comprised the present county of that name, and also what are now nevada and sierra counties. it was over a hundred miles in length and about fifty in width, and had a population of twenty-five thousand people, being the most populous mining region in the state. i visited nearly every precinct and spoke whenever i could get an audience. an incident of the canvass may not be uninteresting. i went to the town of nevada a little more than a week before the election. as i was riding through its main street a gentleman whom i had long known, general john anderson, hailed me, and, after passing a few words, said, "field, you won't get fifty votes here." i asked, "why not?" he replied, "because everybody is for mccarty, your opponent." i said, somewhat sharply, "anderson, i have come here to fight my own battle and i intend to carry nevada." he laughed and i rode on. the first man i met after reaching the hotel was captain morgan, who afterwards commanded a steamer on the bay of san francisco. after talking for some time on general topics, he asked me about a story in circulation that i was an abolitionist. i saw at once the work of enemies, and i now understood the meaning of general anderson's remark. i assured morgan that the story was entirely false, and added; "to-morrow will be sunday; everybody will be in town; i will then make a speech and show the people what kind of a man i am, and what my sentiments are on this and other subjects." accordingly, the next day, in the afternoon, when the miners from the country were in town and had nothing else to do than to be amused, i mounted a platform erected for the purpose in the main street, and commenced speaking. i soon had a crowd of listeners. i began about my candidacy, and stated what i expected to do if elected. i referred to the necessity of giving greater jurisdiction to the local magistrates, in order that contests of miners respecting their claims might be tried in their vicinity. as things then existed the right to a mule could not be litigated without going to the county seat, at a cost greater than the value of the animal. i was in favor of legislation which would protect miners in their claims, and exempt their tents, rockers, and utensils used in mining from forced sale. i was in favor of dividing the county, and making nevada the seat of the new county. i had heard of numerous measures they wanted, and i told them how many of these measures i advocated. having got their attention and excited their interest, i referred to the charge made against me of being an abolitionist, and denounced it as a base calumny. in proof of the charge i was told that i had a brother in new york who was a free-soiler. so i had, i replied, and a noble fellow he is--god bless him wherever he may be. but i added, i have another brother who is a slaveholder in tennessee, and with which one, i asked, in the name of all that is good, were they going to place me. i wondered if these "honorable" men, who sought by such littleness to defeat me, did not find out whether i did not have some other relatives,--women, perhaps, who believed in things unearthly and spiritual,--whose opinions they could quote to defeat me. shame on such tactics, i said, and the crowd answered by loud cheering. i then went on to give my views of our government, of the relation between the general government of the union and the government of the states, to show that the former was created for national purposes which the states could not well accomplish--that we might have uniformity of commercial regulations, one army and one navy, a common currency, and the same postal system, and present ourselves as one nation to foreign countries--but that all matters of domestic concern were under the control and management of the states, with which outsiders could not interfere; that slavery was a domestic institution which each state must regulate for itself, without question or interference from others. in other words, i made a speech in favor of state rights, which went home to my hearers, who were in great numbers from the south. i closed with a picture of the future of california, and of the glories of a country bounded by two oceans. when i left the platform the cheers which followed showed that i had carried the people with me. mccarty, my opponent, followed, but his speech fell flat. half his audience left before he had concluded. the election took place a week from the following monday. i remained in nevada until it was over. at the precinct in town where i had spoken, i had between three and four hundred majority, and in another precinct in the outskirts i had a majority of two to one. in the county generally i ran well, and was elected, notwithstanding the fact that i was not the nominee of any convention or the candidate of any party. the morning following the election, as i was leaving nevada, i rode by the store of general anderson, and hailing him, inquired what he thought now of my getting fifty votes in the town. "well," he replied, "it was that sunday speech of yours which did the business. mccarty could not answer it." there was one thing in the election which i regretted, and that was that i did not carry marysville; a majority of the votes of its citizens was cast for my opponent. it is true that there the greater number of gamblers and low characters of the county were gathered, but the better class predominated in numbers, and i looked with confidence to its support. my regret, however, was sensibly diminished when i learned the cause of the failure of a portion of the people to give me their votes. some few weeks previous to the day of election a man was killed in the street by a person by the name of keiger, who was immediately arrested. the person killed was about leaving the state, and owed a small debt to keiger, which he refused either to pay or to give security for its payment. exasperated by his refusal, keiger drew a pistol and shot him. i was sent for by an acquaintance of keiger to attend his examination before the local magistrate, by whom he was held for the action of the grand jury. in the afternoon of the same day a large crowd assembled in the streets, with the purpose of proceeding to the summary execution of keiger. whilst the people were in a great state of excitement i made a speech to them, begging them not to resort to violence and thus cast reproach upon the good name of marysville, but to let the law take its course, assuring them that justice would certainly be administered by the courts. my remarks were received with evident displeasure, and i am inclined to think that violence would have been resorted to had not the prisoner been secretly removed from the city and taken to sacramento. the exasperation of a large number, at this escape of their intended victim, vented itself on me, and cost me at least a hundred votes in the city. i would not have acted otherwise had i known beforehand that such would be the result of my conduct. when the civil tribunals are open and in the undisturbed exercise of their jurisdiction, a resort to violence can never be approved or excused. i witnessed some strange scenes during the campaign, which well illustrated the anomalous condition of society in the county. i will mention one of them. as i approached grass valley, then a beautiful spot among the hills, occupied principally by mr. walsh, a name since become familiar to californians, i came to a building by the wayside, a small lodging-house and drinking-saloon, opposite to which a lynch jury were sitting, trying a man upon a charge of stealing gold dust. i stopped and watched for awhile the progress of the trial. on an occasion of some little delay in the proceedings, i mentioned to those present, the jury included, that i was a candidate for the legislature, and that i would be glad if they would join me in a glass in the saloon, an invitation which was seldom declined in those days. it was at once accepted, and leaving the accused in the hands of an improvised constable, the jury entered the house and partook of the drinks which its bar afforded. i had discovered, or imagined from the appearance of the prisoner, that he had been familiar in other days with a very different life from that of california, and my sympathies were moved towards him. so, after the jurors had taken their drinks and were talking pleasantly together, i slipped out of the building and approaching the man, said to him, "what is the case against you? can i help you?" the poor fellow looked up to me and his eyes filled with great globules of tears as he replied. "i am innocent of all i am charged with. i have never stolen anything nor cheated any one; but i have no one here to befriend me." that was enough for me. those eyes, filled as they were, touched my heart. i hurried back to the saloon; and as the jurors were standing about chatting with each other i exclaimed, "how is this? you have not had your cigars? mr. bar-keeper, please give the gentlemen the best you have; and, besides, i added, let us have another 'smile'--it is not often you have a candidate for the legislature among you." a laugh followed, and a ready acceptance was given to the invitation. in the meantime my eyes rested upon a benevolent-looking man among the jury, and i singled him out for conversation. i managed to draw him aside and inquired what state he came from. he replied, from connecticut. i then asked if his parents lived there. he answered, with a faltering voice, "my father is dead; my mother and sister are there." i then said, "your thoughts, i dare say, go out constantly to them; and you often write to them, of course." his eyes glistened, and i saw pearl-like dew-drops gathering in them; his thoughts were carried over the mountains to his old home. "ah, my good friend," i added "how their hearts must rejoice to hear from you." then, after a short pause, i remarked, "what is the case against your prisoner? he, too, perhaps, may have a mother and sister in the east, thinking of him as your mother and sister do of you, and wondering when he will come back. for god's sake remember this." the heart of the good man responded in a voice which, even to this day--now nearly twenty-seven years past--sounds like a delicious melody in my ears: "i will do so." passing from him i went to the other jurors, and, finding they were about to go back to the trial, i exclaimed, "don't be in a hurry, gentlemen, let us take another glass." they again acceded to my request, and seeing that they were a little mellowed by their indulgence, i ventured to speak about the trial. i told them that the courts of the state were organized, and there was no necessity or justification now for lynch juries; that the prisoner appeared to be without friends, and i appealed to them, as men of large hearts, to think how they would feel if they were accused of crime where they had no counsel and no friends. "better send him, gentlemen, to marysville for trial, and keep your own hands free from stain." a pause ensued; their hearts were softened; and, fortunately, a man going to marysville with a wagon coming up at this moment, i prevailed upon them to put the prisoner in his charge to be taken there. the owner of the wagon consenting, they swore him to take the prisoner to that place and deliver him over to the sheriff; and to make sure that he would keep the oath, i handed him a "slug," a local coin of octagonal form of the value of fifty dollars, issued at that time by assayers in san francisco. we soon afterwards separated. as i moved away on my horse my head swam a little, but my heart was joyous. of all things which i can recall of the past, this is one of the most pleasant. i believe i saved the prisoner's life; for in those days there was seldom any escape for a person tried by a lynch jury. the expenses of the election were very great. it was difficult to interest the miners in it; most of them had come to the country in the hope of improving their fortunes in one or two years, and then returning to "the states." it was, therefore, a matter of little moment to them who were chosen members of the coming legislature. party lines were not regarded among them, and party questions could not draw many of them from their labors. as i was an independent candidate, not supported by any party, i had to bear the whole expenses of the campaign. how great those expenses were may be imagined from the following bill, one of a large number sent to me after the election. i had told the saloon-keepers in the vicinity of the polling places in the different precincts to be liberally disposed towards my friends on the day of election. they took me literally at my word, as this bill from the keeper of a saloon where the polls were opened in downieville precinct will show: mr. s.j. field, to orleans house. to drinks................................ $ cigars................................ ------ downieville, _october th, _. $ [endorsed:] "we hereby certify that the within account is correct. "p.l. moore. "wm. s. spear." "received payment of the within bill in full from stephen j. field. "j. stratman. "_october th, _." the turner controversy continued it was not until after my election that judge turner paid any attention to the mandate of the supreme court commanding him to vacate his order of expulsion against myself and messrs. goodwin and mulford, and to restore us to the bar. the mandate was issued on the fourth of july, and was served on the judge on the sixteenth. he immediately and publicly declared that he would not obey it, but would stand an impeachment first. whilst attending the supreme court on the application for the writ, mr. goodwin, mr. mulford, and myself, were admitted as attorneys and counsellors of that court, and that admission under its rules entitled us to practice in all the courts of the state. the effect of this, which re-instated us in the district court, he determined to defeat. he accordingly directed the sheriff of the county to notify us to show cause, before the court in sutter county, why we should not be again expelled from the bar for the publication of the article in the placer times, to which i have referred, written in reply to his attack on us in his "address to the public." the order was dated on the fourth of october, and was served on the eighth, and required us to appear on the first thursday of the month, which was the third. as the time for appearance was previous to the day of service and to the date of the order, no attention was paid to it. the judge, however, proceeded, and on the eleventh of the month made another order of expulsion. after the adjournment of the court, he discovered his blunder, and at once issued another direction to the sheriff to notify us that the last order of expulsion was suspended until the twenty-eighth of october, and to show cause on that day why we should not be again expelled. in the meantime, the judge made no concealment of his purposes, but publicly declared in the saloons of the town that if we did not appear upon this second notice, he would make an order for our expulsion, and if we did appear, he would expel us for contempt in publishing the reply to his article, which he termed a false and slanderous communication. we knew, of course, that it would be useless to appear and attempt to resist his threatened action; still we concluded to appear and put in an answer. accordingly, on the day designated, we presented ourselves before the court in sutter county. i was the first one called upon to show cause why i should not be again expelled. i stated that i was ready, and first read an affidavit of one of the associate justices of the court of sessions, to show that the judge had declared his purpose to expel myself and the other gentlemen in any event, and that it was an idle ceremony to call upon us to show cause against such threatened action. as soon as it was read, the judge declared that it was not respectful and could not be received. i then began to read my answer to the order to show cause, but was stopped when i had read about one half of it, and was told that it was not respectful and could not be received. i then requested permission to file it, but my request was refused. mr. mulford being called upon to show cause why he should not be expelled, began to read an answer, but was stopped after reading a few lines. his answer was respectful, and was substantially to the effect that he had been admitted as attorney and counsellor in the supreme court on the previous july, and was thus entitled to practice in all the courts of the state; that the communication in the placer times was written in reply to an article of the judge, and that he was ready at the proper time and place to substantiate its truth; and he protested against the judge's interfering in the matter in the manner indicated in the notice. mr. goodwin being called upon, took in his answer substantially the same grounds as mr. mulford. immediately after mr. goodwin took his seat, without a moment's hesitation, the judge made an order that his previous order of the eleventh of october, expelling us, should be confirmed, and that the order should be published in the sacramento times and the san francisco herald. i immediately took the proper steps to obtain another mandate from the supreme court to vacate this second expulsion; and also to attach the judge for non-compliance with the original mandate, the first order of expulsion still being unvacated on the records of the court. at the january term, , the applications to the court in both cases were decided, and they are reported in the st california reports, at pages and . in the attachment case, the court denied the application on the ground that no motion had been made by us or any one on our behalf to cause the original order of expulsion to be vacated, and that the judge had, in the proceedings to expel us, substantially recognized us as re-instated. in the other case, the court decided that the proceedings to re-expel us were irregular, and directed an alternative writ to issue, commanding the judge to vacate the order and to permit us to practice in all the courts of the district, or to show cause to the contrary, at the next term. no cause was ever shown; and thus ended the attempts of an ignorant, malicious, and brutal judge to keep us out of the profession of our choice. mr. goodwin has since held many positions of honor and trust in the state. he was elected district attorney at the same time that i was elected to the legislature, and afterwards was judge of yuba county, and is now ( ) a member of the state senate. mr. mulford was afterwards and until his death a successful practitioner at the bar of marysville, and was in all the affairs of life respected as a high-spirited and honorable man. but with judge turner i have not yet done. i have a long story still to relate with respect to him. after my election to the legislature was ascertained, he became exceedingly solicitous to prevent in advance my exerting any influence in it. he expected that i would attack him, and endeavor to secure his impeachment, and he wanted to break me down if possible. he accordingly published a pamphlet purporting to be a statement of the charges that i preferred against him, which was, however, little else than a tirade of low abuse of myself and the editor of the marysville herald, in the columns of which the conduct of the judge had been the subject of just criticism and censure. there was nothing in the miserable swaggering billingsgate of the publication which merited a moment's notice, but as in one passage he stated that he had attempted to chastise me with a whip, and that i had fled to avoid him, i published in the marysville herald the following card: a card. judge william e. turner, in a "statement" published over his signature on the th instant, asserts that he attempted to chastise me with a switch, and that i fled to avoid him. this assertion is a _shameless lie_. i never, to my recollection, saw judge turner with a switch or a whip in his hand. he has made, as i am informed, many threats of taking personal vengeance on myself, but he has never attempted to put any of them into execution. i have never avoided him, but on the contrary have passed him in the street almost every day for the last four months. when he attempts to carry any of his threats into execution, i trust that i shall not forget, at the time, what is due to myself. judge turner says he holds himself personally responsible in and under all circumstances. this he says _in print_; but it is well understood in this place that he has stated he should feel bound by his oath of office to endeavor to obtain an indictment against any gentleman who should attempt to call him to account. shielded behind his oath of office he has displayed his character by childish boasts of personal courage and idle threats of vengeance. stephen j. field. marysville, _dec. st, _. there were also annexed to the publication of turner, letters from different persons expressive of their opinion of his general bearing on the bench and courtesy to them. among these was one from john t. mccarty, the candidate against me at the recent election, in which he spoke in high terms of the judge's conduct on the bench, and assailed me as his calumniator, applying to me sundry coarse epithets. in answer to this letter i published in the herald the following card: john t. mccarty. john t. mccarty, in a letter to judge william e. turner, dated the d of november, takes occasion to apply several vile epithets to myself, and uses the following language to judge turner: "having been present at the first term of your court ever held in this district, and most of your courts since that time, and being familiar with almost every decision and your entire conduct upon the bench, i take pleasure in saying that i never have practiced before any court where there was so great a dispatch of business, so much order and general satisfaction rendered by the rules and decisions of the court, and that, notwithstanding the base denunciations of your enemies, a large majority of the people who have attended your courts approve and sustain your positions and decisions." during the session of the district court, at its first term, this same john t. mccarty was called before the county judge to give his testimony on the return of a writ of _habeas corpus_, and then he testified "_that the conduct of judge turner on the bench was the most outrageous he had ever witnessed in any court in which he had practiced;" and the tenor and effect of his whole testimony was in the highest degree condemnatory of the conduct of judge turner_. one of two things follows: if the statement in the letter be true, then john t. mccarty was guilty of perjury before the county judge; but if he testified to the truth, then his statement in the letter is false. in the one case he is a liar and in the other a perjured scoundrel. thus convicted out of his own mouth, his vile epithets respecting myself are not worth a moment's consideration. stephen j. field. marysville, _dec. st, _. on my return from the legislature, and afterwards, this same mccarty was in my presence the most abject and humble wretch i knew in marysville. he almost piteously begged recognition by me, and was ready to go down on his knees for it. he was a blustering miscreant, full of courage where no force was required, and ready to run at the first appearance of a fight. he was one of a class, all of whom are alike, in whom bluster, toadyism, and pusillanimity go in concert, and are about equally developed in degree. life in the legislature immediately after the election i commenced the preparation of a bill relating to the courts and judicial officers of the state, intending to present it early in the session. the legislature met at san jose on the first monday of january, , and i was placed on the judiciary committee of the house. my first business was to call the attention of the committee to the bill i had drawn. it met their approval, was reported with a favorable recommendation, and after a full discussion was passed. its principal provisions remained in force for many years, and most of them are retained in the code, which went into effect in january, . it created eleven judicial districts and defined the jurisdiction and powers of every judicial officer in the state, from a supreme judge to a justice of the peace. it provided that the then incumbent district judges should continue to be the judges of the new districts according to their respective numbers. at the same time i introduced a bill dividing the county of trinity, and creating that of klamath; and also a bill dividing the county of yuba, and creating that of nevada; and i so arranged it that out of trinity and klamath a new eighth judicial district was created, and out of yuba, nevada, and sutter a tenth judicial district. thus turner, being judge of the eighth district, was sent to the then comparative wilderness of trinity and klamath; and the tenth district was to have a new judge. after this bill was passed i presented petitions from the citizens of yuba county, and of that part which now constitutes nevada county, praying for the impeachment of turner, and his removal from office, charging as grounds for it his incompetency from ignorance to discharge its duties, his arbitrary and tyrannical conduct towards the county judge and members of the marysville bar, the particulars of which i have related, his contemptuous treatment of the writ of _habeas corpus_, and his general immoral conduct. a committee was thereupon appointed to which the petitions were referred, with power to send for persons and papers. the testimony taken by them fully established the charges preferred. indeed, there was no serious attempt made to refute them. the only evidence offered in behalf of the judge was that of a few persons who testified that they had been treated by him with courtesy in some instances and that good order had been maintained in court when they were present. there is no doubt that the impeachment would have been ordered but for a strong desire of the members to bring the session to a close, and a report which had obtained credence, that after the passage of the court bill, by which turner was sent out of the eighth district, i was content to let the question of impeachment be indefinitely postponed. the testimony taken was reported by the committee on the th of april. his impeachment would have required a trial by the senate, which would have prolonged the session at least a month, and to this members were much averse. parties came to me and said, "judge, what's the use of pressing this matter. you have sent turner where there are only grizzly bears and indians; why not let him remain there? he can do no harm there." i replied that he was not fit to be a judge anywhere, and i refused assent to a postponement of the matter. afterwards, when the vote was about to be taken, a senator and a personal friend of turner, misinterpreting some expressions of mine that i desired to bring the matter to a speedy close, privately stated to members of the house that i had declared myself satisfied by the passage of the court bill and was willing to let the impeachment be dropped, it being understood that this course would not be taken as a sanction of the judge's conduct. to my astonishment, members who had said only half an hour before that they should vote for the impeachment now voted for an indefinite postponement, which was carried by three votes--fifteen to twelve. i did not vote, and three members who strongly favored the impeachment were absent at the time. seven of the members who voted for the indefinite postponement afterwards informed me that they had done so under the impression that such a disposition of the matter would be satisfactory to me, and that if a direct vote had been taken on the charges they should have voted for the impeachment. here the matter ended; i did not pursue it. turner did not go back to marysville and i had no further trouble with him.[ ] to understand fully the legislation with which i was connected, and its effect upon the state, one must be familiar with the history of the country and the condition of its people. in addition to the act concerning the courts and judicial officers referred to, i took up the code of civil procedure, as reported by the commissioners in new york, remodelled it so as to adapt it to the different condition of things and the different organization of the courts in california, and secured its passage. it became what was known as the california civil practice act, and was afterwards adopted in nevada and in the territories west of the rocky mountains. i also took up the code of criminal procedure, as reported by the same commissioners, and remodelled that in the same way and secured its passage. it constituted what was afterwards known as the california criminal practice act, and was also adopted in the state and territories mentioned. the amount of labor bestowed upon these acts will be appreciated when i state that i recast, in the two, over three hundred sections, and added over one hundred new ones. i devoted so much attention and earnestness to the work, that in a short time the legislature placed implicit confidence in everything relating to the judiciary which i recommended. the criminal practice act, for instance, remodelled as stated, consisting of over six hundred sections, was never read before the legislature at all. the rules were suspended and the bill read by its title and passed. when it came before the governor, on the last day of the session, he said he could not sign it without reading it, and it was too late for him to do that. i represented to him that its passage was essential to secure the harmonious working of laws already passed. turning to me he said, "you say it is all right?" i replied, "yes;" and thereupon he signed it. i have already stated that i moved turner's impeachment. after the testimony was taken i addressed the house upon the subject. in reply to my remarks a member, by the name of b.f. moore, from tuolumne county, took occasion to make an abusive attack on me. it was the common practice in those days to go armed. of the thirty-six members of which the assembly then consisted, over two-thirds never made their appearance without having knives or pistols upon their persons, and frequently both. it was a thing of every-day occurrence for a member, when he entered the house, before taking his seat, to take off his pistols and lay them in the drawer of his desk. he did it with as little concern and as much a matter of course, as he took off his hat and hung it up. nor did such a thing excite surprise or comment. but when mr. moore rose to reply to me, he first ostentatiously opened his drawer, took out his revolvers, cocked them, and laid them in the open drawer before him. he then launched out into a speech of the most opprobrious language, applying to me offensive epithets, and frequently interspersing his remarks with the declaration that he was responsible for what he said, both there and elsewhere. it is difficult for me to describe the indignation i felt at this outrageous assault and the manner in which it was made. its very fierceness made me calm, as it is said that a tempest at sea is sometimes so violent as to still the waves. so when i came to make my rejoinder, i answered only such portions of his speech as attempted argument, and made no allusion to the personal language he had used towards me. but as soon as the vote was had on the question of postponing the impeachment, i took measures to call him to account. for this purpose i applied to mr. samuel a. merritt, a member from mariposa county, to carry a note from me to him, calling upon him to apologize for his offensive conduct or give me the satisfaction which it was understood one gentleman had the right to demand from another. at that time it was generally supposed that the constitutional provision in regard to duelling was self-operative, and that any person who either sent or accepted a challenge, or acted as a second to one who thus offended, would _ipso facto_ be disqualified from afterwards holding any public office. upon this understanding of the law, mr. merritt, with many expressions of regard for me and regret at the law, declined to carry the note. i then applied to mr. richardson, also a member, but he declined for the same reason. i was afraid, as matters stood, that i could not get anybody to act for me, and i did not know to whom to apply or what to do. whilst thinking the matter over, i happened, about nine o'clock in the evening, to walk into the senate chamber, and there found mr. david c. broderick, afterwards united states senator, sitting at his desk writing. he was at that time president _pro tem._ of the senate. i had known him for some time, but not intimately; we were merely bowing acquaintances. as i entered he looked up and said, "why, judge, you don't look well, what is the matter?" i answered that i did not feel well, for i had not a friend in the world. he replied, "what is it that worries you?" i then related to him everything that had happened, giving the particulars of the gross and violent assault upon my character, and stated that i was determined, at all hazards, to call moore to account. mr. broderick, without hesitation, said, "my dear field, i will be your friend in this matter; go and write at once a note to moore, and i will deliver it myself." i accordingly sat down at an adjoining desk and wrote him a note, the purport of which was that i required him either to make a public retraction of his insulting language in the legislature, or to give me the satisfaction i had a right to demand. broderick approved of its terms and at once proceeded to deliver it. when he called on moore and presented it, the latter said he expected to be a candidate for congress before the coming convention, and he could not accept a challenge because it would disqualify him under the constitution from holding the office. but at the same time he observed that he was willing to meet me at any time and place; in other words, that he had no objection to a street fight. broderick replied that a street fight was not exactly the thing among gentlemen; but that if moore would do no better, a street fight there should be; and thereupon named a time and place when and where i would be found the next morning. within an hour afterwards moore changed his mind, and informed mr. broderick that drury baldwin, another member of the house, would act as his friend, and give a reply to my note the next morning. in anticipation of a possible collision, mr. broderick took me out early the following morning to try my skill in the use of a pistol. i tried a navy revolver and succeeded in hitting a knot on a tree, at a distance of thirty yards, three times out of five. broderick declared himself satisfied, and i then urged upon him the necessity of bringing the matter to a speedy issue. in all this he concurred, and before the meeting of the house, called upon baldwin for an answer to my note. baldwin replied that his principal had made up his mind to do nothing further in the matter. "then," said broderick, "as soon as the house meets, judge field will arise in his seat and refer to the attack on him and to the language of moore, that he held himself responsible for what he said, and state that respect for the dignity of the house had prevented him from replying to the attack at the time in the terms it deserved; that he had since demanded satisfaction of moore for his language, and that moore had refused to respond, and will thereupon pronounce him a liar and a coward." "then," said baldwin, "judge field will get shot in his seat." "in that case," rejoined broderick, "there will be others shot too." mr. broderick soon afterwards informed me of his conversation with baldwin, and asked me if i would act as he had stated i would. "most certainly," i replied; "never fear for me; i will meet the case as it should be met." accordingly, when the house opened, i took my seat at my desk as usual. looking around i saw that broderick was seated near me, and behind him were eight or nine of his personal friends, all armed to the teeth and ready for any emergency. in the meantime, and just before the house met, general john e. addison, who had found out what was going on and knew the seriousness of the affair, called on moore, who was his friend, and urged him to retract what he had said and make a suitable apology, and for that purpose drew up a document for him to read to the house, but of this i was not at the time informed. as soon as the journal was read i rose in my seat and said, "mr. speaker." at the same moment moore rose in his seat and said, "mr. speaker." the speaker recognized moore first; and moore thereupon proceeded to read the written apology prepared by addison for his conduct and language to me. it was full, ample, and satisfactory; and of course with that the matter ended. from that time forward to the end of the session i had no further trouble with any one. [ ] see exhibit h, in appendix. friendship for david c. broderick. the narrative which i have given of my difficulty with moore explains how broderick befriended me at a very trying time. but that was not the only occasion on which he befriended me. when i came to san francisco after the adjournment of the legislature, in may, , i went several times to see him at the hotel where he stopped. on one occasion in the evening, while we were in the saloon of the hotel, he asked me to take a glass of wine with him. we stepped up to the bar and were about drinking, when he suddenly threw himself before me and with great violence pushed me out of the room. the proceeding was so sudden and unexpected that i was astonished and for a moment indignant. i demanded an explanation, saying "what does this mean, mr. broderick?" he then told me that while we were standing at the bar he had noticed vi.--or to give his full name, vicesimus--turner, a brother of the judge, a man of desperate character, come into the bar-room, throw back his spanish cloak, draw forth a navy revolver, and level it at me. seeing the movement, he had thrown himself between me and the desperado and carried me off. these good offices on the part of mr. broderick filled me with a profound sense of gratitude. for years afterwards i thought and felt as if there was nothing i could do that would be a sufficient return for his kindness. on his account i took much greater interest in political matters than i otherwise should. in order to aid him in his aspirations for election to the united states senate, upon which he had set his heart, i attended conventions and gave liberally, often to my great inconvenience, to assist the side to which he belonged. to many persons it was a matter of surprise that i should take such an interest in his success and through good and evil report remain so constant and determined in my support of him; but the explanation lies in the circumstances i have narrated and the brave manner in which he had stood by me in a most critical moment of my life. i regret to state that this friendship was ever broken. it was not by me; but broken it was. shortly after mr. broderick was elected to the senate, he quarrelled with mr. buchanan over appointments to office in california; and when he returned to the state, he expressed a good deal of hostility to the administration. in that hostility i did not participate, and he complained of me for that reason. i was then spoken of throughout the state as a probable candidate for the bench, and he announced his opposition to my nomination. i made no complaints of his conduct, but was much hurt by it. my nomination and election soon afterwards removed me from the sphere of politics. i seldom met him after my election, and never had any conversation with him. though he was offended at my failure to take sides with him in his controversy with the president, and our intimacy ceased, i could never forget his generous conduct to me; and for his sad death there was no more sincere mourner in the state. legislation secured and beginning a new life. my legislative career was not without good results. i drew, as already stated, and carried through the legislature a bill defining the powers and jurisdiction of the courts and judicial officers of the state; and whilst thus doing good, i also got rid of the ignorant and brutal judge of our district who had outraged my rights, assaulted my character, and threatened my life. i also, as i have mentioned, introduced bills regulating the procedure in civil and criminal cases, remodelled with many changes from the codes of civil and criminal procedure reported by the commissioners of new york; and secured their passage. in the civil practice act i incorporated provisions making the most liberal exemptions from forced sale of the personal property of a debtor, including not merely a limited amount of household furniture, and provisions sufficient for individual or family use for one month, but also the instruments or tools by which he earned his livelihood. the exemptions embraced necessary household and kitchen furniture, wearing apparel, beds and bedding of the debtor, whatever his calling; and also the farming utensils and implements of husbandry of the farmer, two beasts of burden employed by him, and one cart or wagon; the tools and implements of a mechanic or artisan necessary to carry on his trade; the instruments and chests of a surgeon, physician, surveyor, and dentist; the law libraries of an attorney and counsellor; the cabin or dwelling of a miner, and his pick, rocker, wheelbarrow, and other implements necessary to carry on mining operations; two oxen, two horses or two mules and their harness, and one cart or wagon of the cartman, hackman, or teamster; and one horse with vehicle and harness and other equipments used by a physician, surgeon, or minister of the gospel in making his professional visits; and all arms and accoutrements required by law to be kept by any person. i never could appreciate the wisdom of that legislation which would allow a poor debtor to be stripped of all needed articles of his household and of the implements by which alone he could earn the means of supporting himself and family and of ultimately discharging his obligations. it has always seemed to me that an exemption from forced sale of a limited amount of household and kitchen furniture of the debtor, and of the implements used in his trade or profession, was not only the dictate of humanity, but of sound policy. i also incorporated a provision into the civil practice act respecting suits for mining claims, which was the foundation of the jurisprudence respecting mines in the country. the provision was that in actions before magistrates for such claims, evidence should be admitted of the usages, regulations, and customs prevailing in the vicinity, and that such usages, regulations, and customs, when not in conflict with the constitution and laws of the state, or of the united states, should govern the decision of the action. at this time suits for mining claims, the mines being confessedly on the property of the united states, were brought upon an alleged forcible or unlawful detainer. this rule, thus for the first time adopted by legislative enactment, was soon extended to actions for such claims in all courts, and has since been adopted in all the states and territories west of the rocky mountains and substantially by the legislation of congress. simple as the provision is, it solved a difficult problem. i also advocated and aided the passage of the homestead exemption bill. that bill was introduced by mr. g.d. hall, a member from el dorado, and now a resident of san francisco. it provided for an exemption of the homestead to the value of $ , . an effort was made to reduce the amount to $ , , and i think i rendered some aid in defeating this reduction, which has always been to me a source of great gratification. i also secured the passage of an act concerning attorneys and counsellors-at-law, in which i incorporated provisions that rendered it impossible for any judge to disbar an attorney in the arbitrary manner in which judge turner had acted towards me, without notice of the charges against him and affording him an opportunity to be heard upon them. i also introduced a bill creating the counties of nevada and klamath, the provisions of which were afterwards incorporated into a general bill which was passed, dividing the state into counties and establishing the seats of justice therein, and by which also the county of placer was created. i drafted and secured the passage of an act concerning county sheriffs, in which the duties and responsibilities of those officers, not only in the execution of process and the detention of prisoners, but as keepers of the county jail, were declared and defined; also an act concerning county recorders, in which the present system of keeping records was adopted. this latter act, though drawn by me, was introduced by mr. merritt, of mariposa, but he does not hesitate to speak publicly of my authorship of it. i also prepared a bill concerning divorces, which was reported from the judiciary committee as a substitute for the one presented by mr. carr, of san francisco, and was passed. in this act, aside from the ordinary causes of adultery, and consent obtained by force or fraud, for which divorces are granted, i made extreme cruelty and habitual intemperance, wilful desertion of either husband or wife for a period of two years, and wilful neglect of the husband to provide for the wife the common necessaries of life, having the ability to provide the same, for a period of three years, also causes of divorce. i also drew the charters of the cities of marysville, nevada, and monterey, which were adopted--that of monterey being reported by the judiciary committee as a substitute for one introduced by a member from that district. other bills drawn or supported by me were passed, the provisions of which are still retained in the laws of the state. but notwithstanding all this, when i turned my face towards marysville i was, in a pecuniary sense, ruined. i had barely the means to pay my passage home. my ventures, after my expulsion from the bar, in june, , had proved so many maelstroms into which the investments were not only drawn but swallowed up. my affairs had got to such a pass that before i left marysville for the legislature i felt it to be my duty to transfer all my real property to trustees to pay my debts, and i did so. and now when i stepped upon the landing in marysville my whole available means consisted of eighteen and three-quarter cents, and i owed about eighteen thousand dollars, the whole of which bore interest at the rate of ten per cent. a month. i proceeded at once to the united states hotel, kept by a mr. peck, who had known me in the days of my good fortune. "my dear mr. peck," i said, "will you trust me for two weeks' board?" "yes," was the reply, "and for as long as you want." "will you also send for my trunks on the steamer, for i have not the money to pay the carman." "certainly," the good man added, and so the trunks were brought up. on the next day i looked around for quarters. i found a small house, thirty feet by sixteen, for an office, at eighty dollars a month, and took it. it had a small loft or garret, in which i placed a cot that i had purchased upon credit. upon this cot i spread a pair of blankets, and used my valise for a pillow. i secured a chair without a back for a wash-stand, and with a tin basin, a pail, a piece of soap, a toothbrush, a comb, and a few towels, i was rigged out. i brought myself each day the water i needed from a well near by. i had an old pine table and a cane-bottomed sofa, and with these and the bills which had passed the legislature, corrected as they became laws, and the statutes of the previous session, i put out my sign as an attorney and counsellor-at-law, and began the practice of my profession. soon afterwards i found my name mentioned as a candidate for the state senate. the idea of returning to the legislature as a senator pleased me. the people of the county seemed to favor the suggestion. accordingly i made a short visit to neighboring precincts, and finding my candidacy generally approved i went to work to make it successful. at the election of delegates to the county convention, which was to nominate candidates, a majority was returned in my favor. several of them being unable to attend the convention, which was to be held at downieville, a distance of about seventy miles from marysville, sent me their proxies made out in blank to be filled with the name of any one whom i might designate. to one supposed friend i gave ten proxies, to another five, and to a third two. when the members met, just previous to the assembling of the convention, it was generally conceded that i had a majority of the delegates. but i had a new lesson in manipulation to learn. just before the opening of the convention my supposed friend, who had the ten proxies, was approached by the other side, and by promises to give the office of sheriff to his partner--an office supposed to be worth thirty thousand a year--his ten votes were secured for my opponent. the one to whom i had given five proxies was promised for those votes the county judgeship. so when the convention voted, to my astonishment and that of my friends, fifteen of my proxies were cast for my opponent, joseph c. mckibbin, afterwards a member of congress, who acted so fearlessly when the kansas question came up. i was accordingly beaten by two votes. for the moment i was furious, and hunted up the man who had held my ten proxies, and had been seduced from my support. when i found him in the room of the convention, i seized him and attempted to throw him out of the window. i succeeded in getting half his body out, when bystanders pulled me back and separated us. this was fortunate for both of us; for just underneath the window there was a well or shaft sunk fifty feet deep. the following morning i left downieville, returned to my office and loft at marysville, and gave my attention to the practice of the law. my business soon became very large; and, as my expenses were moderate, within two years and a half i paid off all my indebtedness, amounting with the accumulations of interest to over thirty-eight thousand dollars. part of this amount was paid by a surrender of the property mortgaged, or a sale of that previously assigned, but the greater part came from my earnings. i paid every creditor but one in full; to each i gave his pound of flesh, i mean his interest, at ten per cent. a month. i never asked one of them to take less than the stipulated rate. the exceptional creditor was mr. berry, a brother lawyer, who refused to receive more than five per cent. a month on a note he held for $ . by this time i had become so much interested in my profession as to have no inclination for office of any kind. on several occasions i was requested by influential party leaders to accept a nomination for the state senate, but i refused. i am inclined to think that i had for some time a more lucrative practice than any lawyer in the state, outside of san francisco. no such fees, however, were paid in those days as have been common in mining cases since the discovery of the silver mines of nevada and the organization of great corporations to develop them. the bar of marysville during this period, and afterwards while i remained in that city--which was until october, --was a small, but a very able body of men. many of its members have since attained distinction and held offices of honor and trust. richard s. mesick, who settled there in , became a state senator, and after his removal to nevada, a district judge of that state. he ranks now among the ablest lawyers of the coast. charles h. bryan, who settled there the same year, was an eloquent speaker, and in his forensic contests gave great trouble to his opponent whenever he got at the jury. he was on the supreme court of the state for a short period, under the appointment of governor bigler. jesse o. goodwin, of whom i have already spoken, settled in marysville in . he was a ready speaker, and sometimes rose to genuine eloquence. he was distinguished in criminal cases. as already stated, he was elected district attorney in , and afterwards became county judge, and is now state senator. gabriel n. swezy, who settled there in , was learned in his profession, and quick of apprehension. few lawyers could equal him in the preparation of a brief. he afterwards at different times represented the county in the assembly and the senate of the state. william walker, who afterwards figured so conspicuously in the filibustering expeditions to nicaragua, and was called by his followers "the grey-eyed man of destiny," had an office in marysville in and ' . he was a brilliant speaker, and possessed a sharp but not a very profound intellect. he often perplexed both court and jury with his subtleties, but seldom convinced either. john v. berry, who came to marysville from the mines in , was a fine lawyer, deeply read in the law of adjudged cases. he died in from poison given to him in mistake by a druggist. edward d. wheeler, who came there in , and thomas b. reardon, who came in , were both men of strong minds. mr. wheeler represented yuba county at one time in the senate, and is now the district judge of the nineteenth district, at san francisco. he is regarded as among the ablest and best of the state judges. mr. reardon has been a district judge for some years in the fourteenth district, greatly respected by the profession for his ability and learning. isaac s. belcher, who came to marysville at a later period--in , i believe--was noted for his quiet manners and studious habits. he has since been district judge, and has worthily filled a seat on the bench of the supreme court of the state, where he was greatly respected by his associates and members of the bar. edward c. marshall, the brilliant orator, who at one time represented the state in congress, had his office in marysville in and ' . he occasionally appeared in court, though he was generally occupied in politics, and in his case, as in nearly all others, the practice of the law and the occupation of politics did not always move harmoniously together. charles e. filkins, afterwards county judge; charles lindley, afterwards also county judge and one of the code commissioners; henry p. haun, the first county judge, and afterwards appointed to the united states senate by governor weller; n.e. whitesides, afterwards a member of the legislature from yuba, and speaker of the house; f.l. hatch, now county judge of colusa; george howe, afterwards treasurer of the county; and wm. s. belcher, who afterwards rendered good service to the public as a school commissioner, also practiced at the marysville bar with success. charles e. delong, afterwards a member of the state senate, and our minister to japan, and henry k. mitchell, afterwards a nominee of the democrats for the u.s. senate in nevada, were just getting a good position at the bar when i left, and gave evidence of the ability which they afterwards exhibited. others might be named who held fine positions in the profession. these mentioned show a bar of great respectability, and i may add that its members were, with few exceptions, gentlemen of general information and courteous manners. the litigation which chiefly occupied them and gave the largest remuneration related to mines and mining claims. the enforcement of mortgages and collection of debts was generally--by me, at least--entrusted to clerks, unless a contest was made upon them. there was one case which i recall with pleasure, because of the result obtained in face of unconcealed bribery on the other side. the subject of the suit was the right to a "placer" mine in yuba river, at park's bar. its value may be estimated from the fact that within two or three weeks after the decision of the case, the owners took from the mine over ninety thousand dollars in gold dust. the suit was brought before a justice of the peace, and was for an alleged forcible entry and detainer, a form of action generally adopted at the time for the recovery of mining claims, because the title to the lands in which the mines were found was in the united states. it was prosecuted as a purely possessory action. the constable whose duty it was to summon the jurors had received the sum of two hundred dollars to summon certain parties, named by the other side. this fact was established beyond controversy by evidence placed in my hands. and whilst i was in bed in one of the tents or canvas sheds at the bar, which the people occupied in the absence of more substantial buildings, i heard a conversation in the adjoining room--i could not help hearing it, as it was carried on without any attempt at concealment, and the room was only separated from me by the canvas--between one of the jurors and one of the opposite party, in which the juror assured the party that it was "all right," and he need not worry as to the result of the suit; his side would have the verdict; the jury were all that way. on the next day, when the case was summed up, the saloon in which the trial was had was crowded with spectators, most of whom were partisans of the other side. i addressed the jury for over three hours, and after having commented upon the evidence at length and shown conclusively, as i thought, that my client was entitled to a verdict, i said substantially as follows: "gentlemen, we have not endeavored to influence your judgment except by the evidence; we have not approached you secretly and tried to control your verdict; we have relied solely upon the law and the evidence to maintain our rights to this property. but the other side have not thus acted; they have not been content that you should weigh only the evidence; they have endeavored to corrupt your minds and pervert your judgments; they have said that you were so low and debased that although you had with uplifted hands declared that so might the ever-living god help you, as you rendered a verdict according to the evidence, you were willing, to please them, to decide against the evidence, and let perjury rest on your souls. i know that you [pointing to one of the jurors] have been approached. did you spurn the wretch away who made a corrupt proposal to you, or did you hold counsel, sweet counsel with him? i know that you [pointing to another juror] talked over this case with one of the other side at the house on the hill last night, for i overheard the conversation--the promise made to you and your pledge to him. in the canvas houses here all rooms are as one; the words uttered in one are voices in all. you did not dream that any but you two were in the tent; but i was there and overheard the foul bargain." at this thrust there was great excitement, and click, click, was heard all through the room, which showed a general cocking of pistols; for every one in those days went armed. i continued: "there is no terror in your pistols, gentlemen; you will not win your case by shooting me; you can win it only in one way--by evidence showing title to the property; you will never win it by bribery or threats of violence. i charge openly attempted bribery, and if what i say be not true, let the jurors speak out now from their seats. attempted bribery, i say--whether it will be successful bribery, will depend upon what may occur hereafter. if, after invoking the vengeance of heaven upon their souls should they not render a verdict according to the evidence, the jurors are willing to sell their souls, let them decide against us." this home-thrust produced a great sensation. it was evident that the jury were disturbed. when the case was submitted to them, they were absent only a few minutes. they returned a verdict in our favor. some of them afterwards came to me and admitted that they had been corruptly approached, but added that they were not low enough to be influenced in their verdict in that way. "of course not," i replied; though i had little doubt that it was only the fear of exposure which forced them to do right. i have said that in those days everyone went armed; it would be more correct to say that this was true in the mining regions of the state and when travelling. i, myself, carried a derringer pistol and a bowie-knife until the summer of , though of course out of sight. i did so by the advice of judge mott, of the district court, who remarked that, though i never abused a witness or a juror, or was discourteous to any one in court, there were desperate men in the country, and no one could know to what extremity they might go, as i would not be deterred by any considerations from the discharge of my whole duty to my clients. so, until the summer of , i carried weapons. and yet they were not such provocatives of difficulty as some of our eastern friends are accustomed to think. on the contrary, i found that a knowledge that they were worn generally created a wholesome courtesy of manner and language. i continued to occupy my small office and slept in its loft through the summer and fall of , and felt quite contented with them. twice i was summarily dislodged, being threatened by a fire on the other side of the street. on one occasion a most ludicrous incident occurred, which i cannot recall without a smile. a little after midnight we were aroused, on the occasion referred to, by a loud thumping at our door, accompanied by a cry of "fire." my loft was shared with three others, and at the cry we all leaped from our cots and two of our number seizing whatever was convenient and portable carried it out of the house to a distance of about one hundred yards, where gathered a multitude of people, fleeing before the flames with all sorts of baggage, trunks, chairs, beds, and utensils of every kind which they had brought from their houses. i hastily threw the papers of sundry suits and a dozen law books, recently purchased, into a box, and with the assistance of the other occupant of my loft, carried it off. just as we reached the crowd, a pair of young grizzly bears which the owner had kept in a cage near by were let loose, and they came towards us growling in their peculiar way. at their sight, there was a general _stampede_ of men, women, and children, in all directions. boxes and everything else portable were instantly dropped, and such an indiscriminate flight was never before seen except from a panic in battle. the barbour difficulty. when the bill of , dividing the state into new judicial districts, became a law, there were several candidates for the office of judge of the tenth judicial district, which comprised the counties of yuba, nevada, and sutter. henry p. haun, the county judge of yuba, was one candidate; john v. berry, a lawyer of the same county was another; and gordon n. mott, a lawyer of sutter county, was a third. my first choice was berry; but, finding that he had very little chance, i gave what influence i had in favor of mr. mott, and he received from the governor the appointment of judge of the new district. in the summer of , the governor issued his proclamation for the fall elections, and, among others, for an election to fill the office of judge of the tenth district. i had supposed--and there were many others who agreed with me--that judge mott's term under his appointment would continue until the election of . but there being some doubts about the matter and the governor having issued his proclamation for an election, candidates were nominated by the conventions; and at the ensuing election one of them, william t. barbour, a lawyer of nevada county, received a majority of the votes cast and was declared elected. when he came, however, to demand the office, judge mott expressed his opinion that there had been no vacancy to be filled and declined to surrender. this led to a suit between them. the question involved being exclusively one of law, an agreed case was made up and presented to the supreme court, and that tribunal decided in favor of barbour. a report of the case is given in the d california reports, under the title of people, ex rel. barbour, vs. mott. in the case i appeared as counsel for judge mott and argued his cause. this offended judge barbour, and he gave free expression to his displeasure. afterwards, when his term for the vacancy was about to expire and a new election was to be held, he presented himself as a candidate for a second term. it was my opinion that he was not qualified for the position, and i therefore recommended my friends to vote for his opponent. for some weeks previous to the election i was absent from the district; but i returned two days before it was to take place and at once took a decided part against barbour and did all i could to defeat him. this action on my part, in connection with my previous zeal in behalf of judge mott, led barbour to make some very bitterly vituperative remarks about me, which being reported to me, i called on him for an explanation. some harsh words passed between us at the interview. the result was that barbour refused to make any explanation, but gave me a verbal challenge to settle our difficulties in the usual way among gentlemen. i instantly accepted it and designated judge mott as my friend. in half an hour afterwards judge mott was called upon by mr. charles s. fairfax as the friend of barbour, who stated that barbour had been challenged by me, and that his object in calling upon mott was to arrange the terms of a hostile meeting. mott answered that he understood the matter somewhat differently; that the challenge, as he had been informed, came from barbour, and that i, instead of being the challenging, was the accepting party. fairfax, however, insisted upon his version of the affair; and upon consulting with mott, i waived the point and accepted the position assigned me. fairfax then stated that barbour, being the challenged party, had the right to choose the weapons and the time and place of meeting; to all of which mott assented. fairfax then said that, upon consultation with his principal, he had fixed the time for that evening; the place, a room twenty feet square, describing it; the weapons, colt's revolvers and bowie-knives; that the two principals so armed were to be placed at opposite sides of the room with their faces to the wall; that they were to turn and fire at the word, then advance and finish the conflict with their knives. mott answered that the terms were unusual, unprecedented, and barbarous, and that he could not consent to them. fairfax admitted that they were so; but replied that they were those barbour had prescribed. he would, however, see barbour and endeavor to obtain a modification of them. soon afterwards he reported that barbour still insisted upon the terms first named and would not agree to any other. when mott reported the result of his conference with fairfax, i at once said that barbour was a coward and would not fight at all. i knew perfectly well that such terms could come only from a bully. i saw that it was a game of bluff he was playing. so i told mott to accept them by all means. mott accordingly called on fairfax and accepted the terms as proposed, and gave notice that i would be on hand and ready at the time and place designated. this being reported to barbour, fairfax soon afterwards made his appearance with a message that his principal would waive the bowie-knives; and not long afterwards he came a second time with another message that it would not do to have the fight in the room designated, because the firing would be heard outside and attract a crowd. in accordance with my instructions, mott assented to all the modifications proposed, and it was finally agreed that the meeting should take place the next morning in sutter county. i was to take a private conveyance, and barbour was to take one of the two daily stages that ran to sacramento. at a specified place we were to leave our conveyances and walk to a retired spot, which was designated, where the hostile meeting was to take place. the next morning, accordingly, i took a carriage, and with my friend judge mott drove down to the appointed place. after we had been there some time the first stage appeared and stopped. soon after the second stage appeared and stopped, and judge barbour and mr. fairfax got out. but instead of proceeding to the designated place, barbour declared that he was a judicial officer, and as such could not engage in a duel. at the same time he would take occasion to say that he would protect himself, and, if assaulted, would kill the assailant. with these words, leaving fairfax standing where he was, he walked over to the first stage, and mounting rode on to sacramento. seeing fairfax standing alone on the ground i sent word to him that i would be happy to give him a place in my carriage--an invitation which he accepted, and we then drove to nicolaus, where we breakfasted, and thence returned to marysville.[ ] the conduct of barbour on the ground, after his fierce and savage terms at the outset, produced a great deal of merriment and derision; and some very sharp squibs appeared in the newspapers. one of them gave him great annoyance, and he inquired for its author. i told the editor of the paper in which it appeared that if it was necessary to protect the writer, to give my name, although i did not write it, or know beforehand that it was to be written. on the following morning, whilst in front of my office gathering up kindling-wood for a fire, and having my arms full--for each man was his own servant in those days--barbour came up and, placing a cocked navy revolver near my head, cried out, "draw and defend yourself." as i had not observed his approach i was taken by surprise, but turning on him i said, "you infernal scoundrel, you cowardly assassin--you come behind my back and put your revolver to my head and tell me to draw; you haven't the courage to shoot; shoot and be damned." there were at least ten witnesses of this scene; and it was naturally supposed that having advanced so far he would go farther; but as soon as he found i was not frightened, he turned away and left me. it is impossible to express the contempt i felt for him at that moment for his dastardly conduct, a feeling which the spectators shared with me, as they have since often stated.[ ] i do not give these details as having any importance in themselves; but they illustrate the semi-barbarous condition of things in those early days, and by comparison show out of what our existing condition has been evolved, and how far we have advanced. i give them also for the reason that barbour afterwards wrote a letter to turner, which the latter published, referring to the affair, in which he boasted of having given me a "whipping." how far his boast was warranted the above facts show. for a long time afterwards he expressed his bitterness towards me in every possible way. he did not take turner's plan of expelling me from the bar; but he manifested his feelings by adverse rulings. in such cases, however, i generally took an appeal to the supreme court, and in nearly all of them procured a reversal. the result was that he suddenly changed his conduct and commenced ruling the other way. while this was his policy, there was hardly any position i could take in which he did not rule in my favor. at last i became alarmed lest i should lose my cases in the appellate court by winning them before him. about a year afterwards he sent one of his friends to ask me if i was willing to meet him half-way--stating that my conduct in court had always been courteous, and he was satisfied that he had done me injustice. i answered that i was always willing to meet any one half-way, but in this case it must be without explanations for the past. this condition was accepted; accordingly we met, and taking a glass of wine, i said, "here is to an act of oblivion, but no explanations." for a long time no allusion was made by either to the old difficulties. but at last he insisted upon telling me how tales had been brought to him, and how they exasperated him; and he expressed great regret for what had taken place; and to make amends, as far as he was able, for what he had written about me, he sent me the following letter: "marysville, _dec. , _. "hon. s.j. field. "dear sir: on yesterday i learned through our mutual friend charles s. fairfax, esq., that judge w.r. turner has recently issued a publication which contains a letter of mine, written him some four years ago. i have not been able to procure a copy of this publication, and i have entirely forgotten the language used; in truth i do not remember to have written him on the subject of yourself or otherwise; but i suppose i must have done so, and have given expressions of opinion that i have long since ceased to entertain, and to invectives that i have no disposition to justify. you will recall that, at the time referred to, there unfortunately existed between us feelings of deep hostility; and i may at the time have used harsh terms indicative of my then feelings, which i regret and do not now approve, if they are as represented by others." "judge turner has taken an unwarranted liberty in publishing the letter, be it of what character it may. he never requested my permission for this purpose, nor did i know that it was his intention." "trusting that this explanation may be satisfactory, i remain," "very respectfully yr. obt. servant," "wm. t. barbour." he ever afterwards, as occasion offered, spoke of me in the highest terms as a gentleman and lawyer. my resentment accordingly died out, but i never could feel any great regard for him. he possessed a fair mind and a kindly disposition, but he was vacillating and indolent. moreover, he loved drink and low company. he served out his second term and afterwards went to nevada, where his habits became worse, and he sunk so low as to borrow of his acquaintances from day to day small sums--one or two dollars at a time--to get his food and lodging. he died from the effects of his habits of intemperance. in stating the result of the intended hostile meeting with him, i mentioned that when he proceeded on his way to sacramento, he left his second, mr. fairfax, standing alone on the ground, and that i invited the latter to take a seat in my carriage. from this time the intercourse between mr. fairfax and myself became more frequent than it had been previously, and a friendship followed which continued as long as he lived. he was not sparing in his censure of the conduct of his principal, whilst his language was complimentary of mine. in a few months i became quite intimate with him, and i found him possessed of a noble and chivalric spirit. with great gentleness of manner, he had the most intrepid courage. his fidelity to his friends and devotion to their interests attached them strongly to him. he was beloved by all who knew him. no man in the state was more popular. he represented the county of yuba in the legislature two or three times, and at one session was speaker of the assembly. when the land office at marysville was established in , he was appointed register; and in , he was elected clerk of the supreme court of the state. it was my good fortune to aid him in securing both of these positions. at my suggestion, mr. mcdougal, a member of congress from california, urged the establishment of the land office, and obtained for him the appointment of register. in , when he sought the clerkship of the supreme court of the state, i became a delegate from yuba county to the state convention, and made his nomination for that office my special object, and with the aid of the rest of the delegation, succeeded in obtaining it. two or three incidents which i will relate will illustrate the character of the man. it was either in the session of or , i forget which, that a petition was presented to the assembly of california on the part of some of the colored people of the state, requesting that the laws then in force, which excluded them from being witnesses in cases where a white person was a party, might be repealed so as to allow them to testify in such cases. at that time there was a great deal of feeling throughout the country on the subject of slavery, and any attempt to legislate in behalf of the colored people was sure to excite opposition, and give rise to suggestions that its promoter was not sound on the slavery question. the presentation of the petition accordingly stirred up angry feelings. it created a perfect outburst of indignation, and some one moved that the petition should be thrown out of the window; and the motion was passed almost unanimously. if i recollect aright, there was but a single vote in the negative. i was standing by mr. fairfax when he was informed of the proceeding. he at once denounced it, and said, in energetic terms--"this is all wrong--the petition should have been received. if my horse or my dog could in any way express its wishes to me i would listen to it. it is a shame that a petition from any one, black or white, should not be received by the legislature of the state, whether it be granted or not." i was greatly impressed at that time with the manliness of this expression in a community which looked with suspicion on any movement in favor of extending any rights to the colored race. on another occasion, some years afterwards, when i was judge of the supreme court of the state and he was the clerk of the court, there was a good deal of complaint against harvey lee, the reporter of the court, who was appointed to the office by governor weller. i believe that lee was instrumental, but of this i am not certain, in getting a law passed which took the appointment of the reporter from the court and gave it to the governor. he was an inferior lawyer, and, of course, had very little practice. the appointment, therefore, to which a fair salary was attached, was eagerly sought by him. his reports, however, were so defective that an effort was made by the judges to get the law repealed and have the appointment restored to the court. this led to a bitter feeling on his part towards the judges, and in a conversation with mr. fairfax he gave vent to it in violent language. mr. fairfax resented the attack and an altercation ensued, when lee, who carried a sword-cane, drew the sword and ran it into fairfax's body. fortunately it entered the chest above the heart. withdrawing the sword lee made a second lunge at fairfax, which the latter partially avoided so as to receive only a flesh wound in the side. by this time fairfax had drawn his pistol and covered the body of lee, as he was raising his sword for a third thrust. lee, seeing the pistol, stepped back and threw up his arms exclaiming, "i am unarmed"--though he had only that moment withdrawn his sword from the body of fairfax, and it was then dripping with blood. "shoot the damned scoundrel," cried the latter's friend, samuel b. smith, then standing by his side. but fairfax did not shoot. looking at lee, whose body was covered with his pistol, while the blood was trickling from his own person, he said, "you are an assassin! you have murdered me! i have you in my power! your life is in my hands!" and gazing on him, he added, "but for the sake of your poor sick wife and children i will spare you." he thereupon uncocked his pistol and handed it to his friend, into whose arms he fell fainting. he had known the wife of lee when a young girl; and, afterwards, in speaking of the affair to a friend, he said, "i thought my wife would be a widow before sundown, and i did not wish to leave the world making another." all california rang with the story of this heroic act. it has its parallel only in the self-abnegation of the dying hero on the battle-field, who put away from his parched lips the cup of water tendered to him, and directed that it be given to a wounded soldier suffering in agony by his side, saying, "his need is greater than mine." during the war his sympathies, as was the case with most southerners in california, were with his people in virginia. he told me on one occasion that he could not but wish they would succeed; but, he said; "though i am a virginian by birth, i have adopted california, and whilst i live in a state which has taken her stand with the northern people, i cannot in honor do anything, and i will not, to weaken her attachment to the union. if my health were good i should leave the state and return to virginia and give my services to her; but, as that is impossible, i shall remain in california, and, whilst here, will not be false to her by anything i do or say." these incidents, better than any elaborate description, illustrate the character of the man. he was a lineal descendant of the great fairfax family which has figured so conspicuously in the history of england and of virginia. he was its tenth baron in a direct line. but notwithstanding the rank of his family he was a republican in his convictions. he loved his country and its institutions. he was himself more noble than his title. he came east to attend the national democratic convention in at the head of the delegates from california. after the convention, he spent some months among his friends and relatives at the old family residence in maryland. at this time the seeds of consumption, which had long been lurking in his system, began to be developed, and he was taken down with a severe illness which proved fatal. he became so ill as to be unable to walk, and was conveyed to baltimore to procure the best medical attendance; and there he died on the th of april, , in the arms of his devoted wife, who had come from california to be with him in his last hours. his body was brought to washington and interred within sight of the capitol, near hock creek church, in which his ancestors had worshipped. i have mentioned that when fairfax was stabbed by lee he fell into the arms of mr. samuel b. smith. this gentleman i had known slightly before my difficulty with judge barbour; but the intimacy which sprung up between fairfax and myself, after that affair, brought me more in contact with mr. smith, who was his constant companion. mr. smith came to california from new jersey in , and passed through some stirring scenes during that and the following year. he came with mr. john s. hagar, who was afterwards state senator, district judge, and united states senator, and was engaged with him in the mines in the winter of -' . in he settled in sutter county; and in the fall of was elected state senator from that county. having become more intimately acquainted with him after he was elected senator, i requested him to introduce a bill into the legislature, revising and amending the one which i had originally drawn concerning the courts and judicial officers of the state; and he cheerfully consented to do so, and took great interest in securing its passage. indeed, it was through his influence that the bill became a law. many circumstances threw us together after that, and i learned to appreciate his manly character, his generous disposition, and his great devotion to his friends. finally, in the fall of , we agreed to form a partnership after my return from the eastern states, which i then proposed to visit. after the barbour affair the course of my professional life was much the same as that of any other lawyer. my business was large and i gave to it my unremitting attention. in i determined to go east to see my parents and brothers and sisters, who had never been out of my mind a single day since i left them in . accordingly, i went east, and after passing a few months with them i returned to california in january, . after that i continued to practice my profession, with mr. smith as my partner, until the spring of , though during this period he went to washington as commissioner of the state to obtain from congress the payment of moneys expended by her in suppressing the hostilities of indians within her borders, and was absent several months. in april of that year we dissolved our partnership. a few months afterwards i was nominated for the bench of the supreme court of the state, and was elected by a large majority. there were two candidates besides myself for the position, and , votes were polled. of these i received a majority of , over each of my opponents, and , over them both together.[ ] the term to which i was elected was for six years, commencing january st, . in september, , hugh c. murray, then chief justice, died, and associate justice peter h. burnett was appointed to fill the vacancy. this left the balance of judge burnett's term of service to be filled, and i was urged by the governor of the state to accept his appointment to it, as it was for less than three months, and immediately preceded my own term. at first i refused, as i desired to revisit the east; but being assured by the judges that taking the place need not prevent my intended visit, i accepted the appointment, and on the th of october, , took my seat on the bench. [ ] see letter of judge mott detailing the particulars of the affair; exhibit h, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit i, in appendix. [ ] the exact vote was as follows: for myself , for nathaniel bennett , for j.p. ralston , ------ total vote , majority over bennett , majority over balston , majority over both , removal from marysville--life on the supreme bench.--end of judge turner. the day following my acceptance of the governor's appointment to the supreme court of the state, i returned to marysville to close my business before taking up my residence in sacramento, where the court held its sessions. i had gone to sacramento to argue some cases before the court when the appointment was tendered to me; and, of course, did not expect to remain there very long. in a few days i arranged my affairs at marysville and then removed permanently to sacramento. i left marysville with many regrets. i had seen it grow from a collection of tents with a few hundred occupants to a town of substantial buildings with a population of from eight to ten thousand inhabitants. from a mere landing for steamers it had become one of the most important places for business in the interior of the state. when i left, it was a depot of merchandise for the country lying north and east of it; and its streets presented a scene of bustle and activity. trains of wagons and animals were constantly leaving it with goods for the mines. its merchants were generally prosperous; some of them were wealthy. its bankers were men of credit throughout the state. steamers plied daily between it and sacramento, and stages ran to all parts of the country and arrived every hour. two daily newspapers were published in it. schools were opened and fully attended. churches of different denominations were erected and filled with worshippers. institutions of benevolence were founded and supported. a provident city government and a vigorous police preserved order and peace. gambling was suppressed or carried on only in secret. a theatre was built and sustained. a lecture-room was opened and was always crowded when the topics presented were of public interest. substantial stores of brick were put up in the business part of the city; and convenient frame dwellings were constructed for residences in the outskirts, surrounded with plats filled with trees and flowers. on all sides were seen evidences of an industrious, prosperous, moral, and happy people, possessing and enjoying the comforts, pleasures, and luxuries of life. and they were as generous as they were prosperous. their hearts and their purses were open to all calls of charity. no one suffering appealed to them in vain. no one in need was turned away from their doors without having his necessities relieved. it is many years since i was there, but i have never forgotten and i shall never forget the noble and generous people that i found there in all the walks of life. the supreme court of the state then consisted of three members, the senior in commission being the chief justice. david s. terry was the chief justice and peter h. burnett was the associate justice. both of these gentlemen have had a conspicuous career in california, and of both i have many interesting anecdotes which would well illustrate their characters and which at some future day i may put upon paper. they were both men of vigorous minds, of generous natures and of positive wills; but in all other respects they differed as widely as it was possible for two extremes. mr. terry had the virtues and prejudices of men of the extreme south in those days. his contact and larger experience since with men of the north have no doubt modified many of those prejudices, and his own good sense must have led him to alter some of his previous judgments. probably his greatest regret is his duel with mr. broderick, as such encounters, when they terminate fatally to one of the parties, never fail to bring life-long bitterness to the survivor. a wiser mode of settling difficulties between gentlemen has since been adopted in the state; but those who have not lived in a community where the duel is practiced cannot well appreciate the force of the public sentiment which at one time existed, compelling a resort to it when character was assailed. mr. burnett was one of the early settlers in oregon, and had held positions of honor and trust there before settling in california. he came here soon after the discovery of gold, took an interest in public affairs, and was elected the first governor of the state, when the constitution was adopted. judge terry resigned his office in september, , when he determined to send a challenge to mr. broderick, and i succeeded him as chief justice; and w.w. cope, of amador, was elected to fill the vacant place on the bench. i was absent from the state at the time, or i should have exerted all the power i possessed by virtue of my office to put a stop to the duel. i would have held both of the combatants to keep the peace under bonds of so large an amount as to have made them hesitate about taking further steps; and in the meantime i should have set all my energies to work, and called others to my aid, to bring about a reconciliation. i believe i should have adjusted the difficulty. mr. cope, who filled the vacant place on the bench, possessed a superior mind and a genial nature. he made an excellent judge. he studiously examined every case and carefully prepared his opinions. he remained on the bench until january, , when the new constitutional amendments, reorganizing the court, went into effect. he is now in practice in san francisco, and has a large clientage. judge burnett continued in office until the election of his successor in the fall of . his successor was joseph g. baldwin, a lawyer of distinction and a gentleman of literary reputation. he was the author of "the flush times of alabama and mississippi," and of "party leaders." the first is a work full of humor and a great favorite in the section of the country whose "times" it portrays with such spirit and glee as to excite roars of laughter in the reader. the latter is a thoughtful history of the character and influence upon the country of jefferson, hamilton, jackson, clay, and randolph. his portraitures present these men in the fullness and freshness of living beings, whom we see and hear, and whose power we feel. my friendship for mr. baldwin commenced long before he came to the bench, and it afterwards warmed into the attachment of a brother. he had a great and generous heart; there was no virtue of humanity of which he did not possess a goodly portion. he was always brimful of humor, throwing off his jokes, which sparkled without burning, like the flashes of a rocket. there was no sting in his wit. you felt as full of merriment at one of his witticisms, made at your expense, as when it was played upon another. yet he was a profound lawyer, and some of his opinions are models of style and reasoning. he remained on the bench until january, , when he was succeeded by edward norton, of san francisco. this gentleman was the exemplar of a judge of a subordinate court. he was learned, patient, industrious, and conscientious; but he was not adapted for an appellate tribunal. he had no confidence in his own unaided judgment. he wanted some one upon whom to lean. oftentimes he would show me the decision of a tribunal of no reputation with apparent delight, if it corresponded with his own views, or with a shrug of painful doubt, if it conflicted with them. he would look at me in amazement if i told him that the decision was not worth a fig; and would appear utterly bewildered at my waywardness when, as was sometimes the case, i refused to look at it after hearing by what court it was pronounced. it is not my purpose to speak of my own career on the bench of the supreme court of california. it is only for reminiscences of my previous life that you, mr. hittell, have asked.[ ] i am tempted, however, to hand to you a letter of judge baldwin, my associate for over three years, in which he presents, in terms exaggerated by his friendship, the result of my labors there.[ ] there is only one scene to which i wish to refer. about a year and a half after i went upon the bench, a contested election case came up from trinity county. it appeared that judge turner, who had been sent to the district composed of the counties of trinity and klamath, by the act concerning the courts and judicial officers of the state, at the end of his term offered himself for re-election as judge of that district. when the vote was counted there appeared to be a majority of one against him, and his opponent was declared elected. he instituted a contest for the office, and, being defeated in the court below, appealed to the supreme court. he then became very much exercised over his appeal, because i was one of the justices. there were not wanting persons who, out of sheer malice, or not comprehending any higher motives of conduct than such as governed themselves, represented that i would improve the opportunity to strike him a blow. when his case came on for hearing, i left the bench to my associates, judges terry and baldwin, and they decided in his favor. at this action of mine turner was amazed. it was something wholly unexpected and surprising to him. soon after the decision he sent one of his friends, named snowden, to know if i would speak to him if he should make the first advance. i answered that under no circumstances would i ever consent to speak to him; that he had done me injuries which rendered any intercourse with him impossible; that the world was wide enough for us both, and he must go his own way. this answer snowden communicated to him. the next morning he stationed himself at the foot of the stairway leading up to the supreme court rooms, which was on the outside of the building, and, as i passed up, he cried out; "i am now at peace with all the world; if there is any man who feels that i have done him an injury, i am ready to make him amends." i turned and looked at him for a moment, and then passed on without saying a word. on the following morning he took the same position and repeated substantially the same language. i stopped and gazed at him for a moment, and then passed on in silence. this was the last time i saw him. he returned to trinity, and held his office for the balance of his term, six years, under the decision of the supreme court, and was re-elected in . but his character and habits unfitted him for a judicial position. he was addicted to gambling and drinking, and he consorted with the lowest characters; and the same tyrannical temper and conduct which he had exhibited towards me in marysville, were displayed in his new district. accordingly measures were taken by citizens of trinity to secure his impeachment by the legislature. mr. westmoreland, a member of the assembly from that county in offered a resolution for the appointment of a committee to inquire whether articles of impeachment should be presented against him for high crimes and misdemeanors, with power to send for persons and papers and report articles if warranted by the evidence. in offering the resolution mr. westmoreland charged, that during the time turner had held the office of district judge he had been grossly tyrannical; that he had imprisoned citizens, depriving them of their liberty without process of law; that he had neglected and refused to perform the duties incumbent upon him by statute; that by a standing rule he allowed no witness to be called in a case unless he was subpoenaed and in attendance on the first day of the term; that he had used the power of his position for the furtherance of his own ends of private hate; that he was an habitual drunkard, with rare intervals of sobriety, and had upon occasions come into the court-room to sit upon the trial of causes so intoxicated as to be unable to stand, and had fallen helplessly upon the floor, whence he had been removed by officers of the court; that upon one occasion, when engaged in a trial, he had in the presence of jurors, witnesses, and other persons attending the court, deliberately gone out of the court-room and openly entered a house of ill-fame near by; and that by his disgraceful conduct he had become a burden upon the people of that district too grievous to be borne. these things mr. westmoreland stated he stood prepared to prove, and he invoked the interposition of the legislature to protect the people of the eighth judicial district who were suffering from the deportment and conduct of this officer. the resolution was passed. finding that articles of impeachment would be presented against him, turner resigned his office. after this his habits of drinking became worse, and he was sent to the asylum for inebriates, where he died. in thinking over my difficulties with turner at this distant day, there is nothing in my conduct which i in the least regret. had i acted differently; had i yielded one inch, i should have lost my self-respect and been for life an abject slave. there was undoubtedly an unnecessary severity of language in two or three passages of my answers to his attacks; and some portion of my answer in court to his order to show cause why i should not be re-expelled from the bar might better have been omitted. i have since learned that one is never so strong as when he is calm, and never writes so forcibly as when he uses the simplest language. my justification in these particulars, if they require any, must be found in the savage ferocity with which i was assailed, the brutal language applied to my character and conduct, and the constant threats made of personal violence. malignity and hate, with threats of assassination, followed me like a shadow for months. i went always armed for protection against assault. i should have been less or more than man had i preserved at all times perfect calmness either in my language or conduct. in the contest with this man i was cheered by the support of the best men of the state. but of all of them no one aided me so much, and so freely, as the editor of the marysville herald, mr. robert h. taylor, a gentleman still living, in the full strength of his intellect, and honored and trusted as a learned member of the legal profession in nevada. may length of years and blessings without number attend him. * * * * * here my narrative of "personal experiences" must for the present end. i could have given you, mr. hittell, more interesting matter. i could have given you sketches of fremont, halleck, gwin, broderick, weller, geary, sherman, bigler, mcdougal, bennett, heydenfeldt, murray, and others, with many striking anecdotes illustrative of their characters. they were all remarkable men, and the history of their lives would be full of interest and instruction. i could have related the story of the vigilance committees of and , and shown how the men of order and virtue acquired and maintained ascendency over the irregular and disorderly elements of society. i could have told you of the gradual development of the industries of the state until her yearly products have become one of the marvels of the world. i could have described the wild excitement produced by the supposed discoveries of gold in boundless quantities on fraser river; and the later but more substantial movement upon the development of the silver mines of nevada. i could have recounted the efforts made in and to keep the state in the union against the movements of the secessionists, and the communications had with president lincoln by relays of riders over the plains. i could have described the commencement, progress, and completion of the pacific railroad, and the wonderful energy and unfailing resolution of its constructors. i could have told you stories without number, full of interest, of the judges of california, state and federal, who preceded me on the bench, and of members of the profession; of hastings, bennett, lyons, wells, anderson, heydenfeldt, and murray, of the state supreme court; of hoffman and mcallister of the federal bench; of robinson, crittenden, randolph, williams, yale, mcconnell, felton, and others of the bar, now dead, and of some who are at its head, now living; composing as a whole a bar not exceeded in ability, learning, eloquence, and literary culture by that of any other state of the union. but you asked me merely for personal reminiscences, of occurrences at marysville and during the days preceding my going there. i will, therefore, postpone until another occasion a narrative which i think will be more interesting than anything i have here related. [ ] these sketches were in the main dictated to a short-hand writer at the request of mr. theodore h. hittell, of san francisco. [ ] the letter is printed at the end of this narrative at page . the career of judge field on the supreme bench of california, by judge joseph g. baldwin, his associate for three years. [_from the sacramento union, of may , ._] "the resignation by judge field of the office of chief justice of the supreme court of california, to take effect on the th instant, has been announced. by this event the state has been deprived of the ablest jurist who ever presided over her courts. judge field came to california from new york in , and settled in marysville. he immediately commenced the practice of law and rose at once to a high position at the local bar, and upon the organization of the supreme court soon commanded a place in the first class of the counsel practicing in that forum. for many years, and until his promotion to the bench, his practice was as extensive, and probably as remunerative, as that of any lawyer in the state. he served one or two sessions in the legislature, and the state is indebted to him for very many of the laws which constitute the body of her legislation.[ ] in he was nominated for judge of the supreme court for a full term, and in october of the same year was appointed by governor johnson to fill the unexpired term of justice heydenfeldt, resigned. he immediately entered upon the office, and has continued ever since to discharge its duties. recently, as the reader knows, he was appointed, by the unanimous request of our delegation in congress, to a seat upon the bench of the supreme court of the united states, and was confirmed, without opposition, by the senate. "like most men who have risen to distinction in the united states, judge field commenced his career without the advantages of wealth, and he prosecuted it without the factitious aids of family influence or patronage. he had the advantage, however--which served him better than wealth or family influence--of an accomplished education, and careful study and mental discipline. he brought to the practice of his profession a mind stored with professional learning, and embellished with rare scholarly attainments. he was distinguished at the bar for his fidelity to his clients, for untiring industry, great care and accuracy in the preparation of his cases, uncommon legal acumen, and extraordinary solidity of judgment. as an adviser, no man had more the confidence of his clients, for he trusted nothing to chance or accident when certainty could be attained, and felt his way cautiously to his conclusions, which, once reached, rested upon sure foundations, and to which he clung with remarkable pertinacity. judges soon learned to repose confidence in his opinions, and he always gave them the strongest proofs of the weight justly due to his conclusions. "when he came to the bench, from various unavoidable causes the calendar was crowded with cases involving immense interests, the most important questions, and various and peculiar litigation. california was then, as now, in the development of her multiform physical resources. the judges were as much pioneers of law as the people of settlement. to be sure something had been done, but much had yet to be accomplished; and something, too, had to be undone of that which had been done in the feverish and anomalous period that had preceded. it is safe to say that, even in the experience of new countries hastily settled by heterogeneous crowds of strangers from all countries, no such example of legal or judicial difficulties was ever before presented as has been illustrated in the history of california. there was no general or common source of jurisprudence. law was to be administered almost without a standard. there was the civil law, as adulterated or modified by mexican provincialism, usages, and habitudes, for a great part of the litigation; and there was the common law for another part, but _what that was_ was to be decided from the conflicting decisions of any number of courts in america and england, and the various and diverse considerations of policy arising from local and other facts. and then, contracts made elsewhere, and some of them in semi-civilized countries, had to be interpreted here. besides all which may be added that large and important interests peculiar to the state existed--mines, ditches, etc.--for which the courts were compelled to frame the law, and make a system out of what was little better than chaos. "when, in addition, it is considered that an unprecedented number of contracts, and an amount of business without parallel, had been made and done in hot haste, with the utmost carelessness; that legislation was accomplished in the same way, and presented the crudest and most incongruous materials for construction; that the whole scheme and organization of the government, and the relation of the departments to each other, had to be adjusted by judicial construction--it may well be conceived what task even the ablest jurist would take upon himself when he assumed this office. it is no small compliment to say that judge field entered upon the duties of this great trust with his usual zeal and energy, and that he leaves the office not only with greatly increased reputation, but that he has raised the character of the jurisprudence of the state. he has more than any other man given tone, consistency, and system to our judicature, and laid broad and deep the foundation of our civil and criminal law. the land titles of the state--the most important and permanent of the interests of a great commonwealth--have received from his hand their permanent protection, and this alone should entitle him to the lasting gratitude of the bar and the people. "his opinions, whether for their learning, logic, or diction, will compare favorably, in the judgment of some of our best lawyers, with those of any judge upon the supreme bench of the union. it is true what he has accomplished has been done with labor; but this is so much more to his praise, for such work was not to be hastily done, and it was proper that the time spent in perfecting the work should bear some little proportion to the time it should last. we know it has been said of judge field that he is too much of a 'case lawyer,' and not sufficiently broad and comprehensive in his views. this criticism is not just. it is true he is reverent of authority, and likes to be sustained by precedent; but an examination of his opinions will show that, so far from being a timid copyist, or the passive slave of authority, his rulings rest upon clearly defined principles and strong common sense. "he retires from office without a stain upon his ermine. millions might have been amassed by venality. he retires as poor as when he entered, owing nothing and owning little, except the title to the respect of good men, which malignant mendacity cannot wrest from a public officer who has deserved, by a long and useful career, the grateful appreciation of his fellow-citizens. we think that we may safely predict that, in his new place, justice field will fulfill the sanguine expectations of his friends." j.g.b. san francisco, _may , _. [ ] he was in the legislature only one session. * * * * * in a circuit court for california was created by congress, and clothed with the ordinary jurisdiction of the several circuit courts of the united states. hon. m. hall mcallister was appointed its judge. in january, , he resigned and my appointment as his successor was recommended by our senators. they telegraphed me what they had done, and i replied that i could not accept the place, that i preferred to remain chief justice of the supreme court of the state than to be a judge of an inferior federal court, but that if a new justice were added to the supreme court of the united states, i would accept the office if tendered to me. notwithstanding this reply my appointment was urged, and i was nominated by the president. the senators have since told me that they pressed my nomination from a belief that another justice would soon be added to the supreme court, and that the appointment would be made from the pacific states, and that if i were circuit judge it would more likely be tendered to me than to any one else. the interests of those states were so great, and from the character of their land titles, and their mines of gold and silver, were in some respects so different from those of the eastern states, that it was deemed important to have some one familiar with them on the supreme bench of the united states. accordingly, while my nomination for circuit judge was pending before the senate, a bill providing for an additional justice of the supreme court, and making the pacific states a new circuit, was introduced into both houses of congress, and on the last day of the session, march d, , it became a law. soon after the adjournment of congress, the entire delegation from the pacific states united in recommending my appointment to the new office. the delegation then consisted of four senators and four members of the house, of whom five were democrats and three republicans; all of them were union men. i was accordingly nominated by the president, and the nomination was unanimously confirmed by the senate. my commission was signed on the th of march, , and forwarded to me. i did not, however, take the oath of office and enter upon its duties until the th of may following. at the time i received the commission there were many important cases pending in the supreme court of california, which had been argued when only myself and one of the associate justices were present. i thought that these cases should be disposed of before i resigned, as otherwise a re-argument of them would be required, imposing increased expense and delay upon the parties. i therefore sent my resignation as chief justice to the governor, to take effect on the th of may. i selected that day, as i believed the cases argued could be decided by that time, and because it was the birthday of my father. i thought it would be gratifying to him to know that on the eighty-second anniversary of his birth his son had become a justice of the supreme court of the united states. accordingly on that day i took the oath of office.[ ] [ ] although i had informed the attorney-general of my action and delay in taking the oath of office, the salary of the office was sent to me from the date of my commission, march th, . i immediately deposited with the sub-treasurer at san francisco, to the credit of the united states, the proportion for the time between that date and the th of may, and informed the secretary of the treasury of the deposit, enclosing to him the sub-treasurer's receipt. * * * * * the annoyances of my judicial life. after the narrative of my personal reminiscences was completed, i concluded to dictate an account of some strange annoyances to which i had been subjected in the course of my judicial life. the account will have an interest to those of my friends for whom the reminiscences were printed, and it is intended for their perusal alone. rosy views of judicial life gradually vanishing.--unsettled land titles of the state.--asserted ownership by the state of gold and silver found in the soil.--present of a torpedo. when i went on the bench, i not only entertained elevated notions of the dignity and importance of the judicial office, but looked forward confidently to the respect and honor of the community from a faithful discharge of its duties. i soon discovered, however, that there would be but little appreciation for conscientious labor on the bench, except from a small number of the legal profession, until after the lapse of years. for the heavy hours of toil which the judges endured, for the long examination which they gave to voluminous records, for their nights of sleeplessness passed in anxious thought to ascertain what was true and right amidst a mass of conflicting evidence and doubtful principles, the public at large appeared to have little thought and less consideration. the cry of disappointment over frustrated schemes of cupidity and fraud was sufficient for the time to drown all other expressions of judgment upon the action of the court. the unsettled condition of the land titles of the state gave occasion to a great deal of litigation and was for a long time the cause of much bad feeling towards the judges who essayed to administer impartial justice. when california was acquired, the population was small and widely scattered. to encourage colonization, grants of land in large quantities, varying from one to eleven leagues, had been made to settlers by the mexican government. only small tracts were subjected to cultivation. the greater part of the land was used for grazing cattle, which were kept in immense herds. the grants were sometimes of tracts with defined boundaries, and sometimes of places by name, but more frequently of specified quantities within boundaries embracing a greater amount. by the mexican law, it was incumbent upon the magistrates of the vicinage to put the grantees in possession of the land granted to them; and for that purpose to measure off and segregate the quantity designated. owing to the sparseness of the population there was little danger of dispute as to boundaries, and this segregation in the majority of cases had been neglected before our acquisition of the country. from the size of the grants and the want of definite boundaries, arose nearly all the difficulties and complaints of the early settlers. upon the discovery of gold, immigrants from all parts of the world rushed into the country, increasing the population in one or two years from a few thousand to several hundred thousand. a large number crossed the plains from the western states, and many of them sought for farming lands upon which to settle. to them a grant of land, leagues in extent, seemed a monstrous wrong to which they could not be reconciled. the vagueness, also, in many instances, of the boundaries of the land claimed gave force and apparent reason to their objections. they accordingly settled upon what they found unenclosed or uncultivated, without much regard to the claims of the mexican grantees. if the land upon which they thus settled was within the tracts formerly occupied by the grantees with their herds, they denied the validity of grants so large in extent. if the boundaries designated enclosed a greater amount than that specified in the grants, they undertook to locate the supposed surplus. thus, if a grant were of three leagues within boundaries embracing four, the immigrant would undertake to appropriate to himself a portion of what he deemed the surplus; forgetting that other immigrants might do the same thing, each claiming that what he had taken was a portion of such surplus, until the grantee was deprived of his entire property. when i was brought to consider the questions to which this condition of things gave rise, i assumed at the outset that the obligations of the treaty with mexico were to be respected and enforced. this treaty had stipulated for the protection of all rights of property of the citizens of the ceded country; and that stipulation embraced inchoate and equitable rights, as well as those which were perfect. it was not for the supreme court of california to question the wisdom or policy of mexico in making grants of such large portions of her domain, or of the united states in stipulating for their protection. i felt the force of what judge grier had expressed in his opinion in the case of the united states vs. sutherland, in the th of howard, that the rhetoric which denounced the grants as enormous monopolies and princedoms might have a just influence when urged to those who had a right to give or refuse; but as the united states had bound themselves by a treaty to acknowledge and protect all _bona fide_ titles granted by the previous government, the court had no discretion to enlarge or contract such grants to suit its own sense of propriety or to defeat just claims, however extensive, by stringent technical rules of construction to which they were not originally subjected. since then, while sitting on the bench of the supreme court of the united states, i have heard this obligation of our government to protect the rights of mexican grantees stated in the brilliant and powerful language of judge black. in the fossat case, referring to the land claimed by one justo larios, a mexican grantee, he said: "the land we are claiming never belonged to this government. it was private property under a grant made long before our war with mexico. when the treaty of guadalupe hidalgo came to be ratified--at the very moment when mexico was feeling the sorest pressure that could be applied to her by the force of our armies, and the diplomacy of our statesmen--she utterly refused to cede her public property in california unless upon the express condition that all private titles should be faithfully protected. we made the promise. the gentleman sits on this bench who was then our minister there.[ ] with his own right hand he pledged the sacred honor of this nation that the united states would stand over the grantees of mexico and keep them safe in the enjoyment of their property. the pledge was not only that the government itself would abstain from all disturbance of them, but that every blow aimed at their rights, come from what quarter it might, should be caught upon the broad shield of our blessed constitution and our equal laws." "it was by this assurance thus solemnly given that we won the reluctant consent of mexico to part with california. it gave us a domain of more than imperial grandeur. besides the vast extent of that country, it has natural advantages such as no other can boast. its valleys teem with unbounded fertility, and its mountains are filled with inexhaustible treasures of mineral wealth. the navigable rivers run hundreds of miles into the interior, and the coast is indented with the most capacious harbors in the world. the climate is more healthful than any other on the globe: men can labor longer with less fatigue. the vegetation is more vigorous and the products more abundant; the face of the earth is more varied, and the sky bends over it with a lovelier blue.--that was what we gained by the promise to protect men in the situation of justo larios, their children, their alienees, and others claiming through them. it is impossible that in this nation they will ever be plundered in the face of such a pledge."--( wallace, .) actuated by this principle--that fidelity to a nation's pledge is a sacred duty, and that justice is the highest interest of the country, i endeavored, whenever the occasion presented itself, and my associates heartily co-operated with me, to protect the mexican grantees. their grants contained a stipulation for the possession of the lands granted, inasmuch as they were subject to the conditions of cultivation and occupancy, and a failure to comply with the conditions was considered by the tribunals of the united states as a most material circumstance in the determination of the right of the grantees to a confirmation of their claims. i held, therefore, with the concurrence of my associates, that the grantees, whether they were to be considered as having a legal or an equitable right to the lands, were entitled to their possession until the action of the government upon their claims, and, therefore, that they could recover in ejectment. and when the grant was not a mere float, but was of land within defined boundaries, which embraced a greater quantity than that specified in it, with a provision that the surplus should be measured off by the government, i held that until such measurement the grantee could hold the whole as against intruders, and until then he was a tenant in common with the government. as i said in one of my opinions, speaking for the court, until such measurement no individual could complain, much less could he be permitted to determine in advance, that any particular locality would fall within the supposed surplus, and thereby justify its forcible seizure and detention by himself. "if one person could in this way appropriate a particular parcel to himself, all persons could do so; and thus the grantee, who is the donee of the government, would be stripped of its bounty for the benefit of those who were not in its contemplation and were never intended to be the recipients of its favors."[ ] these views have since met with general assent in california and have been approved by the supreme court of the united states.[ ] but at that time they gave great offence to a large class, and the judges were denounced in unmeasured terms as acting in the interests of monopolists and land-grabbers. even now, when the wisdom and justice of their action are seen and generally recognized, words of censure for it are occasionally whispered through the press. persons sometimes seem to forget that to keep the plighted faith of the nation, to preserve from reproach its fair fame, where its honor is engaged, is one of the highest duties of all men in public life. the action of the court as to the possession of the public lands of the united states met with more favor. the position of the people of california with respect to the public lands was unprecedented. the discovery of gold brought, as already stated, an immense immigration to the country. the slopes of the sierra nevada were traversed by many of the immigrants in search of the precious metals, and by others the tillable land was occupied for agricultural purposes. the title was in the united states, and there had been no legislation by which it could be acquired. conflicting possessory claims naturally arose, and the question was presented as to the law applicable to them. as i have mentioned in my narrative of reminiscences, the legislature in had provided that in suits before magistrates for mining claims, evidence of the customs, usages, and regulations of miners in their vicinage should be admissible, and, when not in conflict with the constitution and laws of the united states, should govern their decision, and that the principle thus approved was soon applied in actions for mining claims in all courts. in those cases it was considered that the first possessor or appropriator of the claim had the better right as against all parties except the government, and that he, and persons claiming under him, were entitled to protection. this principle received the entire concurrence of my associates, and was applied by us, in its fullest extent, for the protection of all possessory rights on the public lands. thus, in coryell vs. cain, i said, speaking for the court: "it is undoubtedly true, as a general rule, that the claimant in ejectment must recover upon the strength of his own title, and not upon the weakness of his adversary's, and that it is a sufficient answer to his action to show title out of him and in a third party. but this general rule has, in this state, from the anomalous condition of things arising from the peculiar character of the mining and landed interests of the country, been, to a certain extent, qualified and limited. the larger portion of the mining lands within the state belong to the united states, and yet that fact has never been considered as a sufficient answer to the prosecution of actions for the recovery of portions of such lands. actions for the possession of mining claims, water privileges, and the like, situated upon the public lands, are matters of daily occurrence, and if the proof of the paramount title of the government would operate to defeat them, confusion and ruin would be the result. in determining controversies between parties thus situated, this court proceeds upon the presumption of a grant from the government to the first appropriator of mines, water privileges, and the like. this presumption, which would have no place for consideration as against the assertion of the rights of the superior proprietor, is held absolute in all those controversies. and with the public lands which are not mineral lands, the title, as between citizens of the state, where neither connects himself with the government, is considered as vested in the first possessor, and to proceed from him."--( cal., p. .) the difficulties attendant upon any attempt to give security to landed possessions in the state, arising from the circumstances i have narrated, were increased by an opinion, which for some time prevailed, that the precious metals, gold and silver, found in various parts of the country, whether in public or private lands, belonged to the state by virtue of her sovereignty. to this opinion a decision of the supreme court of the state, made in , gave great potency. in hicks vs. bell, decided that year, the court came to that conclusion, relying upon certain decisions of the courts of england recognizing the right of the crown to those metals. the principal case on the subject was that of the queen vs. the earl of northumberland, reported in plowden. the counsel of the queen in that case gave, according to our present notions, some very fanciful reasons for the conclusion reached, though none were stated in the judgment of the court. there were three reasons, said the counsel, why the king should have the mines and ores of gold and silver within the realm, in whatsoever land they were found: "the first was, in respect to the excellency of the thing, for of all things which the soil within this realm produces or yields, gold and silver are the most excellent, and of all persons in the realm, the king is, in the eye of the law, most excellent. and the common law, which is founded upon reason, appropriates everything to the person whom it best suits, as common and trivial things to the common people, things of more worth to persons in a higher and superior class, and things most excellent to those persons who excel all others; and because gold and silver are the most excellent things which the soil contains, the law has appointed them (as in reason it ought) to the person who is most excellent, and that is the king.--the second reason was, in respect of the necessity of the thing. for the king is the head of the weal-public and the subjects are his members; and the office of the king, to which the law has appointed him, is to preserve his subjects; and their preservation consisted in two things, viz., in an army to defend them against hostilities, and in good laws. and an army cannot be had and maintained without treasure, for which reason some authors, in their books, call treasure the sinews of war; and, therefore, inasmuch as god has created mines within this realm, as a natural provision of treasure for the defence of the realm, it is reasonable that he who has the government and care of the people, whom he cannot defend without treasure, should have the treasure wherewith to defend them.--the third reason was, in respect of its convenience to the subjects in the way of mutual commerce and traffic. for the subjects of the realm must, of necessity, have intercourse or dealing with one another, for no individual is furnished with all necessary commodities, but one has need of the things which another has, and they cannot sell or buy together without coin.--and if the subject should have it (the ore of gold or silver) the law would not permit him to coin it, nor put a print or value upon it, for it belongs to the king only to fix the value of coin, and to ascertain the price of the quantity, and to put the print upon it, which being done, the coin becomes current for so much as the king has limited.--so that the body of the realm would receive no benefit or advantage if the subject should have the gold and silver found in mines in his land; but on the other hand, by appropriating it to the king, it tends to the universal benefit of all the subjects in making their king able to defend them with an army against all hostilities, and when he has put the print and value upon it, and has dispersed it among his subjects, they are thereby enabled to carry on mutual commerce with one another, and to buy and sell as they have occasion, and to traffic at their pleasure. therefore, for these reasons, viz., for the excellency of the thing, and for the necessity of it, and the convenience that will accrue to the subjects, the common law, which is no other than pure and tried reason, has appropriated the ore of gold and silver to the king, in whatever land it be found." the supreme court of the state, without considering the reasons thus assigned in the case in plowden, adopted its conclusion; and as the gold and silver in the british realm are there held to belong to the crown, it was concluded, on the hypothesis that the united states have no municipal sovereignty within the limits of the state, that they must belong in this country to the state. the state, therefore, said the court, "has solely the right to authorize them" (the mines of gold and silver) "to be worked; to pass laws for their regulation; to license miners; and to affix such terms and conditions as she may deem proper to the freedom of their use. in the legislation upon this subject she has established the policy of permitting all who desire it to work her mines of gold and silver, with or without conditions, and she has wisely provided that their conflicting claims shall be adjudicated by the rules and customs which may be established by bodies of them working in the same vicinity."--( cal., .) the miners soon grasped the full scope of this decision, and the lands of private proprietors were accordingly invaded for the purpose of mining as freely as the public lands. it was the policy of the state to encourage the development of the mines, and no greater latitude in exploration could be desired than was thus sanctioned by the highest tribunal of the state. it was not long, however, before a cry came up from private proprietors against the invasion of their possessions which the decision had permitted; and the court was compelled to put some limitation upon the enjoyment by the citizen of this right of the state. accordingly, within two years afterwards, in stoakes vs. barrett, ( cal., ,) it held that although the state was the owner of the gold and silver found in the lands of private individuals as well as in the public lands, "yet to authorize an invasion of private property in order to enjoy a public franchise would require more specific legislation than any yet resorted to." the spirit to invade other people's lands, to which the original decision gave increased force against the intention of its authors, could not be as easily repressed as it was raised in the crowd of adventurers, who filled the mining regions. accordingly, long before i went on the bench, the right to dig for the precious metals on the lands of private individuals was stoutly asserted under an assumed license of the state. and afterwards, in the case of biddle boggs vs. the merced mining co., which came before the court in , where the plaintiff claimed under a patent of the united states, issued upon the confirmation of a mexican grant, the existence of this license was earnestly maintained by parties having no connection with the government, nor any claim of title to the land. its existence was, however, repudiated by the court, and speaking for it in that case i said: "there is gold in limited quantities scattered through large and valuable districts, where the land is held in private proprietorship, and under this pretended license the whole might be invaded, and, for all useful purposes, destroyed, no matter how little remunerative the product of the mining. the entry might be made at all seasons, whether the land was under cultivation or not, and without reference to its condition, whether covered with orchards, vineyards, gardens, or otherwise. under such a state of things, the proprietor would never be secure in his possessions, and without security there would be little development, for the incentive to improvement would be wanting. what value would there be to a title in one man, with a right of invasion in the whole world? and what property would the owner possess in mineral land--the same being in fact to him poor and valueless just in proportion to the actual richness and abundance of its products? there is something shocking to all our ideas of the rights of property in the proposition that one man may invade the possessions of another, dig up his fields and gardens, cut down his timber, and occupy his land, under the pretence that he has reason to believe there is gold under the surface, or if existing, that he wishes to extract and remove it." at a later day the court took up the doctrine, that the precious metals belonged to the state by virtue of her sovereignty, and exploded it. the question arose in moore vs. smaw, reported in th california, and in disposing of it, speaking for the court, i said: "it is undoubtedly true that the united states held certain rights of sovereignty over the territory which is now embraced within the limits of california, only in trust for the future state, and that such rights at once vested in the new state upon her admission into the union. but the ownership of the precious metals found in public or private lands was not one of those rights. such ownership stands in no different relation to the sovereignty of a state than that of any other property which is the subject of barter and sale. sovereignty is a term used to express the supreme political authority of an independent state or nation. whatever rights are essential to the existence of this authority are rights of sovereignty. thus the right to declare war, to make treaties of peace, to levy taxes, to take private property for public uses, termed the right of eminent domain, are all rights of sovereignty, for they are rights essential to the existence of supreme political authority. in this country, this authority is vested in the people, and is exercised through the joint action of their federal and state governments. to the federal government is delegated the exercise of certain rights or powers of sovereignty; and with respect to sovereignty, rights and powers are synonymous terms; and the exercise of all other rights of sovereignty, except as expressly prohibited, is reserved to the people of the respective states, or vested by them in their local governments. when we say, therefore, that a state of the union is sovereign, we only mean that she possesses supreme political authority, except as to those matters over which such authority is delegated to the federal government, or prohibited to the states; in other words, that she possesses all the rights and powers essential to the existence of an independent political organization, except as they are withdrawn by the provisions of the constitution of the united states. to the existence of this political authority of the state--this qualified sovereignty, or to any part of it--the ownership of the minerals of gold and silver found within her limits is in no way essential. the minerals do not differ from the great mass of property, the ownership of which may be in the united states, or in individuals, without affecting in any respect the political jurisdiction of the state. they may be acquired by the state, as any other property may be, but when thus acquired she will hold them in the same manner that individual proprietors hold their property, and by the same right; by the right of ownership, and not by any right of sovereignty." and referring to the argument of counsel in the case in plowden, i said that it would be a waste of time to show that the reasons there advanced in support of the right of the crown to the mines could not avail to sustain any ownership of the state in them. the state takes no property by reason of "the excellency of the thing," and taxation furnishes all requisite means for the expenses of government. the convenience of citizens in commercial transactions is undoubtedly promoted by a supply of coin, and the right of coinage appertains to sovereignty. but the exercise of this right does not require the ownership of the precious metals by the state, nor by the federal government, where this right is lodged under our system, as the experience of every day demonstrates. i also held that, although under the mexican law the gold and silver found in land did not pass with a grant of the land, a different result followed, under the common law, when a conveyance of land was made by an individual or by the government. by such conveyance everything passed in any way connected with the land, forming a portion of its soil or fixed to its surface. the doctrine of the right of the state by virtue of her sovereignty to the mines of gold and silver perished with this decision. it was never afterwards seriously asserted. but for holding what now seems so obvious, the judges were then grossly maligned as acting in the interest of monopolists and land owners, to the injury of the laboring class. the decisions, however, which caused for the time the greatest irritation, and excited the bitterest denunciation of the judges, related to the titles to land in the city of san francisco, though in the end they proved to be of incalculable benefit. upon the acquisition of california, there was a mexican pueblo upon the site of the city. the term _pueblo_ is aptly translated by the english word _town_. it has all the vagueness of that term, and is equally applicable to a settlement of a few individuals at a particular place, or to a regularly organized municipality. the _pueblo_ of san francisco was composed of a small population; but, as early as , it was of sufficient importance to have an _ayuntamiento_ or town council, composed of alcaldes and other officers, for its government. at the time of our acquisition of the country it was under the government of alcaldes or justices of the peace. by the laws of mexico, then in force, _pueblos_ or towns, when once officially recognized as such by the appointment of municipal magistrates, became entitled to four square leagues of land, to be measured off and assigned to them by the officers of the government. under these laws the city of san francisco, as successor of the mexican pueblo, asserted a claim to such lands, to be measured off from the northern portion of the peninsula upon which the city is situated. and the alcaldes, assuming an authority similar to that possessed by _alcaldes_ in other _pueblos_, exercised the power of distributing these municipal lands in small parcels to settlers for building, cultivation, and other uses. when the forces of the united states took possession of the city, the alcaldes, holding under the mexican government, were superseded by persons appointed by our military or naval officers having command of the place. with the increase of population which followed the discovery of gold, these magistrates were besieged by applicants for grants of land; and it was refreshing to see with what generous liberality they disposed of lots in the city--a liberality not infrequent when exercised with reference to other people's property. lots, varying in size from fifty to one hundred varas square, (a measure nearly equal to our yard,) were given away as freely as they were asked, only a small fee to meet necessary charges for preparing and recording the transfers being demanded. thus, for the lot occupied by the lick house, and worth now nearly a million, only a few dollars, less i believe than twenty, were paid. and for the lot covered by the grand hotel, admitted to be now worth half a million, less than thirty-five dollars were paid. the authority of the alcaldes to dispose of the lands was questioned by many of the new immigrants, and the validity of their grants denied. they asserted that the land was part of the public property of the united states. many holding these views gave evidence of the earnestness of their convictions by immediately appropriating to themselves as much vacant land in the city as they could conveniently occupy. disputes followed, as a matter of course, between claimants under the alcalde grants and those holding as settlers, which often gave rise to long and bitter litigation. the whole community was in fact divided between those who asserted the existence of a _pueblo_ having a right to the lands mentioned, and the power of the alcaldes to make grants of them; and those who insisted that the land belonged to the united states. early in , after the state government was organized, the legislature incorporated the city of san francisco; and, as is usual with municipal bodies not restrained by the most stringent provisions, it contracted more debts than its means warranted, and did not always make provision for their payment at maturity. numerous suits, therefore, were instituted and judgments were recovered against the city. executions followed, which were levied upon the lands claimed by her as successor of the _pueblo_. where the occupants denied the title of the city, they were generally indifferent to the sales by the sheriff. property of immense value, in some cases many acres in extent, was, in consequence, often struck off to bidders at a merely nominal price. upon the deeds of the officer, suits in ejectment were instituted in great numbers; and thus questions as to the existence of the alleged _pueblo_, and whether, if existing, it had any right to land, and the nature of such right, if any, were brought before the lower courts; and, finally, in a test case--hart vs. burnett--they found their way to the supreme court of the state. in the meantime a large number of persons had become interested in these sales, aside from the occupants of the land, and the greatest anxiety was manifested as to the decision of the court. previous decisions on the questions involved were not consistent; nor had they met the entire approval of the profession, although, the opinion prevailed generally that a mexican pueblo of some kind, owning or having an interest in lands, had existed on the site of the city upon the acquisition of the country, and that such lands, like other property of the city not used for public purposes, were vendible on execution. in , after the sale in respect to which the test case was made, the council of the city passed "the van ness ordinance," so called from the name of its author, the object of which was to settle and quiet, as far as practicable, the title of persons occupying land in the city. it relinquished and granted the right and interest of the city to lands within its corporate limits, as defined by the charter of , with certain exceptions, to parties in the actual possession thereof, by themselves or tenants, on or before the first of january, , if the possession were continued to the time of the introduction of the ordinance into the common council in june of that year; or, if interrupted by an intruder or trespasser, it had been or might be recovered by legal process. and it declared that, for the purposes of the act, all persons should be deemed in possession who held titles to land within the limits mentioned, by virtue of a grant made by the authorities of the pueblo, including alcaldes among them, before the th of july, ,--the day when the jurisdiction over the country is deemed to have passed from mexico to the united states,--or by virtue of a grant subsequently made by those authorities, if the grant, or a material portion of it, had been entered in a proper book of record deposited in the office or custody of the recorder of the county of san francisco on or before april d, . this ordinance was approved by an act of the legislature of the state in march, , and the benefit of it and of the confirmatory act was claimed by the defendant in the test case. that case was most elaborately argued by able and learned counsel. the whole law of mexico respecting _pueblos_, their powers, rights, and property, and whether, if possessing property, it was subject to forced sale, the effect upon such land of the change of sovereignty to the united states, the powers of alcaldes in disposing of the property of these municipalities, the effect of the van ness ordinance, and the confirmatory act of the legislature, were all discussed with a fullness and learning which left nothing unexplained or to be added. for weeks afterwards the judges gave the most laborious attention to the questions presented, and considered every point and the argument on both sides of it with anxious and painful solicitude to reach a just conclusion. the opinion of the court, prepared by mr. justice baldwin, is without precedent for the exhaustive learning and research it exhibits upon the points discussed. the court held, among other things, that, at the date of the conquest and cession of the country, san francisco was a pueblo, having the rights which the law of mexico conferred upon such municipal organizations; that as such pueblo it had proprietary rights to certain lands, which were held in trust for the public use of the city, and were not subject to seizure and sale under execution; that such portions as were not set apart for common use or special purposes could be granted in lots to private persons by its ayuntamiento or by alcaldes or other officers who represented or had succeeded to its powers; that the lands, and the trusts upon which they were held, were public and municipal in their nature, and since the organization of the state were under its control and supervision; that the act of the legislature confirming the van ness ordinance was a proper exercise of the power of the state, and vested in the possessors therein described, as against the city and state, a title to the lands mentioned; and that the city held the lands of the pueblo, not legally disposed of by its officers, unaffected by sheriff's sales under executions against her. this decision was of the greatest importance both to the city and the occupants of land within its limits. the van ness ordinance had reserved from grant for the uses of the city all the lots which it then occupied or had set apart for public squares, streets, sites for school-houses, city hall and other buildings belonging to the corporation, and also such other lots as it might subsequently select for public purposes within certain designated limits. all these were by the decision at once released from any possible claim by virtue of sales on executions. all persons occupying lands not thus reserved were by the decision quieted in their possession, so far as any claim of the city or state could be urged against them. property to the value of many millions was thereby rescued from the spoiler and speculator, and secured to the city or settler. peace was given to thousands of homes. yet for this just and most beneficent judgment there went up from a multitude, who had become interested in the sales, a fierce howl of rage and hate. attacks full of venom were made upon judge baldwin and myself, who had agreed to the decision. no epithets were too vile to be applied to us; no imputations were too gross to be cast at us. the press poured out curses upon our heads. anonymous circulars filled with falsehoods, which malignity alone could invent, were spread broadcast throughout the city, and letters threatening assassination in the streets or by-ways were sent to us through the mail. the violence of the storm, however, was too great to last. gradually it subsided and reason began to assert its sway. other words than those of reproach were uttered; and it was not many months before the general sentiment of the people of the city was with the decision. a year did not elapse before the great good it had conferred upon the city and settler was seen and appreciated. since then its doctrines have been repeatedly re-affirmed. they have been approved by the supreme court of the united states; and now no one doubts their soundness. after that decision there was still wanting for the complete settlement of titles in the city the confirmation by the tribunals of the united states of her claim to the lands. the act of congress of march d, , creating the board of land commissioners, provided that all claims to land in california, by virtue of any right or title derived from the spanish or mexican government, should be presented to the board for examination and adjudication. accordingly, the city of san francisco, soon after the organization of the board, in , presented her claim for four square leagues as successor of the _pueblo_, and asked for its confirmation. in december, , the board confirmed the claim for a portion of the four square leagues, but not for the whole; the portion confirmed being embraced within the charter limits of . the city was dissatisfied with this limitation, and appealed from the decision of the commissioners to the district court of the united states. an appeal was also taken by the united states, but was subsequently withdrawn. the case remained in the district court without being disposed of until september, , nearly ten years, when, under the authority of an act of congress of july st of that year, it was transferred to the circuit court of the united states. whilst the case was pending in the district court, the population of the city had increased more than four-fold; and improvements of a costly character had been made in all parts of it. the magnitude of the interests which had thus grown up demanded that the title to the land upon which the city rested should be in some way definitely settled. to expedite this settlement, as well as the settlement of titles generally in the state, was the object of the act of july st, . its object is so stated in its title. it was introduced by senator conness, of california, who was alive to everything that could tend to advance the interests of the state. he felt that nothing would promote its peace and prosperity more than giving security to its land titles, and he labored earnestly to bring about that result. in framing the act, he consulted me, and at my suggestion introduced sections four, five, and seven, which i drafted and gave to him, but without the exception and proviso to the fifth section, which were added at the request of the commissioner of the land office.[ ] the fourth section authorized the district court to transfer to the circuit court cases pending before it arising under the act of march d, , affecting the title to lands within the corporate limits of a city or town, and provided that in such cases both the district and circuit judges might sit. by the fifth section, all the right and title of the united states to the land within the corporate limits of the city, as defined by its charter of , were relinquished and granted to the city and its successors for the uses and purposes specified in the van ness ordinance. the exceptions incorporated at the suggestion of the commissioner of the land office related to parcels of land previously or then occupied by the united states for military, naval, or other public purposes, and such other parcels as might be subsequently designated for such purposes by the president within one year after the return to the land office of an approved plat of the exterior limits of the city. the holders of grants from the authorities of the _pueblo_ and the occupants of land within the limits of the charter of were thus quieted in their possessions. but as the claim of the city was for a much greater quantity, the case for its confirmation was still prosecuted. under the fourth section it was transferred to the circuit court, as already stated; and it was soon afterwards brought to a hearing. on the th of october, , it was decided. for some reason i do not now recall, the district judge was unable to sit with me, and the case was, therefore, heard before me alone. i held that a pueblo of some kind existed at the site of the present city of san francisco upon the cession of the country; that as such it was entitled to the possession of certain lands to the extent of four square leagues; and that the present city had succeeded to such rights, following, in these particulars, the decision which had previously been made in the case of hart vs. burnett, by the supreme court of the state, in which i had participated. i accordingly decided that the city was entitled to have her claim confirmed to four square leagues of land, subject to certain reservations. but i also added that the lands to which she was entitled had not been given to her by the laws of the former government in absolute property with full right of disposition and alienation, but to be held in trust for the benefit of the whole community, with such powers of use, disposition, and alienation as had been or might thenceforth be conferred upon her or her officers for the execution of the trust. the trust character of the city's title was expressed in the decree of confirmation. the decision was rendered on the th of october, , as stated, and a decree was soon afterwards entered; but as a motion was made for a re-hearing, the control over it was retained by the circuit court until may of the following year. upon the suggestion of counsel, it was then modified in some slight particulars so as to limit the confirmation to land above ordinary high water mark, as it existed at the date of the acquisition of the country, namely, the th of july, . on the th of may, , the decree was finally settled and entered. appeals from it were prosecuted to the supreme court both by the united states and by the city; by the united states from the whole decree, and by the city from so much of it as included certain reservations in the estimate of the quantity of land confirmed. in october following i proceeded as usual to washington to attend the then approaching term of the supreme court, and thought no more of the case until my attention was called to it by a most extraordinary circumstance. just before leaving san francisco mr. rulofson, a photographer of note, requested me to sit for a photograph, expressing a desire to add it to his gallery. i consented, and a photograph of a large size was taken. as i was leaving his rooms he observed that he intended to make some pictures of a small size from it, and would send me a few copies. on the morning of the th of january following ( ), at washington, mr. delos lake, a lawyer of distinction in california, at one time a district judge of the state, and then district attorney of the united states, joined me, remarking, as he did so, that the arrival of the california steamer at new york had been telegraphed, and he hoped that i had received some letters for him, as he had directed his letters to be forwarded to my care. i replied that when i left my room my messenger had not brought my mail; but if he would accompany me there we would probably find it. accordingly, we proceeded to my room, where on the centre-table lay my mail from california, consisting of a large number of letters and papers. among them i noticed a small package about an inch and a half thick, three inches in breadth, and three and a half in length. it was addressed as follows, the words being printed: [illustration: per steamer. [three postage stamps.] hon. stephen j. field, washington, d.c.] it bore the stamp of the san francisco post-office upon the address. my name had evidently been cut from the california reports, but the words "washington, d.c.," and "per steamer," had been taken from a newspaper. the slips were pasted on the package. on the opposite side were the words in print: [illustration: from geo. h. johnson's pioneer gallery, and clay street, san francisco.] as i took up the package i remarked that this must come from rulofson;--no, i immediately added, rulofson has nothing to do with the pioneer gallery. it then occurred to me that it might be a present for my wife, recollecting at the moment that the mail came by the steamer which sailed from san francisco about christmas time. it may be, i said to myself, a christmas present for my wife. i will open it just far enough to see, and, if it be intended for her, i will close it and forward it to new york, where she was at the time. i accordingly tore off the covering and raised the lid just far enough to enable me to look inside. i was at once struck with the black appearance of the inside. "what is this, lake?" i said, addressing myself to my friend. judge lake looked over my shoulder into the box, as i held it in my hand, and at once exclaimed, "it is a torpedo. don't open it." i was startled by the suggestion, for the idea of a torpedo was the last thing in the world to occur to me. i immediately laid the package on the sill of the window, where it was subjected to a careful inspection by us both, so far as it could be made with the lid only an eighth of an inch open. soon afterwards judge lake took the package to the capitol, which was directly opposite to my rooms, and to the office of the clerk of the supreme court, and showed it to mr. broom, one of the deputies. they dipped the package into water and left it to soak for some minutes. they then took it into the carriage way under the steps leading to the senate chamber, and shielding themselves behind one of the columns threw the box against the wall. the blow broke the hinge of the lid and exposed the contents. a murderous contrivance it was;--a veritable infernal machine! twelve cartridges such as are used in a common pistol, about an inch in length, lay imbedded in a paste of some kind, covered with fulminating powder, and so connected with a bunch of friction matches, a strip of sand-paper, and a piece of linen attached to the lid, that on opening the box the matches would be ignited and the whole exploded. the package was sent to the war department, and the following report was returned, giving a detailed description of the machine: washington arsenal, _jan. , _. _gen. a.b. dyer, chief of ordnance, washington, d.c._ sir: agreeably to your instructions, i have examined the explosive machine sent to this arsenal yesterday. it is a small miniature case containing twelve copper cartridges, such as are used in a smith & wesson pocket pistol, a bundle of sensitive friction matches, a strip of sand-paper, and some fulminating powder. the cartridges and matches are imbedded in common glue to keep them in place. the strip of sand-paper lies upon the heads of the matches. one end has been thrown back, forming a loop, through which a bit of thread evidently passed to attach it to the lid of the case. this thread may be seen near the clasp of the lid, broken in two. there are two wire staples, under which the strip of sand-paper was intended to pass to produce the necessary pressure on the matches. the thread is so fixed that the strip of sand-paper could be secured to the lid after it was closed. the whole affair is so arranged that the opening of the lid would necessarily ignite the matches, were it not that the lower end of the strip has become imbedded in the glue, which prevents it from moving. that the burning of the matches may explode the cartridges, there is a hole in each case, and all are covered with mealed powder. one of the cartridges has been examined and found to contain ordinary grain powder. two of the cartridges were exploded in a closed box sent herewith. the effect of the explosion was an indentation on one side of the box. very respectfully, your obedient servant, j.g. benton, _major of ord. and bvt. col. comdg._ between the outside covering and the box there were two or three folds of tissue-paper--placed there, no doubt, to prevent the possibility of an explosion from the stamping at the post office, or the striking against other packages during the voyage from san francisco to new york. on the inside of the lid was pasted a slip cut from a san francisco paper, dated october st, , stating that on the day previous i had decided the case of the city against the united states, involving its claim to four square leagues of land, and giving the opening lines of my opinion. the secretary of war, mr. stanton, immediately telegraphed in cypher to general halleck, then in command in san francisco, to take active measures to find out, if possible, the person who made and sent the infernal machine. general halleck put the detectives of his department on the search. others employed detectives of the san francisco police--but all in vain. suspicions were excited as to the complicity of different parties, but they were never sustained by sufficient evidence to justify the arrest of any one. the instrument, after remaining in the hands of the detectives in san francisco for nearly two years, was returned to me and it is now in my possession.[ ] it has often been a matter of wonder to me how it was that some good angel whispered to me not to open the box. my impetuous temperament would naturally have led me to tear it open without delay. probably such hesitation in opening a package directed to me never before occurred, and probably never will again. who knows but that a mother's prayer for the protection of her son, breathed years before, was answered then? who can say that her spirit was not then hovering over him and whispering caution in his ear? that i should on that occasion have departed from my usual mode of action is strange--passing strange. * * * * * as already stated, the fifth section of the act of congress of july st, , which granted the interest of the united states to the lands within the charter limits of to the city and its successors, in trust for the benefit of possessors under the van ness ordinance, among other things provided for certain reservations to be subsequently made by the president, within one year after an approved plat showing the exterior limits of the city had been filed in the land office. no such map was filed nor were any reservations made. the case on appeal in the meantime was not reached in the supreme court, and was not likely to be for a long period. ascertaining from general halleck that the secretary of war would not recommend any further reservations to be made from the municipal lands, and that probably none would be made, i drew a bill to quiet the title of the city to all the lands embraced within the decree of confirmation, and gave it to senator conness, who being ready, as usual, to act for the interests of the city, immediately took charge of it and secured its passage in the senate. in the house mr. mcruer, member of congress from california, took charge of it, and with the assistance of the rest of the delegation from the state, procured its passage there. it was signed by the president and became a law on the th of march, . by it all the right and title of the united states to the land covered by the decree of the circuit court were relinquished and granted to the city, and the claim to the land was confirmed, subject, however, to certain reservations and exceptions; and upon trust that all the land not previously granted to the city, should be disposed of and conveyed by the city to the parties in the bona fide actual possession thereof, by themselves or tenants, on the passage of the act, in such quantities, and upon such terms and conditions, as the legislature of the state of california might prescribe, except such parcels thereof as might be reserved and set apart by ordinance of the city for public uses. not long afterwards both the appeals to the supreme court were dismissed by stipulation of parties. the litigation over the source of title to lands within the limits of the city, not disposed of by independent grants of the government previous to the acquisition of the country, was thus settled and closed. the title of the city rests, therefore, upon the decree of the circuit court entered on the th day of may, , and this confirmatory act of congress. it has been so adjudged by the supreme court of the united states.--(see townsend vs. greely, wall., ; grisar vs. mcdowell, wall., .) the title of the city being settled, the municipal authorities took measures, under the provisions of the confirmatory act, to set apart lands for school-houses, hospitals, court-house buildings, and other public purposes, and through their exertions, instigated and encouraged by mr. mccoppin, the accomplished and efficient mayor of the city at that time, the ocean park, which looks out upon the pacific ocean and the golden gate, and is destined to be one of the finest parks in the world, was set apart and secured to the city for all time. as the grounds thus taken were, in many instances, occupied by settlers, or had been purchased from them, an assessment was levied by the city and sanctioned by the legislature upon other lands conveyed to the occupants, as a condition of their receiving deeds from the city; and the money raised was applied to compensate those whose lands had been appropriated. [ ] mr. justice clifford. [ ] cornwall vs. culver, cal., . [ ] van reynegan vs. bolton, u.s., . [ ] see exhibit j, in appendix. [ ] see exhibit k, in appendix. hostility to the supreme court after the civil war.--the scofield resolution. the irritations and enmities created by the civil war did not end with the cessation of active hostilities. they were expressed whenever any acts of the military officers of the united states were called in question; or any legislation of the states or of congress in hostility to the insurgents was assailed; or the validity of the "reconstruction acts" was doubted. and they postponed that cordial reconciliation which all patriotic men earnestly desired. the insurrection was overthrown after a contest which, for its magnitude and the number and courage of the belligerents, was without a parallel in history. the immense loss of life and destruction of property caused by the contest, and the burden of the enormous debt created in its prosecution, left a bitterness in the hearts of the victors which it was difficult to remove. the assassination of mr. lincoln added intensity to the feeling. that act of a madman, who had conceived the idea that he might become in our history what brutus was in the history of rome, the destroyer of the enemy of his country, was ascribed to a conspiracy of leading confederates. the proclamation of the secretary of war, offering a reward for the arrest of parties charged with complicity in the act, gave support to this notion. the wildest stories, now known to have had no foundation, were circulated and obtained ready credence among the people of the north, already wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. they manifested, therefore, great impatience when a doubt was cast upon the propriety or validity of the acts of the government, or of its officers, which were taken for the suppression of the rebellion or "the reconstruction" of the states; and to question their validity was almost considered proof of hostility to the union. by those who considered the union indissoluble, except by the common consent of the people of the several states, the organization known as the confederate states could only be regarded as unlawful and rebellious, to be suppressed, if necessary, by force of arms. the constitution prohibits any treaty, alliance, or confederation by one state with another, and it declares on its face that it is the supreme law of the land. the confederate government, therefore, could only be treated by the united states as the military representative of the insurrection against their authority. belligerent rights were accorded to its armed forces in the conduct of the war, and they thus had the standing and rights of parties engaged in lawful warfare. but no further recognition was ever given to it, and when those forces were overthrown its whole fabric disappeared. but not so with the insurgent states which had composed the confederacy. they retained the same form of government and the same general system of laws, during and subsequent to the war, which they had possessed previously. their organizations as distinct political communities were not destroyed by the war, although their relations to the central authority were changed. and their acts, so far as they did not impair or tend to impair the supremacy of the general government, or the rights of citizens of the loyal states, were valid and binding. all the ordinary authority of government for the protection of rights of persons and property, the enforcement of contracts, the punishment of crime, and the due order of society, continued to be exercised by them as though no civil war had existed. there was, therefore, a general expectation throughout the country, upon the cessation of actual hostilities, that these states would be restored to their former relations in the union as soon as satisfactory evidence was furnished to the general government that resistance to its authority was overthrown and abandoned, and its laws were enforced and obeyed. some little time might elapse before this result would clearly appear. it was not expected that they would be immediately restored upon the defeat of the armies of the confederacy, nor that their public men, with the animosities of the struggle still alive, would at once be admitted into the councils of the nation, and allowed to participate in its government. but whenever it was satisfactorily established that there would be no renewal of the struggle and that the laws of the united states would be obeyed, it was generally believed that the restoration of the states would be an accomplished fact. president johnson saw in the institution of slavery the principal source of the irritation and ill-feeling between the north and the south, which had led to the war. he believed, therefore, that its abolition should be exacted, and that this would constitute a complete guaranty for the future. at that time the amendment for its abolition, which had passed the two houses of congress, was pending before the states for their action. he was of opinion, and so expressed himself in his first message to congress, that its ratification should be required of the insurgent states on resuming their places in the family of the union; that it was not too much, he said, to ask of them "to give this pledge of perpetual loyalty and peace." "until it is done," he added, "the past, however much we may desire it, will not be forgotten. the adoption of the amendment re-unites us beyond all power of disruption. it heals the wound that is still imperfectly closed; it removes slavery, the element which has so long perplexed and divided the country; it makes of us once more a united people, renewed and strengthened, bound more than ever to mutual affection and support." it would have been most fortunate for the country had this condition been deemed sufficient and been accepted as such. but the north was in no mood for a course so simple and just. its leaders clamored for more stringent measures, on the ground that they were needed for the protection of the freedmen, and the defeat of possible schemes for a new insurrection. it was not long, therefore, before a system of measures was adopted, which resulted in the establishment at the south of temporary governments, subject to military control, the offices of which were filled chiefly by men alien to the states and indifferent to their interests. the misrule and corruption which followed are matters of public history. it is no part of my purpose to speak of them. i wish merely to refer to the state of feeling existing upon the close of the civil war as introductory to what i have to say of the unfriendly disposition manifested at the north towards the supreme court and some of its members, myself in particular. acts of the military officers, and legislation of some of the states and of congress, during and immediately succeeding the war, were soon brought to the consideration of the court. its action thereon was watched by members of the republican party with manifest uneasiness and distrust. its decision in the dred scott case had greatly impaired their confidence in its wisdom and freedom from political influences. many of them looked upon that decision as precipitating the war upon the country, by the sanction it gave to efforts made to introduce slavery into the territories; and they did not hesitate to express their belief that the sympathies of a majority of the court were with the confederates. intimations to that effect were thrown out in some of the journals of the day, at first in guarded language, and afterwards more directly, until finally it came to be generally believed that it was the purpose of the court, if an opportunity offered, to declare invalid most of the legislation relating to the southern states which had been enacted during the war and immediately afterwards. nothing could have been more unjust and unfounded. many things, indeed, were done during the war, and more after its close, which could not be sustained by any just construction of the limitations of the constitution. it was to be expected that many things would be done in the heat of the contest which could not bear the examination of calmer times. mr. chief justice chase expressed this fact in felicitous language when speaking of his own change of views as to the validity of the provision of law making government notes a legal tender, he said: "it is not surprising that amid the tumult of the late civil war, and under the influence of apprehensions for the safety of the republic almost universal, different views, never before entertained by american statesmen or jurists, were adopted by many. the time was not favorable to considerate reflection upon the constitutional limits of legislative or executive authority. if power was assumed from patriotic motives, the assumption found ready justification in patriotic hearts. many who doubted yielded their doubts; many who did not doubt were silent. those who were strongly averse to making government notes a legal tender felt themselves constrained to acquiesce in the views of the advocates of the measure. not a few who then insisted upon its necessity, or acquiesced in that view, have, since the return of peace, and under the influence of the calmer time, reconsidered this conclusion, and now concur in those which we have just announced." similar language might be used with reference to other things done during the war and afterwards, besides making government notes a legal tender. the court and all its members appreciated the great difficulties and responsibilities of the government, both in the conduct of the war, and in effecting an early restoration of the states afterwards, and no disposition was manifested at any time to place unnecessary obstacles in its way. but when its measures and legislation were brought to the test of judicial judgment there was but one course to pursue, and that was to apply the law and the constitution as strictly as though no war had ever existed. the constitution was not one thing in war, and another in peace. it always spoke the same language, and was intended as a rule for all times and occasions. it recognized, indeed, the possibility of war, and, of course, that the rules of war had to be applied in its conduct in the field of military operations. the court never presumed to interfere there, but outside of that field, and with respect to persons not in the military service within states which adhered to the union, and after the war in all the states, the court could not hesitate to say that the constitution, with all its limitations upon the exercise of executive and legislative authority, was, what it declares on its face to be, the supreme law of the land, by which all legislation, state and federal, must be measured. the first case growing out of the acts of military officers during the war, which attracted general attention and created throughout the north an uneasy feeling, was the milligan case, which was before the court on habeas corpus. in october, , milligan, a citizen of the united states and a resident of indiana, had been arrested by order of the military commander of the district and confined in a military prison near the capital of the state. he was subsequently, on the st of the same month, put on trial before a military commission convened at indianapolis, in that state, upon charges of: st. conspiring against the government of the united states; d. affording aid and comfort to the rebels against the authority of the united states; d. inciting insurrection; th. disloyal practices; and th. violations of the laws of war; and was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. he had never been in the military service; there was no rebellion in indiana; and the civil courts were open in that state and in the undisturbed exercise of their jurisdiction. the sentence of the military commission was affirmed by the president, who directed that it should be carried into immediate execution. the condemned thereupon presented a petition to the circuit court of the united states in indiana for a writ of habeas corpus, praying to be discharged from custody, alleging the illegality of his arrest and of the proceedings of the military commission. the judges of the circuit court were divided in opinion upon the question whether the writ should be issued and the prisoner be discharged, which, of course, involved the jurisdiction of the military commission to try the petitioner. upon a certificate of the division the case was brought to the supreme court at the december term of . the case has become historical in the jurisprudence of the country, and it is unnecessary to state the proceedings at length. suffice it to say that it was argued with great ability by eminent counsel--consisting of mr. joseph e. mcdonald, now u.s. senator from indiana, mr. james a. garfield, a distinguished member of congress, mr. jeremiah s. black, the eminent jurist of pennsylvania, and mr. david dudley field, of new york, for the petitioner; and by mr. henry stanbery, the attorney-general, and gen. b.f. butler, for the government. their arguments were remarkable for learning, research, ability, and eloquence, and will repay the careful perusal not only of the student of law, but of all lovers of constitutional liberty. only a brief synopsis of them is given in the report of the case in th wallace. the decision of the court was in favor of the liberty of the citizen. its opinion was announced by mr. justice davis, and it will stand as a perpetual monument to his honor. it laid down in clear and unmistakable terms the doctrine that military commissions organized during the war, in a state not invaded nor engaged in rebellion, in which the federal courts were open and in the undisturbed exercise of their judicial functions, had no jurisdiction to try a citizen who was not a resident of a state in rebellion, nor a prisoner of war, nor a person in the military or naval service; and that congress could not invest them with any such power; and that in states where the courts were thus open and undisturbed the guaranty of trial by jury contained in the constitution was intended for a state of war as well as a state of peace, and is equally binding upon rulers and people at all times and under all circumstances. this decision was concurred in by justices nelson, grier, clifford, and myself, then constituting, with justice davis, a majority of the court. at this day it seems strange that its soundness should have been doubted by any one, yet it was received by a large class--perhaps a majority of the northern people--with disfavor, and was denounced in unmeasured terms by many influential journals. it was cited as conclusive evidence of the hostility of the court to the acts of the government for the suppression of the rebellion. the following, taken from the _daily chronicle_ of january th, , a journal of washington, edited by mr. forney, then secretary of the senate, is a fair sample of the language applied to the decision: "the opinion of the supreme court on one of the most momentous questions ever submitted to a judicial tribunal, has not startled the country more by its far-reaching and calamitous results, than it has amazed jurists and statesmen by the poverty of its learning and the feebleness of its logic. it has surprised all, too, by its total want of sympathy with the spirit in which the war for the union was prosecuted, and, necessarily, with those great issues growing out of it, which concern not only the life of the republic, but the very progress of the race, and which, having been decided on the battle-field, are now sought to be reversed by the very theory of construction which led to rebellion." at the same term with the milligan case the test-oath case from missouri was brought before the court and argued. in january, , a convention had assembled in that state to amend its constitution. its members had been elected in november previous. in april, , the constitution, as revised and amended, was adopted by the convention, and in june following by the people. elected, as the members were, in the midst of the war, it exhibited throughout traces of the animosities which the war had engendered. by its provisions the most stringent and searching oath as to past conduct known in history was required, not only of officers under it, but of parties holding trusts and pursuing avocations in no way connected with the administration of the government. the oath, divided into its separates parts, contained more than thirty distinct affirmations touching past conduct, and even embraced the expression of sympathies and desires. every person unable to take the oath was declared incapable of holding, in the state, "any office of honor, trust, or profit under its authority, or of being an officer, councilman, director, or trustee, or other manager of any corporation, public or private, now existing or hereafter established by its authority, or of acting as a professor or teacher in any educational institution, or in any common or other school, or of holding any real estate or other property in trust for the use of any church, religious society, or congregation." and every person holding, at the time the amended constitution took effect, any of the offices, trusts, or positions mentioned, was required, within sixty days thereafter, to take the oath; and, if he failed to comply with this requirement, it was declared that his office, trust, or position should _ipso facto_ become vacant. no person, after the expiration of the sixty days, was permitted, without taking the oath, "to practice as an attorney or counsellor-at-law," nor, after that period could "any person be competent as a bishop, priest, deacon, minister, elder, or other clergyman, of any religious persuasion, sect, or denomination, to teach, or preach, or solemnize marriages." fine and imprisonment were prescribed as a punishment for holding or exercising any of "the offices, positions, trusts, professions, or functions" specified, without having taken the oath; and false swearing or affirmation in taking it was declared to be perjury, punishable by imprisonment in the penitentiary. mr. cummings of missouri, a priest of the roman catholic church, was indicted and convicted in one of the circuit courts of that state, of the crime of teaching and preaching as a priest and minister of that religious denomination without having first taken the oath thus prescribed, and was sentenced to pay a fine of five hundred dollars and to be committed to jail until the same was paid. on appeal to the supreme court of the state the judgment was affirmed, and the case was brought on a writ of error to our court. it was there argued with great learning and ability by mr. montgomery blair, of washington, mr. david dudley field, of new york, and mr. reverdy johnson, of maryland, for mr. cummings; and by mr. g.p. strong and mr. john b. henderson, of missouri, the latter then united states senator for the state. it was evident, after a brief consideration of the case, that the power asserted by the state of missouri to exact this oath for past conduct from parties, as a condition of their continuing to pursue certain professions, or to hold certain trusts, might, if sustained, be often exercised in times of excitement to the oppression, if not ruin, of the citizen. for, if the state could require the oath for the acts mentioned, it might require it for any other acts of one's past life, the number and character of which would depend upon the mere will of its legislature. it might compel one to affirm, under oath, that he had never violated the ten commandments, nor exercised his political rights except in conformity with the views of the existing majority. indeed, under this kind of legislation, the most flagrant wrongs might be committed and whole classes of people deprived, not only of their political, but of their civil rights. it is difficult to speak of the whole system of expurgatory oaths for past conduct without a shudder at the suffering and oppression they were not only capable of effecting but often did effect. such oaths have never been exacted in england, nor on the continent of europe; at least i can recall no instance of the kind. test-oaths there have always been limited to an affirmation on matters of present belief, or as to present disposition towards those in power. it was reserved for the ingenuity of legislators in our country during the civil war to make test-oaths reach to past conduct. the court held that enactments of this character, operating, as they did, to deprive parties by legislative decree of existing rights for past conduct, without the formality and the safeguard of a judicial trial, fell within the inhibition of the constitution against the passage of bills of attainder. in depriving parties of existing rights for past conduct, the provisions of the constitution of missouri imposed, in effect, a punishment for such conduct. some of the acts for which such deprivation was imposed were not punishable at the time; and for some this deprivation was added to the punishments previously prescribed, and thus they fell under the further prohibition of the constitution against the passage of an _ex post facto_ law. the decision of the court, therefore, was for the discharge of the catholic priest. the judgment against him was reversed, and the supreme court of missouri was directed to order the inferior court by which he was tried to set him at liberty. immediately following the case of cummings that of _ex-parte_ garland was argued, involving the validity of the iron-clad oath, as it was termed, prescribed for attorneys and counsellors-at-law by the act of congress of january th, . mr. a.h. garland, now united states senator from arkansas, had been a member of the bar of the supreme court of the united states before the civil war. when arkansas passed her ordinance of secession and joined the confederate states, he went with her, and was one of her representatives in the congress of the confederacy. in july, , he received from the president a full pardon for all offences committed by his participation, direct or implied, in the rebellion. at the following term of the court he produced his pardon and asked permission to continue to practice as an attorney and counsellor without taking the oath required by the act of congress, and the rule of the court made in conformity with it, which he was unable to take by reason of the offices he had held under the confederate government. the application was argued by mr. matthew h. carpenter, of wisconsin, and mr. reverdy johnson, of maryland, for the petitioner--mr. garland and mr. marr, another applicant for admission, who had participated in the rebellion, filing printed arguments--and by mr. speed, of kentucky, and mr. henry stanbery, the attorney-general, on the other side. the whole subject of expurgatory oaths was discussed, and all that could be said on either side was fully and elaborately presented. the court in its decision followed the reasoning of the cummings case and held the law invalid, as applied to the exercise of the petitioner's right to practice his profession; that such right was not a mere indulgence, a matter of grace and favor, revocable at the pleasure of the court, or at the command of the legislature; but was a right of which the petitioner could be deprived only by the judgment of the court for moral or professional delinquency. the court also held that the pardon of the petitioner released him from all penalties and disabilities attached to the offence of treason committed by his participation in the rebellion, and that, so far as that offence was concerned, he was placed beyond the reach of punishment of any kind. but to exclude him by reason of that offence--that is, by requiring him to take an oath that he had never committed it--was to enforce a punishment for it notwithstanding the pardon; and that it was not within the constitutional power of congress thus to inflict punishment beyond the reach of executive clemency. i had the honor to deliver the opinion of the court in these cases--the cummings case and the garland case. at the present day both opinions are generally admitted to be sound, but when announced they were received by a portion of the northern press with apparent astonishment and undisguised condemnation. it is difficult to appreciate at this day the fierceness with which the majority of the court was assailed. that majority consisted of justices wayne, nelson, grier, clifford, and myself. i was particularly taken to task, however, as it was supposed--at least i can only so infer from the tone of the press--that because i had been appointed by mr. lincoln, i was under some sort of moral obligation to support all the measures taken by the states or by congress during the war. the following, respecting the opinion in the garland case, from the editor of the _daily chronicle_, of washington, to the _press_, of philadelphia, under date of january , , is moderate in its language compared with what appeared in many other journals: "dred scott number three has just been enacted in the supreme court of the united states, justice field, of california, taking the leading part as the representative of the majority decision against the constitutionality of the iron-clad test-oath, to prevent traitors from practicing before that high tribunal. i understand it takes the ground that, as the law is a living or profession, the oath cannot be insisted upon to take that living away, and that the president's pardon restores all such rights. the country has been repeatedly admonished that such a decision would be made about this time; nevertheless, a very considerable sensation was created when it was officially enunciated. all these movements are but preparations for a counter-revolution in the interest of slavery and treason." ---- "i learn that the opinion of justice field against the test-oath, like that against military trials in time of war, goes outside of the immediate case in issue, and indulges in a fierce onslaught upon test-oaths in general. if so, it will only add another reason for such a re-organization as will prevent the judges in the last resort from becoming the mere agents of party, or the mere defenders of rebellion. the adage constantly quoted, yet never out of fashion, that 'whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad,' is having a pointed illustration in these successive judicial assaults upon the rights of the people. although the supreme judges hold for life, there is at once precedent, necessity, and law for such a change in the present system as will in a short time make it a fearless interpreter of republican institutions, instead of the defender and apologist of treason." the decisions were announced on the th of january, . on the d of the month, mr. boutwell, from massachusetts, introduced a bill into the house far more stringent in its provisions than the act of congress just declared invalid. it was a pitiable exhibition of hate and vengeance against all persons who had been engaged, directly or indirectly, in the rebellion. it declared that no person who had been thus engaged should be permitted to act as an attorney and counsellor in any courts of the united states; and made it the duty of the judges, when it was suggested in open court, or when they had reason to believe that any person was thus debarred, to enquire and ascertain whether he had been so engaged, and if the court was of opinion that such was the fact, he was to be excluded. the court was thus, upon the suggestion of any one, to be turned into a tribunal for the summary trial of the accused without the ordinary safeguards for the protection of his rights. in introducing it mr. boutwell, referring to the decision of the court, said that-- "if there be five judges upon the bench of the highest tribunal who have not that respect for themselves to enact rules, and to enforce proper regulations, by which they will protect themselves from the contamination of conspirators and traitors against the government of the country, then the time has already arrived when the legislative department of the government should exercise its power to declare who shall be officers of the government in the administration of the law in the courts of the union; and this bill is for that purpose." and he called for the previous question upon it. in subsequently advocating its passage, he said: "i say here upon my responsibility, with reference to the recent decision of the supreme court, that it is an offence to the dignity and respectability of the nation that this tribunal, under the general authority vested in it under the constitution and laws, does not protect itself from the contamination of rebels and traitors, until the rebellion itself shall be suppressed and those men shall be restored to their former rights as citizens of the country." this language was used in , and the last gun of the war had been fired in may, . it showed the irritation of violent partisans of the north against the court because it gave no sanction to their vindictive and proscriptive measures. the bill was passed, under a suspension of the rules, by a vote of to .[ ] the reconstruction acts, so-called--that is, "an act to provide for the more efficient government of the rebel states," of march d, , and an act of the d of the same month, supplementary to the former--were at once attacked, as may well be supposed, as invalid, unconstitutional, and arbitrary measures of the government; and various steps were taken at an early day to bring them to the test of judicial examination and arrest their enforcement. those acts divided the late insurgent states, except tennessee, into five military districts, and placed them under military control to be exercised until constitutions, containing various provisions stated, were adopted and approved by congress, and the states declared to be entitled to representation in that body. in the month of april following the state of georgia filed a bill in the supreme court, invoking the exercise of its original jurisdiction, against stanton, secretary of war, grant, general of the army, and pope, major-general, assigned to the command of the third military district, consisting of the states of georgia, florida, and alabama; to restrain those officers from carrying into effect the provisions of those acts. the bill set forth the existence of the state of georgia as one of the states of the union; the civil war in which she, with other states forming the confederate states, had been engaged with the government of the united states; the surrender of the confederate armies in , and her submission afterwards to the constitution and laws of the union; the withdrawal of the military government from georgia by the president as commander-in-chief of the army of the united states; the re-organization of the civil government of the state under his direction and with his sanction; and that the government thus re-organized was in the full possession and enjoyment of all the rights and privileges, executive, legislative, and judicial, belonging to a state in the union under the constitution, with the exception of a representation in the senate and house of representatives. the bill alleged that the acts were designed to overthrow and annul the existing government of the state, and to erect another and a different government in its place, unauthorized by the constitution and in defiance of its guarantees; that the defendants, acting under orders of the president, were about to set in motion a portion of the army to take military possession of the state, subvert her government, and subject her people to military rule. the presentation of this bill and the argument on the motion of the attorney-general to dismiss it produced a good deal of hostile comment against the judges, which did not end when the motion was granted. it was held that the bill called for judgment upon a political question, which the court had no jurisdiction to entertain.[ ] soon afterwards the validity of the reconstruction acts was again presented in the celebrated mcardle case, and in such a form that the decision of the question could not well be avoided. in november, , mcardle had been arrested and held in custody by a military commission organized in mississippi under the reconstruction acts, for trial upon charges of ( ) disturbance of the public peace; ( ) inciting to insurrection, disorder, and violence; ( ) libel; and ( ) impeding reconstruction. he thereupon applied to the circuit court of the united states for the district of mississippi for a writ of habeas corpus, in order that he might be discharged from his alleged illegal imprisonment. the writ was accordingly issued, but on the return of the officer showing the authority under which the petitioner was held, he was ordered to be remanded. from that judgment he appealed to the supreme court. of course, if the reconstruction acts were invalid, the petitioner could not be held, and he was entitled to his discharge. the case excited great interest throughout the country. judge sharkey and robert j. walker, of mississippi, david dudley field and charles o'connor, of new york, and jeremiah s. black, of pennsylvania, appeared for the appellant; and matthew h. carpenter, of wisconsin, lyman trumbull, of illinois, and henry stanbery, the attorney-general, appeared for the other side. the hearing of it occupied four days, and seldom has it been my fortune during my judicial life, now ( ) of nearly twenty years, to listen to arguments equal in learning, ability, and eloquence. the whole subject was exhausted. as the arguments were widely published in the public journals, and read throughout the country, they produced a profound effect. the impression was general that the reconstruction acts could not be sustained; that they were revolutionary and destructive of a republican form of government in the states, which the constitution required the federal government to guarantee. i speak now merely of the general impression. i say nothing of the fact, as the court never expressed its opinion in judgment. the argument was had on the d, d, th, and th of march, , and it ought to have been decided in regular course of proceedings when it was reached on the second subsequent consultation day, the st. the judges had all formed their conclusions, and no excuse was urged that more time was wanted for examination. in the meantime an act was quietly introduced into the house, and passed, repealing so much of the law of february th, , as authorized an appeal to the supreme court from the judgment of the circuit court on writs of _habeas corpus_, or the exercise of jurisdiction on appeals already taken. the president vetoed the bill, but congress passed it over his veto, and it became a law on the th of the month.[ ] whilst it was pending in congress the attention of the judges was called to it, and in consultation on the st they postponed the decision of the case until it should be disposed of. it was then that mr. justice grier wrote the following protest, which he afterwards read in court: in re } mcardle.} protest of mr. justice geier. this case was fully argued in the beginning of this month. it is a case that involves the liberty and rights not only of the appellant, but of millions of our fellow-citizens. the country and the parties had a right to expect that it would receive the immediate and solemn attention of this court. by the postponement of the case we shall subject ourselves, whether justly or unjustly, to the imputation that we have evaded the performance of a duty imposed on us by the constitution, and waited for legislation to interpose to supersede our action and relieve us from our responsibility. i am not willing to be a partaker either of the eulogy or opprobrium that may follow; and can only say: "pudet haec opprobria nobis, et dici potuisse; et non potuisse repelli."[ ] r.c. grier. i am of the same opinion with my brother grier, and unite in his protest. field, j. after the passage of the repealing act, the case was continued; and at the ensuing term the appeal was dismissed for want of jurisdiction.--( wall., .) the record had been filed early in the term, and, as the case involved the liberty of the citizen, it was advanced on the calendar on motion of the appellant. from that time until its final disposition the judges were subjected to close observation, and most of them to unfriendly comment. their every action and word were watched and canvassed as though national interests depended upon them. i was myself the subject of a most extraordinary exhibition of feeling on the part of members of the lower house of congress, the immediate cause of which was a circumstance calculated to provoke merriment. towards the close of january, , i was invited to a dinner given by mr. samuel ward to the secretary of the treasury, mr. mccullough. it was understood that the dinner was to be one of unusual excellence, and that gentlemen of distinction in congress would be present. as some of the invited guests desired to go to new york on the same evening, the hour was fixed at five. a distinguished party assembled at that time at the rooms of welcker, a noted restaurateur in washington. our host, mr. ward, was a character deserving of special notice. he had been a member of the noted firm of bankers, prime, ward & king, of new york; and afterwards represented our government in brazil. he was an accomplished linguist, familiar with several languages, ancient and modern. he was a profound mathematician, and had read, without the assistance of bowditch's translation, laplace's celebrated work, the "mécanique céleste." he passed most of his time during the sessions of congress in washington, looking after the interests of bankers and others in new york, as they might be affected by pending legislation. though called "king of the lobby," he had little of the character of the lobbyist. he was a gentleman in manners and education, and as such he always drew the company of gentlemen to his entertainments. on the occasion mentioned, some of the brightest spirits of congress were present. as we took our seats at the table i noticed on the menu a choice collection of wines, johannisberg among others. the dinner was sumptuous and admirably served. our host saw that the appropriate wine accompanied the successive courses. as the dinner progressed, and the wine circulated, the wit of the guests sparkled. story and anecdote, laughter and mirth abounded, and each guest seemed joyous and happy. at about eight song had been added to other manifestations of pleasure. i then concluded that i had better retire. so i said to my host, that if he would excuse me, i would seek the open air; and i left. just at this moment mr. rodman m. price, formerly governor of new jersey, made his appearance and exclaimed, "how is this? i was invited to dinner at eight"--producing his card of invitation. "look again," said ward, "and you will see that your eight is a five," and so it was, "but never mind," said ward; "the dinner is not over. judge field has just left. take his seat." and so price took my place. he had been travelling in the southern states, and had been an observer of the proceedings of various state conventions then in session to frame constitutions under the reconstruction acts, which he termed "congo conventions." to the amusement of the party he gave an account of some curious scenes he had witnessed in these conventions; and wound up one or two of his stories by expressing his opinion that the whole reconstruction measures would soon be "smashed up" and sent to "kingdom come" by the supreme court. the loud mirth and the singing attracted the attention of news-hunters for the press--item gatherers in the rooms below. unfortunately one of these gentlemen looked into the banquet-hall just as price had predicted the fate of the reconstruction measures at the hands of the supreme court. he instantly smelt news, and enquired of one of the waiters the name of the gentleman who had thus proclaimed the action of the court. the waiter quietly approached the seat of the governor, and, whilst he was looking in another direction, abstracted the card near his plate which bore my name. here was, indeed, a grand item for a sensational paragraph. straight way the newsgatherer communicated it to a newspaper in washington, and it appeared under an editorial notice. it was also telegraphed to a paper in baltimore. but it was too good to be lost in the columns of a newspaper. mr. scofield, a member of congress from pennsylvania, on the th of january, , asked and obtained unanimous consent of the house to present the following preamble and resolution: "whereas it is editorially stated in the _evening express_, a newspaper published in this city, on the afternoon of wednesday, january , as follows: 'at a private gathering of gentlemen of both political parties, one of the justices of the supreme court spoke very freely concerning the reconstruction measures of congress, and declared in the most positive terms that all those laws were unconstitutional, and that the court would be sure to pronounce them so. some of his friends near him suggested that it was quite indiscreet to speak so positively; when he at once repeated his views in a more emphatic manner; 'and whereas several cases under said reconstruction measures are now pending in the supreme court: therefore, be it-- "_resolved_, that the committee on the judiciary be directed to enquire into the truth of the declarations therein contained, and report whether the facts as ascertained constitute such a misdemeanor in office as to require this house to present to the senate articles of impeachment against said justice of the supreme court; and that the committee have power to send for persons and papers, and have leave to report at any time." an excited debate at once sprung up in the house, and in the course of it i was stated to be the offending justice referred to. thereupon the members for california vouched for my loyalty during the war. other members wished to know whether an anonymous article in a newspaper was to be considered sufficient evidence to authorize a committee of the house to enquire into the private conversation of members of the supreme court. the mover of the resolution, mr. scofield, declared that he knew nothing of the truth of the statement in the paper, but deemed it sufficient authority for his action, and moved the previous question on the resolution. several of the members protested against the resolution, declaring that it was unworthy of the house to direct an investigation into the conduct of a judicial officer upon a mere newspaper statement. but it was of no use. the resolution was adopted by a vote of to -- not voting. some members, indeed, voted for its passage, stating that it was due to myself that i should be vindicated from the charge implied in the debate; the force of which reason i have never been able to appreciate. the resolution was evidently intended to intimidate me, and to act as a warning to all the judges as to what they might expect if they presumed to question the wisdom or validity of the reconstruction measures of congress. what little effect it had on me my subsequent course in the mcardle case probably showed to the house. i had only one feeling for the movement--that of profound contempt; and i believe that a similar feeling was entertained by every right-thinking person having any knowledge of the proceeding. the facts of the case soon became generally known, and created a good deal of merriment in washington. but all through the country the wildest stories were circulated. communications of a sensational character relating to the matter were published in the leading journals. here is one which appeared in the new york _evening post_ from its correspondent: "it is the intention of the committee to examine the matter thoroughly, and in view of this a large number of witnesses have been summoned to appear on friday. "the friends of justice field are endeavoring to hush the matter up, and, if possible, to avert an investigation; but in this they will be disappointed, for the members of the judiciary committee express themselves firmly determined to sift the case, and will not hesitate to report articles of impeachment against justice field if the statements are proved." other papers called for the strictest scrutiny and the presentation of articles of impeachment, representing that i was terribly frightened by the threatened exposure. so for some months i was amused reading about my supposed terrible excitement in anticipation of a threatened removal from office. but, as soon as the author of the objectionable observations was ascertained, the ridiculous nature of the subsequent proceedings became manifest. the chairman of the judiciary committee, mr. wilson, of iowa, occupied a seat next to me at mr. ward's dinner, and knew, of course, that, so far as i was concerned, the whole story was without foundation. and so he said to his associates on the judiciary comnfittee. near the close of the session--on june th, --the committee were discharged from the further consideration of the resolution, and it was laid on the table--a proceeding which was equivalent to its indefinite postponement. the amusing mistake which gave rise to this episode in the lower house of congress would be unworthy of the notice i have taken of it, except that it illustrates the virulent and vindictive spirit which occasionally burst forth for some time after the close of the war, and which, it is to be greatly regretted, is not yet wholly extinguished. [ ] congressional globe, th congress, d session, part i., pp. - . when the bill reached the senate it was referred to the judiciary committee, and by them to a sub-committee of which mr. stewart, senator from nevada, was chairman. he retained it until late in the session, and upon his advice, the committee then recommended its indefinite postponement. the bill was thus disposed of. [ ] th wallace, . [ ] stats. at large, . [ ] "it fills us with shame that these reproaches can be uttered, and cannot be repelled." the words are found in ovid's metamorphoses, book i., lines - . in some editions the last word is printed _refelli_. the moulin vexation. soon after my appointment to the bench of the u.s. supreme court, i had a somewhat remarkable experience with a frenchman by the name of alfred moulin. it seems that this man, sometime in the year had shipped several sacks of onions and potatoes on one of the mail steamers, from san francisco to panama. during the voyage the ship's store of fresh provisions ran out, and the captain appropriated the vegetables, and out of this appropriation originated a long and bitter prosecution, or rather persecution, on the part of moulin, who proved to be not only one of the most malignant, but one of the most persevering and energetic men i have ever known. upon the return of the steamer from panama to san francisco, moulin presented himself at the steamship company's office, and complained, as he properly might, of the appropriation of his property, and demanded compensation. the company admitted his claim and expressed a willingness to make him full compensation; but when it came to an adjustment of it, moulin preferred one so extravagant that it could not be listened to. the property at the very most was not worth more than one or two hundred dollars, but moulin demanded thousands; and when this was refused, he threatened messrs. forbes and babcock, the agents of the company, with personal violence. these threats he repeated from time to time for two or three years, until at length becoming annoyed and alarmed by his fierce manner, they applied to the police court and had him bound over to keep the peace. notwithstanding he was thus put upon his good behavior, moulin kept continually making his appearance and reiterating his demands at the steamship company's office. forbes and babcock repeatedly told him to go to a lawyer and commence suit for his claim; but moulin refused to do so, saying that he could attend to his own business as well as, and he thought better than, any lawyer. at length, to get rid of further annoyance, they told him he had better go to new york and see mr. aspinwall, the owner of the vessel, about the matter; and, to enable him to do so, gave him a free ticket over the entire route from san francisco to that city. upon arriving in new york, moulin presented himself to mr. aspinwall and asked that his claim should be allowed. mr. aspinwall said that he knew nothing about his claim and that he did not want to be bothered with it. moulin still insisted, and mr. aspinwall told him to go away. moulin thereupon became excited, said he was determined to be paid, and that he would not be put off. he thereupon commenced a regular system of annoyance. when mr. aspinwall started to go home from his office, moulin walked by his side along the street. when aspinwall got into an omnibus, moulin got in also; when aspinwall got out, moulin got out too. on the following morning, when aspinwall left his residence to go to his office, moulin was on hand, and taking his place, marched along by his side as before. if aspinwall hailed an omnibus and got in, moulin got in at the same time. if aspinwall got out and hailed a private carriage, moulin got out and hailed another carriage, and ordered the driver to keep close to mr. aspinwall's carriage. in fact, wherever aspinwall went moulin went also, and it seemed as if nothing could tire him out or deter him from his purpose. at length mr. aspinwall, who had become nervous from the man's actions, exclaimed, "my god, this man is crazy; he will kill me;" and calling him into the office, asked him what he wanted in thus following and persecuting him. moulin answered that he wanted pay for his onions and potatoes. aspinwall replied, "but i don't know anything about your onions and potatoes; how should i? go back to my agents in california, and they will do what is right. i will direct them to do so." "but," said moulin, "i have no ticket to go to california;" and thereupon aspinwall gave him a free ticket back to san francisco. moulin departed, and in due course of time again presented himself to forbes and babcock, in san francisco. at the re-appearance of the man, they were more annoyed than ever; but finally managed to induce him to commence a suit in the united states district court. when the case was called, by an understanding between his lawyer and the lawyer of the steamship company, judgment was allowed to be entered in moulin's favor for four hundred and three dollars and a half, besides costs. the amount thus awarded greatly exceeded the actual value of the onions and potatoes appropriated. it was thought by the defendant that on the payment of so large a sum, the whole matter would be ended. but moulin was very far from being satisfied. he insisted that the judgment ought to have been for three thousand and nine hundred dollars, besides interest, swelling the amount to over six thousand dollars, and applied to judge hoffman of the district court to set it aside. but as the judgment had been rendered for the full value of the property taken, as admitted by his lawyer, the judge declined to interfere. this was in . in i received my appointment as judge of the supreme court of the united states, and was assigned to the circuit embracing the district of california. moulin then appealed to the circuit court from the judgment in his favor, and at the first term i held, a motion was made to dismiss the appeal. i decided that the appeal was taken too late, and dismissed it. moulin immediately went to mr. gorham, the clerk of the court, for a copy of the papers, insisting that there was something wrong in the decision. gorham asked him what he meant, and he replied that i had no right to send him out of court, and that there was something wrong in the matter, but he could not tell exactly what it was. at this insinuation, gorham told him to leave the office, and in such a tone, that he thought proper to go at once and not stand upon the order of his going. the following year, after mr. delos lake had been appointed united states district attorney, moulin went to his office to complain of gorham and myself; but lake, after listening to his story, told him to go away. two or three years afterwards he again presented himself to lake and demanded that judge hoffman, gorham, and myself should be prosecuted. lake drove him a second time from his office; and thereupon he went before the united states grand jury and complained of all four of us. as the grand jury, after listening to his story for a while, dismissed him in disgust, be presented himself before their successors at a subsequent term and complained of them. from the federal court he proceeded to the state tribunals; and first of all he went to the county court of san francisco with a large bundle of papers and detailed his grievances against the united states judges, clerks, district attorney and grand jury. judge stanley, who was then county judge, after listening to moulin's story, told the bailiff to take possession of the papers, and when he had done so, directed him to put them into the stove, where they were soon burned to ashes. moulin then complained of stanley. at the same time, one of the city newspapers, the "evening bulletin," made some comments upon his ridiculous and absurd proceedings, and moulin at once sued the editors. he also brought suit against the district judge, district attorney and his assistant, myself, the clerk of the court, the counsel against him in the suit with the steamship company and its agents, and numerous other parties who had been connected with his various legal movements. and whenever the united states grand jury met, he besieged it with narratives of his imaginary grievances; and, when they declined to listen to him, he complained of them. the courts soon became flooded with his voluminous and accumulated complaints against judges, clerks, attorneys, jurors, editors, and, in fact, everybody who had any connection with him, however remote, who refused to listen to them and accede to his demands. by this course moulin attracted a good deal of attention, and an inquiry was suggested and made as to whether he was _compos mentis_. the parties who made the inquiry reported that he was not insane, but was actuated by a fiendish malignity, a love of notoriety and the expectation of extorting money by blackmail. for years--indeed until september, --he continued to besiege and annoy the grand juries of the united states courts with his imaginary grievances, until he became an intolerable nuisance. his exemption from punishment had emboldened him to apply to the officers of the court--the judges, clerks, and jurors--the most offensive and insulting language. papers filled with his billingsgate were scattered all through the rooms of the court, on the desks of the judges, and on the seats of jurors and spectators. it seemed impossible, under existing law, to punish him, for his case did not seem to fall within the class of contempts for which it provided. but in september of his insolence carried him beyond the limits of impunity. in that month he came to the united states circuit court, where judge sawyer (then united states circuit judge) and myself were sitting, and asked that the grand jury which was about to be discharged might be detained; as he proposed to have us indicted for corruption, and commenced reading a long string of vituperative and incoherent charges of criminal conduct. the proceeding was so outrageous that we could not overlook it. we accordingly adjudged him guilty of contempt, fined him five hundred dollars, and ordered him to be committed to prison until the fine should be paid. whilst in prison, and not long after his commitment, he was informed that upon making a proper apology for his conduct, he would he discharged. instead, however, of submitting to this course, he commenced writing abusive articles to the newspapers, and sending petitions to the legislature charging us with arbitrary and criminal conduct. his articles were of such a character as to create quite erroneous impressions of our action. the newspapers, not waiting to ascertain the facts, at first took sides with him and assailed us. these attacks, of course, had no effect upon the man's case; but, after he had remained in prison for several weeks, on understanding that his health was infirm, and being satisfied that he had been sufficiently punished, we ordered his discharge. the hastings malignity. whilst the moulin matter was in progress, an individual by the name of william hastings was practising before the united states courts. he had been, as i am told, a sailor, and was then what is known as a "sailor's lawyer." he was a typical specimen of that species of the profession called, in police court parlance, "shysters." he was always commencing suits for sailors who had wrongs to redress, and particularly for steerage passengers who complained that they had not had sufficient accommodations and proper fare. he generally took their cases on speculation, and succeeded very often in forcing large sums from vessels libelled, as he was generally careful to bring his actions so as to arrest the vessels on the eve of their departure, when the payment of a few hundred dollars was a much cheaper mode of proceeding for the captains than detention even for a few days. but in one of his suits in the united states district court, in the year , brought for a steerage passenger against a vessel from australia, the captain declined to be blackmailed and defended himself. when the matter came on for hearing, hastings was found to have no cause of action, and the case was thereupon dismissed by judge hoffman. hastings then appealed to the united states circuit court, and that court affirmed the judgment of the district court. this happened as i was about leaving for europe; and i left supposing that i had heard the last of the case. during my absence, hastings moved judge hoffman, of the united states district court, from whose decision the appeal had been taken, to vacate the decision of the united states circuit court. this, of course, judge hoffman refused. hastings thereupon made a motion that my decision should be set aside, on the ground that it was rendered by fraud and corruption. when judge hoffman became aware of the charges thus made, he was indignant and immediately cited hastings before him to show cause why he should not be disbarred and punished for contempt. hastings refused to make any explanation or withdraw his offensive language; and thereupon judge hoffman expelled him from the bar and ordered his name to be stricken from the roll of attorneys. i was then absent in europe, and knew nothing whatever of the proceedings. about this time mr. george w. julian, a member of congress from indiana, came to california and pretended to be a great friend of the settlers. he obtained the confidence of that large class of the community, and especially of those who were known as the suscol claimants. these were the men who, upon the rejection by the united states supreme court of the so-called suscol grant, in napa and solano counties, rushed in and squatted upon the most valuable land in the state. the title to this land had previously been considered as good as any in california; it had been held valid by the local tribunals, and also by the board of land commissioners and by the district court of the united states. on the strength of these confirmations the land had been divided into farms, upon which, besides cultivated fields, there were numerous orchards, vineyards, gardens, and two cities, each of which had been the capital of the state. the farms and city lots had been sold, in good faith, to purchasers at full value. but when the question came before the united states supreme court, and it appeared that the grant had been made to general vallejo, in consideration of military services, and for moneys advanced to the mexican government, and not for colonization purposes, it was held that there was no authority under the mexican laws for such a disposition of the public domain, and that the grant was, therefore, invalid. at the same time judge grier filed a dissenting opinion, in which he expressed a hope that congress would not allow those who had purchased in good faith from vallejo, and expended their money in improving the land, to be deprived of it. congress at once acted upon the suggestion thus made and passed an act allowing the grantees of vallejo to purchase the lands occupied by them at a specified sum per acre. mr. john b. frisbie, vallejo's son-in-law, who had bought and sold large quantities, took immediate steps to secure himself and his grantees by purchasing the lands and obtaining patents for them. in the meanwhile the squatters had located themselves all over the property; most of them placing small shanties on the land in the night-time, near the houses, gardens, and vineyards, and on cultivated fields of the vallejo grantees. they then filed claims in the land office as pre-emptioners, under the general land laws of the united states, and insisted that, as their settlements were previous to the act of congress, their rights to the land were secure. in this view julian, when he came to california, encouraged them, and, as was generally reported and believed, in consideration of a portion of the land to be given to him in case of success, undertook to defend their possessions.[ ] when frisbie applied, under the provisions of the act of congress, for a patent to the land, a man named whitney, one of the squatters, protested against its issue, on the ground that under the pre-emption laws he, whitney, having settled upon the land, had acquired a vested right, of which congress could not deprive him. but the land department took a different view of the matter and issued the patent to frisbie. whitney thereupon commenced a suit against frisbie in the supreme court of the district of columbia to have him declared a trustee of the land thus patented, and to compel him, as such trustee, to execute a conveyance to the complainant. the supreme court of the district of columbia decided the case in favor of whitney, and ordered frisbie to execute a conveyance; but on appeal to the supreme court the decision was reversed; and it was held that a pre-emptioner did not acquire any vested right as against the united states by making his settlement, nor until he had complied with all the requirements of the law, including the payment of the purchase-money; and that until then congress could reserve the land from settlement, appropriate it to the uses of the government, or make any other disposition thereof which it pleased. the court, therefore, adjudged that the suscol act was valid, that the purchasers from vallejo had the first right of entry, and that frisbie was accordingly the owner of the land purchased by him. soon after the decision was rendered julian rose in his seat in the house of representatives and denounced it as a second dred scott decision, and applied to the members of the court remarks that were anything but complimentary. it so happened that previous to this decision a similar suit had been decided in favor of frisbie by the supreme court of california, in which a very able and elaborate opinion was rendered by the chief justice. i did not see the opinion until long after it was delivered, and had nothing whatever to do with it; but in some way or other, utterly inexplicable to me, it was rumored that i had been consulted by the chief justice with respect to that case, and that the decision had been made through my instrumentality. with this absurd rumor hastings, after he had been disbarred by judge hoffman, went on to washington. there he joined julian; and after concocting a long series of charges against judge hoffman and myself, he placed them in julian's hands, who took charge of them with alacrity. the two worthies were now to have their vengeance--hastings for his supposed personal grievances and julian for the suscol decision which injured his pocket. these charges on being signed by hastings were presented to congress by julian; and at his request they were referred to the judiciary committee. that committee investigated them, considered the whole affair a farce, and paid no further attention to it. but the next year mr. holman, of indiana, who succeeded julian, the latter having failed of a re-election, re-introduced hastings' memorial at julian's request and had it referred to the judiciary committee, with express instructions to report upon it. hastings appeared for the second time before that committee and presented a long array of denunciatory statements, in which judge hoffman, myself, and others were charged with all sorts of misdemeanors. the committee permitted him to go to any length he pleased, untrammelled by any rules of evidence; and he availed himself of the license to the fullest extent. there was hardly an angry word that had been spoken by a disappointed or malicious litigant against whom we had ever decided, that hastings did not rake up and reproduce; and there was hardly an epithet or a term of villification which he did not in some manner or other manage to lug into his wholesale charges. as a specimen of his incoherent and wild ravings, he charged that "the affairs of the federal courts for the district of california were managed principally in the interests of foreign capitalists and their co-conspirators, and that the judges thereof appeared to be under the control of said foreign capitalists, and that the said courts and the process thereof were being used or abused to deprive the government of the united states and the citizens thereof of the property that legally and equitably belonged to them respectively, and to transfer the same, in violation of law and through a perversion of public justice, to said foreign capitalists and their confederates and co-conspirators, and that nearly the whole of the sovereign powers of the state were under the control and management of said foreign capitalists and their confederates and co-conspirators;" and he alleged that he "was aware of the existence in the united states of a well-organized, oath-bound band of confederated public officials who are in league with the subjects of foreign powers, and who conspire against the peace, prosperity, and best interests of the united states, and who prey upon and plunder the government of the united states and the city and county governments thereof, and also upon private citizens, and who now are carrying into practice gigantic schemes of plunder through fraud, usurpation, and other villainy, in order to enrich themselves, bankrupt the nation, and destroy our government, and that their power is so great that they can and do obstruct the administration of public justice, corrupt its fountains, and paralyze to some extent the sovereign powers of the government of the united states and the people thereof." the judiciary committee after having patiently listened to this rigmarole, absurd and ludicrous as it was, unanimously reported that hastings' memorial should be laid upon the table and the committee discharged from any further consideration of the subject. the house adopted the report, and, so far as congress was concerned, there the matter dropped. but in the meanwhile it had been telegraphed all over the country that articles of impeachment were pending against the judges, and sensational newspaper articles appeared in different parts of the country. some expressed regret that the conduct of the judges had been of a character to necessitate such proceedings. others said it was not to be wondered at that the judicial ermine should be soiled in a country of such loose morals as california. still others thought it no more than proper to impeach a few of the judges, in order to teach the remainder of them a salutary lesson. these articles were paraded in large type and with the most sensational headings. when the action of the house on the memorial was announced, hastings and julian became furious. it then appeared that the only charge which had made any impression upon the minds of the committee was that relating to moulin, the frenchman. three, indeed, of the members, (messrs. voorhees, of indiana, potter, of new york, and peters, of maine,) said it was a shame and disgrace that such ridiculous and monstrous twaddle should be listened to for a moment; but a majority considered it their duty, under the order of reference, to hear the matter patiently. they had, therefore, allowed hastings the widest latitude and listened to everything that his malice could invent. as a comical conclusion to these extraordinary proceedings, hastings commenced a suit in the u.s. circuit court for the state of new york against the judiciary committee for dismissing his memorial. being a non-resident he was required by that court to give security for costs, and as that was not given the action was dismissed. this result was so distasteful to him that he presented a petition to the chief justice of the u.s. supreme court, stating that judge hunt had too much to do with churches, banks, and rings, and asking that some other judge might be appointed to hold the court. the petition was regarded as unique in its character, and caused a great deal of merriment. but the chief justice sent it back, with an answer that he had no jurisdiction of the matter. after this hastings took up his residence in new york, and at different times worried the judges there by suits against them--judge blatchford, among others--generally charging in his peculiar way a conspiracy between them and others to injure him and the rest of mankind. * * * * * the above was written upon my dictation in the summer of . in november of that year hastings again appeared at washington and applied to a senator to move his admission to the supreme court. the senator inquired if he was acquainted with any of the judges, and was informed in reply of that gentleman's proceedings against myself; whereupon the senator declined to make the motion. hastings then presented to the house of representatives a petition to be relieved from his allegiance as a citizen of the united states. as illustrative of the demented character of the man's brain, some portions of the petition are given. after setting forth his admission to the supreme court of california as an attorney and counsellor-at-law, and his taking the oath then required, he proceeded to state that on the th of november, , he entered the chamber of the supreme court of the united states to apply for admission as an attorney and counsellor of that court; that he was introduced by a friend to a senator, with a request that the senator would move his admission; that the senator asked him if he knew a certain justice of the supreme court, and upon being informed that he did, and that his relations with said justice were not friendly, as he had endeavored to get him impeached, and that the damaging evidence he produced against such justice had been secreted and covered up by the judiciary committee of the house, whom he had accordingly sued, the petition continued as follows: "whereupon said senator replied, i have a cause to argue as counsel before this court this morning, and i would, therefore, prefer not to move your admission. said senator then and there arose and took his seat in front of the bench of said court; and your petitioner remained in said u.s. supreme court until one application for admission was made and granted on motion of one s.p. nash, of tweed-sweeney ring settlement fame [thereby demonstrating poetic injustice], and until the chief justice of the united states--shadow not shade of selden--called the first case on the docket for that day, and a moment or two after the argument of said cause commenced, your petitioner arose and left the court-room of said united states supreme court, (to which the genius of a marshall and a story has bid a long farewell,) and as your petitioner journeyed towards his hotel, your petitioner soliloquized thus: 'senator w---- is evidently afraid of justice ----, with whom i have had a difficulty, and he possesses neither the manly independence of a freeman, nor moral nor physical courage, and he is, therefore, an improper person (possibly infamous) for such a high and responsible position, and my rights as a citizen are not safe in the keeping of such a poltroon and conniving attorney, and he is probably disqualified to hold the high and responsible office of senator of the united states--that he improperly accepts fees from clients, possibly in part for the influence which his exalted position as senator gives him as counsel for parties having cases before the u.s. supreme court, and which practice is wholly inconsistent with the faithful, impartial performance of his sworn duty as such senator; and by thus accepting fees he has placed himself in a position where his personal interests conflict with the obligations of his oath of office; while the justices of the supreme court are, i conceive, derelict in the performance of their sworn duty, for permitting such practices to be inaugurated and continued.' "cowardice taints the character with moral turpitude; and i believe the facts related above show that said senator is a coward; at all events he lacks moral courage, and is afraid of the justices of the united states supreme court, whose judge the senator-attorney of the court becomes in case of trial of any of said justices by impeachment; surely this is one unclean body incestuously holding illicit commerce with another unclean body, and both become interchangeably soiled, and too impure to touch the spotless robes of the judicial ermine; still, as this government has ceased to be a government of law and justice, and has become a foul and unclean machine of corrupt compromises, carried on by colluding and conniving shyster bartering attorneys, the practice of said supreme court of the united states, above referred to, is strictly in accord therewith." the petition continued in a similar strain, and wound up by asking the passage of a concurrent resolution of the houses releasing him from his allegiance to the united states! [ ] see exhibit l, in appendix. appendix. exhibit a. [from the new york _evening post_ of november th, .] among the passengers leaving in the crescent city to-day is stephen j. field, esq., of this city, brother and late law-partner of d.d. field, esq., one of the commissioners of the code of practice. mr. field is on his way to san francisco, where he proposes to practise his profession, and take up his future residence. if he should realize either the hopes or the expectations of the numerous friends he leaves behind, he will achieve an early and desirable distinction in the promising land of his adoption. * * * * * exhibit b. mr. william h. parks, of marysville, has always asserted that my election as alcalde was owing to a wager for a dinner made by him with a friend. he was at the time engaged in transporting goods to the mines from the landing at nye's ranch on the yuba river, called yubaville, and arriving at the latter place whilst the election was going on he made the wager that i would be elected, and voted all his teamsters, numbering eleven, for me. as i had a majority of only nine, he claims that he had the honor of giving me my first office. the claim must be allowed, unless the person with whom he wagered offset this number, or at least some of the teamsters, by votes for my opponent. after the election mr. parks introduced himself to me, and from that time to this he has been a warm and steadfast friend. he afterwards settled in sutter county, but now resides in marysville. he has amassed a handsome fortune, and takes an interest in all public affairs. he has represented his county as a senator in the legislature of the state. he is a gentleman of high character and has the confidence and respect of the community. my opponent for the office of alcalde was mr. c.b. dodson, from illinois. i afterwards met him only once or twice in california, and knew little of his history. but when i was a member of the electoral commission, in february of this year ( ), a copy of a paper published in geneva, illinois--the _republican_, of the th of that month--was sent to me, containing the following account of him, from which it appears that he, too, has lived a life of strange vicissitudes and stirring adventure: reminiscences. an account of the various positions of the selected arbitrators says that in judge field was elected alcalde and recorder of marysville, california. judge field's competitor for the position was our townsman, capt. c.b. dodson, who was defeated by nine votes. as there is no doubt that had the captain gained the position of alcalde he would have risen as his competitor did, to various judicial positions, and finally to the arbitrator's seat, these nine votes must be considered as the only reasons why geneva does not number one of her citizens among the arbitrators for the highest of the world's official positions. among the votes polled for our friend dodson on that occasion was that of macaulay, one of the family of the famous historian of england's greatest days and proudest times. the captain has been a natural and inveterate pioneer, and few citizens of the state have figured more prominently or proudly in its early annals. in , forty-three years ago, mr. dodson came to dispute with the aboriginal pottawatomies the possession of the fox river valley. white faces were rare in those days, and scarcely a squatter's cabin rose among the indian lodges. the captain built the first saw-mill on the river, and he and col. lyon were the hardy spirits about whom the early settlers clustered for encouragement and advice. in he was employed by the government to superintend the removal of the indians to council bluffs and kansas, and their successful emigration, as well as their uniform good will toward the whites prior to their removal, were largely due to his sagacity and influence among them. when capt. sutter first found the yellow gold gleaming in the dirt of his mill-race, and all the world joined in a mad rush to the mines, the venturesome spirit of capt. dodson led him to press forward with the first, and he was a "forty-niner," that pride of the old californians. in that surging crowd of wild adventurers from the ends of the earth, the captain was, as he has been among the early pioneers of illinois, a directing and controlling spirit. though he failed in his judicial aspirations for alcalde, and judge field succeeded, yet his continued exertions and marked influence caused him to leave a name richly associated with all the early history of marysville and vicinity. when the war broke out, mr. dodson was among the very first to proffer his services, and he raised the first company of cavalry which went to the front from kane county. the captain is not an old man yet in health and vigor, although an "old settler" in varied and numerous experiences. his name is marked in unmistakable characters on every prominent event of the early settlement of northern illinois, and blended and associated with all the pioneer way-marks of california. a friend and companion of all the great illinoians of the generation which is now passing into old age, he has not yet ceased to be a spirit actively mingling in all the affairs of the present times. but we only started to tell of his contest with field, not to write an eulogium on the captain, for here where he is known it is better pronounced in his record, which lies in the memories of his friends. * * * * * exhibit c. _oath of office as alcalde._ state of california, } sacramento district. } _ss._ sacramento city, _january d, _. personally appeared before me stephen j. field, first alcalde of yubaville, in the district of sacramento, and made oath that he would discharge the duties of the office of first alcalde as aforesaid with faithfulness and fidelity to the best of his ability, and that he would support the constitution of the united states and the constitution of the state of california. r.a. wilson, _judge of st instance, sacramento district._ * * * * * exhibit d. the following are the orders of the district court mentioned in the narrative. _order imprisoning and fining mr. field for alleged contempt of court._ district court, } eighth judicial district, } county of yuba. } at a term of said district court held at marysville, county of yuba, on the th of june, , present, hon. wm. b. turner, judge, the following proceeding was had: _ordered_. that stephen j. field be imprisoned forty-eight hours and fined five hundred dollars for contempt of court. * * * * * _order expelling messrs. field, goodwin, and mulford from the bar._ district court, } eighth judicial district, } county of yuba. } at a term of said court held at marysville, on the th of june, , present, hon. william r. turner, judge, the following proceeding was had: whereas, messrs. field, goodwin, and mulford, having set at defiance the authority of this court, and having vilified the court and denounced its proceedings, the said field, goodwin, and mulford are hereby, by order of the court, expelled from the bar of the same. * * * * * _order imprisoning and fining judge haun for releasing mr. field from imprisonment upon a writ of habeas corpus, and directing that the order to imprison mr. field be enforced._ district court, } eighth judicial district, } county of yuba. } at a term of said district court held at marysville, county of yuba, on the th of june, , present, hon. wm. b. turner, judge, the following proceeding was had: whereas, judge haun having, in defiance of the authority of this court, and in violation of the law, obstructed and prevented the execution of an order of this court to imprison mr. field for a contempt offered to the court while in session, by releasing the said field from the custody of the sheriff; the said haun is hereby sentenced to forty-eight hours' imprisonment and to pay a fine of fifty dollars. the sheriff will enforce the order of the court to imprison mr. field for forty-eight hours. * * * * * exhibit e. _record of proceedings in the court of sessions, mentioned in the narrative._ court of sessions of yuba county. met at marysville, june th, a.d. , at o'clock a.m., and was duly opened by r.b. buchanan, sheriff of the county. present, hon. h.p. haun, county judge, f.w. barnard, associate justice. in the matter of } stephen j. field } application for habeas corpus. on the reading of the petition of the applicant, duly authenticated by his oath, it is ordered that the prayer of the petitioner be granted, and that r.b. buchanan, sheriff of yuba county, or any person acting under him and having said field in custody, bring the said field into court forthwith, to be dealt with according to law. in pursuance of the above order, the said field came into court, and proceeded to address the court on the matter touching the cause of his confinement, and while making his remarks, and previous to the close thereof, and while the court was in session, r.b. buchanan, sheriff of yuba county, at the head of fifty men, entered the court, and stated that he came there for the purpose and with the intent to seize h.p. haun, county judge as aforesaid, and place him in close confinement, under and by virtue of a certain order or decree made by one william r. turner, judge of the eighth judicial district of the state of california. the court informed the said sheriff buchanan that it was holding its regular term, and that order must be preserved while it was in session. the said sheriff buchanan then left the court, whereupon the business before the court was again resumed. at the expiration of some five minutes, the said r.b. buchanan, as aforesaid, re-entered the court, and stated that the said h.p. haun, county judge as aforesaid, must leave the court and go with him, as he was peremptorily ordered by william r. turner, the judge as aforesaid, to arrest the said h.p. haun and keep him in close confinement for the space of forty-eight hours. r.b. buchanan was here notified that he was violating the laws of the land, and that he would be fined if he persisted in disturbing the session of the court. the reply of said buchanan was "that he could not be trifled with," and immediately seized the said h.p. haun, county judge as aforesaid, by the arm, and attempted to drag him from the room where the court was in session. whereupon a fine of two hundred dollars was then and there imposed upon the said r.b. buchanan for a contempt of court. the said r.b. buchanan then and there called upon the fifty persons ordered out by him as his posse to take hold of the said h.p. haun, and take him from the court. but the persons in attendance, conceiving the order to arrest the hon. h.p. haun to be illegal and unjustifiable, refused to assist the sheriff in the execution of his illegal order. the sheriff then retired, and the court was then adjourned to o'clock p.m. court met pursuant to adjournment. court adjourned to to-morrow morning at o'clock. i hereby certify the above to be a true transcript of the record of the proceedings of the court of sessions on the th day of june, a.d. . witness e.d. wheeler, clerk of the court of sessions of yuba county, california, with the seal of the court affixed, this th day of december, a.d. . [l.s.] e.d. wheeler, _clerk_. * * * * * the records of the district court show the following entry made the same day, june , : "a communication was received from h.p. haun, stating 'that if he was guilty of obstructing the order of the court in releasing field, he did it ignorantly, not intending any contempt by so doing.' whereupon the court ordered that h.p. haun be released from confinement, and his fine be remitted." the following is taken from the deposition of mr. wheeler, the clerk of the court, before the committee of the assembly to whom was referred the petition of citizens of yuba county for the impeachment of judge turner: march th, . e.d. wheeler,[ ] being duly sworn, says: i reside in marysville, yuba county; i am the county clerk of that county; i know wm. r. turner, judge of the eighth judicial district; i am clerk of his court in and for yuba county. question. were you in court on the th day of june last, when stephen j. field was fined by judge turner and ordered to be imprisoned? if so, please to state what took place at that time in court. ans. i was in court on the th day of june last. a motion was made in a suit (cameron against sutter) in which stephen j. field was counsel for the defendant, upon which motion a discussion arose among the members of the bar employed in the case. during the remarks of mr. field, judge turner said that it was useless to say more, as the mind of the court was made up. i think mr. field then offered to read from the statutes, whereupon judge turner ordered him to take his seat, and that a fine of two hundred dollars be entered up against him, and that he be imprisoned eight hours or thereabout. mr. field replied, "very well." then judge turner said, fine him three hundred dollars and imprison him--i do not remember the precise time--but think it was twenty-four hours. mr. field made some quiet reply--i think it was "very well;" whereupon the fine was increased to four hundred dollars and the imprisonment made something longer. i think mr. field said something about his rights at the bar, and i think he appealed to the members of the bar. then judge turner became quite furious, and in loud and boisterous language ordered the fine to be five hundred dollars and the imprisonment to be forty-eight hours, and ordered the sheriff to take him out of court. he was boisterous, and several times ordered the sheriff to take him out; to summon a posse; to summon the court, and he would turn him out. q. did you see anything disrespectful in the manner, or hear anything disrespectful in the language of mr. field which occasioned the fine and imprisonment? ans. i did not. q. did mr. field, in consequence of the order of judge turner, leave the court-room in company with the deputy sheriff? ans. he left in company with the deputy sheriff, and i suppose it was in consequence of the order of judge turner. q. was the trial of cameron against sutter proceeded with after mr. field left? ans. it was. q. who took the place of mr. field after he left? ans. john v. berry, esq. q. were you in court on the th day of june? ans. i was. q. were any members of the bar expelled by judge turner on that day? and if so, please state who they were and whether they were in court at the time, and whether or not the order was made upon a hearing of the parties. ans. there were three persons expelled, to wit: s.j. field, s.b. mulford, and j.o. goodwin. i do not recollect whether the parties were all in court at the time. i am sure that mr. goodwin was in court. there was no hearing had to my knowledge. q. after the order imprisoning mr. field, on the th of june and before the th, were any steps taken by mr. field to be discharged on a writ of habeas corpus? ans. there were, and mr. field was discharged by the judge of the county of yuba. q. what was done by judge turner with judge haun, the county judge, in consequence of his discharging mr. field from imprisonment on the writ of habeas corpus? ans. judge haun was fined fifty dollars by judge turner and ordered to be imprisoned forty-eight hours. this was on the th of june, at the same time that the other gentlemen were expelled from the bar. q. did the court of sessions of yuba county hold a session on that day? ans. yes. q. did you continue in the district court or did you go to the court of sessions? ans. i continued in the district court. q. who made up the records of the court of sessions on that day? ans. f.w. barnard, one of the associate justices of the court. q. look at this paper and state whether it is a copy of the proceedings of that court on the th of june, certified by you as the clerk. ans. it is.[ ] q. whilst you were in the district court on that day did the sheriff of yuba county give any information to the district court about the court of sessions being in session? ans. he did. q. did judge turner give any directions to the sheriff to arrest judge haun, notwithstanding he was holding his court? ans. he did, and told the sheriff to put him in irons, if necessary to handcuff him. q. were any directions given about a posse? ans. there were. he told the sheriff to summon a posse forthwith and enforce the orders of the court. he addressed two or three professional gamblers present and asked them if they would not join the posse to arrest judge haun. then the excitement became so great that several of the members of the bar requested him to adjourn the court; but before the court adjourned the judge asked several of the members of the bar to join the posse; but they made excuses, whereupon the court adjourned. q. was the order entered on the records of the district court, expelling messrs. field, goodwin, and mulford? ans. it was. q. what day was that order entered? ans. on the th day of june. q. has that order ever been vacated on the records of the district court? ans. so far as it relates to mr. goodwin it has been vacated, but no further. q. has mr. field or mr. mulford ever been restored to the bar by the district court since the order of expulsion on the th of june? ans. no. [ ] mr. wheeler is at present ( ) district judge of the nineteenth district of the state. [ ] the record of the proceedings is printed above. * * * * * exhibit f. the following is the petition to the governor mentioned in the narrative. of course the governor possessed no power to suspend a judicial officer from office. but at the time the petition was signed and sent to him the state had not been admitted into the union, and congress had not approved of the action of the people in calling a convention and framing a constitution; and it appeared very doubtful whether such approval would be given. there was a general impression that in the meantime the governor could exercise the power to remove and suspend officers of the state which the former governors under mexico possessed, or were supposed to possess. the petition, however, is none the less significant, as the expression of the opinions of the people of marysville upon the conduct of judge turner. _to his excellency peter h. burnett, governor of california._ the undersigned citizens of marysville, yuba county, in this state, respectfully request that your excellency would suspend william r. turner, district judge of the eighth judicial district of this state, from his judicial office. st. because the said william r. turner is grossly incompetent to discharge the duties of a judge, he having exhibited during his judicial career, and particularly during the session of the district court held at marysville, in yuba county, during the present month, ignorance of the most elementary principles of law,--such as to excite the derision of counsel, jurors, witnesses, and persons in attendance upon the court. d. because the said william r. turner has, during the session of the district court held at marysville, exercised the power vested in him as judge, in an arbitrary and tyrannical manner, outraging the rights of counsel, clients, and witnesses. d. because the said william r. turner has refused to hear counsel on questions of vital importance to the suits of their clients, and in one instance fined and imprisoned counsel for stating in the most respectful manner and in the most respectful language, that he appealed from an order made by him, though such is an acknowledged right of all counsel, and a right given by statute--under pretence that counsel by so doing was guilty of a contempt. th. because the said wm. r. turner has trampled upon and spurned with contempt the privilege of the writ of habeas corpus which is guaranteed to all citizens by the constitution of the united states and by the constitution of the state of california, and fined and imprisoned the hon. henry p. haun, judge of yuba county, for the exercise by him of a judicial act in discharging a gentleman from arrest under a writ of habeas corpus. th. because the said william r. turner, to carry out his arbitrary order to fine and imprison the hon. henry p. haun, judge of yuba county, for the exercise of a judicial act, ordered the sheriff of said county with a posse to invade the court of sessions of yuba county while the said court was sitting, and over which the said haun presided, and to carry off by force the said county judge and put him in close custody. th. because the said william r. turner ordered the sheriff of yuba county, with a posse, to force mr. s.j. field from the court of sessions of said county whilst said field was before said court on a writ of habeas corpus arguing for his discharge, and the said william r. turner was informed that the court of sessions forbid the sheriff from disturbing the proceedings of the court on the hearing of said writ. th. because the said william r. turner has, in the exercise of arbitrary power, expelled counsel from the bar for giving their testimony as witnesses on the return of a writ of habeas corpus before the hon. henry p. haun, judge of the county court, under pretence that by so doing they were vilifying the court and denouncing its proceedings. th. because the said william r. turner, during the session of the district court at marysville, yuba county, in the present month, frequently went into court with revolving pistols upon his person, to the great scandal of the court and of the county. for the above, and other reasons, your petitioners respectfully request that the said william r. turner may be suspended from his office, as the further exercise by him of judicial power will destroy all confidence of the community in the administration of justice, and all respect for the tribunals of the country; and your petitioners will ever pray. marysville, june th, . stephen j. field, ira a. eaton, james s. green, t.b. parker, e.w. judkins, harrington osgood, chas. w. gleason, geo. w. hastat, s. sartwell, jr., m.s. ebright, s.c. stambaugh, p. steinman, henry cuttcher, m. cunningham, ed. b. jefferds, wm. h. mitchell, benj. barker, h. cecil & co., osbourn & co., asa stearns, john bennett, jr., j.p.f. haskell, w.a. crampton, j.c. jewett, h. stenhome, john parks, absalom parks, david parks, james imbrie, alfred parry, h.c. ward, richard mcrae, wm. johnson, f. prunean, h.w. taylor, r.a. eddy, s.t. brewster, c. sala, dericerpre, m. donaldson kinney, r.m. foltz., jas. f. hibbard, thomas gaffney, allen gries, w.h. swain, oben lacey, e.s. peck, b. smith, john graham, wm. kyle, s.c. tompkins, a.c. ladd, c.b. kinnard, cyrus crouch, h.h. welch, jas. stuart, jas. debell, uriah davis, l.h. babb & co., i.b. purdy, g. dimon, henry j. williams, d.w.c. rice, n. purdy, william k. coit, james b. cushing, thomas west, s.b. mulford, j. ford, wm. ford, charles a. van dorn, gustavus b. wright, j. burlingame, g. beaulamy, a. mace, f. frossard, c.w. durkee, john s. ryder, geo. h. childs, ezra f. nye, s.t. nye, geo. w. durkee, john c. marks, john l. carpenter, leonard crofford, robert lacy, french paige, l.a. allen, james hughes, j.c. sargent, wm. p. hoyt, f.l. reed, j.s. bell, henry b. compton, g.f. kussel, reuben scott, warren drury, joel f. whitney, o.c. gardner, b.f. taber, johnson thompson, jr., ganahl & co., t.w. hall, j. donnel, wm. irwin, wm. w. nelson, r.h. mccall, b.g. bixby, geo. l. boswell, wm. w. tinker, robert s. baker, n.f. cooke, edwards woodruff, j.n. briceland, joseph f. emeric, john f. delong, james q. packard, sibley & co., boone, larrow & co., p.w. hayes & co., geo. c. gorham, r. dunlap, m. cameron, r. brown, a.w. loynes, f. owradon, j.w. turner, p.d. bailey, james l. springer, matthew s. smith, wm. fulton, john george smith, isaiah porter, wm. r. taylor, john mcclellan, r.h. macy, charles b. mitchell, thomas r. anthony, geo. w. webster, daniel m. shepherd, m.j. eavyerberth, lewis a. gosey, john rueyer, tehan van de wett, wm. cassede, g.p. russell, s.g. haywood, g.w. hopkins, wm. e. wightman, e. ferris, samuel r. st. john, a.o. garrett, d.c. benham. * * * * * exhibit g. _letter of mr. eaton, by whom the message mentioned in the narrative was sent to judge turner._ wednesday afternoon, _aug. , ' _. dear judge: i have given your message to turner. he does not like it much and flared up considerably when i told him. but it was no use. i have made him understand that you do not want any personal difficulty with him, but that you are ready for him, and if he attacks you he will get badly hurt. i will see you soon and explain. give him ----. you can always count on me. yours truly, ira a. eaton. the narrative of reminiscences was sent to a friend in san francisco, soon after it was printed, and was shown to gen. a.m. winn of that city. he was in marysville in and also gave judge turner to understand the line of conduct i intended to pursue. the following letter has since been received from him. san francisco, _may th ' _. friend field: in looking over the early reminiscences of california i was pleased with the faithful recital of your trouble with judge turner at marysville in . being there about that time i recollect to have met with judge turner and found him in a fighting rage, making threats of what he would do on meeting you. although i have not an exalted opinion of men's courage, when they talk so much about it, i thought he might put his threats into execution and warned you of approaching danger. the course you pursued was generally approved, and public opinion culminated in your favor. you made many warm friends, though turner and his friends were the more enraged in consequence of that fact. with great respect, i am, as ever, your friend, a.m. winn. hon. stephen j. field, _washington, d.c._ * * * * * exhibit h, no. i.[ ] after the narrative of reminiscences was written, the proceedings of the assembly of california of , on the petition of citizens of yuba and nevada counties for the impeachment of judge turner, were published. annexed to them was a statement by the editor of the causes of the indefinite postponement of the matter. they are there stated to be: st, that it was supposed that i had acquiesced in such a disposition of the case, because by the act concerning the courts of justice and judicial officers, turner had been sent to the northern portion of the state, where he could do no harm; d, that the legislature did not wish to extend the session for the period which the trial of an impeachment would require; and, d, that the whole matter had become extremely distasteful to me. a copy of this statement with the record of the proceedings was sent to the surviving members of the seven, mentioned in the narrative, who voted for the indefinite postponement of the matter; and they wrote the replies which are given below as part of this exhibit. they are preceded by a letter from a member, written soon after the vote was taken. * * * * * _letter of mr. bennett._ house of assembly, san jose, _april d, _. hon. stephen j. field. dr. sir: i take pleasure in adopting this form to explain to you my vote upon the question put to the house in the final disposition of the case for the impeachment of judge turner. had the house been called for a direct vote upon the question of impeachment, i should certainly have voted for the impeachment; but finding that some of the members thought the wishes of the citizens of yuba county had been accomplished by the removal of judge turner from your district, and on that account would vote against the impeachment, i thought there was less injustice in postponing the whole matter indefinitely, than in coming to a direct vote. i will also say that it was understood by many members that you would be satisfied with such a disposition. i am very truly your friend, f.c. bennett. to the hon. stephen j. field, _san jose_. * * * * * _letter of mr. merritt._ salt lake city, utah, _may th, _. my dear judge: your letter of the th of april reached me day before yesterday, and the copy of the proceedings in the matter of the impeachment of w.r. turner, on yesterday. the editorial comments on the case, so far as i am concerned, are exactly correct. i remember distinctly having voted for the indefinite postponement of the charges against turner on the distinct understanding that you consented to it, or at least acquiesced, for the reasons: st, that turner, by the passage of the bill concerning courts of justice, etc., had been sent to a district where he could do no harm and was out of the way; d, that you did not desire to extend the session of the legislature; and, d, that the whole matter was extremely distasteful and disagreeable to you. i remember further very distinctly, even after this great lapse of time, that i was very much astonished when you told me that i had voted under a misapprehension as to your views and wishes. it is very certain that turner would have been impeached had not a false report, as to your views and wishes on the subject, been industriously circulated among the members of the assembly a short time before the vote was taken. that report alone saved turner from impeachment. very truly your friend, saml. a. merritt. hon. s.j. field, _sup. ct. u.s._ * * * * * _letter of mr. mccorkle._ washington, city, d.c., _may th, _. hon. s.j. field. my dear sir: i have received your note and the printed record of the "proceedings of the assembly of the state of california of , on the petition of the citizens of yuba and nevada counties for the impeachment of wm. r. turner, judge of the eighth judicial district of california." the simple reading of the record recalls vividly to my mind all of the circumstances of the case and enables me to answer your inquiry in regard to the indefinite postponement of the motion to impeach judge turner. a bill introduced by yourself, increasing and changing the numbers of the judicial districts of the state, had passed the legislature, and became a law some weeks before the motion to impeach judge turner was called up. by this law judge turner was banished to the klamath--a region inhabited almost exclusively by savage red-skins, the elk, and grizzly bear, and as turner was supposed by anthropologists to be a resultant of that mysterious law of generation denominated atavism or reversionary heredity, and bore the impression, in not only the bodily form, but the instincts, passions, manners, and habits of the "cave-dwellers" of the rough-stone age, there appeared to be a fitness and adaptation in the new locality and its surroundings to the man, which was at once appreciated and approved by all persons familiar with him, and his conduct and behavior, both on and off the bench. under these circumstances the report obtained general credence, that you and your constituents were satisfied with the removal of judge turner from the bench of the eighth judicial district; and i have no doubt influenced all or nearly all who voted to indefinitely postpone his impeachment. as for myself, having a personal knowledge of the truth of the charges made against judge turner by the citizens of yuba and nevada counties, i am free to say that no consideration other than that you and your constituents were satisfied with judge turner's removal from the eighth judicial district, could have induced me to cast my vote for the indefinite postponement of judge turner's impeachment. do you realize the fact, my dear judge, that more than a quarter of a century has elapsed since these events transpired? though my respect for you as a man, and my admiration for you as a jurist, have increased since we were actors in these scenes; yet i am frank enough to say to you, that if i had to play my part again, with my increased experience, i would not vote to indefinitely postpone the impeachment of a judge whom i knew to be guilty of the charges made against judge turner by yourself and others, _even though the report were true_ that you and your constituents were satisfied with his simple removal from your judicial district. respectfully and truly yours, &c., jos. w. mccorkle. * * * * * _letter of mr. bradford._ springfield, ill, _may th, _. judge field. my dear friend: yours of the th april should have been answered ere this, but before doing so i desired to get all the reminders that i could. i looked carefully over the journal. all that i had recollected in the whole matter was that i had an intense feeling in favor of sustaining your position, and when you informed me that i had voted to dismiss the proceedings i was profoundly astonished. i thought you must be mistaken until i saw the journal.... some very satisfactory assurance must have been given me that such vote would be satisfactory to you, and i only wonder that i did not have the assurance verified.... i assume that the editor is correct in the explanation as given. very truly, j.s. braford. * * * * * _letter of mr. carr._ san francisco, _may th, _. my dear judge: i have received your letter and a printed copy of the record of the proceedings of the assembly of california of , in the matter of the impeachment of william r. turner, judge of the then eighth judicial district of the state. in reply, i have to say, that the statement of the editor as to the vote on the motion to indefinitely postpone the proceedings is correct, so far as i am concerned. it was distinctly understood by me, and to my knowledge by other members of the assembly, that you had consented to such postponement, it being explained that the postponement was not to be taken as an approval of the judge's conduct. on no other ground could the motion have been carried. if the vote had been taken on the charges made, articles of impeachment against the judge would undoubtedly have been ordered. your consent to the postponement was understood to have been given, because of the change in the judicial districts by an act introduced into the assembly by yourself, under which judge turner was sent to a district in the northern part of the state, where there was at the time scarcely any legal business, and which was removed to a great distance from the district in which you resided, and because of the general desire manifested by others to bring the session of the legislature to a speedy close. the impeachment of the judge would have necessitated a great prolongation of the session. no member of the assembly justified or excused the atrocious and tyrannical conduct of the judge towards yourself and others. i am, very truly, yours, jesse d. carr. hon. stephen j. field. [ ] by mistake, there are two exhibits h; they are, therefore, marked no. i. and no. ii. * * * * * exhibit h, no. ii. _letter of judge gordon n. mott giving the particulars of the difficulty with judge barbour._ san francisco, _apr. th, _. hon. stephen j. field. dear sir: your letter of the eleventh instant, in which you requested me to give you, in writing, an account of the affair between yourself and judge w.t. barbour, at marysville in , was duly received. the facts in relation to that unpleasant affair are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened yesterday; and i give them to you the more willingly for the reason that you incurred the spite and malice of judge barbour, by acts of personal and professional kindness to me, which gave him no just or reasonable cause of offence; and though the following statement of facts will place the character of judge barbour, now deceased, in a very bad and even ludicrous light, the events in mind are nevertheless a part of the history of our early days in california, and i see no impropriety in complying with your request. the facts are as follows: you and i were walking together along d street in the city of marysville, when we met judge barbour, who, after using some offensive and insolent remarks, gave you a verbal challenge to meet him in the way resorted to by gentlemen for the settlement of their personal difficulties. you accepted the challenge instantly, and referred him to me, as your friend, who would act for you in settling the preliminaries of a hostile meeting. in half an hour i was called upon by hon. chas. s. fairfax as the friend of judge barbour. he said judge barbour had told him that judge field had challenged him to mortal combat, and requested him to meet me for the purpose of arranging the terms of the meeting between them. i told mr. fairfax at once that such was not my understanding of the matter; that i was present when the challenge was given by judge barbour and accepted by judge field. after further consultation with you we agreed that it was better for you to accept the false position in which judge barbour seemed determined to place you, and "to fight it out on that line," than longer submit to the insolence and persecution of a bitter and unscrupulous adversary. mr. fairfax then claimed, in behalf of judge barbour, that, as he was the party challenged, he had the right to the choice of weapons, and the time, place, and manner of the combat; to which i assented. he then stated that judge barbour proposed that the meeting should take place that evening in a room twenty feet square; that each party was to be armed with a colt's navy revolver and a _bowie-knife_; that they should be stationed at opposite sides of the room, and should fire at the word, and advance at pleasure, and finish the conflict with the knives. i told mr. fairfax that the terms proposed by his principal were unusual and inconsistent with the "code," and that i could not consent to them or countenance a conflict so unprecedented and barbarous. mr. fairfax agreed with me that judge barbour had no right to insist upon the terms proposed, and said that he would consult with him and get him to modify his proposition. upon doing so he soon returned, and stated that judge barbour insisted upon the terms he had proposed as his ultimatum, and requested me to go with him and call on judge barbour, which i did. i had now come to the conclusion that barbour was playing the role of the bravo and bully, and that he did not intend to fight, and resolved on the course that i would pursue with him. mr. fairfax and myself then called on judge barbour, and i repeated what i had said to mr. fairfax, adding that it would be shameful for two gentlemen, occupying such positions as they in society, to fall upon each other with knives like butchers or savages, and requesting him to dispense with the knives, which he still refused to do. i then looked him straight in the eye and said, well, sir, if you insist upon those terms, we shall accept. i saw his countenance change instantly. "his coward lips did from their color fly;" and he finally stammered out that he would "waive the knife." without consulting you, i had determined that if barbour still insisted upon a conflict with bowie-knives i would take your place, believing that he would not have any advantage over me in any fight he could make; and knowing, moreover, that you had involved yourself in the difficulty on my account, i thought it only just for me to do so. but it was demonstrated in the sequel that barbour was playing the game of bluff, and that he did not intend to fight from the start. it was finally settled, however, that the combat should take place as first proposed, except that pistols only were to be used. mr. fairfax and myself then commenced looking about for a room; but in the meantime the affair had been noised about town and we found it impossible to get one. mr. fairfax then, after consulting judge barbour, proposed that the meeting should take place the next morning in sutter county; to which i assented; and all the terms and preliminaries were arranged and agreed upon. at that time there were two daily lines of stages leaving marysville for sacramento, and you and your friends were to go down the sacramento road to a point below bear river in advance of the stages, and i was to select a suitable place for the meeting. judge barbour and his friends were to follow us in one of the coaches and i was to hail the driver as he approached the place of meeting. you and your adversary were to be stationed one hundred yards apart, each armed with as many colt's revolvers as he chose to carry; to fire upon each other at the word, and to advance at pleasure and finish the conflict. our party was promptly on the ground according to agreement; and when the first coach came in sight i hailed the driver and found that judge barbour and his friends were not aboard, and the coach passed on a little below us and turned out of the road and stopped. soon after the other coach came in sight, and i again hailed the driver, who stopped the coach, and judge barbour instantly jumped out, and in a very excited manner said that he was going forward to the other coach, and called on the passengers "to take notice, that if that d----d rascal" (pointing to you) "attacked him he would kill him." i stepped in front of judge barbour and said: hold! judge field will not attack you, sir; remarking at the same time to mr. fairfax that this was strange conduct on the part of his friend, and not in accordance with our understanding and agreement; that each party was to bear his portion of the responsibility of the meeting which was to take place between them. mr. fairfax appeared both astonished and mortified at the pusillanimous conduct of his principal, who seemed determined to rush forward to the other coach; and i requested him to wait until i could go back and consult you in the matter, for i was afraid that you might possibly be provoked to make the attack. when i returned to you and explained what had been said at the coach, you asked if it would be proper for you to make the attack. i told you most decidedly not; to let the coward go, and he would never annoy or trouble you again. mr. fairfax, who possessed a nice sense of honor, and was a gallant and accomplished gentleman, was so disgusted and mortified at the conduct of his principal that he left him and came over and joined our party, and after taking breakfast with us at nicolaus, returned with us to marysville, while judge barbour went on his way to sacramento. thus, what threatened in its inception to be a sanguinary tragedy, ended in a ridiculous farce. the determined and resolute stand which you assumed in this affair with judge barbour, saved you from any farther insolence or persecution from men of his class. this letter has been drawn out to a most tedious length, and yet there are many circumstances connected with our early life and times in marysville that i would add but for fear of trying your patience. please write to me on receipt of this, and tell me how my memory of the facts contained in this letter agrees with yours. very respectfully and truly your friend, gordon n. mott. * * * * * exhibit i. _letter of l. martin, esq., the friend of judge barbour in his street attack._ marysville, _tuesday, march , ' _. dear judge: i was glad to hear a few days ago from our friend filkins that the trouble between you and judge barbour had been settled, and that the hatchet was buried. i wish now to explain my connection with the assault made upon you about a year ago by barbour.[ ] you have always appeared to think me in some way implicated in that affair, because i was seen by you at that time not far off from him. the facts are these: judge barbour told me the night before that he expected to have a street fight with you, and wanted me to accompany him. i had heard of his conduct in the affair of the intended duel in sutter county, and knew there was bad blood between you, but i was astonished at his saying there was going to be a difficulty between you in the street. i consented to accompany him, but i supposed of course that you had received notice of his purpose, and that there would be no unfair advantage taken by him. i was, therefore, surprised when i saw you in front of your office with your arms partly filled with small pieces of board, apparently to kindle a fire. barbour's drawing a pistol upon you under these circumstances, and calling upon you to draw and defend yourself, was not what we call at the south very chivalric. it was not justified by me then, and never has been in any way or manner, and i told him he had acted badly. i was glad to hear you defy him as you did, and dare him to shoot. i reckon he is not very proud of his conduct. i have never approved of his action, and should never have accompanied him had i believed or suspected he had not given you notice of his purpose. with great respect i am very truly yours, l. martin. hon. judge field. [ ] it was february , . * * * * * exhibit j. _sections four, five, and seven of the act entitled "an act to expedite the settlement of titles to lands in the state of california," approved july st, ._ sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that whenever the district judge of any one of the district courts of the united states for california is interested in any land, the claim to which, under the said act of march third, eighteen hundred and fifty-one, is pending before him on appeal from the board of commissioners created by said act, the said district court shall order the case to be transferred to the circuit court of the united states for california, which court shall thereupon take jurisdiction and determine the same. the said district courts may also order a transfer to the said circuit court of any other cases arising under said act, pending before them, affecting the title to lands within the corporate limits of any city or town, and in such cases both the district and circuit judges may sit. sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that all the right and title of the united states to the lands within the corporate limits of the city of san francisco, as defined in the act incorporating said city, passed by the legislature of the state of california, on the fifteenth of april, one thousand eight hundred and fifty-one, are hereby relinquished and granted to the said city and its successors, for the uses and purposes specified in the ordinance of said city, ratified by an act of the legislature of the said state, approved on the eleventh of march, eighteen hundred and fifty-eight, entitled "an act concerning the city of san francisco, and to ratify and confirm certain ordinances of the common council of said city," there being excepted from this relinquishment and grant all sites or other parcels of lands which have been, or now are, occupied by the united states for military, naval, or other public uses, [or such other sites or parcels as may hereafter be designated by the president of the united states, within one year after the rendition to the general land-office, by the surveyor-general, of an approved plat of the exterior limits of san francisco, as recognized in this section, in connection with the lines of the public surveys: _and provided_, that the relinquishment and grant by this act shall in no manner interfere with or prejudice any bona fide claims of others, whether asserted adversely under rights derived from spain, mexico, or the laws of the united states, nor preclude a judicial examination and adjustment thereof.] sec. . _and be it further enacted_, that it shall be the duty of the surveyor-general of california, in making surveys of the private land claims finally confirmed, to follow the decree of confirmation as closely as practicable whenever such decree designates the specific boundaries of the claim. but when such decree designates only the out-boundaries within which the quantity confirmed is to be taken, the location of such quantity shall be made, as near as practicable, in one tract and in a compact form. and if the character of the land, or intervening grants, be such as to render the location impracticable in one tract, then each separate location shall be made, as near as practicable, in a compact form. and it shall be the duty of the commissioner of the general land-office to require a substantial compliance with the directions of this section before approving any survey and plat forwarded to him.--[ stats. at large, pp. - .] that part of the fifth section, which is included within brackets, was inserted at the suggestion of the commissioner of the general land-office. * * * * * _the act entitled "an act to quiet the title to certain lands within the corporate limits of the city of san francisco," approved march th, ._ _be it enacted by the senate and house of representatives of the united states of america in congress assembled_, that all the right and title of the united states to the land situated within the corporate limits of the city of san francisco, in the state of california, confirmed to the city of san francisco by the decree of the circuit court of the united states for the northern district of california, entered on the eighteenth day of may, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-five, be, and the same are hereby, relinquished and granted to the said city of san francisco and its successors, and the claim of the said city to said land is hereby confirmed, subject, however, to the reservations and exceptions designated in said decree, and upon the following trusts, namely, that all the said land, not heretofore granted to said city, shall be disposed of and conveyed by said city to parties in the bona fide actual possession thereof, by themselves or tenants, on the passage of this act, in such quantities and upon such terms and conditions as the legislature of the state of california may prescribe, except such parcels thereof as may be reserved and set apart by ordinance of said city for public uses: _provided, however_, that the relinquishment and grant by this act shall not interfere with or prejudice any valid adverse right or claim, if such exist, to said land or any part thereof, whether derived from spain, mexico, or the united states, or preclude a judicial examination and adjustment thereof.--[ stat. at large, p. .] * * * * * exhibit k. _letter of judge lake giving an account of the torpedo._ san francisco, _april , ' _. honorable stephen j. field. my dear sir: in the winter of i was in washington attending the united states supreme court, and was frequently a visitor at your room. one morning in january of that year i accompanied you to your room, expecting to find letters from san francisco, as i had directed that my letters should be forwarded to your care. i found your mail lying on the table. among other matter addressed to you was a small package, about four inches square, wrapped in white paper, and bearing the stamp of the pioneer photographic gallery of san francisco. two printed slips were pasted upon the face of the package and formed the address: your name, evidently cut from the title-page of the "california law reports;" and "washington, d.c.," taken from a newspaper. you supposed it to be a photograph, and said as much to me, though from the first you professed surprise at the receipt of it. you were standing at the window, when you began to open it, and had some difficulty in making the cover yield. when you had removed the cover you raised the lid slightly, but in a moment said to me, "what is this, lake? it can hardly be a photograph." a sudden suspicion flashed upon me, and stepping to your side, i exclaimed, "don't open it; it means mischief!" when i had looked at it more nearly, i said, "it's an infernal machine" or "a torpedo." i carried it over to the capitol, opposite to your rooms, where mr. broom, one of the clerks of the supreme court, joined me in the examination of your mysterious looking present. it was put in water, and afterwards we dashed off the lid of the box by throwing it against the wall in the carriage way under the senate steps. about a dozen copper cartridges were disclosed--those used in a smith & wesson pocket pistol, it appeared afterward--six of them lying on each side of a bunch of friction matches in the centre. the sides of the cartridges had been filed through, so that the burning of the matches might explode the cartridges. the whole was kept in place in a bed of common glue, and a strip of sand-paper lying upon the heads of the matches was bent into a loop to receive the bit of thread, whose other end, secured to the clasp of the box, produced that tension and consequent pressure requisite to ignite the matches upon the forcible opening of the lid. to make assurance doubly sure, a paste of fulminating powder and alcohol had been spread around the matches and cartridges. there was a newspaper slip also glued to the inside of the lid, with words as follows: "monday, oct. , . the city of san francisco vs. united states. judge field yesterday delivered the following opinion in the above case. it will be read with great interest by the people of this city." then followed several lines of the opinion. even that gave no clue to the source of the infernal machine, but from the fact that it was evidently made by a scientific man, and that from its size it must have been passed through the window at the post office, instead of into the letter-box, it was thought [that there was] a sufficiently conspicuous mode of action to expose the sender of the torpedo to detection. whoever it may have been took a late vengeance for the decision of the pueblo case--if such was the veritable motive of the frustrated assassination--as the decision referred to was rendered in . on that account it was conjectured that the contriver of the machine might be some guilty person, who had received sentence from you, and who used the reference to the pueblo case to divert suspicion from himself. so far as i know, all efforts to discover the author of the intended mischief have been fruitless. the box with its contents, was sent to the secretary of war, who directed an examination by the ordnance department. general dyer, then chief of ordnance, pronounced it a most cleverly combined torpedo, and exploded one of the cartridges in a closed box, producing a deep indentation upon its sides. general dyer added, among other analytical details, that the ball weighed grains. all the circumstances connected with the reception of the infernal machine were too singular and, at that time, ominous, not to remain vividly impressed upon my memory. very truly, your friend, delos lake. * * * * * exhibit l. _the following is an extract from the report to the commissioner of the general land-office by the register and receiver of the land-office in california, to whom the matter of the contests for lands on the soscol ranch was submitted for investigation, showing the condition and occupation of the lands previous to the rejection of the grant by the supreme court of the united states, and the character of the alleged pre-emption settlements which julian undertook to defend._ a general report of the facts established by said evidence is briefly as follows:[ ] when the united states government took possession of california, don mariana guadaloupe vallejo was in the occupancy of the rancho of soscol, claiming to own it by virtue of the grant from the mexican nation, which has recently (december term, ) been declared invalid by the supreme court of the united states. his occupancy was the usual one of the country and in accordance with the primitive habits of the people. he possessed the land by herding stock upon it. general vallejo, as military commandante of his district, consisting of all alta california lying north of the bay of san francisco, was necessarily the leading personage of the country. his influence among the rude inhabitants of the territory was almost monarchical, and his establishment was in accordance with his influence. his residence at sonoma was the capital of his commandancy, and the people of the country for hundreds of miles around looked to general vallejo for advice and assistance in business and for protection and defence in time of trouble. these things are part of the history of california. he had other ranches besides that of soscol, as that at sonoma, which was devoted to agriculture and residences. the soscol he especially devoted to the herding and grazing of stock, for which purpose it was most admirably adapted. wild oats grew in great luxuriance all over this tract, from the water's edge to the tops of the highest hills, and being surrounded on three sides by the waters of the bays and rivers, required little attention in the way of herdsmen. on this rancho general vallejo kept as many as fifteen thousand head of horses and horned cattle running at will, attended only by the necessary vaqueros employed to watch and attend them. there was no other use to which the land could at that time be devoted. the want of reliable labor and lack of a market both forbade agricultural operations beyond personal or family necessities. it was not practicable then, nor for years after, to put the land to any use other than stock pasturing. we have, therefore, to report that the possession that general vallejo had of "soscol" in was the usual use and possession of the time and the country, and that it was the best and most perfect use and occupation of which the land was capable. the rancho was, therefore, reduced to possession by general vallejo before the americans took possession of the country. soon after the american occupation or conquest, general vallejo began to sell off portions of the "soscol," and continued this practice until about the year , at which time he sold the last of it, and does not appear to have had or claimed any interest since. this sale and consequent dividing the land into small parcels produced its usual effect in the way of improvements. from to the "rancho of soscol" was almost entirely reduced to absolute and actual possession and control by his vendees, being by them fenced up into fields, surrounded by substantial enclosures, and improved with expensive farm-houses, out-buildings, orchards, and the like, and was cultivated to grain wherever suitable for that purpose. it had upon it two cities of considerable importance, viz: benicia and vallejo, each of which had been at one time the capital of the state of california. no rural district of california was more highly improved than this, and but a very small portion equal to it. the title to "soscol," before its rejection by the united states supreme court, was considered the very best in all california. all the really valuable agricultural land in california was held under mexican grants, and, as a consequence, all had to pass the ordeal of the land commission. from to about very few had been finally passed upon by the courts, so that during that time the question for the farmer to decide was not what title is perfect, but what title is most likely to prove so by the final judgment of the supreme court. amongst the very best, in the opinion of the public, stood "soscol." one conclusive, unanswerable proof of that fact is this, that there was not a single settler on the grant at the time it was rejected. not one person on it, except in subordination to the vallejo title. every resident on the whole tract held his land by purchase from vallejo, or his assigns, and held just precisely the land so purchased, and not one acre more or less. this fact was not even disputed during the whole eight months of investigation through which we have just passed. it is a notorious fact that of the grants in california which have stood the test of the supreme court, very many have been entirely in the possession of squatters, and all with more or less of such possessions, and the final patent has alone succeeded in recovering the long-lost possession to the grantholder. there were no settlers on the "soscol." the people had the most perfect confidence in the title. it had been twice confirmed by tribunals of high authority and great learning--first by the united states land commission, and then by the district court of the united states. it only wanted the final confirmation by the supreme court, and none doubted that it would follow of course. business could not, and would not, await the nine years consumed in adjudicating this title. farmers were obliged to have lands, and they bought them. capital must and would seek investment, and it was lent on mortgage. when all titles required the same confirmatory decree, the citizen could not discriminate, but exercised his best judgment. the sales of lands upon the "soscol" were made at prices which called for perfect title; they brought the full improved value of the land. money was lent on mortgage in the same way. the deeds and mortgages, which accompany the respective cases, are the very best evidence of the opinion the public entertained of the character of the soscol grant title. the people were amazed when it was announced that the soscol grant had been rejected. no fact developed by this examination has appeared so surprising to the mind of the register and receiver as that there were no pre-emption settlers on the "soscol." this is so unusual in california that we expected to find the contrary. there was no possession on the tract adverse to the grant title. thus stood matters until early in the year , when the intelligence reached california that the grant had been rejected by the supreme court. the struggle soon began. there was at that time employed upon the united states navy-yard at mare island, and also upon the pacific mail company's works at benicia, a large number of mechanics and laborers. there was also in the towns of benicia and vallejo a large floating population. tempted by the great value of these lands in their highly improved state, many of these persons squatted upon the rancho. the landholders in possession resisted. the houses of the great majority of the settlers were erected in the night time, as it was necessary to enter the enclosed fields by stealth. these houses were built of rough redwood boards set up edgewise, with shed roof, and without window, fire place, or floor. they were about eight feet square, sometimes eight by ten feet, and never over six feet high. we have no hesitation in saying that they were utterly unfit for the habitation of human beings, and further that they were never designed for permanent residences. the mode of erecting these shanties was as follows: the planks were sawed the right length in the town of vallejo or benicia, in the afternoon of the day, and at nightfall were loaded upon a cart. about eleven o'clock at night the team would start for the intended settlement, reaching there about one or two o'clock in the morning. between that hour and daylight the house would be erected and finished. sometimes the house would be put together with nails, but when too near the residence of the landholder in possession, screws would be used to prevent the sound of the hammer attracting attention. very few of this class of settlers remained upon their claims above a few days, but soon returned to their ordinary occupations in the towns. generally after they would leave the landholders would remove the shanties from the ground. in some cases they would pull them down with force immediately upon discovering them, and in the presence of the settlers. a few of them got settlements near enough to their places of employment to enable them to work in town, or at the navy-yard, and to sleep in their shanties; some regularly, others only occasionally. these generally remained longer than the others, but none of this class remained up to the time of trial. none of the settlers, who went on since the grant was rejected, have attempted regular improvements or cultivation. a few have harvested the grain planted by the landholders, as it grew on their / [quarter-section]; they would harvest it, and offer this as evidence of good faith and cultivation. we have no hesitation in pronouncing, from the evidence, that these are not settlers within the spirit of the pre-emption laws, but are mere speculators, desirous of getting the improvements of another to sell and to make money. [ ] the evidence taken before those officers. * * * * * the preceding personal reminiscences of early days in california by judge field, with other sketches, were dictated by him to a stenographer in the summer of , at san francisco. they were afterwards printed for a few friends, but not published. the edition was small and soon exhausted, and each year since the judge has been asked for copies. the reprint is therefore made. the history of the attempt at his assassination by a former associate on the supreme bench of california is added. it is written by hon. george c. gorham, a warm personal friend of the judge for many years, who is thoroughly informed of the events described. * * * * * the story of the attempted assassination of justice field by a former associate on the supreme bench of california. by hon. george c. gorham. note by the publishers. mr. gorham is a life-long friend of justice field. he was his clerk when the latter held the alcalde's court in marysville, in ; and was clerk of the u. . circuit court of the district of california when it was organized, after judge field's appointment to the u.s. supreme bench. subsequently, and for several years, he was secretary of the u.s. senate. since his retirement from office he has resided in washington. for a part of the time he edited a republican paper in that city, but of late years he has been chiefly engaged in literary works, of which the principal one is the life and history of the late secretary of war, edwin m. stanton. * * * * * index. attempted assassination of justice field by a former associate on the state supreme bench chapter i the sharon-hill-terry litigation. chapter ii proceedings in the superior court of the state. chapter iii proceedings in the united states circuit court. [transriber's note: there is no chapter iv] chapter v decision of the case in the federal court. chapter vi the marriage of terry and miss hill. chapter vii the bill of revivor. chapter viii the terrys imprisoned for contempt. chapter ix terry's petition to the circuit court for a release--its refusal--he appeals to the supreme court--unanimous decision against him there. chapter x president cleveland refuses to pardon terry--false statements of terry refuted. chapter xi terry's continued threats to kill justice field--return of the latter to california in . chapter xii further proceedings in the state court.--judge sullivan's decision reversed. chapter xiii attempted assassination of justice field, resulting in terry's own death at the hands of a deputy united states marshal. chapter xiv sarah althea terry charges justice field and deputy marshal neagle with murder. chapter xv justice field's arrest and petition for release on habeas corpus. chapter xvi judge terry's funeral--refusal of the supreme court of california to adjourn on the occasion. chapter xvii habeas corpus proceedings in justice field's case. chapter xviii habeas corpus proceedings in neagle's case. chapter xix expressions of public opinion. chapter xx the appeal to the supreme court of the united states, and the second trial of sarah althea's divorce case. chapter xxi concluding observations. * * * * * attempted assassination of justice field by a former associate on the state supreme bench. the most thrilling episode in the eventful life of justice field was his attempted assassination at lathrop, california, on the th day of august, , by david s. terry, who had been chief justice of the state during a portion of justice field's service on that bench. terry lost his own life in his desperate attempt, by the alertness and courage of david s. neagle, a deputy united states marshal, who had been deputed by his principal, under an order from the attorney-general of the united states, to protect justice field from the assassin, who had, for nearly a year, boldly and without concealment, proclaimed his murderous purpose. the motive of terry was not in any manner connected with their association on the state supreme bench, for there had never been any but pleasant relations between them. terry resigned from the bench in to challenge senator broderick of california to the duel in which the latter was killed. he entered the confederate service during the war, and some time after its close he returned to california, and entered upon the practice of the law. in he was a candidate for presidential elector on the democratic ticket. his associates on that ticket were all elected, while he was defeated by the refusal of a number of the old friends of broderick to give him their votes. it is probable that his life was much embittered by the intense hatred he had engendered among the friends of broderick, and the severe censure of a large body of the people of the state, not especially attached to the political fortunes of the dead senator. these facts are mentioned as furnishing a possible explanation of judge terry's marked descent in character and standing from the chief-justiceship of the state to being the counsel, partner, and finally the husband of the discarded companion of a millionaire in a raid upon the latter's property in the courts. it was during the latter stages of this litigation that judge terry became enraged against justice field, because the latter, in the discharge of his judicial duties, had been compelled to order the revival of a decree of the united states circuit court, in the rendering of which he had taken no part. a proper understanding of this exciting chapter in the life of justice field renders necessary a narrative of the litigation referred to. it is doubtful if the annals of the courts or the pages of romance can parallel this conspiracy to compel a man of wealth to divide his estate with adventurers. whether it is measured by the value of the prize reached for, by the character of the conspirators, or by the desperate means to which they resorted to accomplish their object, it stands in the forefront of the list of such operations. chapter i. the sharon-hill-terry litigation. the victim, upon a share of whose enormous estate, commonly estimated at $ , , , these conspirators had set their covetous eyes, was william sharon, then a senator from the state of nevada. the woman with whom he had terminated his relations, because he believed her to be dangerous to his business interests, was sarah althea hill. desirous of turning to the best advantage her previous connection with him, she sought advice from an old negress of bad repute, and the result was a determination to claim that she had a secret contract of marriage with him. this negress, who during the trial gave unwilling testimony to having furnished the sinews of war in the litigation to the extent of at least five thousand dollars, then consulted g.w. tyler, a lawyer noted for his violent manner and reckless practices, who explained to her what kind of a paper would constitute a legal marriage contract under the laws of california. no existing contract was submitted to him, but he gave his written opinion as to what kind of a contract it would be good to have for the purpose. the pretended contract was then manufactured by sarah althea in accordance with this opinion, and tyler subsequently made a written agreement with her by which he was to act as her attorney, employ all necessary assistance, and pay all expenses, and was to have one-half of all they could get out of sharon by their joint efforts as counsel and client. this contract was negotiated by an australian named neilson, who was to have one-half of the lawyer's share. on the th of september, , a demand was made upon mr. sharon for money for miss hill. he drove her emissary, neilson, out of the hotel where he had called upon him, and the latter appeared the next day in the police court of san francisco and made an affidavit charging mr. sharon with the crime of adultery. a warrant was issued for the latter's arrest, and he was held to bail in the sum of $ , . this charge was made for the avowed purpose of establishing the manufactured contract of marriage already referred to, which bore date three years before. a copy of this alleged contract was furnished to the newspapers together with a letter having sharon's name appended to it, addressed at the top to "my dear wife," and at the bottom to "miss hill." this pretended contract and letter mr. sharon denounced as forgeries. on the d of october, , mr. sharon commenced suit in the united states circuit court at san francisco against sarah althea hill, setting forth in his complaint that he was a citizen of the state of nevada, and she a citizen of california; "that he was, and had been for years, an unmarried man; that formerly he was the husband of maria ann sharon, who died in may, , and that he had never been the husband of any other person; that there were two children living, the issue of that marriage, and also grandchildren, the children of a deceased daughter of the marriage; that he was possessed of a large fortune in real and personal property; was extensively engaged in business enterprises and ventures, and had a wide business and social connection; that, as he was informed, the defendant was an unmarried woman of about thirty years of age, for some time a resident of san francisco; that within two months then past she had repeatedly and publicly claimed and represented that she was his lawful wife; that she falsely and fraudulently pretended that she was duly married to him on the twenty-fifth day of august, , at the city and county of san francisco; that on that day they had jointly made a declaration of marriage showing the names, ages, and residences of the parties, jointly doing the acts required by the civil code of california to constitute a marriage between them, and that thereby they became and were husband and wife according to the law of that state. "the complainant further alleged that these several claims, representations, and pretensions were wholly and maliciously false, and were made by her for the purpose of injuring him in his property, business, and social relations; for the purpose of obtaining credit by the use of his name with merchants and others, and thereby compelling him to maintain her; and for the purpose of harassing him, and in case of his death, his heirs and next of kin and legatees, into payment of large sums of money to quiet her false and fraudulent claims and pretensions. he also set forth what he was informed was a copy of the declaration of marriage, and alleged that if she had any such instrument, it was 'false, forged, and counterfeited;' that he never, on the day of its date, or at any other time, made or executed any such document or declaration, and never knew or heard of the same until within a month previous to that time, and that the same was null and void as against him, and ought, in equity and good conscience, to be so declared, and ordered to be delivered up, to be annulled and cancelled." the complaint concluded with a prayer that it be adjudged and decreed that the said sarah althea hill was not and never had been his wife; that he did not make the said joint declaration of marriage with her, or any marriage between them; that said contract or joint declaration of marriage be decreed and adjudged false, fraudulent, forged, and counterfeited, and ordered to be delivered up and cancelled and annulled, and that she be enjoined from setting up any claims or pretensions of marriage thereby. sharon was a citizen of nevada, while miss hill was a citizen of california.[ ] before the time expired in which miss hill was required to answer the complaint of mr. sharon in the united states circuit court, but not until after the federal jurisdiction had attached in that court, she brought suit against him, november st, in a state superior court, in the city and county of san francisco, to establish their alleged marriage and then obtain a decree, and a division of the property stated to have been acquired since such marriage. in her complaint she alleged that on the th day of august, , they became, by mutual agreement, husband and wife, and thereafter commenced living together as husband and wife; that on that day they had jointly made a declaration of marriage in writing, signed by each, substantially in form as required by the civil code of california, and until the month of november, , had lived together as husband and wife; that since then the defendant had been guilty of sundry violations of the marriage contract. the complaint also alleged that when the parties intermarried the defendant did not have in money or property more than five millions of dollars, with an income not exceeding thirty thousand dollars a month, but that since their intermarriage they had by their prudent management of mines, fortunate speculations, manipulations of the stock market, and other business enterprises, accumulated in money and property more than ten millions of dollars, and that now he had in his possession money and property of the value at least of fifteen millions of dollars, from which he received an income of over one hundred thousand dollars a month. the complaint concluded with a prayer that the alleged marriage with the defendant might be declared legal and valid, and that she might be divorced from him, and that an account be taken of the common property, and that the same be equally divided between them. the campaign was thus fully inaugurated, which for more than six years disgraced the state with its violence and uncleanness, and finally ended in bloodshed. the leading combatants were equally resolute and determined. mr. sharon, who was a man of remarkable will and energy, would have expended his entire fortune in litigation before he would have paid tribute to those who thus attempted to plunder him. sarah althea hill was respectably connected, but had drifted away from her relations, and pursued, without restraint, her disreputable course. she affected a reckless and daredevil character, carrying a pistol, and exhibiting it on occasions in cow-boy fashion, to convey the impression that those who antagonized her had a dangerous character with whom to deal. she was ignorant, illiterate, and superstitious. the forged document which she thought to make a passport to the enjoyment of a share of sharon's millions was a clumsy piece of work. it was dated august , , and contained a clause pledging secrecy for two years thereafter. but she never made it public until september, , although she had, nearly two years before that, been turned out of her hotel by sharon's orders. at this treatment she only whimpered and wrote begging letters to him, not once claiming, even in these private letters to him, to be his wife. she could then have published the alleged contract without any violation of its terms, and claimed any rights it conferred, and it is obvious to any sane man that she would have done so had any such document then been in existence. although sharon's case against sarah althea hill was commenced in the federal court before the commencement of miss hill's case against sharon in the state court, the latter case was first brought to trial, on the th of march, . [ ] note.--a court of equity having jurisdiction to lay its hands upon and control forged and fraudulent instruments, it matters not with what pretensions and claims their validity may be asserted by their possessor; whether they establish a marriage relation with another, or render him an heir to an estate, or confer a title to designated pieces of property, or create a pecuniary obligation. it is enough that, unless set aside or their use restrained, they may impose burdens upon the complaining party, or create claims upon his property by which its possession and enjoyment may be destroyed or impaired. (sharon vs. terry, sawyer's rep., .) the civil code of california also declares that "a written instrument in respect to which there is a reasonable apprehension that, if left outstanding, it may cause serious injury to a person against whom it is void or voidable, may, upon his application, be so adjudged, and ordered to be delivered up or cancelled" (sec. ). chapter ii. proceedings in the superior court of the state. mr. sharon defended in the state court, and prosecuted in the federal court with equal energy. in the former he made an affidavit that the pretended marriage contract was a forgery and applied to the court for the right to inspect it, and to have photographic copies of it made. sarah althea resisted the judge's order to produce the document in question, until he informed her that, if she did not obey, the paper would not be admitted as evidence on the trial of the action. on the second day of the trial in the state court miss hill reinforced her cause by the employment of judge david s. terry as associate counsel. he brought to the case a large experience in the use of deadly weapons, and gave the proceedings something of the character of the ancient "wager of battle." numerous auxiliaries and supernumeraries in the shape of lesser lawyers, fighters, and suborned witnesses were employed in the proceedings, as from time to time occasion required. the woman testified in her own behalf that upon a visit to mr. sharon's office he had offered to pay her $ , per month if she would become his mistress; that she declined his offer in a business-like manner, without anger, and entered upon a conversation about getting married; she swore at a subsequent interview she drafted a marriage contract at sharon's dictation. this document, to which she testified as having been thus drawn up, is as follows: "in the city and county of san francisco, state of california, on the th day of august, a.d., , i, sarah althea hill, of the city and county of san francisco, state of california, aged twenty-seven years, do here, in the presence of almighty god, take senator william sharon, of the state of nevada, to be my lawful and wedded husband, and do here acknowledge and declare myself to be the wife of senator william sharon, of the state of nevada. sarah althea hill. august , , san francisco, cal." * * * * * "i agree not to make known the contents of this paper or its existence for two years unless mr. sharon, himself, sees fit to make it known. sarah althea hill." * * * * * "in the city and county of san francisco, state of california, on the th day of august, a.d. , i, senator william sharon, of the state of nevada, aged sixty years, do here, in the presence of almighty god, take sarah althea hill, of the city and county of san francisco, california, to be my lawful and wedded wife, and do here acknowledge myself to be the husband of sarah althea hill. william sharon, nevada. august , ." in his testimony mr. sharon contradicted every material statement made by sarah althea hill. he denied every circumstance connected with the alleged drawing up of the marriage contract. he testified that on the th day of november, , he terminated his relations with and dismissed her, and made a full settlement with her by the payment of $ , in cash, and notes amounting to $ , . for these she gave him a receipt in full. he charged her with subsequently stealing that receipt at one of two or three visits made by her after her discharge. it is unnecessary to review the voluminous testimony introduced by the parties in support of their respective contentions. the alleged contract was clearly proven to be a forgery. a number of witnesses testified to conversations had with miss hill long after the date of the pretended marriage contract, in which she made statements entirely inconsistent with the existence of such a document. she employed fortune-tellers to give her charms with which she could compel mr. sharon to marry her, and this, too, when she pretended to have in her possession the evidence that she was already his wife. not an appearance of probability attended the claim of this bold adventuress. every statement she made concerning the marriage contract, and every step she took in her endeavor to enforce it, betrayed its false origin. the trial of the case in the state court continued from march th until may th, when the summer recess intervened. it was resumed july th, and occupied the court until september th, on which day the argument of counsel was concluded and the case submitted. no decision was rendered until more than three months afterwards, namely, december th. nearly two months were then allowed to pass before the decree was entered, february , . the case was tried before judge sullivan without a jury, by consent of the parties. he decided for the plaintiff, holding the marriage contract to be genuine, and to constitute a valid marriage. it was manifest that he made his decision solely upon the evidence given by sarah althea herself, whom he nevertheless branded in his opinion as a perjurer, suborner of perjury, and forger. lest this should seem an exaggeration his own words are here quoted. she stated that she was introduced by sharon to certain parties as his wife. of her statements to this effect the judge said: "plaintiff's testimony as to these occasions is directly contradicted, and in my judgment her testimony as to these matters is wilfully false." concerning $ , paid her by sharon, which she alleged she had placed in his hands in the early part of her acquaintance with him, the judge said: "this claim, in my judgment, is utterly unfounded. no such advance was ever made." at another place in his opinion the judge said: "plaintiff claims that defendant wrote her notes at different times after her expulsion from the grand hotel. if such notes were written, it seems strange that they have not been preserved and produced in evidence. i do not believe she received any such notes." with respect to another document which purported to have been signed by mr. sharon, and which sarah althea produced under compulsion, then withdrew it, and failed to produce it afterwards, when called for, saying she had lost it, judge sullivan said: "among the objections suggested to this paper as appearing on its face, was one made by counsel that the signature was evidently a forgery. the matters recited in the paper are, in my judgment, at variance with the facts it purports to recite. considering the stubborn manner in which the production of this paper was at first resisted and the mysterious manner of its disappearance, i am inclined to regard it in the light of one of the fabrications for the purpose of bolstering up plaintiff's case. i can view the paper in no other light than as a fabrication." in another part of his opinion judge sullivan made a sort of a general charge of perjury against her in the following language: "i am of the opinion that to some extent plaintiff has availed herself of the aid of false testimony for the purpose of giving her case a better appearance in the eyes of the court, but sometimes parties have been known to resort to false testimony, where in their judgment it would assist them in prosecuting a lawful claim. as i understand the facts of this case, that was done in this instance." in another place judge sullivan said: "i have discussed fully, in plain language, the numerous false devices resorted to by the plaintiff for the purpose of strengthening her case." miss sarah and her attorneys had now come in sight of the promised land of sharon's ample estate. regular proceedings, however, under the law, seemed to them too slow; and besides there was the peril of an adverse decision of the supreme court on appeal. they then decided upon a novel course. section of the civil code of california provides that while an action for divorce is pending, the court may, in its discretion, require the husband to pay as alimony any money necessary to enable the wife to support herself and to prosecute or defeat the action. the enterprising attorneys, sharing the bold spirit of their client, and presuming upon the compliance of a judge who had already done so well by them, went into the court, on the th of january, , and modestly demanded for sarah althea, upon the sole authority of the provision of law above quoted, $ , per month, as the money necessary to enable her to support herself, and $ , for attorneys' fees to prosecute the action. this was to include back pay for thirty-eight months, making a sum of $ , , which added to the $ , , attorneys' fees, would have made a grand total of $ , . this was an attempt, under the color of a beneficent law, applicable only to actions for divorce, in which the marriage was not denied, to extort from a man more than one-half million dollars, for the benefit of a woman, seeking first to establish a marriage, and then to secure a divorce, in a case in which no decree had as yet been entered, declaring her to be a wife. it was not merely seeking the money necessary to support the plaintiff and prosecute the case; it was a request that the inferior court should confiscate more than half a million dollars, in anticipation of a decision of the supreme court on appeal. it was as bold an attempt at spoliation as the commencement of the suit itself. the supreme court of the state had decided that the order of a superior court allowing alimony during the pendency of any action for divorce is not appealable, but it had not decided that, under the pretence of granting alimony, an inferior judge could apportion a rich man's estate among champerty lawyers, and their adventurous client, by an order from which there could be no appeal, made prior to any decree that there had ever been a marriage between the parties, when the fact of the marriage was the main issue in the case. the counsel for sharon insisted upon his right to have a decree entered from which he could appeal, before being thus made to stand and deliver, and the court entertained the motion. upon this motion, among other affidavits read in opposition, was one by mr. sharon himself, in which he recited the agreement between miss hill and her principal attorney, george w. tyler, in which she was to pay him for his services, one-half of all she might receive in any judgment obtained against sharon, he, tyler, advancing all the costs of the litigation. the original of this agreement had been filed by tyler with the county clerk immediately after the announcement of the opinion in the case as an evidence of his right to half of the proceeds of the judgment. it was conclusive evidence that sarah althea required no money for the payment of counsel fees. after the filing of a mass of affidavits, and an exhaustive argument of the motion, judge sullivan rendered his decision, february , , granting to sarah althea hill an allowance of $ , per month, to take effect as of the date of the motion, january , , and further sums of $ , each to be paid on the th day of april, and of each succeeding month until further order of the court. this the judge thought reasonable allowance "in view of the plaintiff's present circumstances and difficulties." for counsel fees he allowed the sum of $ , , and at the request of the victors, made in advance, he divided the spoils among them as follows: to tyler and tyler $ , to david s. terry , to moon and flournoy , to w.h. levy , to clement, osmond and clement , by what rule $ , was awarded as a proper monthly allowance to the woman whose services to mr. sharon had commanded but $ per month it is difficult to conjecture. it was benevolence itself to give $ , to a troop of lawyers enlisted under the command of tyler, who had agreed to conduct the proceedings wholly at his own cost, for one-half of what could be made by the buccaneering enterprise. it seemed to be the purpose of these attorneys to see how much of mr. sharon's money they could, with judge sullivan's assistance, lay their hands upon before the entry of the judgment in the case. from the judgment an appeal could be taken. by anticipating its entry they thought that they had obtained an order from which no appeal would lie. it was not until three days after this remarkable order was made that the decree was entered by judge sullivan declaring plaintiff and defendant to be husband and wife; that he had deserted her, and that she was entitled to a decree of divorce, with one-half of the common property accumulated by the parties since the date of what he decided to be a valid marriage contract. sharon appealed from the final judgment, and also from the order for alimony. notwithstanding this appeal, and the giving of a bond on appeal in the sum of $ , to secure the payment of all alimony and counsel fees, judge sullivan granted an order directing mr. sharon to show cause why he should not be punished for contempt in failing to pay alimony and counsel fees, as directed by the order. the supreme court, upon application, granted an order temporarily staying proceedings in the case. this stay of proceedings was subsequently made permanent, during the pendency of the appeal. mr. sharon died november , . that very day had been set for a hearing of sharon's motion for a new trial. the argument was actually commenced on that day and continued until the next, at which time the motion was ordered off the calendar because meantime mr. sharon had deceased. chapter iii. proceedings in the united states circuit court. while these proceedings were being had in the state courts the case of sharon vs. hill in the federal court was making slow progress. miss hill's attorneys seemed to think that her salvation depended upon reaching a decision in her case before the determination of sharon's suit in the united states circuit court. they were yet to learn, as they afterwards did, that after a united states court takes jurisdiction in a case, it cannot be ousted of that jurisdiction by the decision of a state court, in a proceeding subsequently commenced in the latter. seldom has "the law's delay" been exemplified more thoroughly than it was by the obstacles which her attorneys were able to interpose at every step of the proceedings in the federal court. sharon commenced his suit in the united states circuit court october , , twenty-eight days before his enemy commenced hers in the state superior court. by dilatory pleas her counsel succeeded in delaying her answer to sharon's suit until after the decision in her favor in the state court. she did not enter an appearance in the federal court until the very last day allowed by the rule. a month later she filed a demurrer. her counsel contrived to delay the argument of this demurrer for seven weeks after it was filed. it was finally argued and submitted on the st of january, . on the d of march it was overruled and the defendant was ordered to answer in ten days, to wit, march th. then the time for answering was extended to april th. when that day arrived her counsel, instead of filing an answer, filed a plea in abatement, denying the non-residence of mr. sharon in the state of california, on which depended his right to sue in the federal court. to this mr. sharon's counsel filed a replication on the th of may. it then devolved upon miss hill's counsel to produce evidence of the fact alleged in the plea, but, after a delay of five months and ten days, no evidence whatever was offered, and the court ordered the plea to be argued on the following day. it was overruled, and thirty days were given to file an answer to sharon's suit. the case in the state court had then been tried, argued, and submitted thirty days before, but miss hill's counsel were not yet ready to file their answer within the thirty days given them, and the court extended the time for answer until december th. six days before that day arrived judge sullivan rendered his decision. at last, on the th of december, , fourteen months after the filing of sharon's complaint, sarah althea's answer was filed in the federal court, in which, among other things, she set up the proceedings and decree of the state court, adjudging the alleged marriage contract to be genuine and legal, and the parties to be husband and wife, and three days later sharon filed his replication. there was at no time any delay or want of diligence on the part of the plaintiff in prosecuting this suit to final judgment. on the contrary, as is plainly shown in the record above stated, the delays were all on the part of the defendant. the taking of the testimony in the united states circuit court commenced on the th of february, , and closed on the th of august following. the struggle in the state court was going on during all the time of the taking of the testimony in the federal court, and intensified the excitement attendant thereon. miss hill was in constant attendance before the examiner who took the testimony, often interrupting the proceedings with her turbulent and violent conduct and language, and threatening the lives of mr. sharon's counsel. she constantly carried a pistol, and on occasions exhibited it during the examination of witnesses, and, pointing it at first one and then another, expressed her intention of killing them at some stage of the proceedings. she was constantly in contempt of the court, and a terror to those around her. her conduct on one occasion, in august, , became so violent that the taking of the testimony could not proceed, and justice field, the presiding judge of the circuit, made an order that she should be disarmed, and that a bailiff of the court should sit constantly at her side to restrain her from any murderous outbreak, such as she was constantly threatening. her principal attorney, tyler, was also most violent and disorderly. judge terry, while less explosive, was always ready to excuse and defend his client. (see report of proceedings in sharon vs. hill, sawyer's circuit court reps., .) upon the request of counsel for the complainant, the examiner in one case reported to the court the language and the conduct of miss hill. among other things, he reported her as saying: "when i see this testimony [from which certain scandalous remarks of hers were omitted] i feel like taking that man stewart[ ] out and cowhiding him. i will shoot him yet; that very man sitting there. to think that he would put up a woman to come here and deliberately lie about me like that. i will shoot him. they know when i say i will do it that i will do it. i shall shoot him as sure as you live; that man that is sitting right there. and i shall have that woman mrs. smith arrested for this, and make her prove it." and again: "i can hit a four-bit piece nine times out of ten." the examiner said that pending the examination of one of the witnesses, on the occasion mentioned, the respondent drew a pistol from her satchel, and held it in her right hand; the hand resting for a moment upon the table, with the weapon pointed in the direction of judge evans. he also stated that on previous occasions she had brought to the examiner's room during examinations a pistol, and had sat for some length of time holding it in her hand, to the knowledge of all persons present at the time. after the reading of the examiner's report in open court, justice field said: "in the case of william sharon versus sarah althea hill, the examiner in chancery appointed by the court to take the testimony has reported to the court that very disorderly proceedings took place before him on the d instant; that at that day, in his room, when counsel of the parties and the defendant were present, and during the examination of a witness by the name of piper, the defendant became very much excited, and threatened to take the life of one of the counsel, and that subsequently she drew a pistol and declared her intention to carry her threat into effect. it appears also from the report of the examiner that on repeated occasions the defendant has attended before him, during the examination of witnesses, armed with a pistol. such conduct is an offense against the laws of the united states punishable by fine and imprisonment. it interferes with the due order of proceedings in the administration of justice, and is well calculated to bring them into contempt. i, myself, have not heretofore sat in this case and do not expect to participate in its decision; i intend in a few days to leave for the east, but i have been consulted by my associate, and have been requested to take part in this side proceeding, for it is of the utmost importance for the due administration of justice that such misbehavior as the examiner reports should be stopped, and measures be taken which will prevent its recurrence. my associate will comment on the laws of congress which make the offense a misdemeanor, punishable by fine and imprisonment. "the marshal of the court will be directed to disarm the defendant whenever she goes before the examiner or into court in any future proceeding, and to appoint an officer to keep strict surveillance over her, in order that she may not carry out her threatened purpose. this order will be entered. the justice then said that it is to be observed that this block, embracing this building--the court-house--is under the exclusive jurisdiction of the united states. every offense committed within it is an offense against the united states, and the state has no jurisdiction whatever. this fact seems to have been forgotten by the parties." the following is the order then entered as directed by justice field: "whereas it appears from the report to this court of the examiner in chancery in this case appointed to take the depositions of witnesses, that on the d day of august, instant, at his office, counsel of the parties appeared, namely, william m. stewart, esquire, and oliver p. evans, esquire, for the complainant, and w.b. tyler, esquire, for the defendant, and the defendant in person, and that during the examination before said examiner of a witness named piper, the defendant became excited and threatened the life of the counsel of the complainant present, and exhibited a pistol with a declared intention to carry such threat into effect, thereby obstructing the order of the proceedings, and endeavoring to bring the same into contempt; and "whereas it further appears that said defendant habitually attends before said examiner carrying a pistol, "_it is ordered_, that the marshal of this court take such measures as may be necessary to disarm the said defendant, and keep her disarmed, and under strict surveillance, while she is attending the examination of witnesses before said examiner, and whenever attending in court, and that a deputy be detailed for that purpose." [ ] senator stewart, who was one of the counsel against her in the suit. chapter v. decision of the case in the federal court. the taking of the testimony being completed, the cause was set for a hearing on september th. after an argument of thirteen days the cause was submitted on the th of september, . on the th of december, , the court rendered its decision, that the alleged declaration of marriage and the letters purporting to have been addressed "my dear wife" were false and forged, and that the contemporaneous conduct of the parties, and particularly of the defendant, was altogether incompatible with the claim of marriage or the existence of any such declaration or letters. a decree was ordered accordingly, and the court made the following further order: "as the case was argued and submitted during the lifetime of the complainant, who has since deceased, the decree will be entered nunc pro tunc, as of september , , the date of its submission and a day prior to the decease of the complainant." the opinion of the court was delivered by judge deady, of the united states district court of oregon, who sat in the case with judge sawyer, the circuit judge. of the old negress under whose direction the fraudulent marriage contract had been manufactured, and under whose advice and direction the suit in the state court had been brought, the judge said: "mary e. pleasant, better known as mammie pleasant, is a conspicuous and important figure in this affair; without her it would probably never have been brought before the public. she appears to be a shrewd old negress of some means. "in my judgment this case and the forgeries and perjuries committed in its support had their origin largely in the brain of this scheming, trafficking, crafty old woman." he found that the declaration of marriage was forged by the defendant by writing the declaration over a simulated signature, and that her claim to be the wife of the plaintiff was wholly false, and had been put forth by her and her co-conspirators for no other purpose than to despoil the plaintiff of his property. judge sawyer also filed an opinion in the case, in which he declared that the weight of the evidence satisfactorily established the forgery and the fraudulent character of the instrument in question. chapter vi. the marriage of terry and miss hill. sarah althea now received a powerful recruit, who enlisted for the war. this was one of her lawyers, david s. terry, whom she married on the th day of january, , twelve days after the decision of the circuit court against her, and which he had heard announced, but before a decree had been entered in conformity with the decision. terry seemed willing to take the chances that the decree of the superior court would not be reversed in the supreme court of the state. the decision of the federal court he affected to utterly disregard. it was estimated that not less than $ , , would be sarah althea's share of sharon's estate, in the event of success in her suit. she would be a rich widow if it could be established that she had ever been a wife. she had quarreled with tyler, her principal attorney, long before, and accused him of failing in his professional duty. if she could escape from the obligations of her contract with him, she would not be compelled to divide with him the hoped-for $ , , . although judge terry had been chief justice of the supreme court of california, the crimes of perjury and forgery and subornation of perjury which had been loudly charged in judge sullivan's opinion against the woman, in whose favor he gave judgment, seemed to him but trifles. strangely enough, neither he nor sarah althea ever uttered a word of resentment against him on account of these charges. the marriage of terry with this desperate woman in the face of an adverse decision of the circuit court, by which jurisdiction was first exercised upon the subject-matter, was notice to all concerned that, by all the methods known to him, he would endeavor to win her cause, which he thus made his own. he took the position that any denial of sarah althea's pretense to have been the wife of sharon was an insult to her, which could only be atoned by the blood of the person who made it. this was the proclamation of a vendetta against all who should attempt to defend the heirs of mr. sharon in the possession of that half of their inheritance which he and sarah althea had marked for their own. his subsequent course showed that he relied upon the power of intimidation to secure success. he was a man of powerful frame, accustomed all his life to the use of weapons, and known to be always armed with a knife. he had the reputation of being a fighting man. he had decided that sarah althea had been the lawful wife of sharon, and that therefore he had married a virtuous widow. he had not often been crossed in his purpose or been resisted when he had once taken a position. by his marriage he virtually served notice on the judges of the supreme court of the state, before whom the appeal was then pending, that he would not tamely submit to be by them proclaimed to be the dupe of the discarded woman of another. it was well understood that he intended to hold them personally responsible to him for any decision that would have that effect. these intentions were said to have been made known to them. his rule in life, as once stated by himself, was to compel acquiescence in his will by threats of violence, and known readiness to carry his threats into effect. this, he said, would in most cases insure the desired result. he counted on men's reluctance to engage in personal difficulties with him. he believed in the persuasiveness of ruffianism. whether he thought his marriage would frighten judges sawyer and deady, who had just rendered their decision in the united states circuit court, and cause them either to modify the terms of the decree not yet entered, or deter them from its enforcement, is a matter of uncertainty. he was of the ultra state's-rights school and had great faith in the power of the courts of a state when arrayed against those of the united states. he had always denied the jurisdiction of the latter in the case of sarah althea, both as to the subject-matter and as to the parties. he refused to see any difference between a suit for a divorce and a suit to cancel a forged paper, which, if allowed to pass as genuine, would entitle its holder to another's property. he persisted in denying that sharon had been a citizen of nevada during his lifetime, and ignored the determination of this question by the circuit court. but if judge terry had counted on the fears of the united states judges of california he had reckoned too boldly, for on the th of january, , eight days after his marriage, the decree of the circuit court was formally entered. this decree adjudged the alleged marriage contract of august , , false, counterfeited, fabricated, and fraudulent, and ordered that it be surrendered to be cancelled and annulled, and be kept in the custody of the clerk, subject to the further order of the court; and sarah althea hill and her representatives were perpetually enjoined from alleging the genuineness or the validity of the instrument, or making use of it in any way to support her claims as wife of the complainant. the execution of this decree would, of course, put an end to sarah althea's claim, the hope of maintaining which was supposed to have been the motive of the marriage. to defeat its execution then became the sole object of terry's life. this he hoped to do by antagonizing it with a favorable decision of the supreme court of the state, on the appeals pending therein. it has heretofore been stated that the case against sharon in the superior court was removed from the calendar on the th day of november, , because of the defendant's death on the previous day. the th of february following, upon proper application, the court ordered the substitution of frederick w. sharon as executor and sole defendant in the suit in the place of william sharon, deceased. the motion for a new trial was argued on the th of the following may, and held under advisement until the th of the following october, when it was denied. from this order of denial an appeal was taken by the defendant. it must be borne in mind that there were now two appeals in this case to the supreme court of the state from the superior court. one taken on the th of february, , from the judgment of judge sullivan, and from his order for alimony and fees, and the other an appeal taken october , , from the order denying the new trial in the cause. on the st of january, , the supreme court rendered its decision, affirming the judgment of the superior court in favor of sarah althea, but reversing the order made by judge sullivan granting counsel fees, and reducing the allowance for alimony from $ , per month to $ . four judges concurred in this decision, namely, mckinstry, searles, patterson, and temple. three judges dissented, to wit, thornton, sharpstein, and mcfarland. there then remained pending in the same court the appeal from the order granting a new trial. it was reasonable that terry should expect a favorable decision on this appeal, as soon as it could be reached. this accomplished, he and sarah althea thought to enter upon the enjoyment of the great prize for which they had contended with such desperate energy. terry had always regarded the decree of the circuit court as a mere harmless expression of opinion, which there would be no attempt to enforce, and which the state courts would wholly ignore. whatever force it might finally be given by the supreme court of the united states appeared to him a question far in the future, for he supposed he had taken an appeal from the decree. this attempted appeal was found to be without effect, because when ordered the suit had abated by the death of the plaintiff, and no appeal could be taken until the case was revived by order of the court. this order was never applied for. the two years within which an appeal could have been taken expired january , . the decree of the circuit court had therefore become final at that time. chapter vii. the bill of revivor. it was at this stage of the prolonged legal controversy that justice field first sat in the case. the executor of the sharon estate, on the th of march, , filed a bill of revivor in the united states circuit court. this was a suit to revive the case of sharon vs. hill, that its decree might stand in the same condition and plight in which it was at the time of its entry, which, being _nunc pro tunc_, was of the same effect as if the entry had preceded the death of mr. sharon, the case having been argued and submitted during his lifetime. the decree directed the surrender and cancellation of the forged marriage certificate, and perpetually enjoined sarah althea hill, and her representatives, from alleging the genuineness or validity of that instrument, or making any use of the same in evidence, or otherwise to support any rights claimed under it. the necessity for this suit was the fact that the forged paper had not been surrendered for cancellation, as ordered by the decree, and the plaintiff feared that the defendant would claim and seek to enforce property rights as wife of the plaintiff, by authority of the alleged written declaration of marriage, under the decree of another court, essentially founded thereupon, contrary to the perpetual injunction ordered by the circuit court. to this suit, david s. terry, as husband of the defendant, was made a party. it merely asked the circuit court to place its own decree in a position to be executed, and thereby prevent the spoliation of the sharon estate, under the authority of the decree of judge sullivan in the suit in the state court subsequently commenced. a demurrer was filed by the defendant. it was argued in july before justice field, judge sawyer, and district judge sabin. it was overruled on the d of september, when the court ordered that the original suit of sharon against hill, and the final decree therein, stand revived in the name of frederick w. sharon as executor, and that the said suit and the proceedings therein be in the same plight and condition they were in at the death of william sharon, so as to give the executor, complainant as aforesaid, the full benefit, rights, and protection of the decree, and full power to enforce the same against the defendants, and each of them, at all times and in all places, and in all particulars. the opinion in the case was delivered by justice field. during its delivery he was interrupted by mrs. terry with violent and abusive language, and an attempt by her to take a pistol from a satchel which she held in her hand. her removal from the court-room by order of justice field; her husband's assault upon the marshal with a deadly weapon for executing the order, and the imprisonment of both the terrys for contempt of court, will be more particularly narrated hereafter. the commencement of the proceedings for the revival of the suit was well calculated to alarm the terrys. they saw that the decree in the circuit court was to be relied upon for something more than its mere moral effect. their feeling towards judges sawyer and deady was one of most intense hatred. judge deady was at his home in oregon, beyond the reach of physical violence at their hands, but judge sawyer was in san francisco attending to his official duties. upon him they took an occasion to vent their wrath. it was on the th of august, , after the commencement of the revivor proceedings, but before the decision. judge sawyer was returning in the railway train to san francisco from los angeles, where he had been to hold court. judge terry and his wife took the same train at fresno. judge sawyer occupied a seat near the center of the sleeping-car, and judge and mrs. terry took the last section of the car, behind him, and on the same side. a few minutes after leaving fresno, mrs. terry walked down the aisle to a point just beyond judge sawyer, and turning around with an ugly glare at him, hissed out, in a spiteful and contemptuous tone: "are you here?" to which the judge quietly replied: "yes, madam," and bowed. she then resumed her seat. a few minutes after, judge terry walked down the aisle about the same distance, looked over into the end section at the front of the car, and finding it vacant, went back, got a small hand-bag, and returned and seated himself in the front section, with his back to the engine and facing judge sawyer. mrs. terry did not (at the moment) accompany him. a few minutes later she walked rapidly down the passage, and as she passed judge sawyer, seized hold of his hair at the back of his head, gave it a spiteful twitch and passed quickly on, before he could fully realize what had occurred. after passing she turned a vicious glance upon him, which was continued for some time after taking her seat by the side of her husband. a passenger heard mrs. terry say to her husband: "i will give him a taste of what he will get bye and bye." judge terry was heard to remark: "the best thing to do with him would be to take him down the bay and drown him." upon the arrival of judge sawyer at san francisco, he entered a street car, and was followed by the terrys. mrs. terry took a third seat from him, and seeing him, said: "what, are you in this car too?" when the terrys left the car mrs. terry addressed some remark to judge sawyer in a spiteful tone, and repeated it. he said he did not quite catch it, but it was something like this: "we will meet again. this is not the end of it." persons at all familiar with the tricks of those who seek human life, and still contrive to keep out of the clutches of the law, will see in the scene above recited an attempt to provoke an altercation which would have been fatal to judge sawyer, if he had resented the indignity put upon him by mrs. terry, by even so much as a word. this could easily have been made the pretext for an altercation between the two men, in which the result would not have been doubtful. there could have been no proof that judge terry knew of his wife's intention to insult and assault judge sawyer as she passed him, nor could it have been proven that he knew she had done so. a remonstrance from sawyer could easily have been construed by terry, upon the statement of his wife, into an original, unprovoked, and aggressive affront. it is now, however, certain that the killing of judge sawyer was not at that time intended. it may have been, to use mrs. terry's words, "to give him a taste of what he would get bye and bye," if he should dare to render the decision in the revivor case adversely to them. this incident has been here introduced and dwelt upon for the purpose of showing the tactics resorted to by the terrys during this litigation, and the methods by which they sought to control decisions. it is entirely probable that they had hopes of intimidating the federal judges, as many believed some state judges had been, and that thus they might "from the nettle danger, pluck the flower safety." we have seen that they reckoned without their host. we shall now see to what extent their rage carried them on the day that the decision was rendered reviving the decree. chapter viii. the terrys imprisoned for contempt. on the day after judge sawyer's return from los angeles he called the marshal to his chambers, and notified him of mrs. terry's violent conduct towards him on the train in the presence of her husband, so that he might take such steps as he thought proper to keep order when they came into the court-building, and see that there was no disturbance in the court-room. on the morning of september d, the marshal was again summoned to judge sawyer's room, where judge field was also present. they informed him that the decision in the revival suit would be rendered that day, and they desired him to be present, with a sufficient number of bailiffs to keep order in court. they told him that judging from the action of the terrys on the train, and the threats they were making so publicly, and which were being constantly published in the newspapers, it was not impossible that they might create a disturbance in the court-room. when the court opened that day, it found terry and his wife already seated within the bar, and immediately in front of the judges. as it afterward appeared, they were both on a war-footing, he being armed with a concealed bowie-knife, and she with a -calibre revolver, which she carried in a small hand-bag, five of its chambers being loaded. the judges took their seats on the bench, and very shortly afterward justice field, who presided, began reading the opinion of the court in which both of his associates concurred. a printed pamphlet copy of this opinion contains pages, of which are taken up with a statement of the case. the opinion commences at page and covers the remaining pages of the pamphlet. from time to time, as the reading of the opinion progressed, mrs. terry, who was greatly excited, was observed to unclasp and clasp again the fastening of her satchel which contained her pistol, as if to be sure she could do so at any desired moment. at the th page of the opinion the following passage occurs: "the original decree is not self-executing in all its parts; it may be questioned whether any steps could be taken for its enforcement, until it was revived, but if this were otherwise, the surrender of the alleged marriage contract for cancellation, as ordered, requires affirmative action on the part of the defendant. the relief granted is not complete until such surrender is made. when the decree pronounced the instrument a forgery, not only had the plaintiff the right that it should thus be put out of the way of being used in the future to his embarrassment and the embarrassment of his estate, but public justice required that it should be formally cancelled, that it might constantly bear on its face the evidence of its bad character, whenever or wherever presented or appealed to." when mrs. terry heard the above words concerning the surrender of the alleged marriage contract for cancellation, she first endeavored for a few seconds, but unsuccessfully, to open the satchel containing her pistol. for some reason the catch refused to yield. then, rising to her feet, and placing the satchel before her on the table, she addressed the presiding justice, saying: "are you going to make me give up my marriage contract?" justice field said, "be seated, madam." she repeated her question: "are you going to take the responsibility of ordering me to deliver up that contract?" she was again ordered to resume her seat. at this she commenced raving loudly and violently at the justice in coarse terms, using such phrases as these: "mr. justice field, how much have you been bought for? everybody knows that you have been bought; that this is a paid decision." "how big was the sack?" "how much have you been paid for the decision?" "you have been bought by newland's coin; everybody knows you were sent out here by the newlands to make this decision." "every one of you there have been paid for this decision." at the commencement of this tirade, and after her refusal to desist when twice ordered to do so, the presiding justice directed the marshal to remove her from the court-room. she said defiantly: "i will not be removed from the court-room; you dare not remove me from the court-room." judge terry made no sign of remonstrance with her, had not endeavored to restrain her, but had, on the contrary, been seen to nod approvingly to her, as if assenting to something she had said to him just before she sprang to her feet. the instant, however, the court directed her removal from the room, of which she had thus taken temporary possession, to the total suspension of the court proceedings, his soul was "in arms and eager for the fray." as the marshal moved toward the offending woman, he rose from his seat, under great excitement, exclaiming, among other things, "no living man shall touch my wife!" or words of that import, and dealt the marshal a violent blow in the face,[ ] breaking one of his front teeth. he then unbuttoned his coat and thrust his hand under his vest, where his bowie-knife was kept, apparently for the purpose of drawing it, when he was seized by persons present, his hands held from drawing his weapon, and he himself forced down on his back. the marshal, with the assistance of a deputy, then removed mrs. terry from the court-room, she struggling, screaming, kicking, striking, and scratching them as she went, and pouring out imprecations upon judges field and sawyer, denouncing them as "corrupt scoundrels," and declaring she would kill them both. she was taken from the room into the main corridor, thence into the marshal's business office, and then into an inner room of his office. she did not cease struggling when she reached that room, but continued her frantic abuse. while mrs. terry was being removed from the court-room terry was held down by several strong men. he was thus, by force alone, prevented from drawing his knife on the marshal. while thus held he gave vent to coarse and denunciatory language against the officers. when mrs. terry was removed from the court-room he was allowed to rise. he at once made a swift rush for the door leading to the corridor on which was the marshal's office. as he was about leaving the room or immediately after stepping out of it, he succeeded in drawing his knife. as he crossed the threshold he brandished the knife above his head, saying, "i am going to my wife." there was a terrified cry from the bystanders: "he has got a knife." his arms were then seized by a deputy marshal and others present, to prevent him from using it, and a desperate struggle ensued. four persons held on to the arms and body of terry, and one presented a pistol to his head, threatening at the same time to shoot him if he did not give up the knife. to these threats terry paid no attention, but held on to the knife, actually passing it during the struggle from one hand to the other. david neagle then seized the handle of the knife and commenced drawing it through terry's hand, when terry relinquished it. the whole scene was one of the wildest alarm and confusion. to use the language of one of the witnesses, "terry's conduct throughout this affair was most violent. he acted like a demon, and all the time while in the corridor he used loud and violent language, which could be plainly heard in the court-room, and, in fact, throughout the building," applying to the officers vile epithets, and threatening to cut their hearts out if they did not let him go to his wife. the knife which terry drew, and which he afterwards designated as "a small sheath knife," was, including the handle, nine and a quarter inches long, the blade being five inches, having a sharp point, and is commonly called a bowie-knife. he himself afterwards represented that he drew this knife, not "because he wanted to hurt anybody, but because he wanted to force his way into the marshal's office." the presiding justice had read only a small portion of the opinion of the court when he was interrupted by the boisterous and violent proceedings described. on their conclusion, by the arrest of the terrys, he proceeded with the reading of the opinion, which occupied nearly a whole hour. the justices, without adjourning the court, then retired to the adjoining chambers of the presiding justice for deliberation. they there considered of the action which should be taken against the terrys for their disorderly and contemptuous conduct. after determining what that should be they returned to the court-room and announced it. for their conduct and resistance to the execution of the order of the court both were adjudged guilty of contempt and ordered, as a punishment, to be imprisoned in the county jail, terry for six months and his wife for thirty days. when terry heard of the order, and the commitment was read to him, he said, "judge field" (applying to him a coarse and vituperative epithet) "thinks when i get out, when i get released from jail, that he will be in washington, but i will meet him when he comes back next year, and it will not be a very pleasant meeting for him." mrs. terry said that she would kill both judges field and sawyer, and repeated the threat several times. while the prisoners were being taken to jail, mrs. terry said to her husband, referring to judge sawyer: "i wooled him good on the train coming from los angeles. he has never told that." to which he replied: "he will not tell that; that was too good." she said she could have shot judge field and killed him from where she stood in the court-room, but that she was not ready then to kill the old villain; she wanted him to live longer. while crossing the ferry to oakland she said, "i could have killed judges field and sawyer; i could shoot either one of them, and you would not find a judge or a jury in the state would convict me." she repeated this, and terry answered, saying: "no, you could not find a jury that would convict any one for killing the old villain," referring to judge field. the jailer at alameda testified that one day mrs. terry showed him the sheath of her husband's knife, saying: "that is the sheath of that big bowie-knife that the judge drew. don't you think it is a large knife?" judge terry was present, and laughed and said: "yes; i always carry that," meaning the knife. to j.h. o'brien, a well-known citizen, judge terry said that "after he got out of jail he would horsewhip judge field. he said he did not think he would ever return to california, but this earth was not large enough to keep him from finding judge field, and horsewhipping him," and said, "if he resents it i will kill him." to a newspaper writer, thomas t. williams, he said: "judge field would not dare to come out to the pacific coast, and he would have a settlement with him if he did come." j.m. shannon, a friend of terry's for thirty years, testified that while the terrys were in jail he called there with mr. wigginton, formerly a member of congress from california; that during the call mrs. terry said something to her husband to the effect that they could not do anything at all in regard to it. he said: "yes, we can." she asked what they could do. he said: "i can kill old sawyer, damn him. i will kill old sawyer, and then the president will have to appoint some one in his place." in saying this "he brought his fist down hard and seemed to be mad." ex-congressman wigginton also testified concerning this visit to terry. it occurred soon after the commitment. he went to arrange about some case in which he and terry were counsel on opposite sides. he told terry of a rumor that there was some old grudge or difference between him and judge field. terry said there was none he knew of. he said: "'when judge field's name was mentioned as candidate for president of the united states,'--i think he said,--'when i was a delegate to the convention, it being supposed that i had certain influence with a certain political element, that also had delegates in the convention, some friend or friends'--i will not be sure whether it was friend or friends--'of judge field came to me and asked for my influence with these delegates to secure the nomination for judge field. my answer'--i am now stating the language as near as i can of judge terry's--'my answer was, 'no, i have no influence with that element.' i understood it to be the workingmen's delegates. i could not control these delegates, and if i could would not control them for field.' he said: 'that may have caused some alienation, but i do not know that field knew that.'" mr. wigginton said that mrs. terry asked her husband what he could do, and he replied, showing more feeling than he had before: "do? i can kill old sawyer, and by god, if necessary, i will, and the president will then have to appoint some one else in his place." [ ] one of the witnesses stated that terry also said, "get a written order from the court." chapter ix. terry's petition to the circuit court for a release--its refusal--he appeals to the supreme court--unanimous decision against him there--president cleveland refuses to pardon him--falsehoods refuted. on the th of september terry petitioned the circuit court for a revocation of the order of imprisonment in his case, and in support thereof made the following statement under oath: "that when petitioner's wife, the said sarah a. terry, first arose from her seat, and before she uttered a word, your petitioner used every effort in his power to cause her to resume her seat and remain quiet, and he did nothing to encourage her in her acts of indiscretion; when this court made the order that petitioner's wife be removed from the court-room your petitioner arose from his seat with the intention and purpose of himself removing her from the court-room quietly and peaceably, and that he had no intention or design of obstructing or preventing the execution of said order of the court; that he never struck or offered to strike the united states marshal until the said marshal had assaulted himself, and had in his presence violently, and as he believed unnecessarily, assaulted the petitioner's wife. "your petitioner most solemnly swears that he neither drew nor attempted to draw any deadly weapon of any kind whatever in said court-room, and that he did not assault or attempt to assault the u.s. marshal with any deadly weapon in said court-room or elsewhere. and in this connection he respectfully represents that after he left said court-room he heard loud talking in one of the rooms of the u.s. marshal, and among the voices proceeding therefrom he recognized that of his wife, and he thereupon attempted to force his way into said room through the main office of the united states marshal; the door of the room was blocked by such a crowd of men that the door could not be closed; that your petitioner then, for the first time, drew from inside his vest a small sheath-knife, at the same time saying to those standing in his way in said door, that he did not want to hurt any one; that all he wanted was to get into the room where his wife was. the crowd then parted and your petitioner entered the doorway, and there saw a united states deputy marshal with a revolver in his hand pointed to the ceiling of the room. some one then said: 'let him in if he will give up his knife,' and your petitioner immediately released hold of the knife to some one standing by. "in none of these transactions did your petitioner have the slightest idea of showing any disrespect to this honorable court or any of the judges thereof. "that he lost his temper, he respectfully submits was a natural consequence of himself being assaulted when he was making an honest effort to peaceably and quietly enforce the order of the court, so as avoid a scandalous scene, and of his seeing his wife so unnecessarily assaulted in his presence." it will be observed that terry, in his petition, contradicts the facts recited in the orders for the commitment of himself and his wife. these orders were made by justice field. circuit judge sawyer, and district judge sabin from the district of nevada, who did not depend upon the testimony of others for information as to the facts in the case, but were, themselves, eye-witnesses and spoke from personal observation and absolute knowledge. in passing upon terry's petition, these judges, speaking through justice field, who delivered the opinion of the court, bore testimony to a more particular account of the conduct of terry and his wife than had been given in the order for the commitment. as the scene has already been described at length, this portion of the opinion of the court would be a mere repetition, and is therefore omitted. after reciting the facts, justice field referred to the gravity of terry's offense in the following terms: "the misbehavior of the defendant, david s. terry, in the presence of the court, in the court-room, and in the corridor, which was near thereto, and in one of which (and it matters not which) he drew his bowie-knife, and brandished it with threats against the deputy of the marshal and others aiding him, is sufficient of itself to justify the punishment imposed. but, great as this offense was, the forcible resistance offered to the marshal in his attempt to execute the order of the court, and beating him, was a far greater and more serious affair. the resistance and beating was the highest possible indignity to the government. when the flag of the country is fired upon and insulted, it is not the injury to the bunting, the linen, or silk on which the stars and stripes are stamped which startles and arouses the country. it is the indignity and insult to the emblem of the nation's majesty which stirs every heart, and makes every patriot eager to resent them. so, the forcible resistance to an officer of the united states in the execution of the process, orders, and judgments of their courts is in like manner an indignity and insult to the power and authority of the government which can neither be overlooked nor extenuated." after reviewing terry's statement, justice field said: "we have read this petition with great surprise at its omissions and misstatements. as to what occurred under our immediate observation, its statements do not accord with the facts as we saw them; as to what occurred at the further end of the room and in the corridor, its statements are directly opposed to the concurring accounts of the officers of the court and parties present, whose position was such as to preclude error in their observations. according to the sworn statement of the marshal, which accords with our own observations, so far from having struck or assaulted terry, he had not even laid his hands upon him when the violent blow in the face was received. and it is clearly beyond controversy that terry never voluntarily surrendered his bowie-knife, and that it was wrenched from him only after a violent struggle. "we can only account for his misstatement of facts as they were seen by several witnesses, by supposing that he was in such a rage at the time that he lost command of himself, and does not well remember what he then did, or what he then said. some judgment as to the weight this statement should receive, independently of the incontrovertible facts at variance with it, may be formed from his speaking of the deadly bowie-knife he drew as 'a small sheath-knife,' and of the shameless language and conduct of his wife as 'her acts of indiscretion.' "no one can believe that he thrust his hand under his vest where his bowie-knife was carried without intending to draw it. to believe that he placed his right hand there for any other purpose--such as to rest it after the violent fatigue of the blow in the marshal's face or to smooth down his ruffled linen--would be childish credulity. "but even his own statement admits the assaulting of the marshal, who was endeavoring to enforce the order of the court, and his subsequently drawing a knife to force his way into the room where the marshal had removed his wife. yet he offers no apology for his conduct; expresses no regret for what he did, and makes no reference to his violent and vituperative language against the judges and officers of the court, while under arrest, which is detailed in the affidavits filed." in refusing to grant the petition the court said: "there is nothing in his petition which would justify any remission of the imprisonment. the law imputes an attempt to accomplish the natural result of one's acts, and when these acts are of a criminal nature it will not accept, against such implication, the denial of the transgressor. no one would be safe if the denial of a wrongful or criminal act would suffice to release the violator of the law from the punishment due his offenses." on september , , after the announcement of the opinion of the court by mr. justice field denying the petition of d.s. terry for a revocation of the order committing him for contempt, mr. terry made public a correspondence between himself and judge solomon heydenfeldt, which explains itself, and is as follows: "my dear terry: "the papers which our friend stanley sends you will explain what we are trying to do. i wish to see field to-morrow and sound his disposition, and if it seems advisable i will present our petition. but in order to be effective, and perhaps successful, i wish to feel assured and be able to give the assurance that failure to agree will not be followed by any attempt on your part to break the peace either by action or demonstration. i know that you would never compromise me in any such manner, but it will give me the power to make an emphatic assertion to that effect and that ought to help. "please answer promptly. "s. heydenfeldt." the reply of judge terry is as follows: "dear heydenfeldt: "your letter was handed me last evening. i do not expect a favorable result from any application to the circuit court, and i have very reluctantly consented that an application be made to judge field, who will probably wish to pay me for my refusal to aid his presidential aspirations four years ago. i had a conversation with garber on saturday last in which i told him if i was released i would seek no personal satisfaction for what had passed. you may say as emphatically as you wish that i do not contemplate breaking the peace, and that, so far from seeking, i will avoid meeting any of the parties concerned. i will not promise that i will refrain from denouncing the decision or its authors. i believe that the decision was purchased and paid for with coin from the sharon estate, and i would stay here for ten years before i would say that i did not so believe. if the judges of the circuit court would do what is right they would revoke the order imprisoning my wife. she certainly was in contempt of court, but that great provocation was given by going outside the record to smirch her character ought to be taken into consideration in mitigation of the sentence. field, when a legislator, thought that no court should be allowed to punish for contempt by imprisonment for a longer period than five days. my wife has already been in prison double that time for words spoken under very great provocation. no matter what the result, i propose to stay here until my wife is dismissed. "yours truly, "d.s. terry." in the opinion of the court, referred to in the foregoing letter as "smirching the character" of mrs. terry, there was nothing said reflecting upon her, except what was contained in quotations from the opinion of judge sullivan of the state court in the divorce case of sharon vs. hill in her favor. these quotations commenced at page of the pamphlet copy of justice field's opinion, when less than three pages remained to be read. it was at page of the pamphlet that justice field was reading when mrs. terry interrupted him and was removed from the court-room. after her removal he resumed the reading of the opinion, and only after reading pages, occupying nearly an hour, did he reach the quotations in which judge sullivan expressed his own opinion that mrs. terry had committed perjury several times in his court. the reading of them could not possibly have furnished her any provocation for her conduct. she had then been removed from the court-room more than an hour. besides, if they "smirched" her character, why did she submit to them complacently when they were originally uttered from the bench by judge sullivan in his opinion rendered in her favor? justice field, in what he was reading that so incensed mrs. terry, was simply stating the effect of a decree previously rendered in a case, in the trial of which he had taken no part. he was stating the law as to the rights established by that decree. the efforts then made by terry, and subsequently by his friends and counsel, to make it appear that his assault upon the marshal and defiance of the court were caused by his righteous indignation at assaults made by judge field upon his wife's character were puerile, because based on a falsehood. the best proof of this is the opinion itself. judge terry next applied to the supreme court of the united states for a writ of habeas corpus. in that application he declared that on the th day of september, , he addressed to the circuit court a petition duly verified by his oath, and then stated the petition for release above quoted. yet in a communication published in the _san francisco examiner_ of october d he solemnly declared that this very petition was not filed by any one on his behalf. after full argument by the supreme court the writ was denied, november , , by an unanimous court, justice field, of course, not sitting in the case. justice harlan delivered the opinion of the court. chapter x. president cleveland refuses to pardon terry--false statements of terry refuted. before the petition for habeas corpus was presented to the supreme court of the united states, judge terry's friends made a strenuous effort to secure his pardon from president cleveland. the president declined to interfere. in his efforts in that direction judge terry made gross misrepresentations as to judge field's relations with himself, which were fully refuted by judge heydenfeldt, the very witness he had invoked. judge heydenfeldt had been an associate of judge terry on the state supreme bench. these representations and their refutation are here given as a necessary element in this narrative. five days after he had been imprisoned, to wit, september , terry wrote a letter to his friend zachariah montgomery at washington, then assistant attorney-general for the interior department under the cleveland administration, in which he asked his aid to obtain a pardon from the president. knowing that it would be useless to ask this upon the record of his conduct as shown by the order for his commitment, he resorted to the desperate expedient of endeavoring to overcome that record by putting his own oath to a false statement of the facts, against the statement of the three judges, made on their own knowledge, as eye-witnesses, and supported by the affidavits of court officers, lawyers, and spectators. to montgomery he wrote: "i have made a plain statement of the facts which occurred in the court, and upon that propose to ask the intervention of the president, and i request you to see the president; tell him all you know of me, and what degree of credit should be given to a statement by me upon my own knowledge of the facts. when you read the statement i have made you will be satisfied that the statement in the order of the court is false." he then proceeded to tell his story as he told it in his petition to the circuit court. his false representations as to the assault he made upon the marshal, and as to his alleged provocation therefor, were puerile in the extreme. he stood alone in his declaration that the marshal first assaulted him, while the three judges and a dozen witnesses declared the very opposite. his denial that he had assaulted the marshal with a deadly weapon was contradicted by the judges and others, who said that they saw him attempt to draw a knife in the court-room, which attempt, followed up as it was continually until successful, constituted an assault with that weapon. to call his bowie-knife "a small sheath-knife," and the outrageous conduct of his wife "acts of indiscretion;" to pretend that he lost his temper because he was assaulted "while making an honest effort to peaceably and quietly enforce the order of the court," and finally to pretend that his wife had been "unnecessarily assaulted" in his presence, was all not only false, but simply absurd and ridiculous. he said: "i don't want to stay in prison six months for an offense of which i am not guilty. there is no way left except to appeal to the president. the record of a court imports absolute verity, so i am not allowed to show that the record of the circuit court is absolutely false. if you can help me in this matter you will confer on me the greatest possible favor." he told montgomery that it had been suggested to him that one reason for field's conduct was his refusal to support the latter's aspirations for the presidency. in this connection he made the following statement: "in march, , i received a note from my friend judge heydenfeldt, saying that he wished to see me on important business, and asking me to call at his office. i did so, and he informed me that he had received a letter from judge field, who was confident that if he could get the vote of california in the democratic national convention, which would assemble that year, he would be nominated for president and would be elected as, with the influence of his family and their connection, that he would certainly carry new york; that judge field further said that a congressman from california and other of his friends had said that if i would aid him, i could give him the california delegation; that he understood i wanted official recognition as, because of my duel years ago, i was under a cloud; that if i would aid him, i should have anything i desired." it will be observed that he here positively states that judge heydenfeldt told him he had received a letter from judge field, asking terry's aid and promising, for it, a reward. judge heydenfeldt, in a letter dated august , , to the _san francisco examiner_, branded terry's assertion as false. the letter to the _examiner_ is as follows: "the statement made in to-day's _examiner_ in reference to the alleged letter from justice field to me, derived, as is stated by mr. ashe, from a conversation with judge terry, is utterly devoid of truth. "i had at one time, many years ago, a letter from justice field, in which he stated that he was going to devote his leisure to preparing for circulation among his friends his reminiscences, and, referring to those of early california times, he requested me to obtain from judge terry his, terry's, version of the terry-broderick duel, in order that his account of it might be accurate. as soon as i received this letter, i wrote to judge terry, informing him of judge field's wishes, and recommending him to comply, as coming, as the account would, from friendly hands, it would put him correct upon the record, and would be in a form which would endure as long as necessary for his reputation on that subject. "i received no answer from judge terry, but meeting him, some weeks after, on the street in this city, he excused himself, saying that he had been very busy, and adding that it was unnecessary for him to furnish a version of the duel, as the published and accepted version was correct. "the letter to me from justice field above referred to is the only letter from justice field to me in which judge terry's name was ever mentioned, and, with the exception of the above-mentioned street conversation, judge field was never the subject of conversation between judge terry and myself, from the time i left the bench, on the st of january, , up to the time of terry's death. "as to the statement that during terry's trouble with the sharon case, i offered terry the use of field's letter, it results from what i have above stated--that it is a vile falsehood, whoever may be responsible for it. "i had no such letter, and consequently could have made no such offer. "san francisco, august , . "s. heydenfeldt." judge heydenfeldt subsequently addressed the following letter to judge field: "san francisco, _august , _. "my dear judge: i received yours of yesterday with the extract from the washington _post_ of the d inst., containing a copy of a letter from the late judge terry to the hon. zack montgomery. "the statement in that letter of a conversation between terry and myself in reference to you is untrue. the only conversation terry and i ever had in relation to you was, as heretofore stated, in regard to a request from you to me to get from terry his version of the terry-broderick duel, to be used in your intended reminiscences. "i do not see how terry could have made such an erroneous statement, unless, possibly, he deemed that application as an advance made by you towards obtaining his political friendship, and upon that built up a theory, which he moulded into the fancy written by him in the montgomery letter. "in all of our correspondence, kept up from time to time since your first removal to washington down to the present, no letter of yours contained a request to obtain the political support of any one. "i remain, dear judge, very truly yours, "s. heydenfeldt. "hon. stephen j. field, "palace hotel, san francisco." at the hearing of the neagle case, justice field was asked if he had been informed of any statements made by judge terry of ill feeling existing between them before the latter's imprisonment for contempt. he replied: "yes, sir. since that time i have seen a letter purporting to come from terry to zack montgomery, published in washington, in which he ascribed my action to personal hostility, because he had not supported me in some political aspiration. there is not one particle of truth in that statement. it is a pure invention. in support of his statement he referred to a letter received or an interview had with judge heydenfeldt. there is not the slightest foundation for it, and i cannot understand it, except that the man seems to me to have been all changed in the last few years, and he did not hesitate to assert that the official actions of others were governed by improper considerations. i saw charges made by him against judges of the state courts; that they had been corrupt in their decisions against him; that they had been bought. that was the common assertion made by him when decisions were rendered against him." he then referred to the above letters of judge heydenfeldt, declaring terry's assertion to be false. it should be borne in mind that terry's letter to montgomery was written september th. it directly contradicts what he had said to ex-congressman wigginton on the th or th of the same month. to that gentleman he declared that he knew of no "old grudge or little difference" between himself and judge field. he said he had declined to support the latter for the presidency, and added: "that may have caused some alienation, but i do not know that judge field knew that." in his insane rage terry did not realize how absurd it was to expect people to believe that judge sawyer and judge sabin, both republicans, had participated in putting him in jail, to punish him for not having supported justice field for the presidency in a national democratic convention years before. perhaps terry thought his reference to the fact that judge field's name had been previously used in democratic conventions, in connection with the presidency, might have some effect upon president cleveland's mind. this letter was not forwarded to zachariah montgomery until a week after it was written. he then stated in a postscript that he had delayed sending it upon the advice of his attorneys pending the application to the circuit court for his release. again he charged that the judges had made a false record against him, and that evidence would be presented to the president to show it. terry and his friends brought all the pressure to bear that they could command, but the president refused his petition for a pardon, and, as already shown, the supreme court unanimously decided that his imprisonment for contempt had been lawfully ordered. he was therefore obliged to serve out his time. mrs. terry served her thirty days in jail, and was released on the d of october. there is a federal statute that provides for the reduction of a term of imprisonment of criminals for good behavior. judge terry sought to have this statute applied in his case, but without success. the circuit court held that the law relates to state penitentiaries, and not to jails, and that the system of credits could not be applied to prisoners in jail. besides this, the credits in any case are counted by the year, and not by days or months. the law specifies that prisoners in state prisons are entitled to so many months' time for the first year, and so many for each subsequent year. as terry's sentence ran for six months, the court said the law could not apply. he consequently remained in jail until the d of march, . chapter xi. terry's continued threats to kill justice field--return of the latter to california in . justice field left california for washington in september, , a few days after the denial of terry's petition to the circuit court for a release. the threats against his life and that of judge sawyer so boldly made by the terrys were as well known as the newspaper press could make them. in addition to this source of information, reports came from many other directions, telling of the rage of the terrys and their murderous intentions. from october, , till his departure for california, in june following, , his mail almost every day contained reports of what they were saying, and the warnings and entreaties of his friends against his return to that state. these threats came to the knowledge of the attorney-general of the united states, who gave directions to the marshal of the northern district of california to see to it that justice field and judge sawyer should be protected from personal violence at the hands of these parties. justice field made but one answer to all who advised against his going to hold court in california in , and that was, "i cannot and will not allow threats of personal violence to deter me from the regular performance of my judicial duties at the times and places fixed by law. as a judge of the highest court of the country, i should be ashamed to look any man in the face if i allowed a ruffian, by threats against my person, to keep me from holding the regular courts in my circuit." terry's murderous intentions became a matter of public notoriety, and members of congress and senators from the pacific coast, in interviews with the attorney-general, confirmed the information derived by him from other sources of the peril to which the united states judges in california were subjected. he, in consequence, addressed the following letter on the subject to marshal franks: "department of justice, "washington, _april , _. "john c. franks, "_united states marshal, san francisco, cal._ "sir: the proceedings which have heretofore been had in the case of mr. and mrs. terry in your united states circuit court have become matter of public notoriety, and i deem it my duty to call your attention to the propriety of exercising unusual precaution, in case further proceedings shall be had in that case, for the protection of his honor justice field, or whoever may be called upon to hear and determine the matter. of course, i do not know what may be the feelings or purpose of mr. and mrs. terry in the premises, but many things which have happened indicate that violence on their part is not impossible. it is due to the dignity and independence of the court and the character of its judges that no effort on the part of the government shall be spared to make them feel entirely safe and free from anxiety in the discharge of their high duties. "you will understand, of course, that this letter is not for the public, but to put you upon your guard. it will be proper for you to show it to the district attorney if deemed best. "yours truly, "w.h.h. miller, "_attorney-general_." a month later the attorney-general authorized the employment of special deputies for the purpose named in the foregoing letter. chapter xii. further proceedings in the state court.--judge sullivan's decision reversed. mrs. terry did not wait for the release of her husband from jail before renewing the battle. on the d of january, , she gave notice of a motion in the superior court for the appointment of a receiver who should take charge of the sharon estate, which she alleged was being squandered to the injury of her interest therein acquired under the judgment of judge sullivan. on the th of january an injunction was issued by the united states circuit court commanding her and all others to desist from this proceeding. the terrys seemed to feel confident that this would bring on a final trial of strength between the federal and state courts, and that the state court would prevail in enforcing its judgment and orders. the motion for a receiver was submitted after full argument, and on the d of june following judge sullivan rendered a decision asserting the jurisdiction of his court to entertain the motion for a receiver, and declaring the decree of the united states circuit court inoperative. in his opinion judge sullivan reviewed the opinion of justice field in the revivor suit, taking issue therewith. as that decision had been affirmed by the supreme court of the united states nearly a month before, to wit, on the th of may, , it was rather late for such a discussion. having thus decided, however, that the motion for a receiver could be made, he set the hearing of the same for july , . on the th of may, one week before the rendering of this decision by judge sullivan, the mandate of the united states supreme court had been filed in the circuit court at san francisco, by which the decree of that court was affirmed. whether a receiver would be appointed by judge sullivan, in the face of the decision of the supreme court of the united states, became now an interesting question. terry and his lawyers affected to hold in contempt the supreme court decree, and seemed to think no serious attempt would be made to enforce it. meantime, both of the terrys had been indicted in the united states circuit court for the several offenses committed by them in assaulting the marshal in the court-room as hereinbefore described. these indictments were filed on the th of september. dilatory motions were granted from time to time, and it was not until the th of june that demurrers to the indictments were filed. the summer vacation followed without any argument of these demurrers. it was during this vacation that justice field arrived in california, on the th of june. the situation then existing was as follows: the criminal proceedings against the terrys were at a standstill, having been allowed to drag along for nine months, with no further progress than the filing of demurrers to the indictments. the appeal to the supreme court of the state from judge sullivan's order denying a new trial had been argued and submitted on the th of may, but no decision had been rendered. despite the pendency of that appeal, by reason of which the judgment of the supreme court of the state had not yet become final, and despite the mandate of the united states supreme court affirming the decree in the revivor case, judge sullivan had, as we have already seen, set the th of july for the hearing of the motion of the terrys for the appointment of a receiver to take charge of the sharon estate. for them to proceed with this motion would be a contempt of the united states circuit court. the arrival of justice field should have instructed judge terry that the decree of that court could not be defied with impunity, and that the injunction issued in it against further proceedings upon the judgment in the state court would be enforced with all the power authorized by the constitution and laws of the united states for the enforcement of judicial process. as the th of july approached, the lawyers who had been associated with terry commenced discussing among themselves what would be the probable consequence to them of disobeying an injunction of the united states circuit court. the attorneys for the sharon estate made known their determination to apply to that court for the enforcement of its writ in their behalf. the terrys' experience in resisting the authority of that court served as a warning for their attorneys. on the morning of the th of july judge terry and his wife appeared, as usual, in the superior court room. two of their lawyers came in, remained a few minutes and retired. judge terry himself remained silent. his wife arose and addressed the court, saying that her lawyers were afraid to appear for her. she said they feared if they should make a motion in her behalf, for the appointment of a receiver, judge field would put them in jail; therefore, she said, she appeared for herself. she said if she got in jail she would rather have her husband outside, and this was why she made the motion herself, while he remained a spectator. the hearing was postponed for several days. before the appointed day therefor, the supreme court of the state, on the th of july, rendered its decision, reversing the order of judge sullivan refusing a new trial, thereby obliterating the judgment in favor of sarah althea, and the previous decision of the appellate court affirming it. the court held that this previous judgment had not become the law of the case pending the appeal from the order denying a new trial. it held that where two appeals are taken in the same case, one from the judgment and the other from the order denying a new trial, the whole case must be held to be under the control of the supreme court until the whole is disposed of, and the case remanded for further proceedings in the court below. the court reversed its previous decision, and declared that if the statements made by sarah althea and by her witnesses had been true, she never had been the wife of william sharon, for the reason that, after the date of the alleged contract of marriage, the parties held themselves out to the public as single and unmarried people, and that even according to the findings of fact by judge sullivan the parties had not assumed marital rights, duties, and obligations. the case was therefore remanded to the superior court for a new trial. on the d of august the demurrers to the several indictments against the terrys came up to be heard in the united states district court. the argument upon them concluded on the th. on the th the demurrer to one of the indictments against sarah althea was overruled and she entered a plea of not guilty. no decision was rendered at that time upon either of the five other indictments. on the following day, august th, justice field left san francisco and went to los angeles for the purpose of holding court. chapter xiii. attempted assassination of justice field, resulting in terry's own death at the hands of a deputy united states marshal. in view of what was so soon to occur, it is important to understand the condition of mind into which judge terry and his wife had now wrought themselves. they had been married about two years and a half. in their desperate struggle for a share of a rich man's estate they had made themselves the terror of the community. armed at all times and ready for mortal combat with whoever opposed their claims, they seemed, up to the th of july, to have won their way in the state courts by intimidation. the decision of the united states circuit court was rendered before they were married. it proclaimed the pretended marriage agreement a forgery, and ordered it to be delivered to the clerk of the court for cancellation. terry's marriage with sarah althea, twelve days after this, was a declaration of intention to resist its authority. the conduct of the pair in the circuit court on the d of september must have had some object. they may have thought to break up the session of the court for that day, and to so intimidate the judges that they would not carry out their purpose of rendering the decision; or they may have hoped that, if rendered, it would be allowed to slumber without any attempt to enforce it; or even that a rehearing might be granted, and a favorable decision forced from the court. it takes a brave man on the bench to stand firmly for his convictions in the face of such tactics as were adopted by the terrys. the scene was expected also to have its effect upon the minds of the judges of the supreme court of the state, who then were yet to pass finally upon sullivan's judgment on the appeal from the order denying a new trial. but the terrys had not looked sufficiently at the possible consequence of their actions. they had thus far gone unresisted. as district attorney carey wrote to the attorney-general: "they were unable to appreciate that an officer should perform his official duty when that duty in any way requires that his efforts be directed against them." when, therefore, justice field directed the removal of mrs. terry from the court, and when her doughty defendant and champion, confident of being able to defeat the order, found himself vanquished in the encounter, disarmed, arrested, and finally imprisoned, his rage was boundless. he had found a tribunal which cared nothing for his threats, and was able to overcome his violence. a court that would put him in the alameda jail for six months for resisting its order would enforce all its decrees with equal certainty. from the time of the terrys' incarceration in the alameda county jail their threats against justice field became a matter of such notoriety that the drift of discussion was not so much whether they would murder the justice, as to when and under what circumstances they would be likely to do so. there is little doubt that terry made many threats for the express purpose of having them reach the knowledge of judge field at washington, in the hope and belief that they would deter him from going to california. he probably thought that the judge would prefer to avoid a violent conflict, and that if his absence could be assured it might result in allowing the decree of the united states circuit court to remain a dead letter. he told many people that justice field would not dare come out to the pacific coast. he got the idea into his mind, or pretended to, that justice field had put him in jail in order to be able to leave for washington before a meeting could be had with him. terry would of course have preferred field's absence and a successful execution of sullivan's judgment to his presence in the state and the enforcement of the federal decree. when the announcement was made that justice field had left washington for san francisco, public and private discussions were actively engaged in, as to where he would be likely to encounter danger. a special deputy was sent by the marshal to meet the overland train on which he was travelling, at reno, in nevada. the methods of mrs. terry defied all calculations. she was as likely to make her appearance, with her burly husband as an escort, at the state line, as she finally did at the breakfast table at lathrop. justice field reached his quarters in san francisco on the th of june. from that day until the th of august public discussion of what the terrys would do continued. some of the newspapers seemed bent upon provoking a conflict, and inquired with devilish mischief when terry was going to carry out his threatened purpose. the threats of the terrys and the rumors of their intended assault upon justice field were reported to him and he was advised to go armed against such assault, which would be aimed against his life. he answered: "no, sir! i will not carry arms, for when it is known that the judges of our courts are compelled to arm themselves against assaults in consequence of their judicial action it will be time to dissolve the courts, consider government a failure, and let society lapse into barbarism." as the time approached for the hearing of the motion for a receiver before judge sullivan, july th, grave apprehensions were entertained of serious trouble. great impatience was expressed with the supreme court of the state for not rendering its decision upon the appeal from the order denying a new trial. it was hoped that the previous decision might be reversed, and a conflict between the two jurisdictions thus avoided. when the decision came, on the th of july, there seemed to be some relaxation of the great tension in the public mind. with the supreme court of the state, as well as the supreme court of the united states, squarely on the record against mrs. terry's pretensions to have been the wife of william sharon, it was hoped that the long war had ended. when justice field left san francisco for los angeles he had no apprehensions of danger, and strenuously objected to being accompanied by the deputy marshal. some of his friends were less confident. they realized better than he did the bitterness that dwelt in the hearts of terry and his wife, intensified as it was by the realization of the dismal fact that their last hope had expired with the decision of the supreme court of the state. the marshal was impressed with the danger that would attend justice field's journey to and from the court at los angeles. he went from san francisco on the th of august. after holding court in los angeles he took the train for san francisco august th, the deputy marshal occupying a section in the sleeping car directly opposite to his. judge terry and his wife left san francisco for their home in fresno the day following justice field's departure for los angeles. fresno is a station on the southern pacific between los angeles and san francisco. his train left los angeles for san francisco at : tuesday afternoon, august th. the deputy marshal got out at all the stations at which any stop was made for any length of time, to observe who got on board. before retiring he asked the porter of the car to be sure and wake him in time for him to get dressed before they reached fresno. at fresno, where they arrived during the night, he got off the train and went out on the platform. among the passengers who took the train at that station were judge terry and wife. he immediately returned to the sleeper and informed justice field, who had been awakened by the stopping of the train, that terry and his wife had got on the train. he replied: "very well. i hope that they will have a good sleep." neagle slept no more that night. the train reached merced, an intervening station between fresno and lathrop, at : that morning. neagle there conferred with the conductor, on the platform, and referred to the threats so often made by the terrys. he told him that justice field was on the train, and that he was accompanying him. he requested him to telegraph to lathrop, to the constable usually in attendance there, to be at hand, and that if any trouble occurred he would assist in preventing violence. justice field got up before the train reached lathrop, and told the deputy marshal that he was going to take his breakfast in the dining-room at that place. the following is his statement of what took place: "he said to me, 'judge, you can get a good breakfast at the buffet on board.' i did not think at the time what he was driving at, though i am now satisfied that he wanted me to take breakfast on the car and not get off. i said i prefer to have my breakfast at this station. i think i said i had come down from the yosemite valley a few days before, and got a good breakfast there, and was going there for that purpose. "he replied: 'i will go with you.' we were among the first to get off from the train." as soon as the train arrived, justice field, leaning on the arm of neagle, because of his lameness, proceeded to the dining-room, where they took seats for breakfast. there were in this dining-room fifteen tables, each one of which was ten feet long and four feet wide. they were arranged in three rows of five each, the tables running lengthwise with each other, with spaces between them of four feet. the aisles between the two rows were about seven feet apart, the rows running north and south. justice field and neagle were seated on the west side of the middle table in the middle row, the justice being nearer the lower corner of the table, and neagle at his left. very soon after--justice field says "a few minutes," while neagle says "it may be a minute or so"--judge terry and his wife entered the dining-room from the east. they walked up the aisle, between the east and middle rows of tables, so that justice field and neagle were faced towards them. judge terry preceded his wife. justice field saw them and called neagle's attention to them. he had already seen them. as soon as mrs. terry had reached a point nearly in front of justice field, she turned suddenly around, and scowling viciously, went in great haste out of the door at which she had come in. this was for the purpose, as it afterwards appeared, of getting her satchel with the pistol in it, which she had left in the car. judge terry apparently paid no attention to this movement, but proceeded to the next table above and seated himself at the upper end of it, facing the table at which justice field was seated. thus there were between the two men as they sat at the tables a distance equal to two table-lengths and one space of four feet, making about twenty-four feet. terry had been seated but a very short time--justice field thought it a moment or two, neagle thought it three or four minutes--when he arose and moved down towards the door, this time walking through the aisle _behind_ justice field, instead of the one in front of him as before. justice field supposed, when he arose, that he was going out to meet his wife, as she had not returned, and went on with his breakfast; but when terry had reached a point behind him, and a little to the right, within two or three feet of him, he halted. justice field was not aware of this, nor did he know that terry had stopped, until he was struck by him a violent blow in the face from behind, followed instantaneously by another blow at the back of his head. neagle had seen terry stop and turn. between this and terry's assault there was a pause of four or five seconds. instantaneously upon terry's dealing a blow, neagle leaped from his chair and interposed his diminutive form between justice field and the enraged and powerful man, who now sought to execute his long-announced and murderous purpose. terry gave justice field no warning of his presence except a blow from behind with his right hand. as neagle rose, he shouted: "stop, stop, i am an officer." judge terry had drawn back his right arm for a third blow at justice field, and with clinched fist was about to strike, when his attention was thus arrested by neagle, and looking at him he evidently recognized in him the man who had drawn the knife from his hand in the corridor before the marshal's office on the third of september of the preceding year, while he was attempting to cut his way into the marshal's office. neagle put his right hand up as he ordered terry to stop, when terry carried his right hand at once to his breast, evidently to seize the knife which he had told the alameda county jailer he "always carried." says neagle: "this hand came right to his breast. it went a good deal quicker than i can explain it. he continued looking at me in a desperate manner and his hand got there." the expression of terry's face at that time was described by neagle in these words: "the most desperate expression that i ever saw on a man's face, and i have seen a good many in my time. it meant life or death to me or him." having thus for a moment diverted the blow aimed at justice field and engaged terry himself, neagle did not wait to be butchered with the latter's ready knife, which he was now attempting to draw, but raised his six-shooter with his left hand (he is left-handed) and holding the barrel of it with his right hand, to prevent the pistol from being knocked out of his hands, he shot twice; the first shot into terry's body and the second at his head. terry immediately commenced sinking very slowly. knowing by experience that men mortally wounded have been often known to kill those with whom they were engaged in such an encounter, neagle fired the second shot to defend himself and justice field against such a possibility. the following is an extract from justice field's testimony, commencing at the point where judge terry rose from his seat at the breakfast table: "i supposed, at the time, he was going out to meet his wife, as she had not returned, so i went on with my breakfast. it seems, however, that he came around back of me. i did not see him, and he struck me a violent blow in the face, followed instantaneously by another blow. coming so immediately together, the two blows seemed like one assault. i heard 'stop, stop,' cried by neagle. of course i was for a moment dazed by the blows. i turned my head around and saw that great form of terry's with his arm raised and fist clinched to strike me. i felt that a terrific blow was coming, and his arm was descending in a curved way as though to strike the side of my temple, when i heard neagle cry out: 'stop, stop, i am an officer.' instantly two shots followed. i can only explain the second shot from the fact that he did not fall instantly. i did not get up from my seat, although it is proper for me to say that a friend of mine thinks i did, but i did not. i looked around and saw terry on the floor. i looked at him and saw that particular movement of the eyes that indicates the presence of death. of course it was a great shock to me. it is impossible for any one to see a man in the full vigor of life, with all those faculties that constitute life instantly extinguished without being affected, and i was. i looked at him for a moment, then went around and looked at him again, and passed on. great excitement followed. a gentleman came to me, whom i did not know, but i think it was mr. lidgerwood, who has been examined as a witness in this case, and said: 'what is this?' i said: 'i am a justice of the supreme court of the united states. my name is judge field. judge terry threatened my life and attacked me, and the deputy marshal has shot him.' the deputy marshal was perfectly cool and collected, and stated: 'i am a deputy marshal, and i have shot him to protect the life of judge field.' i cannot give you the exact words, but i give them to you as near as i can remember them. a few moments afterwards the deputy marshal said to me: 'judge, i think you had better go to the car.' i said, 'very well.' then this gentleman, mr. lidgerwood, said: 'i think you had better.' and with the two i went to the car. i asked mr. lidgerwood to go back and get my hat and cane, which he did. the marshal went with me, remained some time, and then left his seat in the car, and, as i thought, went back to the dining-room. (this is, however, i am told, a mistake, and that he only went to the end of the car.) he returned, and either he or some one else stated that there was great excitement; that mrs. terry was calling for some violent proceedings. i must say here that, dreadful as it is to take life, it was only a question of seconds whether my life or judge terry's life should be taken. i am firmly convinced that had the marshal delayed two seconds both he and myself would have been the victims of terry. "in answer to a question whether he had a pistol or other weapon on the occasion of the homicide, justice field replied: 'no, sir. i have never had on my person or used a weapon since i went on the bench of the supreme court of this state, on the th of october, , except once, when, years ago, i rode over the sierra nevada mountains in a buggy with general hutchinson, and at that time i took a pistol with me for protection in the mountains. with that exception, i have not had on my person, or used, any pistol or other deadly weapon.'" judge terry had fallen very near the place where he first stopped, near the seat occupied by justice field at the table. neagle testified that if justice field had had a weapon, and been active in using it, he was at such a disadvantage, seated as he was, with terry standing over him, that he would have been unable to raise his hand in his own defense. a large number of witnesses were examined, all of whom agreed upon the main facts as above stated. some of them distinctly heard the blows administered by terry upon justice field's face and head. all testified to the loud warning given terry by neagle that he was an officer of the law, accompanied by his command that terry should desist. it was all the work of a few seconds. terry's sudden attack, the quick progress of which, from the first blow, was neither arrested nor slackened until he was disabled by the bullet from neagle's pistol, could have been dealt with in no other way. it was evidently a question of the instant whether terry's knife or neagle's pistol should prevail. says neagle: "he never took his eyes off me after he looked at me, or i mine off him. i did not hear him say anything. the only thing was he looked like an infuriated giant to me. i believed if i waited two seconds i should have been cut to pieces. i was within four feet of him." q. "what did the motion that judge terry made with his right hand indicate to you?" a. "that he would have had that knife out there within another second and a half, and trying to cut my head off." terry, in action at such a time, from all accounts, was more like an enraged wild animal than a human being. the supreme moment had arrived to which he had been looking forward for nearly a year, when the life of the man he hated was in his hands. he had repeatedly sworn to take it. not privately had he made these threats. with an insolence and an audacity born of lawlessness and of a belief that he could hew his way with a bowie-knife in courts as well as on the streets, he had publicly sentenced judge field to death as a penalty for vindicating the majesty of the law in his imprisonment for contempt. it would have been the wildest folly that can be conceived of for the murderous assault of such a man to have been met with mild persuasion, or an attempt to arrest him. as well order a hungry tiger to desist from springing at his prey, to sheathe his outstretched claws and suffer himself to be bound, as to have met terry with anything less than the force to which he was himself appealing. every man who knows anything of the mode of life and of quarrelling and fighting among the men of terry's class knows full well that when they strike a blow they mean to follow it up to the death, and they mean to take no chances. the only way to prevent the execution of terry's revengeful and openly avowed purpose was by killing him on the spot. only a lunatic or an imbecile or an accomplice would have pursued any other course in neagle's place than the one he pursued, always supposing he had neagle's nerve and cool self-possession to guide him in such a crisis. while this tragedy was being enacted mrs. terry was absent, having returned to the car for the satchel containing her pistol. before she returned, the shot had been fired that defeated the conspiracy between her and her husband against the life of a judge for the performance of his official duties. she returned to the hotel with her satchel in her hand just as her husband met his death. the manager of the hotel stopped her at the door she was entering, and seized her satchel. she did not relinquish it, but both struggled for its possession. a witness testified that she screamed out while so struggling: "let me get at it; i will fix him." many witnesses testified to her frantic endeavor to get the pistol. she called upon the crowd to hang the man that killed judge terry, and cried out, "lynch judge field." again and again she made frantic appeals to those present to lynch judge field. she tried to enter the car where he was, but was not permitted to do so. she cried out, "if i had my pistol i would fix him." the testimony subsequently taken left no room to doubt that terry had his deadly knife in its place in his breast at the time he made the attack on justice field. as the crowd were all engaged in breakfasting, his movements attracted little attention, and his motion toward his breast for the knife escaped the notice of all but neagle and one other witness. neagle rushed between terry and justice field, and the latter had not a complete view of his assailant at the moment when the blow intended for him was changed into a movement for the knife with which judge terry intended to dispose of the alert little man, with whom he had had a former experience, and who now stood between him and the object of his greater wrath. but the conduct of mrs. terry immediately after the homicide was proof enough that her husband's knife had been in readiness. the conductor of the train swore that he saw her lying over the body of her husband about a minute, and when she rose up she unbuttoned his vest and said: "you may search him; he has got no weapon on him." not a word had been said about his having had a weapon. no one had made a movement towards searching him, as ought to have been done; but this woman, who had been to the car for her pistol and returned with it to join, if necessary, in the murderous work, had all the time and opportunity necessary for taking the knife from its resting-place under his vest, smearing one of her hands with his blood, which plainly showed where it had been and what she had been doing. neagle could not search the body, for his whole attention was directed to the protection of justice field. mrs. terry repeated the challenge to search the body for the knife after it had been removed. this showed clearly that the idea uppermost in her mind was to then and there manufacture testimony that he had not been armed at all. her eagerness on this subject betrayed her. had she herself then been searched, after rising from terry's body, the knife would doubtless have been found concealed upon her person. a number of witnesses testified to her conduct as above described. she said also: "you will find that he has no arms, for i took them from him in the car, and i said to him that i did not want him to shoot justice field, but i did not object to a fist bout." this reference to a fist bout was, of course, an admission that they had premeditated the assault. it was judge terry's knife and not a pistol that judge field had to fear. terry's threats had always pointed to some gross indignity that he would put upon justice field, and then kill him if he resented or resisted it. one of his threats was that he would horsewhip judge field, and that if he resented it he would kill him. in short, his intentions seem to have been to commit an assassination in alleged self-defense. the train soon left the station for san francisco. a constable of lathrop had taken the train, and addressing neagle told him that he would have to arrest him. this officer had no warrant and did not himself witness the homicide. justice field told him that he ought to have a warrant before making the arrest, remarking, if a man should shoot another when he was about to commit a felony, such as setting fire to your house, you would not arrest him for a murder; or if a highwayman got on the train to plunder. the officer replied very courteously by the suggestion that there would have to be an inquest. neagle at once said, "i am ready to go," thinking it better to avoid all controversy, and being perfectly willing to answer anywhere for what he had done. arriving at the next station (tracy), neagle and the officer took a buggy and went to the county jail at stockton. thus was a deputy marshal of the united states withdrawn from the service of his government while engaged in a most important and as yet unfinished duty because he had with rigid faithfulness performed that duty. he was arrested by an officer who had no warrant and had not witnessed the homicide, and lodged in jail. meanwhile a detective in san francisco received a telegram from the sheriff of san joaquin county to arrest judge field. supposing it to be his duty to comply with this command, the detective crossed the bay to meet the train for that purpose. marshal franks said to him: "you shall not arrest him. you have no right to do so. it would be an outrage, and if you attempt it i will arrest you." the news of these exciting events produced an intense excitement in san francisco. upon his arrival at this place, under the escort of the marshal and many friends, justice field repaired to his quarters in the palace hotel. chapter xiv. sarah althea terry charges justice field and deputy marshal neagle with murder. the body of judge terry was taken from lathrop to stockton, accompanied by his wife, soon after his death. on that very evening sarah althea terry swore to a complaint before a justice of the peace named swain, charging justice field and deputy marshal neagle with murder. after the investigation before the coroner assistant district attorney gibson stated that the charge against justice field would be dismissed, as there was no evidence whatever to connect him with the killing. mrs. terry did not see the shooting and was not in the hotel at the time of the homicide. having, therefore, no knowledge upon which to base her statement, her affidavit was entitled to no greater consideration than if it had stated that it was made solely upon her belief without any positive information on the subject. only the most violent of terry's friends favored the wanton indignity upon justice field, and his arrest, but they had sufficient influence with the district attorney, mr. white, a young and inexperienced lawyer, to carry him along with them. the justice of the peace before whom sarah althea had laid the information issued a warrant on the following day for the arrest both of justice field and neagle. from this time this magistrate and the district attorney appeared to act under orders from mrs. terry. the preliminary examination was set for wednesday of the following week, during which time the district attorney stated for publication that justice field would have to go to jail and stay there during the six intervening days. it was obvious to all rational minds that mrs. terry's purpose was to use the machinery of the magistrate's court for the purpose of taking judge field to stockton, where she could execute her threats of killing him or having him killed; and if she should fail to do so, or postpone it, then to have the satisfaction of placing a justice of the supreme court of the united states in a prisoner's cell, and hold him there for six days awaiting an examination, that being the extreme length of time that he could be so held under the statute. the district attorney was asked if he had realized the danger of bringing justice field to stockton, where he might come in contact with mrs. terry. the officer replied: "we had intended that if justice field were brought here, mrs. terry would be placed under the care of _her friends_, and that all precautions to prevent any difficulty that was in the power of the district attorney would be taken." that was to say, mrs. terry would do no violence to justice field unless "her friends" permitted her to do so. as some of them were possessed of the same murderous feelings towards justice field as those named here, the whole transaction had the appearance of a conspiracy to murder him. no magistrate can lawfully issue a warrant without sufficient evidence before him to show probable cause. it was a gross abuse of power and an arbitrary and lawless act to heed the oath of this frenzied woman, who notoriously had not witnessed the shooting, and had, but a few hours before, angrily insisted upon having her own pistol returned to her that she, herself, might kill justice field. it was beyond belief that the magistrate believed that there was probable cause, or the slightest appearance of a cause, upon which to base the issue of the warrant. neagle was brought into court at stockton at o'clock on the morning after the shooting, to wit, on thursday, the th, and his preliminary examination set for wednesday, the st. bail could not be given prior to that examination. this examination could have proceeded at once, and a delay of six days can only be accounted for by attributing it to the malice and vindictiveness of the woman who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings. the keen disappointment of mrs. terry, and those who were under her influence, at judge terry's failure to murder justice field, must have been greatly soothed by the prospect of having yet another chance at the latter's life, and, in any event, of seeing him in a cell in the jail during the six days for which the examination could be delayed for that express purpose. the sheriff of san joaquin county proceeded to san francisco with the warrant for his arrest on thursday evening. in company with the chief of police and marshal franks, he called upon justice field, and after a few moments' conversation it was arranged that he should present the warrant at one o'clock on the following day, at the building in which the federal courts are held. chapter xv. justice field's arrest and petition fob release on habeas corpus. at the appointed hour justice field awaited the sheriff in his chambers, surrounded by friends, including judges, ex-judges, and members of the bar. as the sheriff entered justice field arose and pleasantly greeted him. the sheriff bore himself with dignity, and with a due sense of the extraordinary proceeding in which his duty as an officer required him to be a participant. with some agitation he said: "justice field, i presume you are aware of the nature of my errand." "yes," replied the justice, "proceed with your duty; i am ready. an officer should always do his duty." the sheriff stated to him that he had a warrant, duly executed and authenticated, and asked him if he should read it. "i will waive that, mr. sheriff," replied the justice. the sheriff then handed him the warrant, which he read, folded it up and handed it back, saying pleasantly: "i recognize your authority, sir, and submit to the arrest; i am, sir, in your custody." meanwhile a petition had been prepared to be presented to judge sawyer for a writ of _habeas corpus_, returnable at once before the united states court. as soon as the arrest was made the petition was signed and presented to judge sawyer, who ordered the writ to issue returnable forthwith. in a very few minutes u.s. marshal franks served the writ on the sheriff. while the proceedings looking to the issue of the writ were going on, justice field had seated himself, and invited the sheriff to be seated. the latter complied with the invitation, and began to say something in regard to the unpleasant duty which had devolved upon him, but justice field promptly replied: "not so, not so; you are but doing your plain duty, and i mine in submitting to arrest. it is the first duty of judges to obey the law." as soon as the _habeas corpus_ writ had been served, the sheriff said he was ready to go into the court. "let me walk with you," said justice field, as they arose, and took the sheriff's arm. in that way they entered the court-room. justice field seated himself in one of the chairs usually occupied by jurors. time was given to the sheriff to make a formal return to the writ; and in a few minutes he formally presented it. the petition of judge field for the writ set forth his official character, and the duties imposed upon him by law, and alleged that he had been illegally arrested, while he was in the discharge of those duties, and that his illegal detention interfered with and prevented him from discharging them. then followed a statement of the facts, showing the arrest and detention to be illegal. this statement embraced the principal facts connected with the contempt proceedings in , and the threats then and thereafter made by the terrys of violence upon justice field; the precautions taken in consequence thereof by the department of justice for his protection from violence at their hands, and the murderous assault made upon him, and his defense by deputy marshal neagle, resulting in the death of terry, and that he, the petitioner, in no manner defended or protected himself, and gave no directions to the deputy marshal, and that he was not armed with any weapon. the petition then states: "that under the circumstances detailed, the said sarah althea terry, as your petitioner is informed and believes, and upon such information and belief alleges, falsely and maliciously swore out the warrant of arrest hereinbefore set out against your petitioner, without any further basis for the charge of murder than the facts hereinbefore detailed, and that the warrant aforesaid was issued by such justice of the peace, without any just or probable cause therefor. * * * and your petitioner further represents that the charge against him, and the warrant of arrest in the hands of said sheriff, are founded upon the sole affidavit of mrs. sarah althea terry, who was not present and did not see the shooting which caused the death of said david s. terry." in order to show the little reliance to be placed in the oath of mrs. terry, the petition stated: "that in a suit brought by william sharon, now deceased, against her before her marriage to the said terry, it was proved and held by the circuit court of the united states that she had committed the forgery of the document produced in that case, and had attempted to support it by perjury and subornation of perjury, and had also been guilty of acts and conduct showing herself to be an abandoned woman, without veracity. * * * "your petitioner further represents that the abandoned character of the said sarah althea terry, and the fact that she was found guilty of perjury and forgery in the case above mentioned by the said circuit court, and the fact of the revengeful malice entertained toward your petitioner by said sarah althea terry, are notorious in the state of california, and are notorious in the city of stockton, and as your petitioner believes are well known to the district attorney of the said county of san joaquin, and also to the said justice of the peace who issued the said warrant; and your petitioner further alleges that had either of the said officers taken any pains whatever to ascertain the truth in the case, he would have ascertained and known that there was not the slightest pretext or foundation for any such charge as was made, and also that the affidavit of the said sarah althea terry was not entitled to the slightest consideration whatever. "your petitioner further states that it is to him incomprehensible how any man, acting in a consideration of duty, could have listened one moment to charges from such a source, and without having sought some confirmation from disinterested witnesses; and your petitioner believes and charges that the whole object of the proceeding is to subject your petitioner to the humiliation of arrest and confinement at stockton, where the said sarah althea terry may be able, by the aid of partisans of hers, to carry out her long-continued and repeated threats of personal violence upon your petitioner, and to prevent your petitioner from discharging the duties of his office in cases pending against her in the federal court at san francisco." the sheriff's return was as follows: "return of sheriff of san joaquin county, cala., county of san joaquin, state of california: "sheriff's office. "_to the honorable circuit court of the united states for the northern district of california:_ "i hereby certify and return that before the coming to me of the hereto-annexed writ of _habeas corpus_, the said stephen j. field was committed to my custody, and is detained by me by virtue of a warrant issued out of the justice's court of stockton township, state of california, county of san joaquin, and by the endorsement made upon said warrant. copy of said warrant and endorsement is annexed hereto, and made a part of this return. nevertheless, i have the body of the said stephen j. field before the honorable court, as i am in the said writ commanded. "august , . "thomas cunningham, "_sheriff, san joaquin co., california_." in order to give the petitioner time to traverse the return if he thought it expedient to do so, and to give him and the state time to produce witnesses, the further hearing upon the return was adjourned until the following thursday morning, the d, and the petitioner was released on his recognizance with a bond fixed at $ , . on the same day a petition on the part of neagle was presented to judge sawyer asking that a writ of _habeas corpus_ issue in his behalf to sheriff cunningham. the petition was granted at once, and served upon the sheriff immediately after the service of the writ issued on behalf of justice field. early on the morning of saturday, august , neagle was brought from stockton by the sheriff at : a.m. district attorney white and mrs. terry's lawyer, maguire, were duly notified of this movement and were passengers on the same train. at : sheriff cunningham appeared in the circuit court with neagle to respond to the writ. he returned that he held neagle in custody, under a warrant issued by a justice of the peace of that county, a copy of which he produced; and also a copy of the affidavit of sarah althea terry upon which the warrant was issued. a traverse to that return was then filed, presenting various grounds why the petitioner should not be held, the most important of which were that an officer of the united states, specially charged with a particular duty, that of protecting one of the justices of the supreme court of the united states whilst engaged in the performance of his duty, could not, for an act constituting the very performance of that duty, be taken from the further discharge of his duty and imprisoned by the state authorities, and that when an officer of the united states in the discharge of his duties is charged with an offense consisting in the performance of those duties, and is sought to be arrested, and taken from the further performance of them, he can be brought before the tribunals of the nation of which he is an officer, and the fact then inquired into. the attorney-general of the state appeared with the district attorney of san joaquin county, and contended that the offense of which the petitioner was charged could only be inquired into before the tribunals of the state. chapter xvi. judge terry's funeral--refusal of the supreme court of california to adjourn on the occasion. the funeral of judge terry occurred on friday, the th. an unsuccessful attempt was made for a public demonstration. the fear entertained by some that eulogies of an incendiary character would be delivered was not realized. the funeral passed off without excitement. the rector being absent, the funeral service was read by a vestryman of the church. on the day after judge terry's death the following proceedings occurred in the supreme court of the state: late in the afternoon, just after the counsel in a certain action had concluded their argument, and before the next cause on the calendar was called, james l. crittenden, esq., who was accompanied by w.t. baggett, esq., arose to address the court. he said: "your honors, it has become my painful and sad duty to formally announce to the court the death of a former chief justice"-- chief justice beatty: "mr. crittenden, i think that is a matter which should be postponed until the court has had a consultation about it." the court then, without leaving the bench, held a whispered consultation. mr. crittenden then went on to say: "i was doing this at the request of several friends of the deceased. it has been customary for the court to take formal action prior to the funeral. in this instance, i understand the funeral is to take place to-morrow." chief justice beatty: "mr. crittenden, the members of the court wish to consult with each other on this matter, and you had better postpone your motion of formal announcement until to-morrow morning." mr. crittenden and mr. baggett then withdrew from the court-room. on the following day, in the presence of a large assembly, including an unusually large attendance of attorneys, mr. crittenden renewed his motion. he said: "if the court please, i desire to renew the matter which i began to present last evening. as a friend--a personal friend--of the late judge terry, i should deem myself very cold, indeed, and very far from discharging the duty which is imposed upon that relation, if i did not present the matter which i propose to present to this bench this morning. i have known the gentleman to whom i have reference for over thirty years, and i desire simply now, in stating that i make this motion, to say that the friendship of so many years, and the acquaintance and intimacy existing between that gentleman and his family and myself for so long a period, require that i should at this time move this court, as a court, out of recollection for the memory of the man who presided in the supreme court of this state for so many years with honor, ability, character, and integrity, and, therefore, i ask this court, out of respect for his memory, to adjourn during the day on which he is to be buried, which is to-day." chief justice beatty said: "i regret very much that counsel should have persisted in making this formal announcement, after the intimation from the court. upon full consultation we thought it would be better that it should not be done. the circumstances of judge terry's death are notorious, and under these circumstances this court had determined that it would be better to pass this matter in silence, and not to take any action upon it; and that is the order of the court." the deceased had been a chief justice of the tribunal which, by its silence, thus emphasized its condemnation of the conduct by which he had placed himself without the pale of its respect. chapter xvii. habeas corpus proceedings in justice field's case. on thursday, august d, the hearing of the _habeas corpus_ case of justice field commenced in the united states circuit court, under orders from the attorney-general, to whom a report of the whole matter had been telegraphed. the united states district attorney appeared on behalf of justice field. in addition to him there also appeared as counsel for justice field, hon. richard t. mesick, saml. m. wilson, esq., and w.f. herrin, esq. the formal return of the writ of _habeas corpus_ had been made by the sheriff of san joaquin county on the th. to that return justice field presented a traverse, which was in the following language, and was signed and sworn to by him: "the petitioner, stephen j. field, traverses the return of the sheriff of san joaquin county, state of california, made by him to the writ of _habeas corpus_ by the circuit judge on the ninth circuit, and made returnable before the circuit court of said circuit, and avers: "that he is a justice of the supreme court of the united states, allotted to the ninth judicial circuit, and is now and has been for several weeks in california, in attendance upon the circuit court of said circuit in the discharge of his judicial duties; and, further, that the said warrant of the justice of the peace, h.v.j. swain, in stockton, california, issued on the th day of august, , under which the petitioner is held, was issued by said justice of the peace without reasonable or probable cause, upon the sole affidavit of one sarah althea terry, who did not see the commission of the act which she charges to have been a murder, and who is herself a woman of abandoned character, and utterly unworthy of belief respecting any matter whatever; and, further, that the said warrant was issued in the execution of a conspiracy, as your petitioner is informed, believes, and charges, between the said sarah althea terry and the district attorney, white, and the said justice of the peace, h.v.j. swain, and one e.l. colnon, of said stockton, to prevent by force and intimidation your petitioner from discharging the duties of his office hereafter, and to injure him in his person on account of the lawful discharge of the duties of his office heretofore, by taking him to stockton, where he could be subjected to indignities and humiliation, and where they might compass his death. "that the said conspiracy is a crime against the united states, under the laws thereof, and was to be executed by an abuse of the process of the state court, two of said conspirators being officers of the said county of san joaquin, one the district attorney and the other a justice of the peace, the one to direct and the other to issue the warrant upon which your petitioner could be arrested. "and the petitioner further avers that the issue of said writ of _habeas corpus_ and the discharge of your petitioner thereunder were and are essential to defeat the execution of the said conspiracy. "and your petitioner further avers that the accusation of crime against him, upon which said warrant was issued, is a malicious and malignant falsehood, for which there is not even a pretext; that he neither advised nor had any knowledge of the intention of any one to commit the act which resulted in the death of david s. terry, and that he has not carried or used any arm or weapon of any kind for nearly thirty years. "all of which your petitioner is ready to establish by full and competent proof. "wherefore your petitioner prays that he may be discharged from said arrest and set at liberty. "stephen j. field." the facts alleged in this document were beyond dispute, and constituted an outrageous crime, and one for which the conspirators were liable to imprisonment for a term of six years, under section of the revised statutes of the united states. to this traverse the counsel for the sheriff filed a demurrer, on the ground that it did not appear by it that justice field was in custody for an act done or omitted in pursuance of any law of the united states, or of any order or process or decree of any court or judge thereof, and it did not appear that he was in custody in violation of the constitution or any law or treaty of the united states. the case was thereupon submitted with leave to counsel to file briefs at any time before the th of august, to which time the further hearing was adjourned. before that hearing the governor of the state addressed the following communication to the attorney-general: "executive department, "state of california, "sacramento, _august , _. "hon. a.g. johnston, "_attorney-general, sacramento_. "dear sir: the arrest of hon. stephen j. field, a justice of the supreme court of the united states, on the unsupported oath of a woman who, on the very day the oath was taken, and often before, threatened his life, will be a burning disgrace to the state unless disavowed. i therefore urge upon you the propriety of at once instructing the district attorney of san joaquin county to dismiss the unwarranted proceedings against him. "the question of the jurisdiction of the state courts in the case of the deputy united states marshal, neagle, is one for argument. the unprecedented indignity on justice field does not admit of argument. "yours truly, "r.w. waterman, "_governor_." this letter of governor waterman rang out like an alarm bell, warning the chief law officer of the state that a subordinate of his was prostituting its judicial machinery to enable a base woman to put a gross indignity upon a justice of the supreme court of the united states, whom she had just publicly threatened to kill, and also to aid her in accomplishing that purpose. the wretched proceeding had already brought upon its authors indignant denunciation and merciless ridicule from every part of the union. the attorney-general responded to the call thus made upon him by instructing the district attorney to dismiss the charge against justice field, because no evidence existed to sustain it. the rash young district attorney lost no time in extricating himself from the position in which the arrest of justice field had placed him. on the th of august, upon his motion, and the filing of the attorney-general's letter, the charge against justice field was dismissed by the justice of the peace who had issued the warrant against him. the dismissal of this charge released him from the sheriff's claim to his custody, and the _habeas corpus_ proceedings in his behalf fell to the ground. on the th, the day appointed for the further hearing, the sheriff announced that in compliance with the order of the magistrate he released justice field from custody, whereupon the case of _habeas corpus_ was dismissed. in making the order, circuit judge sawyer severely animadverted on what he deemed the shameless proceeding at stockton. he said: "we are glad that the prosecution of mr. justice field has been dismissed, founded, as it was, upon the sole, reckless, and as to him manifestly false affidavit of one whose relation to the matters leading to the tragedy, and whose animosity towards the courts and judges who have found it their duty to decide against her, and especially towards mr. justice field, is a part of the judicial and notorious public history of the country. "it was, under the circumstances, and upon the sole affidavit produced, especially after the coroner's inquest, so far as mr. justice field is concerned, a shameless proceeding, and, as intimated by the governor of the commonwealth, if it had been further persevered in, would have been a lasting disgrace to the state. "while a justice of the supreme court of the united states, like every other citizen, is amenable to the laws, he is not likely to commit so grave an offense as murder, and should he be so unfortunate as to be unavoidably involved in any way in a homicide, he could not afford to escape, if it were in his power to do so; and when the act is so publicly performed by another, as in this instance, and is observed by so many witnesses, the officers of the law should certainly have taken some little pains to ascertain the facts before proceeding to arrest so distinguished a dignitary, and to attempt to incarcerate him in prisons with felons, or to put him in a position to be further disgraced, and perhaps assaulted by one so violent as to be publicly reported, not only then but on numerous previous occasions, to have threatened his life. "we are extremely gratified to find that, through the action of the chief magistrate, and the attorney-general, a higher officer of the law, we shall be spared the necessity of further inquiring as to the extent of the remedy afforded the distinguished petitioner, by the constitution and laws of the united states, or of enforcing such remedies as exist, and that the stigma cast upon the state of california by this hasty and, to call it by no harsher term, ill-advised arrest will not be intensified by further prosecution." thus ended this most remarkable attempt upon the liberty of a united states supreme court justice, under color of state authority, the execution of which would again have placed his life in great peril. the grotesque feature of the performance was aptly presented by the following imaginary dialogue which appeared in an eastern paper: newsboy: "man tried to kill a judge in california!" customer: "what was done about it?" newsboy: "oh! they arrested the judge." the illegality of justice field's arrest will be perfectly evident to whoever will read sections , , and of the penal code of california. these sections provide that no warrant can be issued by a magistrate until he has examined, on oath, the informant, taken depositions setting forth the facts tending to establish the commission of the offense and the guilt of the accused, and himself been satisfied by these depositions that there is reasonable ground that the person accused has committed the offense. none of these requirements had been met in justice field's case. it needs no lawyer to understand that a magistrate violates the plain letter as well as the spirit of these provisions of law when he issues a warrant without first having before him some evidence of the probable, or at least the possible, guilt of the accused. if this were otherwise, private malice could temporarily sit in judgment upon the object of its hatred, however blameless, and be rewarded for perjury by being allowed the use of our jails as places in which to satisfy its vengeance. such a view of the law made sarah althea the magistrate at stockton on the th of august, and justice swain her obsequious amanuensis. such a view of the law would enable any convict who had just served a term in the penitentiary to treat himself to the luxury of dragging to jail the judge who sentenced him, and keeping him there without bail as long as the magistrate acting for him could be induced to delay the examination. the arrest of justice field was an attempt to kidnap him for a foul purpose, and if the united states circuit judge had not released him he would have been the victim of as arbitrary and tyrannical treatment as is ever meted out in russia to the most dangerous of nihilists, to punish him for having narrowly escaped assassination by no act or effort of his own. chapter xviii. habeas corpus proceedings in neagle's case. this narrative would not be complete without a statement of the proceedings in the united states circuit court, and in the united states supreme court on appeal, in the _habeas corpus_ proceedings in the case of neagle, the deputy marshal, whose courageous devotion to his official duties had saved the life of justice field at the expense of that of his would-be assassin. we have already seen that neagle, being in the custody of the sheriff of san joaquin county, upon a charge of murder in the shooting of judge terry, had presented a petition to the united states circuit court for a writ of _habeas corpus_ to the end that he might thereby be restored to his liberty. a writ was issued, and upon its return, august th, the sheriff of san joaquin county produced neagle and a copy of the warrant under which he held him in custody, issued by the justice of the peace of that county, and also of the affidavit of sarah althea terry, upon which the warrant was granted. neagle being desirous of traversing the return of the sheriff, further proceedings were adjourned until the d of the month, and in the meantime he was placed in the custody of the united states marshal for the district. on the d a traverse of the return was filed by him stating the particulars of the homicide with which he was charged as narrated above, and averring that he was at the time of its commission a deputy marshal of the united states for the district, acting under the orders of his superior, and under the directions of the attorney-general of the united states in protecting the associate justice, whilst in the discharge of his duties, from the threatened assault and violence of terry, who had declared that on meeting the justice he would insult, assault, and kill him, and that the homicide with which the petitioner is charged was committed in resisting the attempted execution of these threats in the belief that terry intended at the time to kill the justice, and that but for such homicide he would have succeeded in his attempt. these particulars are stated with great fullness of detail. to this traverse, which was afterwards amended, but not in any material respect, a demurrer was interposed for the sheriff by the district attorney of san joaquin county. its material point was that it did not appear from the traverse that neagle was in the custody of the sheriff for an act done or omitted in pursuance of any law of the united states, or any order, process, or decree of any court or judge thereof, or in violation of the constitution or a treaty of the united states. the court then considered whether it should hear testimony as to the facts of the case, or proceed with the argument of the demurrer to the traverse. it decided to take the testimony, and to hear counsel when the whole case was before it, on the merits as well as on the question of jurisdiction. the testimony was then taken. it occupied several days, and brought out strongly the facts which have been already narrated, and need not here be repeated. when completed, the question of the jurisdiction of the circuit court of the united states to interfere in the matter was elaborately argued by the attorney-general of the state, and special counsel who appeared with the district attorney of san joaquin county on behalf of the state, they contending that the offense, with which the petitioner was charged, could only be inquired into before a tribunal of the state. mr. carey, united states district attorney, and messrs. herrin, mesick, and wilson, special counsel, appeared on behalf of the petitioner, and contended for the jurisdiction, and for the discharge of the petitioner upon the facts of the case. they did not pretend that any person in the state, be he high or low, might not be tried by the local authorities for a crime committed against the state, but they did contend that when the alleged crime consisted in an act which was claimed to have been done in the performance of a duty devolving upon him by a law of the united states, it was within the competency of their courts to inquire, in the first instance, whether that act thus done was in the performance of a duty devolving upon him; and if it was, that the alleged offender had not committed a crime against the state, and was entitled to be discharged. their arguments were marked by great ability and learning, and their perusal would be interesting and instructive, but space will not allow me to give even a synopsis of them. the court, in deciding the case, went into a full and elaborate consideration, not only of its jurisdiction, but of every objection on the merits presented by counsel on behalf of the state. only a brief outline can be given. the court held that it was within the competency of the president, and of the attorney-general as the head of the department of justice, representing him, to direct that measures be taken for the protection of officers of the government whilst in the discharge of their duties, and that it was specially appropriate that such protection should be given to the justices of the supreme court of the united states, whilst thus engaged in their respective circuits, and in passing to and from them; that the attorney-general, representing the president, was fully justified in giving orders to the marshal of the california district to appoint a deputy to look specially to the protection of justices field and sawyer from assault and violence threatened by terry and his wife; and that the deputy marshal, acting under instructions for their protection, was justified in any measures that were necessary for that purpose, even to taking the life of the assailant. the court recognized that the government of the united states exercised full jurisdiction, within the sphere of its powers, over the whole territory of the country, and that when any conflict arose between the state and the general government in the administration of their respective powers, the authority of the united states must prevail, for the constitution declares that it and the laws of the united states in pursuance thereof "shall be the supreme law of the land, and that the judges in every state shall be bound thereby, anything in the constitution and laws of any state to the contrary notwithstanding." the court quoted the language of the supreme court in tennessee v. davis ( u.s. , ), that "it [the general government] can act only through its officers and agents, and they must act within the states. if, when thus acting and within the scope of their authority, those officers can be arrested and brought to trial in a state court, for an alleged offense against the law of the state, yet warranted by the federal authority they possess, and if the general government is powerless to interfere at once for their protection--if their protection must be left to the action of the state court--the operations of the general government may, at any time, be arrested at the will of one of its members. the legislation of a state may be unfriendly. it may affix penalties to acts done under the immediate direction of the national government and in obedience to its laws. it may deny the authority conferred by those laws. the state court may administer not only the laws of the state, but equally federal law, in such a manner as to paralyze the operations of the government. and even if, after trial and final judgment in the state court, a case can be brought into the united states court for review, the officer is withdrawn from the discharge of his duty during the pendency of the prosecution, and the exercise of acknowledged federal power arrested. we do not think such an element of weakness is to be found in the constitution. the united states is a government with authority extending over the whole territory of the union, acting upon the states and upon the people of the states. while it is limited in the number of its powers, so far as its sovereignty extends, it is supreme. no state government can exclude it from the exercise of any authority conferred upon it by the constitution, obstruct its authorized officers against its will, or withhold from it, for a moment, the cognizance of any subject which that instrument has committed to it." to this strong language the circuit court added: "the very idea of a government composed of executive, legislative, and judicial departments necessarily comprehends the power to do all things, through its appropriate officers and agents, within the scope of its general governmental purposes and powers, requisite to preserve its existence, protect it and its ministers, and give it complete efficiency in all its parts. it necessarily and inherently includes power in its executive department to enforce the laws, keep the national peace with regard to its officers while in the line of their duty, and protect by its all-powerful arm all the other departments and the officers and instrumentalities necessary to their efficiency while engaged in the discharge of their duties." in language attributed to mr. ex-secretary bayard, used with reference to this very case, which we quote, not as a controlling judicial authority, but for its intrinsic, sound, common sense, "the robust and essential principle must be recognized and proclaimed, that the inherent powers of every government which is sufficient to authorize and enforce the judgment of its courts are, equally, and at all times, and in all places, sufficient to protect the individual judge who, fearlessly and conscientiously in the discharge of his duty, pronounces those judgments." in reference to the duties of the president and the powers of the attorney-general under him, and of the latter's control of the marshals of the united states, the court observed that the duties of the president are prescribed in terse and comprehensive language in section of article ii of the constitution, which declares that "he shall take care that the laws be faithfully executed;" that this gives him all the authority necessary to accomplish the purposes intended--all the authority necessarily inherent in the office, not otherwise limited, and that congress, added the court, in pursuance of powers vested in it, has provided for seven departments, as subordinate to the president, to aid him in performing his executive functions. section , r.s., provides that "there shall be at the seat of government an executive department to be known as the department of justice, and an attorney-general, who shall be the head thereof." he thus has the general supervision of the executive branch of the national judiciary, and section provides, as a portion of his powers and duties, that he "shall exercise general superintendence and direction over the attorneys and marshals of all the districts in the united states and the territories as to the manner of discharging their respective duties; and the several district attorneys and marshals are required to report to the attorney-general an account of their official proceedings, and of the state and condition of their respective offices, in such time and manner as the attorney-general may direct." section , r.s., provides that "the marshals and their deputies shall have, in each state, the same powers in executing the laws of the united states as the sheriffs and their deputies in such state may have, by law, in executing the laws thereof." by section of the penal code of california the sheriff is a "peace officer," and by section of the political code he is "to preserve the peace" and "prevent and suppress breaches of the peace." the marshal is, therefore, under the provisions of the statute cited, "a peace officer," so far as keeping the peace in any matter wherein the powers of the united states are concerned, and as to such matters he has all the powers of the sheriff, as peace officer under the laws of the state. he is, in such matters, "to preserve the peace" and "prevent and suppress breaches of the peace." an assault upon or an assassination of a judge of a united states court while engaged in any matter pertaining to his official duties, on account or by reason of his judicial decisions, or action in performing his official duties, is a breach of the peace, affecting the authority and interests of the united states, and within the jurisdiction and power of the marshal or his deputies to prevent as a peace officer of the national government. such an assault is not merely an assault upon the person of the judge as a man; it is an assault upon the national judiciary, which he represents, and through it an assault upon the authority of the nation itself. it is, necessarily, a breach of the national peace. as a national peace officer, under the conditions indicated, it is the duty of the marshal and his deputies to prevent a breach of the national peace by an assault upon the authority of the united states, in the person of a judge of its highest court, while in the discharge of his duty. if this be not so, in the language of the supreme court, "why do we have marshals at all?" what useful functions can they perform in the economy of the national government? section of the revised statutes also declares that "it shall be the duty of the marshal of each district to attend the district and circuit courts when sitting therein, and to execute throughout the district all lawful precepts directed to him and issued under the authority of the united states, and he shall have power to command all necessary assistance in the execution of his duty." there is no more authority specifically conferred upon the marshal by this section to protect the judge from assassination in open court, without a specific order or command, than there is to protect him out of court, when on the way from one court to another in the discharge of his official duties. the marshals are in daily attendance upon the judges, and performing official duties in their chambers. yet no statute specifically points out those duties or requires their performance. indeed, no such places as chambers for the circuit judges or circuit justices are mentioned at all in the statutes. yet the marshal is as clearly authorized to protect the judges there as in the court-room. all business done out of court by the judge is called chamber business. but it is not necessary to be done in what is usually called chambers. chamber business may be done, and often is done, on the street, in the judge's own house, at the hotel where he stops, when absent from home, or it may be done in transitu, on the cars in going from one place to another within the proper jurisdiction to hold court. mr. justice field could, as well, and as authoritatively, issue a temporary injunction, grant a writ of _habeas corpus_, an order to show cause, or do any other chamber business for the district in the dining-room at lathrop, as at his chambers in san francisco, or in the court-room. the chambers of the judge, where chambers are provided, are not an element of jurisdiction, but are a convenience to the judge, and to suitors--places where the judge at proper times can be readily found, and the business conveniently transacted. but inasmuch as the revised statutes of the united states (sec. ) declare that the writ of _habeas corpus_ shall not extend to "a prisoner in jail unless where he is in custody--for an act done or omitted in pursuance of a _law_ of the united states, or of an order, process, or decree of a court or judge thereof, or in custody in violation of the constitution or of a law or treaty of the united states," it was urged in the argument by counsel for the state that there is no statute which specifically makes it the duty of a marshal or deputy marshal to protect the judges of the united states whilst out of the court-room, travelling from one point to another in their circuits, on official business, from the violence of litigants who have become offended at the adverse decisions made by them in the performance of their judicial duties, and that such officers are not within the provisions of that section. to this the court replied that the language of the section is, "an act done in pursuance of a _law_ of the united states"--not in pursuance of a statute of the united states; and that the statutes do not present in express terms all the law of the united states; that their incidents and implications are as much a part of the law as their express provisions; and that when they prescribe duties providing for the accomplishment of certain designated objects, or confer authority in general terms, they carry with them all the powers essential to effect the ends designed. as said by chief justice marshall in osborn v. bank of the united states ( wheaton, - ), "it is not unusual for a legislative act to involve consequences which are not expressed. an officer, for example, is ordered to arrest an individual. it is not necessary, nor is it usual, to say that he shall not be punished for obeying this order. his security is implied in the order itself. it is no unusual thing for an act of congress to imply, without expressing, this very exemption from state control, which is said to be so objectionable in this instance. the collectors of the revenue, the carriers of the mail, the mint establishment, and all those institutions which are public in their nature, are examples in point. it has never been doubted that all who are employed in them are protected while in the line of duty; and yet this protection is not expressed in any act of congress. it is incidental to, and is implied in, the several acts by which these institutions are created; and is secured to the individuals employed in them by the judicial power alone--that is, the judicial power is the instrument employed by the government in administering this security." upon this the circuit court observed: "if the officers referred to in the preceding passage are to be protected while in the line of their duty, without any special law or statute requiring such protection, the judges of the courts, the principal officers in a department of the government second to no other, are also to be protected, and their executive subordinates--the marshals and their deputies--shielded from harm by the national laws while honestly engaged in protecting the heads of the courts from assassination."[ ] to the position that the preservation of the peace of the state is devolved solely upon the officers of the state, and not in any respect upon the marshals of the united states, the court replied: this position is already answered by what has been said. but it is undoubtedly true that it was the imperative duty of the state to preserve the public peace and amply protect the life of justice field, _but it did not do it_, and had the united states relied upon the state to keep the peace as to him--one of the justices of the highest court--in relation to matters concerning the performance of his official duties, they would have leaned upon a broken reed. the result of the efforts to obtain an officer from the state to assist in preserving the peace and protecting him at lathrop was anything but successful. the officer of the state at lathrop, instead of arresting the conspirator of the contemplated murderer, the wife of the deceased, arrested the officer of the united states, assigned by the government to the special duty of protecting the justice against the very parties, while in the actual prosecution of duties assigned to him, without warrant, thereby leaving his charge without the protection provided by the government he was serving, at a time when such protection seemed most needed. and, besides, the use of the state police force beyond the limits of a county for the protection of justice field would have been impracticable, as the powers of the sheriff would have ended at its borders, and of other township and city peace officers at the boundaries of their respective townships and cities. only a united states marshal or his deputy could have exercised these official functions throughout the judicial district, which embraces many counties. the only remedy suggested on the part of the state was to arrest the deceased and hold him to bail to keep the peace under section of the penal code, the highest limit of the amount of bail being $ , . but although the threats are conceded to have been publicly known in the state, no state officer took any means to provide this flimsy safeguard. and the execution of a bond in this amount to keep the peace would have had no effect in deterring the intended assailants from the, commission of the offense contemplated, when the penalties of the law would not deter them. as to the deliberation and wisdom of neagle's conduct under the circumstances, the court, after stating the established facts, concludes as follows: "when the deceased left his seat, some thirty feet distant, walked stealthily down the passage in the rear of justice field and dealt the unsuspecting jurist two preliminary blows, doubtless by way of reminding him that the time for vengeance had at last come, justice field was already at the traditional 'wall' of the law. he was sitting quietly at a table, back to the assailant, eating his breakfast, the side opposite being occupied by other passengers, some of whom were women, similarly engaged. when, in a dazed condition, he awoke to the reality of the situation and saw the stalwart form of the deceased with arm drawn back for a final mortal blow, there was no time to get under or over the table, had the law, under any circumstances, required such an act for his justification. neagle could not seek a 'wall' to justify his acts without abandoning his charge to certain death. when, therefore, he sprang to his feet and cried, 'stop! i am an officer,' and saw the powerful arm of the deceased drawn back for the final deadly stroke instantly change its direction to his left breast, apparently seeking his favorite weapon, the knife, and at the same time heard the half-suppressed, disappointed growl of recognition of the man who, with the aid of half a dozen others, had finally succeeded in disarming him of his knife at the court-room a year before, the supreme moment had come, or, at least, with abundant reason he thought so, and fired the fatal shot. the testimony all concurs in showing this to be the state of facts, and the almost universal consensus of public opinion of the united states seems to justify the act. on that occasion a second, or two seconds, signified, at least, two valuable lives, and a reasonable degree of prudence would justify a shot one or two seconds too soon rather than a fraction of a second too late. upon our minds the evidence leaves no doubt whatever that the homicide was fully justified by the circumstances. neagle on the scene of action, facing the party making a murderous assault, knowing by personal experience his physical powers and his desperate character, and by general reputation his life-long habit of carrying arms, his readiness to use them, and his angry, murderous threats, and seeing his demoniac looks, his stealthy assault upon justice field from behind, and, remembering the sacred trust committed to his charge--neagle, in these trying circumstances, was the party to determine when the supreme moment for action had come, and if he, honestly, acted with reasonable judgment and discretion, the law justifies him, even if he erred. but who will have the courage to stand up in the presence of the facts developed by the testimony in this case, and say that he fired the smallest fraction of a second too soon? "in our judgment he acted, under the trying circumstances surrounding him, in good faith and with consummate courage, judgment, and discretion. the homicide was, in our opinion, clearly justifiable in law, and in the forum of sound, practical common sense commendable. this being so, and the act having been 'done * * * in pursuance of a law of the united states,' as we have already seen, it cannot be an offense against, and he is not amenable to, the laws of the state." the petitioner was accordingly discharged from arrest. [ ] note.--i find the following apt illustrations of this doctrine in a journal of the day: if a military or naval officer of the united states, in the necessary suppression of a mutiny or enforcement of obedience, should wound or take the life of a subordinate, would it be contended that, if arrested for that act by the state authority, he could not be released on _habeas corpus_, because no statute expressly authorized the performance of the act? if the commander of a revenue cutter should be directed to pursue and retake a vessel which, after seizure, had escaped from the custody of the law, and the officer in the performance of that duty, and when necessary to overcome resistance, should injure or kill a member of the crew of the vessel he was ordered to recapture, and if for that act he should be arrested and accused of crime under the state authority, will any sensible person maintain that the provisions of the _habeas corpus_ act could not be invoked for his release, notwithstanding that no statute could be shown which directly authorized the act for which he was arrested? if by command of the president a company of troops were marched into this city to protect the subtreasury from threatened pillage, and in so doing life were taken, would not the act of the officer who commanded the troops be an act done in pursuance of the laws of the united states, and in the lawful exercise of its authority? could he be imprisoned and tried before a state jury on the charge of murder, and the courts of the united states be powerless to inquire into the facts on _habeas corpus_, and to discharge him if found to have acted in the performance of his duty? can the authority of the united states for the protection of their officers be less than their authority to protect their property? there appears to be but one rational answer to these questions. in all these cases the authority vested in the officer to suppress a mutiny, or to overtake and capture an escaped vessel, or to protect the subtreasury from threatened pillage, carries with it power to do all things necessary to accomplish the object desired, even the killing of the offending party. the law conferring the authority thus extended to the officer in these cases, is in the sense of the _habeas corpus_ act, a law of the united states to do all things necessary for the execution of that authority. chapter xix. expressions of public opinion. this case and all the attendant circumstances--the attempted assassination of justice field by his former associate, terry; the defeat of this murderous attempt by deputy marshal neagle; the arrest of justice field and the deputy marshal upon the charge of murder, and their discharge--created very great interest throughout the united states. they were the subject of articles in all the leading journals of the country; and numerous telegrams and letters of congratulation were sent to the justice on his escape from the murderous attempt. satisfaction was very generally expressed at the fate which terry met, and much praise was given to the courageous conduct of neagle and at the bearing of justice field under the trying circumstances. a few of the letters received by him are here given, and citations are made from some of the periodicals, which indicated the general sentiment of the country. letter from hon. t.f. bayard, ex-secretary of state: wilmington, delaware, _august , _. my dear brother field: i was absent from home when i first saw in the newspapers an account of the infamous assault of the terrys--husband and wife--upon you, and the prompt and courageous action of deputy marshal neagle that happily frustrated the iniquitous plot against your life. accept, my dear friend, my fervent congratulations on your escape from the designs of this madman and of the shameless creature who was his wife and accomplice. for the sake of our country and its reputation in the eyes of christendom, i am indeed grateful that this vile stab at its judicial power, as vested in your personality, miscarried, and that by good fortune the insane malice of a disappointed suitor should have been thwarted. your dignified courage in this tragical episode is most impressive, and, while it endears you the more to those who love you, will wring even from your foes a tribute of respect and admiration. passing over the arguments that may be wrought out of the verbiage of our dual constitution of government, the robust and essential principle _must_ be recognized and proclaimed--that the _inherent powers_ of every government which are sufficient to authorize and enforce the judgments of its courts are equally and at all times and in all places sufficient to protect the individual judge who fearlessly and conscientiously, in the discharge of his duty, pronounces those judgments. the case, my dear friend, is not yours alone; it is equally mine and that of every other american. a principle so vital to society, to the body politic, was never more dangerously and wickedly assailed than by the assault of terry and his wife upon you for your just and honorable performance of your duty as a magistrate. i can well comprehend the shock to which this occurrence has subjected you, and i wish i could be by your side to give you assurance orally (if any were needed) of that absolute sympathy and support to which you are so fully entitled. but these lines will perhaps suffice to make you feel the affectionate and steadfast regard i entertain for you, and which this terrible event has but increased. i cannot forbear an expression of the hope that the arguments of jurisdictional and other points which must attend the litigation and settlement of this tragedy may not be abated or warped to meet any temporary local or partisan demand. the voice of justice can never speak in clearer or more divine accents than when heard in vindication and honor of her own faithful ministers. ever, my dear judge field, sincerely yours, t.f. bayard. the hon. stephen j. field, _san francisco, cal_. letter from hon. e.j. phelps, former minister to england: burlington, vermont, _august , _. my dear judge field: pray let me congratulate you most heartily on the terry transaction. nothing that has ever occurred in the administration of justice has given me more satisfaction than this prompt, righteous, and effectual vindication through an officer of the court of the sanctity of the judiciary when in the discharge of its duty. what your marshal did was exactly the right thing, at the right time, and in the right way. i shall be most happy to join in a suitable testimonial to him, if our profession will, as they ought, concur in presenting it. * * * your own coolness and carriage in confronting this danger in the discharge of your duty must be universally admired, and will shed an additional lustre on a judicial career which was distinguished enough without it. you have escaped a great peril--acquired a fresh distinction--and vindicated most properly the dignity of your high station. i am glad to perceive that this is the general opinion. anticipating the pleasure of seeing you in washington next term, i am always, dear sir, most sincerely yours, e.j. phelps. letter from hon. george f. hoar, senator from massachusetts: worcester, _august , _. my dear judge field: i think i ought to tell you, at this time, how high you stand in the confidence and reverence of all good men here, how deeply they were shocked by this outrage attempted not so much on you as on the judicial office itself, and how entirely the prompt action of the officer is approved. i hope you may long be spared to the public service. i am faithfully yours, geo. f. hoar. letter from hon. j. proctor knott, for many years a member of congress from kentucky and chairman of the judiciary committee of the house of representatives, and afterwards governor of kentucky: lebanon, kentucky, _september , _. my dear judge: * * * i have had it in mind to write you from the moment i first heard of your fortunate escape from the fiendish assassination with which you were so imminently threatened, but i have, since the latter part of may, been suffering from a most distressing affection of the eyes which has rendered it extremely difficult, and frequently, for days together, quite impossible to do so. even now, though much improved, i write in great pain, but i cannot get my consent to delay it longer on any account. you are to be congratulated, my dear friend, and you know that no one could possibly do so with more genuine, heartfelt sincerity than i do myself. * * * i had been troubled, ever since i saw you had gone to your circuit, with apprehensions that you would be assassinated, or at least subjected to some gross outrage, and cannot express my admiration of the serene heroism with which you went to your post of duty, determined not to debase the dignity of your exalted position by wearing arms for your defense, notwithstanding you were fully conscious of the danger which menaced you. it didn't surprise me, however; for i knew the stuff you were made of had been tested before. but i _was_ surprised and disgusted, too, that _you_ should have been charged or even suspected of anything wrong in the matter. the magistrate who issued the warrant for your arrest may possibly have thought it his duty to do so, without looking beyond the "railing accusation" of a baffled and infuriated murderess, which all the world instinctively knew to be false, yet i suppose there is not an intelligent man, woman, or child on the continent who does not consider it an infamous and unmitigated outrage, or who is not thoroughly satisfied that the brave fellow who defended you so opportunely was legally and morally justifiable in what he did. i have not been in a condition to _think_ very coherently, much less to read anything in relation to the question of jurisdiction raised by the state authorities in the _habeas corpus_ issued in your behalf by the u.s. circuit court, and it may be that, from the mere newspaper's reports that have reached me, i have been unable to fully apprehend the objections which are made to the courts hearing all the facts on the trial of the writ; but it occurs to me as a plain principle of common sense that the federal government should not only have the power, but that it is necessary to its own preservation, to protect its officers from being wantonly or maliciously interfered with, hindered or obstructed in the lawful exercises of their official duties, not arbitrarily of course, but through its regularly constituted agencies, and according to the established principles of law; and where such obstruction consists in the forcible restraint of the officer's liberty, i see no reason why the federal judiciary should not inquire into it on _habeas corpus_, when it is alleged to be not only illegal but contrived for the very purpose of hindering the officer in the discharge of his official duties, and impairing the efficiency of the public service. it is true that in such an investigation a real or apparent conflict between state and federal authority may be presented, which a due regard to the respective rights of the two governments would require to be considered with the utmost caution, such caution, at least, as it is fair to presume an intelligent court would always be careful to exercise, in view of the absolute importance of maintaining as far as possible the strictest harmony between the two jurisdictions. yet those rights are determined and by fixed legal principles, which it would be impossible for a court to apply in any case without a competent knowledge of the _facts_ upon which their application in the particular case might depend. for instance, if your court should issue a writ of _habeas corpus_ for the relief of a federal officer upon the averments in his petition that he was forcibly and illegally restrained of his liberty for the purpose of preventing him from performing his official duties, and it should appear in the return to the writ that the person detaining the prisoner was a ministerial officer of the state government authorized by its laws to execute its process, and that he held the petitioner in custody by virtue of a warrant of arrest in due form, issued by a competent magistrate, to answer for an offense against the state laws, i presume the court, in the absence of any further showing, would instantly remand the petitioner to the custody of the state authorities without regard to his official position or the nature of his public duties. but, on the other hand, suppose there should be a traverse of the return, averring that the warrant of the arrest, though apparently regular in all respects, was in truth but a fraudulent contrivance designed and employed for the sole purpose of hindering and obstructing the petitioner in the performance of his duties as an officer of the government of the united states; that the magistrate who issued it, knowingly and maliciously abused his authority for that purpose in pursuance of a conspiracy between himself and others, and not in good faith, and upon probable cause to bring the prisoner to justice for a crime against the state. how then? here is an apparent conflict--not a _real_ one--between the rights of the government of the united states and the government of the state. the one has a right to the service of its officer, and the right to prevent his being unlawfully interfered with or obstructed in the performance of his official duties; the other has the right to administer its laws for the punishment of crime through its own tribunals; but it must be observed that the former has no right to shield one of its officers from a valid prosecution for a violation of the laws of the latter not in conflict with the constitution and laws of the united states, nor can it be claimed that the latter has any right to suffer its laws to be prostituted, and its authority fraudulently abused, in aid of a conspiracy to defeat or obstruct the functions of the former. such an abuse of authority is not, and cannot be in any sense, a _bona fide_ administration of state laws, but is itself a crime against them. what, then, would your court do? you would probably say: if it is true that this man is held without probable cause under a fraudulent warrant, issued in pursuance of a conspiracy to which the magistrate who issued it was a party, to give legal color to a malicious interference with his functions as a federal official, he is the victim of a double crime--a crime against the united states and a crime against the state--and it is not only our duty to vindicate his right to the free exercise of his official duties, but the right of the federal government to his services, and its right to protect him in the legal performance of the same. but if, on the other hand, he has raised a mere "false clamor"--if he is held in good faith upon a valid warrant to answer for a crime committed against the state, it is equally as obligatory upon us to uphold its authority, and maintain its right to vindicate its own laws through its own machinery. to determine between these two hypotheses we must know the _facts_. * * * the same simple reasoning, it occurs to me, applies to mr. neagle's case. whether he acted in the line of his duty under the laws of the united states, as an officer of that government, is clearly a question within the jurisdiction of the federal judiciary. if he _did_, he cannot be held responsible to the state authority; if he did _not_, he should answer, if required, before its tribunals of justice. i presume no court of ordinary intelligence, state or federal, would question these obvious principles; but how _any_ court could determine whether he did or did not act in the line of his official duty under the laws of his government without a judicial inquiry into the _facts_ connected with the transaction i am unable to imagine. * * * i am, as always, your faithful friend, j. proctor knott. hon. s.j. field, _associate justice supreme court u.s._ letter from hon. william d. shipman, formerly u.s. district judge for the district of connecticut: new york, _october , _. dear judge: * * * * * i have attentively read judge sawyer's opinion in the neagle _habeas corpus_ case, and i agree with his main conclusions. it seems to me that the whole question of jurisdiction turns on the fact whether you were, at the time the assault was made on you, engaged in the performance of your official duty. you had been to los angeles to hold court there and had finished that business. in going there you were performing an official duty as much as you were when you had held court there. it was then your official duty to go from los angeles to san francisco and hold court there. you could not hold court at the latter place without going, and you were engaged in the line of your official duty in performing that journey for that purpose, as you were in holding the court after you got there. the idea that a judge is not performing official duty when he goes from court-house to court-house or from court-room to court-room in his own circuit seems to me to be absurd. the distance from one court-house or court-room to another is not material, and does not change or modify the act or duty of the judge. now, neagle was an officer of your court, charged with the duty of protecting your person while you were engaged in the performance of your official duty. _his_ duty was to see to it that you were not unlawfully prevented from performing _your_ official duty--not hindered or obstructed therein. for the state authorities to indict him for repelling the assault on you in the only way which he could do so effectually seems to me to be as unwarranted by law as it would be for them to indict him for an assault on terry when he assisted in disarming the latter in the court-room last year. when, therefore, it was conceded on the argument that if the affair at lathrop had taken place in the court-room during the sitting of the court, the jurisdiction of the circuit court would be unquestionable, it is difficult for me to see why the whole question of federal jurisdiction was not embraced in that concession. assassinating a judge _on_ the bench would no more obstruct and defeat public justice than assassinating him on his way to the bench. in each case he is _proceeding in the line of official duty imposed on him by law and_ his official oath. the law requires him to go to court wherever the latter is held, and he is as much engaged in performing the duty thus imposed on him while he is proceeding to the place of his judicial labors as he is in performing the latter after he gets there. it would, therefore, seem to go without saying that any acts done in defense and protection of the judge in the performance of the duties of his office must pertain to the exclusive jurisdiction of the court of which he forms a part. the fact that the assault on you was avowedly made in revenge for your judicial action in a case heard by you gives a darker tinge to the deed, but, perhaps, does not change the legal character of the assault itself. that neagle did his whole duty, and in no way exceeded it, is too plain for argument. yours faithfully, w.d. shipman mr. justice field. letter from james c. welling, president of columbian university, washington: hartford, _august , ._ my dear judge: it is a relief to know that justice, as well as the honored justice of our supreme judiciary, has been avenged by the pistol-shot of neagle. the life of terry has long since been forfeited to law, to decency, and to morals. he has already exceeded the limit assigned by holy scripture to men of his ilk. "the bloody-minded man shall not live out half his days." the mode of his death was in keeping with his life. men who break all the laws of nature should not expect to die by the laws of nature. in all this episode you have simply worn the judicial ermine without spot or stain. you defeated a bold, bad man in his machinations, and the enmity you thereby incurred was a crown of honor. i am glad that you are to be no longer harassed by the menace of this man's violence, for such a menace is specially trying to a minister of the law. we all know that judge field the _man_ would not flinch from a thousand terrys, but judge field the _justice_ could hardly take in his own hands the protection of his person, where the threatened outrage sprang _entirely_ from his official acts. i wish, therefore, to congratulate you on your escape alike from the violence of terry and from the necessity of killing him with your own hands. it was meet that you should have been defended by an executive officer of the court assailed in your person. for doubtless terry, and the hag who was on the hunt with him, were minded to murder you. convey my cordial felicitations to mrs. field, and believe me ever, my dear mr. justice, your faithful friend, james c. welling. mr. justice field. letter from right rev. b. wistar morris, episcopal bishop of oregon: bishopcroft, portland, oregon, _august , _. my dear judge field: i hope a word of congratulation from your oregon friends for your escape in the recent tragedy will not be considered an intrusion. of course we have all been deeply interested in its history, and proud that you were found as you were, without the defenses of a bully. i will not trespass further on your time than to subscribe myself, very truly your friend, b. wistar morris. mr. justice field. a copy of the following card was enclosed in this letter: an unarmed justice. portland oregon, _august _. _to the editor of the oregonian_: there is one circumstance in the history of the field and terry tragedy that seems to me is worthy of more emphatic comment than it has yet received. i mean the fact that judge field had about his person no weapon of defense whatever, though he knew that this miserable villain was dogging his steps for the purpose of assaulting him, perhaps of taking his life. his brother, mr. cyrus w. field, says: "it was common talk in the east here, among my brother's friends, that terry's threats to do him bodily harm were made with the full intent to follow them up. terry threatened openly to shoot the justice, and we, who knew him, were convinced he would certainly do it if he ever got a chance. "i endeavored to dissuade my brother from making the trip west this year, but to no purpose, and he said, 'i have a duty to perform there, and this sort of thing can't frighten me away. i know terry will do me harm if he gets a chance, and as i shall be in california some time, he will have chances enough. let him take them.' "when urged to arm himself he made the same reply. he said that when it came to such a pass in this country that judges find it necessary to go armed, it will be time to close the courts themselves." this was a manly and noble reply and must recall to many minds that familiar sentiment: "he is thrice armed who has his quarrel just." with the daily and hourly knowledge that this assassin was ever upon his track, this brave judge goes about his duty and scorns to take to himself the defenses of a bully or a brigand; and in doing so, how immeasurably has he placed himself above the vile creature that sought his life, and all others who resort to deeds of violence. "they that take the sword shall perish with the sword," is a saying of wide application, and had it been so in this case; had this brave and self-possessed man been moved from his high purpose by the importunity of friends, and when slain by his enemy, had been found armed in like manner with the murderer himself, what a stain would it have been upon his name and honor? and how would our whole country have been disgraced in the eyes of the civilized world, that her highest ministers of justice must be armed as highwaymen as they go about their daily duties! well said this undaunted servant of the state: "then will it be time to close the courts themselves." may we not hope, mr. editor, that this example of one occupying this high place in our country may have some influence in staying the spirit and deeds of violence now so rife, and that they who are so ready to resort to the rifle and revolver may learn to regard them only as the instruments of the coward or the scoundrel? b. wistak morris. the citations given below from different journals, published at the time, indicated the general opinion of the country. with rare exceptions it approved of the action of the government, the conduct of neagle, and the bearing of justice field. the _alta california_, a leading paper in california, had, on august , , the day following the tragedy, the following article: the terry tragedy. the killing of david s. terry by the united states marshal david neagle yesterday was an unfortunate affair, regretted, we believe, by no one more than by justice field, in whose defense the fatal shot was fired. there seems, however, to be an almost undivided sentiment that the killing was justifiable. every circumstance attending the tragedy points to the irresistible conclusion that there was a premeditated determination on the part of terry and his wife to provoke justice field to an encounter, in which terry might either find an excuse for killing the man against whom he had threatened vengeance, or in which his wife might use the pistol which she always carries, in the pretended defense of her husband. for some time past it has been feared that a meeting between terry and justice field would result in bloodshed. there is now indisputable proof that terry had made repeated threats that he would assault justice field the first time he met him off the bench, and that if the judge resisted he would kill him. viewed in the light of these threats, terry's presence on the same train with justice field will hardly be regarded as accidental, and his actions in the breakfast-room at lathrop were directly in line with the intentions he had previously expressed. neagle's prompt and deadly use of his revolver is to be judged with due reference to the character and known disposition of the man with whom he had to deal and to his previous actions and threats. he was attending justice field, against the will of the latter and in spite of his protest, in obedience to an order from the attorney-general of the united states to marshal franks to detail a deputy to protect the person of justice field from terry's threatened violence. a slap in the face may not, under ordinary circumstances, be sufficient provocation to justify the taking of human life; but it must be remembered that there were no ordinary circumstances and that terry was no ordinary man. terry was a noted pistol-shot; it was known that he invariably carried arms and that he boasted of his ability to use them. if on this occasion he was unarmed, as mrs. terry asserts,[ ] neagle had no means of knowing that fact; on the contrary, to his mind every presumption was in favor of the belief that he carried both pistol and knife, in accordance with his usual habit. as a peace officer, even apart from the special duty which had been assigned to him, he was justified in taking the means necessary to prevent terry from continuing his assault; but the means necessary in the case of one man may be wholly inadequate with a man bearing the reputation of david s. terry, a man who only a few months previously had drawn a knife while resisting the lawful authority of another united states officer. it is true that if terry was unarmed, the deputy marshal might have arrested him without taking his life or seriously endangering his own; but terry was a man of gigantic stature, and though aged, in possession of a giant's strength; and there is no one who was acquainted with him, or has had opportunity to learn his past history, who does not know that he was a desperate man, willing to take desperate chances and to resort to desperate means when giving way to his impulses of passion, and that any person who should at such a moment attempt to stay his hand would do so at the risk of his life. whether he had a pistol with him at that moment or not, there was every reason to believe that he was armed, and that the blow with his hand was intended only as the precursor to a more deadly blow with a weapon. at such moments little time is allowed for reflection. the officer of the law was called upon to act and to act promptly. he did so, and the life of david s. terry was the forfeit. he fell, a victim to his own ungovernable passions, urged on to his fate by the woman who was at once his wife and his client, and perhaps further incited by sensational newspaper articles which stirred up the memory of his resentment for fancied wrongs, and taunted him with the humiliation of threats unfulfilled. the close of judge terry's life ends a career and an era. he had the misfortune to carry into a ripened state of society the conditions which are tolerable only where social order is not fully established. restless under authority, and putting violence above law, he lived by the sword and has perished by it. that example which refused submission to judicial finalities was becoming offensive to california, but the incubus of physical fear was upon many who realized that the survival of frontier ways into non-frontier period was a damage to the state. but, be this as it may, the stubborn spirit that defied the law has fallen by the law. when justice field showed the highest judicial courage in the opening incidents of the tragedy that has now closed, the manhood of california received a distinct impetus. when the justice, with threats made against his life, returned to the state unarmed, and resentful of protection against assault, declaring that when judges must arm to defend themselves from assault offered in reprisal of their judicial actions society must be considered dissolved, he was rendering to our institutions the final and highest possible service. the event that followed, the killing of terry in the act of striking him the second time from behind, while he sat at table in a crowded public dining-room, was the act of the law. the federal department of justice, by its chief, the attorney-general of the united states, had ordered its officer, the united states marshal for the northern district of california, to take such means and such measures as might be necessary to protect the persons of the judges against assault by judge terry, in carrying out the threats that he had made. this order was from the executive arm of the government, and it was carried out to the letter. judge terry took the law into his own hands and fell. nothing can add to the lesson his fate teaches. it is established now that in california no man is above the law; that no man can affect the even poise of justice by fear. confiding in his own strength as superior to the law, david s. terry fell wretchedly. no more need be said. new california inscribes upon her shield, "obedience to the law the first condition of good citizenship," and the past is closed. _the record-union_ of sacramento, one of the leading papers of california, on august , , the day following the tragedy, had the following article under the head-- killing of judge terry. in the news columns of the _record-union_ will be found all the essential details of the circumstances of the killing of d.s. terry. it will be evident to the reader that they readily sap the whole case, and that there is no substantial dispute possible concerning the facts. these truths we assert, without fear of successful contradiction, establish the justifiableness of the act of the united states marshal who fired upon and killed terry. we think there will be no dispute among sensible men that a federal circuit judge or a justice of the supreme bench, passing from one portion of the circuit to another in which either is required to open a court and hear causes, and for the purpose of fully discharging his official duties, is while en route in the discharge of an official function, and constructively his court is open to the extent that an assault upon him, because of matters pending in his court, or because of judgments he has rendered or is to render, is an assault upon the court, and his bailiff or marshal detailed to attend the court or to aid in preserving the order and dignity of the court has the same right to protect him from assault then that he would have, had the judge actually reached his court-room. but further than this, we hold that in view of the undeniable fact that the justice had knowledge of the fact that the terrys, man and wife, had sworn to punish him; that they had indulged in threats against him of the most pronounced character; that they had boarded a train on which it is probable they knew he had taken passage from one part of his circuit to another in his capacity as a magistrate; in view of the fact that terry sought the first opportunity to approach and strike him, and that, too, when seated; and in view of the notorious fact that terry always went armed--the man who shot terry would have been justified in doing so had he not even been commissioned as an officer of the court. he warned the assailant to desist, and knowing his custom to go armed, and that he had threatened the justice, and terry refusing to restrain his blows, it was neagle's duty to save life, to strike down the assailant in the most effectual manner. men who, having the ability to prevent murder, stand by and see it committed, may well be held to accountability for criminal negligence. but in this case it is clear that murder was intended on the part of the terrys. one of them ran for her pistol and brought it, and would have reached the other's side with it in time, had she not been detained by strong men at the door. neagle saw this woman depart, and coupling it with the advance of terry, knew, as a matter of course, what it meant. he had been deputed by the chief law officer of the government--in view of previous assaults by the terrys and their threats and display of weapons in court--to stand guard over the judges and protect them. he acted, therefore, precisely as it was proper he should do. had he been less prompt and vigorous, all the world knows that not he but terry would to-day be in custody, and not terry but the venerable justice of the supreme court of the united states would to-day be in the coffin. these remarks have grown too extended for any elaboration of the moral of the tragedy that culminated in the killing of david s. terry yesterday. but we cannot allow the subject to be even temporarily dismissed without calling the thought of the reader to contemplation of the essential truth that society is bound to protect the judges of the courts of the land from violence and the threats of violence; otherwise the decisions of our courts must conform to the violence threatened, and there will be an end of our judicial system, the third and most valuable factor in the scheme of representative government. society cannot, therefore, punish, but must applaud the man who defends the courts of the people and the judges of those courts from such violence and threats of violence. for it must be apparent to even the dullest intellect that all such violence is an outrage upon the judicial conscience, and therefore involves and puts in peril the liberties of the people. the new orleans _times-democrat,_ in one of its issues at this period, used the following language: the judge in america who keeps his official ermine spotless, who faithfully attends to the heavy and responsible duties of his station, deserves that the people should guard the sanctity of his person with a strength stronger than armor of steel and readier than the stroke of lance or sword. though the judges be called to pass on tens of thousands of cases, to sentence to imprisonment or to death thousands of criminals, they should be held by the people safe from the hate and vengeance of those criminals as if they were guarded by an invulnerable shield. if judge field, of the supreme court, one of the nine highest judges under our republican government, in travelling recently over his circuit in california, had been left to the mercy of the violent man who had repeatedly threatened his life, who had proved himself ready with the deadly knife or revolver, it would have been a disgrace to american civilization; it would have been a stigma and stain upon american manhood; it would have shown that the spirit of american liberty, which exalts and pays reverence to our judiciary, had been replaced by a public apathy that marked the beginning of the decline of patriotism. judge field recognized this when, in being advised to arm himself in case his life was endangered, he uttered the noble words: "no, sir; i do not and will not carry arms, for when it is known that the judges of the court are compelled to arm themselves against assaults offered in consequence of their judicial action it will be time to dissolve the courts, consider the government a failure, and let society lapse into barbarism." that ringing sentence has gone to the remotest corner of the land, and everywhere it has gone it should fire the american heart with a proud resolve to protect forever the sanctity of our judiciary. had not neagle protected the person of judge field from the assault of a dangerous and violent ruffian, apparently intent on murder, by his prompt and decisive action, shooting the assailant down to his death, it is certain that other brave men would have rushed quickly to his rescue; but neagle's marvelous quickness forestalled the need of any other's action. the person of one of the very highest american judges was preserved unharmed, while death palsied the murderous hand that had sworn to take his life. that act of neagle's was no crime. it was a deed that any and every american should feel proud of having done. it was an act that should be applauded over the length and breadth of this great land. it should not have consigned him for one minute to prison walls. it should have lifted him high in the esteem of all the american people. when criminals turn executioners, and judges are the victims, we might as well close our courts and hoist the red flag of anarchy over their silent halls and darkened chambers. the new york _herald_, in its issue of august , , said: the sensation of the past week is a lesson in republicanism and a eulogium on the majesty of the law. it was not a personal controversy between stephen j. field and david s. terry. it was a conflict between law and lawlessness--between a judicial officer who represented the law and a man who sought to take it into his own hands. one embodied the peaceful power of the nation, the will of the people; the other defied that power and appealed to the dagger. justice field's whole course shows a conception of judicial duty that lends grandeur to a republican judiciary. it is an inspiring example to the citizens and especially to the judges of the country. he was reminded of the danger of returning to california while judge terry and his wife were at large. his firm answer was that it was his duty to go and his would go. he was then advised to arm himself for self-defense. his reply embodies a nobility that should make it historic: "when it comes to such a pass in this country that judges of the courts find it necessary to go armed it will be time to close the courts themselves." this sentiment was not born of any insensibility to danger; justice field fully realized the peril himself. but above all feeling of personal concern arose a lofty sense of the duty imposed upon a justice of the nation's highest court. the officer is a representative of the law--a minister of peace. he should show by his example that the law is supreme; that all must bow to its authority; that all lawlessness must yield to it. when judges who represent the law resort to violence even in self-defense, the pistol instead of the court becomes the arbiter of controversies, and the authority of the government gives way to the power of the mob. rather than set a precedent that might tend to such a result, that would shake popular confidence in the judiciary, that would lend any encouragement to violence, a judge, as justice field evidently felt, may well risk his own life for the welfare of the commonwealth. he did not even favor the proposition that a marshal be detailed to guard him. the course of the venerable justice is an example to all who would have the law respected. it is also a lesson to all who would take the law into their own hands. not less exemplary was his recognition of the supremacy of the law when the sheriff of san joaquin appeared before him with a warrant of arrest on the grave charge of murder. the warrant was an outrage, but it was the duty of the officer to serve it, even on a justice of the united states supreme court. when the sheriff hesitated and began to apologize before discharging his painful duty, justice field promptly spoke out: "officer, proceed with your duty. i am ready, and an officer should always do his duty." these are traits of judicial heroism worthy the admiration of the world. the _albany evening union_, in one of its issues at this time, has the following: justice field relies upon the law for his defense. the courage of justice stephen j. field in declining to carry weapons and declaring that it is time to close the courts when judges have to arm themselves, and at the same time proceeding to do his duty on the bench when his life was threatened by a desperate man, is without parallel in the history of our judiciary. we do not mean by this that he is the only judge on the bench that would be as brave as he was under the circumstances, but every phase of the affair points to the heroism of the man. he upheld the majesty of the law in a fearless manner and at the peril of his life. he would not permit the judiciary to be lowered by any fear of the personal harm that might follow a straightforward performance of his duty. his arrest for complicity in a murder was borne by the same tranquil bravery--a supreme reliance upon a due process of law. he did not want the officer to apologize to him for doing his duty. he had imprisoned judge terry and his wife sarah althea for contempt of court. * * * the threats by judge terry did not even frighten him to carry weapons of self-defense. this illustration of upholding the majesty of the law is without precedent, and is worth more to the cause of justice than the entire united states army could be if called out to suppress a riotous band of law-breakers. justice field did what any justice should do under the circumstances, but how many judges would have displayed a like courage had they been in his place? the _new york world_, in its issue of monday evening, august th, has the following article: a new leaf turned. when judge field, knowing that his life was threatened, went back unarmed into the state of california and about his business there, he gave wholesome rebuke to the cowardice that prompts men to carry a pistol--a cowardice that has been too long popular on the coast. he did a priceless service to the cause of progress in his state, and added grace to his ermine when he disdained to take arms in answer to the threats of assassins. the men who have conspired to take judge field's life ought to need only one warning that a new day has dawned in california, and to find that warning in the doom of the bully terry. the law will protect the ermine of its judges. the new york _world_ of august th treats of the arrest of justice field as an outrage, and speaks of it as follows: the arrest of field an outrage and an absurdity. the california magistrate who issued a warrant for justice field's arrest is obviously a donkey of the most precious quality. the justice had been brutally assailed by a notorious ruffian who had publicly declared his intention to kill his enemy. before justice field could even rise from his chair a neat-handed deputy united states marshal shot the ruffian. justice field had no more to do with the shooting than any other bystander, and even if there had been doubt on that point it was certain that a justice of the united states supreme court was not going to run away beyond the jurisdiction. his arrest was, therefore, as absurd as it was outrageous. it was asked for by the demented widow of the dead desperado simply as a means of subjecting the justice to an indignity, and no magistrate possessed of even a protoplasmic possibility of common sense and character would have lent himself in that way to such a service. the kansas city _times_, in its issue at this period, uses the following language: no one will censure. _gratitude for judge field's escape the chief sentiment._ deputy marshal neagle acted with terrible promptitude in protecting the venerable member of the supreme court with whose safety he was specially charged, but few will be inclined to censure him. he had to deal with a man of fierce temper, whose readiness to use firearms was part of the best known history of california. it is a subject for general congratulation that justice field escaped the violence of his assailant. the american nation would be shocked to learn that a judge of its highest tribunal could not travel without danger of assault from those whom he had been compelled to offend by administering the laws. justice field has the respect due his office and that deeper and more significant reverence produced by his character and abilities. since most of the present generation were old enough to observe public affairs he has been a jurist of national reputation and a sitting member of the supreme court. in that capacity he has earned the gratitude of his countrymen by bold and unanswerable defense of sound constitutional interpretation on more than one occasion. in all the sad affair the most prominent feeling will be that of gratitude at his escape. _the army and navy journal_, in its issue of august , , had the following article under the head of-- marshal neagle's crime. the public mind appears to be somewhat unsettled upon the question of the right of neagle to kill terry while assaulting judge field. his justification is as clear as is the benefit of his act to a long-suffering community. judge field was assaulted unexpectedly from behind, while seated at a dining-table, by a notorious assassin and ruffian, who had sworn to kill him, and who, according to the testimony of at least one witness, was armed with a long knife, had sent his wife for a pistol, and was intending to use it as soon as obtained. * * * the rule is that the danger which justifies homicide in self-defense must be actual and urgent. and was it not so in this case? no one who reflects upon the features of the case--an old man without means of defense, fastened in a sitting posture by the table at which he sat and the chair he occupied, already smitten with one severe blow and about to receive another more severe from a notorious ruffian who had publicly avowed his intention to slay him--no one surely can deny that the peril threatening judge field was both actual and urgent in the very highest degree. "a man may repel force by force in the defense of his person, habitation, or property, against one or many who manifestly intend and endeavor by violence or surprise to commit a known felony on either." "in such a case he is not obliged to retreat, but may pursue his adversary till he find himself out of danger; and if in a conflict between them he happens to kill, such killing is justifiable. the right of self-defense in case of this kind is founded on the law of nature, and is not, nor can be, superseded by any law of society. where a known felony is attempted upon the person, be it to rob or murder, the party assaulted may repel force by force; and even his servant attendant on him, or any person present, may interpose for preventing mischief, and, if death ensue, the party interposing will be justified." (wharton amer. crim. law, vol. , sec. .) this is the law, as recognized at the present day and established by centuries of precedent, and it completely exonerates neagle--of course judge field needs no exoneration--from any, the least, criminality in what he did. he is acquitted of wrong-doing, not only in his character of attendant servant, but in that of bystander simply. he was as much bound to kill terry under the circumstances as every bystander in the room was bound to kill him; and in his capacity of guard, especially appointed to defend an invaluable life against a known and imminent felony, he was so bound in a much greater degree. "a sincere and apparently well-grounded belief that a felony is about to be perpetrated will extenuate a homicide committed in prevention of it, though the defendant be but a private citizen" ( ala., .) see wharton, above quoted, who embodies the doctrine in his text (vol. , sec. ). * * * * * let us be grateful from our hearts that the old mosaic law, "whoso sheddeth man's blood by man shall his blood be shed," is shown by this memorable event to have not yet fallen altogether into innocuous desuetude; and let us give thanks to god that he has seen fit on this occasion to preserve from death at the hands of an intolerable ruffian the life of that high-minded, pure-handed, and excellent jurist and magistrate, stephen j. field. the philadelphia _times_ of august th has the following: only one opinion. _marshal neagle could not stand idly by._ the killing of judge terry of california is a homicide that will occasion no regret wherever the story of his stormy and wicked life is known. at the same time, the circumstances that surrounded it will be deeply lamented. this violent man, more than once a murderer, met his death while in the act of assaulting justice field of the supreme court of the united states. had he not been killed when he was, judge field would probably have been another of his victims. terry had declared his purpose of killing the justice, and this was their first meeting since his release from deserved imprisonment. in regard to the act of united states marshal neagle, there can be only one opinion. he could not stand idly by and see a judge of the suprene court murdered before his eyes. the contumely that terry sought to put upon the judge was only the insult that was to go before premeditated murder. the case has no moral except the certainty that a violent life will end in a violent death. the _philadelphia inquirer_ of the same date says as follows: a premeditated insult. _followed quickly by a deserved retribution._ ex-judge terry's violent death was a fitting termination to a stormy life, and the incidents of his last encounter were characteristic of the man and his methods. he was one of the few lingering representatives of the old-time population of california. he was prominent there when society was organizing itself, and succeeded in holding on to life and position when many a better man succumbed to the rude justice of the period. most of his early associates died with their boots on, a generation ago. terry lived, assailed on all sides, despised by the better element and opposed by the law, in trouble often, but never punished as he deserved. his last act was to offer a gross, premeditated insult to the venerable justice field, and the retribution he had long defied followed it quickly. california will have little reason to mourn his loss. the _cleveland leader_, in its issue of august th, speaks of the conduct of neagle as follows: the killing of terry. we have already expressed the opinion in these columns that the killing of david s. terry by deputy marshal neagle at lathrop, california, wednesday, was entirely justifiable. in that opinion it is a pleasure to note that the press of the country concur almost unanimously. the judgment of eminent members of the legal profession, as published in our telegraph columns and elsewhere, support and bear out that view of the case. the full account of the trouble makes the necessity of some such action on the part of the deputy marshal clear. the judgment of the country is that neagle only did his duty in defending the person of justice field, and in that judgment the california jury will doubtless concur when the case is brought before it. the _argonaut_, a leading paper of san francisco, not a political, but a literary paper, and edited with great ability, in its issue of august , , used the following language: the course of judge field throughout this troublesome business has been in the highest degree creditable to him. he has acted with dignity and courage, and his conduct has been characterized by most excellent taste. his answer, when requested to go armed against the assault of terry, is worthy of preservation. and now that his assailant has been arrested in his career by death, all honest men who respect the law will breathe more freely. judge terry had gained a most questionable reputation, not for courage in the right direction; not for generosity which overlooked or forgave, or forgot offenses against himself or his interests. he never conceded the right to any man to hold an opinion in opposition to his prejudices, or cross the path of his passion with impunity. he could with vulgar whisper insult the judge who rendered an opinion adverse to his client, and with profane language insult the attorney who had the misfortune to be retained by a man whose cause he did not champion. he had become a terror to society and a walking menace to the social circle in which he revolved. his death was a necessity, and, except here and there a friend of blunted moral instincts, there will be found but few to mourn his death or criticise the manner of his taking off. to say that marshal neagle should have acted in any other manner than he did means that he was to have left justice field in the claws of a tiger, and at the mercy of an infuriated, angry monster, who had never shown mercy or generosity to an enemy in his power. * * * judge field has survived the unhappy conflict which carried judge terry to his grave. he is more highly honored now than when this quarrel was thrust upon him; he has lost no friends; he has made thousands of new ones who honor him for protecting with his life the honor of the american bench, the dignity of the american law, and the credit of the american name. in the home where judge terry lived he went to the grave almost unattended by the friends of his social surroundings, no clergyman consenting to read the service at his burial. the supreme court over which he had presided as chief justice refused to adjourn in honor of his death, the press and public opinion, for a wonder, in accord over the manner of his taking off. indeed, the public opinion of the country, as shown by the press and declarations of prominent individuals, was substantially one in its approval of the action of the government, the conduct of neagle, and the bearing of justice field.[ ] the _daily report_, a paper of influence in san francisco at the time, published the following article on "the lesson of the hour," from the pen of an eminent lawyer of california, who was in no way connected with the controversy which resulted in judge terry's death: the universal acquiescence of public opinion in the justifiable character of the act which terminated the life of the late david s. terry is to be accounted for by the peculiar nature of the offense which he had committed. it was not for a mere assault, though perpetrated under circumstances which rendered it peculiarly reprehensible, that he met his death without eliciting from the community one word of condemnation for the slayer or of sympathy with the slain. mr. justice field is an officer of high rank in the most important department of the government of the united states, namely, that which is charged with the administration of legal justice. when david s. terry publicly and ostentatiously slapped the face of this high official--this representative of public justice--the blow being in all probability the intended prelude to a still more atrocious offense, he committed a gross violation of the peace and dignity of the united states. the echo of the blow made the blood tingle in the veins of every true american, and from every quarter, far and near, thick and fast, came denunciations of the outrage. that any man under a government created "by the people, for the people" shall assume to be a law unto himself, the sole despot in a community based on the idea of the equality of all before the law, and the willing submission and obedience of all to established rule, is simply intolerable. in his audacious assault on "the powers that be" terry took his life in his hand, and no lover of peace and good order can regret that, of the two lives in peril, his was extinguished. he threw down the gage of battle to the whole community, and it is well that he was vanquished in the strife. in the early part of the war of the rebellion general dix, of new york, was placed in charge of one of the disaffected districts. we had then hardly begun to see that war was a very stern condition of things, and that it actually involved the necessity of killing. those familiar with the incidents of that time will remember how the general's celebrated order, "if any one attempts to haul down the american flag, shoot him on the spot," thrilled the slow pulses of the northern heart like the blast of a bugle. yet some adverse obstructionist might object that the punishment pronounced far exceeded the offense, which was merely the effort to detach from its position a piece of colored bunting. but it is the _animus_ that characterizes the act. an insult offered to a mere symbol of authority becomes, under critical circumstances, an unpardonable crime. if the symbol, instead of being an inanimate object, be a human being--a high officer of the government--does not such an outrage as that committed by terry exceed in enormity the offense denounced by general dix? and if so, why should the punishment be less? in every civilized community, society, acting with a keen instinct of self-preservation, has always punished with just severity those capital offenders against peace and good order who strike at the very foundation on which all government must rest. [ ] it has been conclusively established since that he was armed with his usual bowie-knife at the time. [ ] note.--whilst there was a general concurrence of opinion as to the threats of terry and of the fate he met at the hands of neagle and of the bearing of justice field through all the proceedings, there were exceptions to this judgment. there were persons who sympathized with terry and his associates and grieved at his fate, although he had openly avowed his intention not merely to insult judicial officers for their judicial conduct, but to kill them in case they resented the insult offered. he married sarah althea hill after the united states circuit court had delivered its opinion, in open court, announcing its decision that she had committed forgery, perjury, and subornation of perjury, and was a woman of abandoned character. and yet a writer in the _overland monthly_ in october, , attributes his assault upon the marshal--striking him violently in the face for the execution of the order of the court to remove her from the court-room because of her gross imputation upon the judges--chiefly to his chivalric spirit to protect his wife, and declares that "the universal verdict" upon him "will be that he was possessed of _sterling integrity of purpose_, and stood out from the rest of his race as a strongly individualized character, which has been well called an anachronism in our civilization." and governor pennoyer, of oregon, in his message to the legislature of that state, pronounced the officer appointed by the marshal under the direction of the attorney-general to protect justices field and sawyer from threatened violence and murder as a "_secret armed assassin_," who accompanied a federal judge in california, and who shot down in cold blood an unarmed citizen of that state. chapter xx. the appeal to the supreme court of the united states, and the second trial of sarah althea's divorce case. with the discharge from arrest of the brave deputy marshal, neagle, who had stood between justice field and the would-be assassin's assault, and the vindication by the circuit court of the right of the general government to protect its officers from personal violence, for the discharge of their duties, at the hands of disappointed litigants, the public mind, which had been greatly excited by the proceedings narrated, became quieted. no apprehension was felt that there would be any reversal of the decision of the circuit court on the appeal which was taken to the supreme court. general and absolute confidence was expressed in the determination of the highest tribunal of the nation. the appeal was argued on the part of neagle by the attorney-general of the united states and joseph h. choate, esq., of the new york bar; and the briefs of counsel in the circuit court were also filed. the attorney-general of california and mr. zachariah montgomery appeared upon behalf of the state, and briefs of messrs. shellabarger and wilson were also filed in its behalf. the argument of the attorney-general of the united states was exceedingly able. he had watched all the proceedings of the case from the outset. he had directed that protection should be extended by the marshal to justice field and judge sawyer against any threatened violence, and he believed strongly in the doctrine that the officers of the general government were entitled to receive everywhere throughout the country full protection against all violence whilst in the discharge of their duties. he believed that such protection was necessary to the efficiency and permanency of the government; and its necessity in both respects was never more ably presented. the argument of mr. choate covered all the questions of law and fact in the case and was marked by that great ability and invincible logic and by that clearness and precision of statement which have rendered him one of the ablest of advocates and jurists in the country, one who all acknowledge has few peers and no superiors at the bar of the nation.[ ] the argument of the attorney-general of the state consisted chiefly of a repetition of the doctrine that, for offenses committed within its limits, the state alone has jurisdiction to try the offenders--a position which within its proper limits, and when not carried to the protection of resistance to the authority of the united states, has never been questioned. the most striking feature of the argument on behalf of the state was presented by zachariah montgomery. it may interest the reader to observe the true terry flavor introduced into his argument, and the manifest perversion of the facts into which it led him. he deeply sympathized with terry in the grief and mortification which he suffered in being charged with having assaulted the marshal with a deadly weapon in the presence of the circuit court in september, . he attempted to convince the supreme court that one of its members had deliberately made a misrecital, in the order committing terry for contempt, and treated this as a mitigation of that individual's subsequent attack on justice field. he did not, however, attempt to gainsay the testimony of the numerous witnesses who swore that terry did try to draw his knife while yet in the court-room on that occasion, and that, being temporarily prevented from doing so by force, he completed the act as soon as this force was withdrawn, and pursued the marshal with knife in hand, loudly declaring in the hearing of the court, in language too coarse and vulgar to be repeated, that he would do sundry terrible things to those who should obstruct him on his way to his wife. as she was then in the custody of the marshal and in his office, under an order of the court; and as terry had resisted her arrest and removal from the court-room until overpowered by several strong men, and as he had instantly on being released rushed madly from the court-room, drawing and brandishing his knife as he went, the conclusion is irresistible that he was determined upon her rescue from the marshal, if, with the aid of his knife, he could accomplish it. that mr. montgomery allowed these facts, which constitute the offense of an assault with a deadly weapon, to go unchallenged, compels us to the charitable presumption that he did not know the law. a reading of the decisions on this subject would have taught him that in order to constitute that offense it is not necessary that the assailant should actually stab with his knife or shoot with his pistol. the assault by terry was commenced in the court-room, under the eyes of the judges, and was a continuing act, ending only-with the wrenching of the knife from his hands. it was all committed "in the presence of the court," for the supreme court has decided in the savin case that "the jury-room and hallway were parts of the place in which the court was required by law to hold its sessions, and that the court, at least when in session, is present in every part of the place set apart for its own use and for the use of its officers, jurors, and witnesses, and that misbehavior in such a place is misbehavior in the presence of the court. (see vol. , u.s. reports, page , where the case is reported.) mr. montgomery was feckless enough to contradict the record when he stated that justice field in his opinion in the revivor case "took occasion to discuss at considerable length the question of the genuineness of the aforesaid marriage document, maintaining very strenuously that it was a forgery, and that this it was that so aroused the indignation of mrs. terry that she sprang to her feet and charged justice field with having been bought." there is not a word of truth in this statement. justice field, in overruling the demurrer, never discussed at all the genuineness of the marriage agreement. how, then, could it be true that words, nowhere to be found in judge field's opinion, "so aroused the indignation of mrs. terry that she sprang to her feet and charged justice field with having been bought"? justice field discussed only the legal effect of the decree already rendered by the united states circuit court. he said nothing to excite the woman's ire, except to state the necessary steps to be taken to enforce the decree. he had not participated in the trial of the original case, and had never been called upon to express any opinion concerning the agreement. mr. montgomery said in his brief that the opinion read by justice field, "while overruling a demurrer, assails this contract, in effect pronouncing it a forgery." this statement is totally unfounded. from it the casual reader would suppose that the demurrer was to the complaint in the original case, and that the court was forestalling evidence, whereas it was a demurrer in a proceeding to revive the suit, which had abated by the death of the party, and to give effect to the decree already rendered therein, after a full hearing of the testimony. mr. montgomery said: "the opinion also charges mrs. terry with perjury, after she has sworn that it was genuine." the judgment of a court may be referred to by one of its judges, even though the rendering of the judgment convicted a party or a witness, of perjury, without furnishing the perjurer with a justification for denouncing the judge. mr. montgomery furthermore said that the "opinion charged her not only with forgery and perjury, but with unchastity as well; for if she had not been sharon's wife, she had unquestionably been his kept mistress." he says: "at the announcement of this decision from the bench in the presence of a crowded court-room; a decision which she well knew, before the going down of another sun, would be telegraphed to the remotest corners of the civilized world, to be printed and reprinted with sensational head-lines in every newspaper, and talked over by every scandal-monger on the face of the earth; was it any wonder--not that it was right--but was it any wonder that this high-spirited, educated woman, sprung from as respectable a family as any in the great state of missouri, proud of her ancestry, and prizing her good name above everything on this earth, when she heard herself thus adjudged in one breath to be guilty of forgery, perjury, and unchastity, and thus degraded from the exalted position of wife--to which the supreme court of her state had said she was entitled--down to that of a paid harlot; was it any wonder, i say, that like an enraged tigress she sprang to her feet, and in words of indignation sought to defend her wounded honor?" mr. montgomery did not speak truly when he said that on this occasion such a decision was announced from the bench. the decision was announced on the th of december, , nearly three years before. the only decision announced on this occasion was that the case did not die with the plaintiff therein--william sharon--but that the executor of his estate had the right to act--had a right to be substituted for the deceased, and to have the decree executed just as it would have been if mr. sharon had lived. it was amazing effrontery and disregard of the truth on the part of mr. montgomery to make such a statement as he did to the supreme court, when the record, lying open before them, virtually contradicted what he was saying. towards the close of the decision justice field did make reference to mrs. terry's testimony in the superior court. he said that in the argument some stress had been laid upon the fact that in a state court, where the judge had decided in mrs. terry's favor, the witnesses had been examined in open court, where their bearing could be observed by the judge; while in the federal court the testimony had been taken before an examiner, and the court had not the advantage of hearing and seeing the witnesses. in reply to this justice field called attention to the fact that judge sullivan, while rendering his decision in favor of mrs. terry, had accused her of having wilfully perjured herself in several instances while testifying in her own case, and of having suborned perjury, and of having knowingly offered in evidence a forged document. but this reference to judge sullivan's accusations against mrs. terry was not reached in the reading of justice field's opinion until nearly an hour after mrs. terry had been forcibly removed from the court-room for contempt, and therefore she did not hear it. this fact appears on record in the contempt proceedings. but the most extraordinary feature of mr. montgomery's brief is yet to be noticed. he says that "if the assault so made by judge terry was not for the purpose of then and there killing or seriously injuring the party assaulted, but for the purpose of provoking him into a duel, then the killing of the assailant for such an assault was a crime." and again he says: "i have said that if the purpose of judge terry's assault upon field was for the purpose of killing him then and there, neagle, and not neagle only, but anybody else, would have been justifiable in killing terry to save the life of field; but that if terry's object in assaulting field was not then and there to kill or otherwise greatly injure him, but to draw him into a duel, then such an assault was not sufficient to justify the killing." he then proceeds to speak of judge terry's duel with senator broderick, in which the latter was killed. he refers to many eminent citizens who have fought duels, although he admits that dueling is a sin. he then explains that "as a rule the duelist who considers himself wronged by another, having the position and standing of a gentleman, tenders him an insult, either by a slap in the face or otherwise, in order to attract a challenge. such undoubtedly was terry's purpose in this case. all of terry's threats point precisely to that." here mr. montgomery seems to be in accord with sarah althea terry, who, as we have seen, stated that "judge terry intended to take out his satisfaction in slaps." in the same direction is the declaration of porter ashe, when he said: "instant death is a severe punishment for slapping a man on the face. i have no suspicion that terry meant to kill field or to do him further harm than to humiliate him." and also that of mr. baggett, one of terry's counsel, who said: "i have had frequent conversations with terry about field, and he has often told me that field has used his court and his power as a judge to humiliate him, and that he intended to humiliate him in return to the extent of his power. 'i will slap his face,' said terry to me, 'if i run across him, but i shall not put myself out of the way to meet him. i do not intend to kill him, but i will insult him by slapping his face, knowing that he will not resent it.'" what knightly courage was here. if ever a new edition of the dueling code is printed, it should have for a frontispiece a cut representing the stalwart terry dealing stealthy blows from behind upon a justice of the united states supreme court, years of age, after having previously informed a trusted friend that he believed himself safe from any resistance by the object of his attack. it may be here also said that justice field, as was well known to every one, had for many years suffered from great lameness in consequence of an injury received by him in early life, and with difficulty could walk without assistance. mr. montgomery, with freezing candor, informs the supreme court that, in strict accordance with the chivalrous code of honor, judge terry administered blows upon a member of that court, to force him into a duel, because of a judicial act with which he was displeased. he says: "the most conclusive proof that terry had no intention, for the time being, of seriously hurting field, but that his sole purpose was to tender him an insult, is found in the fact that he only used his open hand, and that, too, in a mild manner." we often hear of the "mild-mannered men" who "scuttle ships" and "cut throats," but this is the very first one whose "very mild manner" of beating a justice of the supreme court of the united states with his hand was ever certified to by an attorney and counsellor of that court in the argument of a case before it. it would be difficult to conceive of anything more puerile or absurd than this pretense that terry had the slightest expectation of provoking a man of justice field's age, official position, and physical condition, to fight a duel with him in vindication of the right of the court over which he presided to imprison a man for contempt for beating the marshal in the face with his fist, and afterwards pursuing him with a knife, in the presence of the court, for obeying an order of the court. mr. montgomery appears to have been imported into the case mainly for the purpose of reviewing the facts and giving them the terry stamp. his ambition seems to have been to insult justice field and his associates in the circuit court by charging them with misrepresenting the facts of the occurrence, thus repeating terry's reckless accusations to that effect. for terry he had only words of eulogy and admiration, and said he was "straightforward, candid, and incapable of concealment or treachery himself, and therefore never suspected treachery, even in an enemy." these noble qualities terry had illustrated by assaulting justice field from behind while the latter was in a position which placed him entirely at the mercy of his assailant. montgomery thought that not only neagle, but the president, attorney-general, district attorney, and marshal franks should be arraigned for terry's murder. although justice field had expressly advised the marshal that it was unnecessary for anybody to accompany him to los angeles, and although neagle went contrary to his wish, and only because the marshal considered himself instructed by the attorney-general to send him, yet mr. montgomery especially demanded that he (justice field) should be tried for terry's homicide. this, too, in the face of the fact that under instructions from the attorney-general of the state of california, aroused to his duty by the governor, the false, malicious, and infamous charge made against justice field by sarah althea terry was dismissed by the magistrate who had entertained it, on the ground that it was manifestly destitute of the shadow of a foundation, and that any further proceedings against him would be "a burning disgrace to the state." the decision of the circuit court discharging neagle from the custody of the sheriff of san joaquin county was affirmed by the supreme court of the united states on the th of april, . justice field did not sit at the hearing of the case, and took no part in its decision, nor did he remain in the conference room with his associate justices at any time while it was being considered or on the bench when it was delivered. the opinion of the court was delivered by justice miller. dissenting opinions were filed by chief justice fuller and justice lamar. justice miller's opinion concludes as follows: "we have thus given, in this case, a most attentive consideration to all the questions of law and fact which we have thought to be properly involved in it. we have felt it to be our duty to examine into the facts with a completeness justified by the importance of the case, as well as from the duty imposed upon us by the statute, which we think requires of us to place ourselves, as far as possible, in the place of the circuit court and to examine the testimony and the arguments in it, and to dispose of the party as law and justice require. "the result at which we have arrived upon this examination is, that in the protection of the person and the life of mr. justice field, while in the discharge of his official duties, neagle was authorized to resist the attack of terry upon him; that neagle was correct in the belief that without prompt action on his part the assault of terry upon the judge would have ended in the death of the latter; that such being his well-founded belief, he was justified in taking the life of terry, as the only means of preventing the death of the man who was intended to be his victim; that in taking the life of terry, under the circumstances, he was acting under the authority of the law of the united states, and was justified in doing so; and that he is not liable to answer in the courts of california on account of his part in that transaction. "we therefore affirm the judgment of the circuit court authorizing his discharge from the custody of the sheriff of san joaquin county." [ ] note.--mr. choate took great interest in the question involved--the right of the government of the united states to protect its officers from violence whilst engaged in the discharge of their duties,--deeming its maintenance essential to the efficiency of the government itself; and he declined to make any charge or take any fee for his professional services in the case. the privilege of supporting this great principle before the highest tribunal of the country, where his powers would be most effectively engaged in securing its recognition, was considered by him as sufficient reward. certainly he has that reward in the full establishment of that principle--for which, also, both he and attorney-general miller will receive the thanks of all who love and revere our national government and trust that its existence may be perpetuated. mr. james c. carter, the distinguished advocate of new york, also took a deep interest in the questions involved, and had several consultations with mr. choate upon them; and his professional services were given with the same generous and noble spirit that characterized the course of mr. choate. chapter xxi. concluding observations. thus ends the history of a struggle between brutal violence and the judicial authority of the united states. commencing in a mercenary raid upon a rich man's estate, relying wholly for success on forgery, perjury, and the personal fear of judges, and progressing through more than six years of litigation in both the federal and the state courts, it eventuated in a vindication by the supreme court of the united states of the constitutional power of the federal government, through its executive department, to protect the judges of the united states courts from the revengeful and murderous assaults of defeated litigants, without subjecting its appointed agents to malicious prosecutions for their fidelity to duty, by petty state officials, in league with the assailants. the dignity and the courage of justice field, who made the stand against brute force, and who, refusing either to avoid a great personal danger or to carry a weapon for his defense, trusted his life to that great power which the constitution has placed behind the judicial department for its support, was above all praise. the admirable conduct of the faithful deputy marshal, neagle, in whose small frame the power of a nation dwelt at the moment when, like a modern david, he slew a new goliath, illustrated what one frail mortal can do, who scorns danger when it crosses the path of duty. the prompt action of the executive department, through its attorney-general, in directing the marshal to afford all necessary protection against threatened danger, undoubtedly saved a justice of the supreme court from assassination, and the government from the disgrace of having pusillanimously looked on while the deed was done. the skill and learning of the lawyers who presented the case of neagle in the lower and in the appellate courts reflected honor on the legal profession. the exhaustive and convincing opinion of circuit judge sawyer, when ordering the release of neagle, seemed to have made further argument unnecessary. the grand opinion of justice miller, in announcing the decision of the supreme court affirming the order of the circuit court, was the fitting climax of all. its statement of the facts is the most graphic and vivid of the many that have been written. its vindication of the constitutional right of the federal government to exist, and to preserve itself alive in all its powers, and on every foot of its territory, without leave of, or hindrance by, any other authority, makes it one of the most important of all the utterances of that great tribunal. its power is made the more apparent by the dissent, which rests rather upon the assertion that congress had not legislated in exact terms for the case under consideration, than upon any denial of the power of the federal government to protect its courts from violence. the plausibility of this ground is dissipated by the citations in the majority opinion of the california statute concerning sheriffs, and of the federal statute concerning marshals, by which the latter are invested with all the powers of the sheriffs in the states wherein they reside, thus showing clearly that marshals possess the authority to protect officers of the united states which sheriffs possess to protect officers of the state against criminal assaults of every kind and degree. during the argument in the neagle case, as well as in the public discussions of the subject, much stress was laid by the friends of terry upon the power and duty of the state to afford full protection to all persons within its borders, including the judges of the courts of the united states. they could not see why it was necessary for the attorney-general of the united states to extend the arm of the federal government. they held that the police powers of the state were sufficient for all purposes, and that they were the sole lawful refuge for all whose lives were in danger. but they did not explain why it was that the state never did afford protection to judges field and sawyer, threatened as they notoriously were by two desperate persons. the laws of the state made it the duty of every sheriff to preserve the peace of the state, but the terrys were permitted, undisturbed and unchecked, to proclaim their intention to break the peace. if they had announced their intention, for nearly a year, to assassinate the judges of the supreme court of the state, would they have been permitted to take their lives, before being made to feel the power of the state? would an organized banditti be permitted to unseat state judges by violence, and only feel the strong halter of the law after they had accomplished their purpose? can no preventive measures be taken under the police powers of the state, when ruffians give notice that they are about to obstruct the administration of justice by the murder of high judicial officers? it was not so much to insure the punishment of terry and his wife if they should murder justice field, as to prevent the murder, that the executive branch of the united states government surrounded him with the necessary safeguards. how can justice be administered under the federal statutes if the federal judges must fight their way, while going from district to district, to overcome armed and vindictive litigants who differ with them concerning the judgments they have rendered? but it was said judge terry could have been held to bail to keep the peace. the highest bail that can be required in such cases under the law of the state is five thousand dollars. what restraint would that have been upon terry, who was so filled with malice and so reckless of consequences that he finally braved the gallows by attempting the murder of the object of his hate? but even this weak protection never was afforded. shall it be said that justice field ought to have gone to the nearest justice of the peace and obsequiously begged to have terry placed under bonds? but this he could not have done until he reached the state, and he was in peril from the moment that he reached the state line. the dust had not been brushed from his clothing before some of the papers which announced his arrival eagerly inquired what terry would do and when he would do it. some of them seemed most anxious for the sensation that a murder would produce. the state was active enough when terry had been prevented from doing his bloody work upon justice field. the constable who had been telegraphed for before the train reached lathrop on the fatal day, but who could not be found, and was not at the station to aid in preserving the peace, was quick enough to _arrest neagle without a warrant, for an act not committed in his presence_, and therefore known only to him by hearsay. against the remonstrances of a supreme justice of the united states, who had also been chief justice of california, and who might have been supposed to know the laws as well at least as a constable, the protection placed over him by the executive branch of the federal government was unlawfully taken from him and the protector incarcerated in jail. the constable doubtless did only what he was told and what he believed to be his duty. neagle declined to make any issue with him of a technical character and went with him uncomplainingly. if neagle's pistol had missed fire, or his aim had been false, he might have been arrested on the spot for his attempt to protect justice field, while terry would have been left free at the same time to finish his murderous work then, or to have pursued justice field into the car and, free from all interference by neagle, have despatched him there. the state officials were all activity to protect the would-be murderer, but seemed never to have been ruffled in the least degree over the probable assassination of a justice of the supreme court of the united states. the terrys were never thought to be in any danger. the general belief was that judges field and sawyer were in great danger from them. the death of terry displeased three classes: first, all who were willing to see justice field murdered; second, all who naturally sympathize with the tiger in his hunt for prey, and who thought it a pity that so good a fighter as terry should lose his life in seeking that of another; and, third, all who preferred to see sarah althea enjoy the property of the sharon estate in place of its lawful heirs. it is plain from the foregoing review that the state authorities of california presented no obstruction to terry and his wife as they moved towards the accomplishment of their deadly purpose against justice field. it was the executive arm of the nation operating through the deputy united states marshal, under orders from the department of justice, that prevented the assassination of justice field by david s. terry. * * * * * it only remains to state the result of the second trial of the case between sarah althea hill, now mrs. terry, and the executor of william sharon before the superior court of the city of san francisco. it will be remembered that on the first trial in that court, presided over by judge sullivan, a judgment was entered declaring that miss hill and william sharon had intermarried on the th of august, , and had at the time executed a written contract of marriage under the laws of california, and had assumed marital relations and subsequently lived together as husband and wife. from the judgment rendered an appeal was taken to the supreme court of the state. a motion was also made for a new trial in that case, and from the order denying the new trial an appeal was also taken to the supreme court. the decision on the appeal from the judgment resulted in its affirmance. the result of the appeal from the order denying a new trial was its reversal, with a direction for a new trial. the effect of that reversal was to open the whole case. in the meantime william sharon had died and miss hill had married david s. terry. the executor of william sharon, frederick w. sharon, appeared as his representative in the suit, and filed a supplemental answer. the case was tried in the superior court, before judge shafter, in july, , and on the th of august following the judge filed his findings and conclusions of law, which were, briefly, as follows: that the plaintiff and william sharon, deceased, did not, on the th of august, , or at any other time, consent to intermarry or become, by mutual agreement or otherwise, husband and wife; nor did they, thereafter, or at any time, live or cohabit together as husband and wife, or mutually or otherwise assume marital duties, rights, or obligations; that they did not, on that day or at any other time, in the city and county of san francisco, or elsewhere, jointly or otherwise, make or sign a declaration of marriage in writing or otherwise; and that the declaration of marriage mentioned in the complaint was false, counterfeited, fabricated, forged, and fraudulent, and, therefore, null and void. the conclusion of the court was that the plaintiff and william sharon were not, on august , , and never had been husband and wife, and that the plaintiff had no right or claim, legal or equitable, to any property or share in any property, real or personal, of which william sharon was the owner or in possession, or which was then or might thereafter be held by the executor of his last will and testament the defendant, frederick w. sharon. accordingly, judgment was entered for the defendant. an appeal was taken from that judgment to the supreme court of california, and on the th of august, , sarah althea terry having become insane pending the appeal, and p.p. ashe, esq., having been appointed and qualified as the general guardian of her person and estate, it was ordered that he be substituted in the case, and that she subsequently appear by him as her guardian. in october following, the appeal was dismissed. thus ended the legal controversy initiated by this adventuress to obtain a part of the estate of the deceased millionaire. _the life of the party_ * * * * * by irvin s. cobb fiction the life of the party those times and these local color old judge priest fibble, d. d. back home the thunders of silence the escape of mr. trimm wit and humor eating in two or three languages "speaking of operations----" europe revised roughing it de luxe cobb's bill of fare cobb's anatomy miscellany the glory of the coming paths of glory "speaking of prussians----" george h. doran company new york * * * * * [illustration: "are you payin' an election bet three weeks after the election's over? or is it that you're jest a plain bedaddled ijiet?"] * * * * * _the life of the party by irvin s. cobb author of "back home," "old judge priest," etc., etc. illustrated by james m. preston_ [illustration: publisher's logo] _new york george h. doran company_ _copyright, , by george h. doran company copyright, , by the curtis publishing company printed in the united states of america_ * * * * * to mistress may wilson preston a lady of great drawing qualities * * * * * _illustrations_ "are you payin' an election bet three weeks after the election's over? or is it that you're jest a plain bedaddled ijiet?" _frontispiece_ page "that's nice," spake the fearsome stranger. "now stay jest the way you are and don't make no peep or i'll have to plug you wit' this here gat" mr. leary's gait became a desperate gallop, and as he galloped he shouted: "wait, please, here i am.--here's your passenger" * * * * * _the life of the party_ i it had been a successful party, most successful. mrs. carroway's parties always were successes, but this one nearing its conclusion stood out notably from a long and unbroken carrowayian record. it had been a children's party; that is to say, everybody came in costume with intent to represent children of any age between one year and a dozen years. but twelve years was the limit; positively nobody, either in dress or deportment, could be more than twelve years old. mrs. carroway had made this point explicit in sending out the invitations, and so it had been, down to the last hair ribbon and the last shoe buckle. and between dances they had played at the games of childhood, such as drop the handkerchief, and king william was king james' son and prisoner's base and the rest of them. the novelty of the notion had been a main contributory factor to its success; that, plus the fact that nine healthy adults out of ten dearly love to put on freakish garbings and go somewhere. to be exactly truthful, the basic idea itself could hardly be called new, since long before some gifted mind thought out the scheme of giving children's parties for grown-ups, but with her customary brilliancy mrs. carroway had seized upon the issues of the day to serve her social purposes, weaving timeliness and patriotism into the fabric of her plan by making it a war party as well. each individual attending was under pledge to keep a full and accurate tally of the moneys expended upon his or her costume and upon arrival at the place of festivities to deposit a like amount in a repository put in a conspicuous spot to receive these contributions, the entire sum to be handed over later to the guardians of a military charity in which mrs. carroway was active. it was somehow felt that this fostered a worthy spirit of wartime economy, since the donation of a person who wore an expensive costume would be relatively so much larger than the donation of one who went in for the simpler things. moreover, books of thrift stamps were attached to the favours, the same being children's toys of guaranteed american manufacture. in the matter of refreshments mrs. carroway had been at pains to comply most scrupulously with the existing rationing regulations. as the hostess herself said more than once as she moved to and fro in a flounced white frock having the exaggeratedly low waistline of the sort of frock which frequently is worn by a tot of tender age, with a wide blue sash draped about her almost down at her knees, and with fluffy skirts quite up to her knees, with her hair caught up in a coquettish blue bow on the side of her head and a diminutive fan tied fast to one of her wrists with a blue ribbon--so many of the ladies who had attained to mrs. carroway's fairly well-ripened years did go in for these extremely girlishly little-girly effects--as the hostess thus attired and moving hither and yon remark, "if mr. herbert hoover himself were here as one of my guests to-night i am just too perfectly sure he could find absolutely nothing whatsoever to object to!" it would have required much stretching of that elastic property, the human imagination, to conceive of mr. herbert hoover being there, whether in costume or otherwise, but that was what mrs. carroway said and repeated. always those to whom she spoke came right out and agreed with her. now it was getting along toward three-thirty o'clock of the morning after, and the party was breaking up. indeed for half an hour past, this person or that had been saying it was time, really, to be thinking about going--thus voicing a conviction that had formed at a much earlier hour in the minds of the tenants of the floor below mrs. carroway's studio apartment, which like all properly devised studio apartments was at the top of the building. it was all very well to be a true bohemian, ready to give and take, and if one lived down round washington square one naturally made allowances for one's neighbours and all that, but half past three o'clock in the morning was half past three o'clock in the morning, and there was no getting round that, say what you would. and besides there were some people who needed a little sleep once in a while even if there were some other people who seemed to be able to go without any sleep; and finally, though patience was a virtue, enough of a good thing was enough and too much was surplusage. such was the opinion of the tenants one flight down. so the party was practically over. mr. algernon leary, of the firm of leary & slack, counsellors and attorneys at law, with offices at number thirty-two broad street, was among the very last to depart. never had mr. leary spent a more pleasant evening. he had been in rare form, a variety of causes contributing to this happy state. to begin with, he had danced nearly every dance with the lovely miss milly hollister, for whom he entertained the feelings which a gentleman of ripened judgment, and one who was rising rapidly in his profession, might properly entertain for an entirely charming young woman of reputed means and undoubted social position. a preposterous ass named perkins--at least, mr. leary mentally indexed perkins as a preposterous ass--had brought miss hollister to the party, but thereafter in the scheme of things perkins did not count. he was a cipher. you could back him up against a wall and take a rubber-tipped pencil and rub him right out, as it were; and with regards to miss hollister that, figuratively, was what mr. leary had done to mr. perkins. now on the other hand voris might have amounted to something as a potential rival, but voris being newly appointed as a police magistrate was prevented by press of official duties from coming to the party; so mr. leary had had a clear field, as the saying goes, and had made the most of it, as the other saying goes. moreover, mr. leary had been the recipient of unlimited praise upon the ingenuity and the uniqueness expressed in his costume. he had not represented a little lord fauntleroy or a buster brown or a boy scout or a juvenile cadet or a midshipmite or an oliver twist. there had been three boy scouts present and four buster browns and of sailor-suited persons there had been no end, really. but mr. leary had chosen to appear as himself at the age of three; and, as the complimentary comment proved, his get-up had reflected credit not alone upon its wearer but upon its designer, miss rowena skiff, who drew fashion pictures for one of the women's magazines. out of the goodness of her heart and the depths of her professional knowledge miss skiff had gone to mr. leary's aid, supervising the preparation of his wardrobe at a theatrical costumer's shop up-town and, on the evening before, coming to his bachelor apartments, accompanied by her mother, personally to add those small special refinements which meant so much, as he now realised, in attaining the desired result. "oh, mr. leary, i must tell you again how very fetching you do look! your costume is adorable, really it is; so--so cute and everything. and i don't know what i should have done without you to help in the games and everything. there's no use denying it, mr. leary--you were the life of the party, absolutely!" at least twice during the night mrs. carroway had told mr. leary this, and now as he bade her farewell she was saying it once more in practically the same words, when mrs. carroway's coloured maid, blanche, touched him on the arm. "'scuse me, suh," apologised blanche, "but the hall man downstairs he send up word jes' now by the elevator man 'at you'd best be comin' right on down now, suh, effen you expects to git a taxicab. he say to tell you they ain't but one taxicab left an' the driver of 'at one's been waitin' fur hours an' he act like he might go way any minute now. 'at's whut the hall man send word, suh." blanche had brought his overcoat along and held it up for him, imparting to the service that small suggestion of a ceremonial rite which the members of her race invariably do display when handling a garment of richness of texture and indubitable cost. mr. leary let her help him into the coat and slipped largess into her hand, and as he stepped aboard the waiting elevator for the downward flight mrs. carroway's voice came fluting to him, once again repeating the flattering phrase: "you surely were the life of the party!" ii it was fine to have been the life of the party. it was not quite so fine to discover that the taxicab to which he must entrust himself for the long ride up to west eighty-fifth street was a most shabby-appearing vehicle, the driver of which, moreover, as mr. leary could divine even as he crossed the sidewalk, had wiled away the tedium of waiting by indulgence in draughts of something more potent than the chill air of latish november. mr. leary peered doubtfully into the illuminated countenance but dulled eyes of the driver and caught a whiff of a breath alcoholically fragrant, and he understood that the warning relayed to him by blanche had carried a subtle double meaning. still, there was no other taxicab to be had. the street might have been a byway in old pompeii for all the life that moved within it. washington square, facing him, was as empty as a graveyard generally is at this hour, and the semblance of a conventional graveyard in wintertime was helped out by a light snow--the first of the season--sifting down in large damp flakes. twice and thrice he repeated the address, speaking each time sharply and distinctly, before the meaning seemed to filter into the befogged intellect of the inebriate. on the third rendition the latter roused from where he was slumped down. "i garcia, steve," he said thickly. "i garcia firs' time only y' hollowed s'loud i couldn und'stancher." so saying he lurched into a semiupright posture and fumbled for the wheel. silently condemning the curse of intemperance among the working classes of a great city mr. leary boarded the cab and drew the skirts of his overcoat down in an effort to cover his knees. with a harsh grating of clutches and an abrupt jerk the taxi started north. wobbling though he was upon his perch the driver mechanically steered a reasonably straight course. the passenger leaning back in the depths of the cab confessed to himself he was a trifle weary and more than a trifle sleepy. at thirty-seven one does not dance and play children's games alternately for six hours on a stretch without paying for the exertion in a sensation of let-downness. his head slipped forward on his chest. iii with a drowsy uncertainty as to whether he had been dozing for hours or only for a very few minutes mr. leary opened his eyes and sat up. the car was halted slantwise against a curbing; the chauffeur was jammed down again into a heap. mr. leary stepped nimbly forth upon the pavement, feeling in his overcoat pocket for the fare; and then he realised he was not in west eighty-fifth street at all; he was not in any street that he remembered ever having seen before in the course of his life. offhand, though, he guessed he was somewhere in that mystic maze of brick and mortar known as old greenwich village; and, for a further guess, in that particular part of it where business during these last few years had been steadily encroaching upon the ancient residences of long departed knickerbocker families. the street in which he stood, for a wonder in this part of town, ran a fairly straight course. at its western foot he could make out through the drifting flakes where a squat structure suggestive of a north river freight dock interrupted the sky line. in his immediate vicinity the street was lined with tall bleak fronts of jobbing houses, all dark and all shuttered. looking the other way, which would be eastward, he could make out where these wholesale establishments tailed off, to be succeeded by the lower shapes of venerable dwellings adorned with the dormered windows and the hip roofs which distinguished a bygone architectural period. some distance off in this latter direction the vista between the buildings was cut across by the straddle-bug structure of one of the elevated roads. all this mr. leary comprehended in a quick glance about him, and then he turned on the culprit cabman with rage in his heart. "see here, you!" he snapped crossly, jerking the other by the shoulder. "what do you mean by bringing me away off here! this isn't where i wanted to go. oh, wake up, you!" under his vigorous shaking the driver slid over sideways until he threatened to decant himself out upon mr. leary. his cap falling off exposed the blank face of one who for the time being has gone dead to the world and to all its carking cares, and the only response he offered for his mishandling was a deep and sincere snore. the man was hopelessly intoxicated; there was no question about it. more to relieve his own deep chagrin than for any logical reason mr. leary shook him again; the net results were a protesting semiconscious gargle and a further careening slant of the sleeper's form. well, there was nothing else to do but walk. he must make his way afoot until he came to sixth avenue or on to fifth, upon the chance of finding in one of these two thoroughfares a ranging nighthawk cab. as a last resort he could take the subway or the l north. this contingency, though, mr. leary considered with feelings akin to actual repugnance. he dreaded the prospect of ribald and derisive comments from chance fellow travellers upon a public transportation line. for you should know that though mr. leary's outer garbing was in the main conventional there were strikingly incongruous features of it too. from his neck to his knees he correctly presented the aspect of a gentleman returning late from social diversions, caparisoned in a handsome fur-faced, fur-lined top coat. but his knees were entirely bare; so, too, were his legs down to about midway of the calves, where there ensued, as it were, a pair of white silk socks, encircled by pink garters with large and ornate pink ribbon bows upon them. his feet were bestowed in low slippers with narrow buttoned straps crossing the insteps. it was miss skiff, with her instinct for the verities, who had insisted upon bows for the garters and straps for the slippers, these being what she had called finishing touches. likewise it was due to that young lady's painstaking desire for appropriateness and completeness of detail that mr. leary at this moment wore upon his head a very wide-brimmed, very floppy straw hat with two quaint pink-ribbon streamers floating jauntily down between his shoulders at the back. for reasons which in view of this sartorial description should be obvious, mr. leary hugged closely up to the abutting house fronts when he left behind him the marooned taxi with its comatose driver asleep upon it, like one lone castaway upon a small island in a sea of emptiness, and set his face eastward. such was the warmth of his annoyance he barely felt the chill striking upon his exposed nether limbs or took note of the big snowflakes melting damply upon his thinly protected ankles. then, too, almost immediately something befell which upset him still more. he came to where a wooden marquee, projecting over the entrance to a shipping room, made a black strip along the feebly lighted pavement. as he entered the patch of darkness the shape of a man materialised out of the void and barred his way, and in that same fraction of a second something shiny and hard was thrust against mr. leary's daunted bosom, and in a low forceful rumble a voice commanded him as follows: "put up your mitts--and keep 'em up!" matching the action of his hands everything in mr. leary seemed to start skyward simultaneously. his hair on his scalp straightened, his breath came up from his lungs in a gasp, his heart lodged in his throat, and his blood quit his feet, leaving them practically devoid of circulation and ascended and drummed in his temples. he had a horrid, emptied feeling in his diaphragm, too, as though the organs customarily resident there had caught the contagion of the example and gone north. "that's nice," spake the fearsome stranger. "now stay jest the way you are and don't make no peep or i'll have to plug you wit' this here gat." [illustration: "that's nice," spake the fearsome stranger. "now stay jest the way you are and don't make no peep or i'll have to plug you wit' this here gat"] his right hand maintained the sinister pressure of the weapon against the victim's deflated chest, while his left dexterously explored the side pockets of mr. leary's overcoat. then the same left hand jerked the frogged fastenings of the garment asunder and went pawing swiftly over mr. leary's quivering person, seeking the pockets which would have been there had mr. leary been wearing garments bearing the regulation and ordained number of pockets. but the exploring fingers merely slid along a smooth and unbroken frontal surface. "wot t'ell? wot t'ell?" muttered the footpad in bewilderment. "say, where're you got yore leather and yore kittle hid? speak up quick!" "i'm--i'm--not carrying a watch or a purse to-night," quavered mr. leary. "these--these clothes i happen to be wearing are not made with places in them for a watch or anything. and you've already taken what money i had--it was all in my overcoat pocket." "yep; a pinch of chicken feed and wot felt like about four one-bone bills." the highwayman's accent was both ominous and contemptuous. "say, wotcher mean drillin' round dis town in some kinder funny riggin' wit'out no plunder on you? i gotta right to belt you one acrost the bean." "i'd rather you didn't do that," protested mr. leary in all seriousness. "if--if you'd only give me your address i could send you some money in the morning to pay you for your trouble----" "cut out de kiddin'," broke in the disgusted marauder. his tone changed slightly for the better. "say, near as i kin tell by feelin' it, dat ain't such a bum benny you're sportin'. i'll jest take dat along wit' me. letcher arms down easy and hold 'em straight out from yore sides while i gits it offen you. and no funny business!" "oh, please, please, don't take my overcoat," implored mr. leary, plunged by these words into a deeper panic. "anything but that! i--you--you really mustn't leave me without my overcoat." "wot else is dere to take?" even as he uttered the scornful question the thief had wrested the garment from mr. leary's helpless form and was backing away into the darkness. out of impenetrable gloom came his farewell warning: "stay right where you are for fi' minutes wit'out movin' or makin' a yelp. if you wiggle before de time is up i gotta pal right yere watchin' you, and he'll sure plug you. he ain't no easy-goin' guy like wot i am. you're gittin' off lucky it's me stuck you up, stidder him." with these words he was gone--gone with mr. leary's overcoat, with mr. leary's last cent, with his latchkey, with his cardcase, with all by which mr. leary might hope to identify himself before a wary and incredulous world for what he was. he was gone, leaving there in the protecting ledge of shadow the straw-hatted, socked-and-slippered, leg-gartered figure of a plump being, clad otherwise in a single vestment which began at the line of a becomingly low neckband and terminated in blousy outbulging bifurcations just above the naked knees. light stealing into this obscured and sheltered spot would have revealed that this garment was, as to texture, a heavy, silklike, sheeny, material; and as to colour a vivid and compelling pink--the exact colour of a slice of well-ripened watermelon; also that its sleeves ended elbow-high in an effect of broad turned-back cuffs; finally, that adown its owner's back it was snugly and adequately secured by means of a close-set succession of very large, very shiny white pearl buttons; the whole constituting an enlarged but exceedingly accurate copy of what, descriptively, is known to the manufactured-garment trade as a one-piece suit of child's rompers, self-trimmed, fastening behind; suitable for nursery, playground and seashore, especially recommended as summer wear for the little ones; to be had in all sizes; prices such-and-such. within a space of some six or seven minutes this precisely was what the nearest street lamp did reveal unto itself as its downward-slanting beams fell upon a furtive, fugitive shape, suggestive in that deficient subradiance of a vastly overgrown forked parsnip, miraculously endowed with powers of locomotion and bound for somewhere in a hurry; excepting of course no forked parsnip, however remarkable in other respects, would be wearing a floppy straw hat in a snowstorm; nor is it likely it would be adorned lengthwise in its rear with a highly decorative design of broad, smooth, polished disks which, even in that poor illumination, gleamed and twinkled and wiggled snakily in and out of alignment, in accord with the movements of their wearer's spinal column. but the reader and i, better informed than any lamp post could be as to the prior sequence of events, would know at a glance it was no parsnip we beheld, but mr. algernon leary, now suddenly enveloped, through no fault of his own, in one of the most overpowering predicaments conceivable to involve a rising lawyer and a member of at least two good clubs; and had we but been there to watch him, knowing, as we would know, the developments leading up to this present situation, we might have guessed what was the truth: that mr. leary was hot bent upon retreating to the only imaginable refuge left to him at this juncture--to wit, the interior of the stranded taxicab which he had abandoned but a short time previously. iv nearly all of us at some time or other in our lives have dreamed awful dreams of being discovered in a public place with nothing at all upon our bodies, and have awakened, burning hot with the shame of an enormous and terrific embarrassment. being no student of the psychic phenomena of human slumber i do not know whether this is a subconscious harking-back to the days of our infancy or whether it is merely a manifestation to prove the inadvisability of partaking of welsh rabbits and lobster salads immediately before retiring. more than once mr. leary had bedreamed thus, but at this moment he realised how much more dread and distressing may be a dire actuality than a vision conjured up out of the mysteries of sleep. one surprised by strangers in a nude or partially nude state may have any one of a dozen acceptable excuses for being so circumstanced. an earthquake may have caught one unawares, say; or inopportunely a bathroom door may have blown open. once the first shock occasioned by the untoward appearance of the victim has passed away he is sure of sympathy. for him pity is promptly engendered and volunteer aid is enlisted. but mr. leary had a profound conviction that, revealed in this ghastly plight before the eyes of his fellows, his case would be regarded differently; that instead of commiseration there would be for him only the derision which is so humiliating to a sensitive nature. he felt so undignified, so glaringly conspicuous, so--well, so scandalously immature. if only it had been an orthodox costume party which mrs. carroway had given, why, then he might have gone as a roman senator or as a private chief or an indian brave or a cavalier. in doublet or jack boots or war bonnet, in a toga, even, he might have mastered the dilemma and carried off a dubious situation. but to be adrift in an alien quarter of a great and heartless city round four o'clock in the morning, so picturesquely and so unseasonably garbed, and in imminent peril of detection, was a prospect calculated to fill one with the frenzied delirium of a nightmare made real. put yourself in his place, i ask you. his slippered feet spurned the thin snow as he moved rapidly back toward the west. ahead of him he could detect the clumped outlines of the taxicab, and at the sight of it he quickened to a trot. once safely within it he could take stock of things; could map out a campaign of future action; could think up ways and means of extricating himself from his present lamentable case with the least possible risk of undesirable publicity. at any rate he would be shielded for the moment from the life which might at any moment awaken in the still sleeping and apparently vacant neighbourhood. finally, of course, there was the hope that the drunken cabman might be roused, and once roused might be capable, under promise of rich financial reward, of conveying mr. leary to his bachelor apartments in west eighty-fifth street before dawn came, with its early-bird milkmen and its before-day newspaper distributors and its others too numerous to mention. without warning of any sort the cab started off, seemingly of its own volition. mr. leary's gait became a desperate gallop, and as he galloped he gave voice in entreaty. [illustration: mr. leary's gait became a desperate gallop, and as he galloped he shouted: "wait, please. here i am--here's your passenger!"] "hey there!" he shouted. "wait, please. here i am--here's your passenger!" his straw hat blew off, but this was no time to stop for a straw hat. for a few rods he gained upon the vehicle, then as its motion increased he lost ground and ran a losing race. its actions disclosed that a conscious if an uncertain hand guided its destinies. wabbling this way and that it wheeled skiddingly round a corner. when mr. leary, rowelled on to yet greater speed by the spurs of a mounting misery, likewise turned the corner it was irrevocably remote, beyond all prospect of being overtaken by anything human pursuing it afoot. the swaying black bulk of it diminished and was swallowed up in the snow shower and the darkness. the rattle of mishandled gears died to a thin metallic clanking, then to a purring whisper, and then the whisper expired, dead silence ensuing. v in the void of this silence stood mr. leary, shivering now in the reaction that had succeeded the nerve jar of being robbed at a pistol's point, and lacking the fervour of the chase to sustain him. for him the inconceivable disaster was complete and utter; upon him despair descended as a patent swatter upon a lone housefly. miles away from home, penniless and friendless--the two terms being practically synonymous in new york--what asylum was there for him now? suppose daylight found him abroad thus? suppose he succumbed to exposure and was discovered stiffly frozen in a doorway? death by processes of congealment must carry an added sting if one had to die in a suit of pink rompers buttoning down the back. as though the thought of freezing had been a cue to nature he noted a tickling in his nose and a chokiness in his throat, and somewhere in his system, a long way off, so to speak, he felt a sneeze forming and approaching the surface. to add to his state of misery, if anything could add to its distressing total, he was taking cold. when mr. leary took cold he took it thoroughly and throughout his system. very soon, as he knew by past experience, his voice would be hoarse and wheezy and his nose and his eyes would run. but the sneeze was delayed in transit, and mr. leary took advantage of the respite to cast a glance about him. perhaps--the expedient had surged suddenly into his brain--perhaps there might be a hotel or a lodging house of sorts hereabouts? if so, such an establishment would have a night clerk on duty, and despite the baggageless and cashless state of the suppliant it was possible the night clerk might be won, by compassion or by argument or by both, to furnish mr. leary shelter until after breakfast time, when over the telephone he could reach friends and from these friends procure an outfit of funds and suitable clothing. in sight, though, there was no structure which by its outward appearance disclosed itself as a place of entertainment for the casual wayfarer. howsomever, lights were shining through the frosted panes of a row of windows stretching across the top floor of a building immediately at hand, and even as he made this discovery mr. leary was aware of the dimmed sounds of revelry and of orchestral music up there, and also of an illuminated canvas triangle stuck above the hallway entrance of the particular building in question, this device bearing a lettered inscription upon it to advertise that here the members of the lawrence p. mcgillicuddy literary association and pleasure club were holding their grand annual civic ball; admission one dollar, including hat check; ladies free when accompanied by gents. evidently the lawrence p. mcgillicuddys kept even later hours at their roisterings than the bohemian sets in washington square kept. observing these evidences of adjacent life and merry-makings mr. leary cogitated. did he dare intrude upon the festivities aloft there? and if he did so dare would he enter cavortingly, trippingly, with intent to deceive the assembled company into the assumption that he had come to their gathering in costume; or would he throw himself upon their charity and making open confession of his predicament seek to enlist the friendly offices of some kindly soul in extricating him from it? while he canvassed the two propositions tentatively he heard the thud of footsteps descending the stairs from the dance hall, and governed by an uncontrollable impulse he leaped for concealment behind a pile of building material that was stacked handily upon the sidewalk almost at his elbow. he might possibly have driven himself to face a multitude indoors, but somehow could not, just naturally could not, in his present apparel, face one stranger outdoors--or at least not until he had opportunity to appraise the stranger. it was a man who emerged from the hallway entrance; a stockily built man wearing his hat well over one ear and with his ulster opened and flung back exposing a broad chest to the wintry air. he was whistling a sprightly air. just as this individual came opposite the lumber pile the first dedicatory sneeze of a whole subsequent series of sneezes which had been burgeoning somewhere in the top of mr. leary's head, and which that unhappy gentleman had been mechanically endeavouring to suppress, burst from captivity with a vast moist report. at the explosion the passer-by spun about and his whistle expired in a snort of angered surprise as the bared head of mr. leary appeared above the topmost board of the pile, and mr. leary's abashed face looked into his. "say," he demanded, "wotcher meanin', hidin' there and snortin' in a guy's ear?" his manner was truculent; indeed, verged almost upon the menacing. evidently the shock had adversely affected his temper, to the point where he might make personal issues out of unavoidable trifles. instinctively mr. leary felt that the situation which had arisen called for diplomacy of the very highest order. he cleared his throat before replying. "good evening," he began, in what he vainly undertook to make a casual tone of voice. "i beg your pardon--the sneeze--ahem--occurred when i wasn't expecting it. ahem--i wonder if you would do me a favour?" "i would not! come snortin' in a guy's ear that-a-way and then askin' him would he do you a favour: you got a crust for fair!" here, though, a natural curiosity triumphed over the rising tides of indignation. "wot favour do you want, anyway?" he inquired shortly. "would you--would you--i wonder if you would be willing to sell me that overcoat you're wearing?" "i would not!" "you see, the fact of the matter is i happened to be needing an overcoat very badly at the moment," pressed mr. leary. "i was hoping that you might be induced to name a price for yours." "i would not! m. j. cassidy wears m. j. cassidy's clothes, and nobody else wears 'em, believe me! wot's happened to your own coat?" "i lost it--i mean it was stolen." "stole?" "yes, a robber with a revolver held me up a few minutes ago just over here in the next cross street and he took my coat away." "huh! well, did you lose your hat the same way?" "yes--that is to say, no. i lost my hat running." "oh, you run, hey? well, you look to me like a guy wot would run. well, did he take your clothes, too? is that why you're squattin' behind them timbers?" the inquisitive one took a step nearer. "no--oh, no! i'm still wearing my--my--the costume i was wearing," answered mr. leary, apprehensively wedging his way still farther back between the stack of boards and the wall behind. "but you see----" "well then, barrin' the fact that you ain't got no hat, ain't you jest as well off without no overcoat now as i'd be if i fell for any hard-luck spiel from you and let you have mine?" "i wouldn't go so far as to say that exactly," tendered mr. leary ingratiatingly. "i'm afraid my clothing isn't as suitable for outdoor wear as yours is. you see, i'd been to a sort of social function and on my way home it--it happened." "oh, it did, did it? well, anyway, i should worry about you and your clothes," stated the other. he took a step onward, then halted; and now the gleam of speculative gain was in his eye. "say, if i was willin' to sell--not sayin' i would be, but if i was--wot would you be willin' to give for an overcoat like this here one?" "any price within reason--any price you felt like asking," said mr. leary, his hopes of deliverance rekindling. "well, maybe i'd take twenty-five dollars for it just as it stands and no questions ast. how'd that strike you?" "i'll take it. that seems a most reasonable figure." "well, fork over the twenty-five then, and the deal's closed." "i'd have to send you the money to-morrow--i mean to-day. you see, the thief took all my cash when he took my overcoat." "did, huh?" "yes, that's the present condition of things. very annoying, isn't it? but i'll take your address. i'm a lawyer in business in broad street, and as soon as i reach my office i'll send the amount by messenger." "aw, to hell with you and your troubles! i might a-knowed you was some new kind of a panhandler when you come a-snortin' in my ear that-a-way. better beat it while the goin's good. you're in the wrong neighbourhood to be springin' such a gag as this one you just now sprang on me. anyhow, i've wasted enough time on the likes of you." he was ten feet away when mr. leary, his wits sharpened by his extremity, clutched at the last straw. "one moment," he nervously begged. "did i understand you to say your name was cassidy?" "you did. wot of it?" "well, curious coincidence and all that--but my name happens to be leary. and i thought that because of that you might----" the stranger broke in on him. "your name happens to be leary, does it? wot's your other name then?" "algernon." stepping lightly on the balls of his feet mr. cassidy turned back, and his mien for some reason was potentially that of a belligerent. "say," he declared threateningly, "you know wot i think about you? well, i think you're a liar. no regular guy with the name of leary would let a cheap stiff of a stick-up rob him out of the coat offen his back without puttin' up a battle. no regular guy named leary would be named algernon. say, i think you're a far downer. i wouldn't be surprised but wot you was an a. p. a. on the top of that. and wot's all this here talk about goin' to a sociable functure and comin' away not suitably dressed? come on out of that now and let's have a look at you." "really, i'd much rather not--if you don't mind," protested the miserable mr. leary. "i--i have reasons." "the same here. will you come out from behind there peaceable or will i fetch you out?" so mr. leary came, endeavouring while coming to wear a manner combining an atmosphere of dignified aloofness and a sentiment of frank indifference to the opinion of this loutish busybody, with just a touch, a mere trace, as it were, of nonchalance thrown in. in short, coming out he sought to deport himself as though it were the properest thing in the world for a man of years and discretion to be wearing a bright pink one-piece article of apparel on a public highway at four a. m. or thereabouts. undoubtedly, considering everything, it was the hardest individual task essayed in new york during the first year of the war. need i add that it was a failure--a total failure? as he stood forth fully and comprehensively revealed by the light of the adjacent transparency, mr. cassidy's squint of suspicion widened into a pop-eyed stare of temporary stupefaction. "well, for the love of---- in the name of---- did anywan ever see the likes of----!" he murmured the broken sentences as he circled about the form of the martyr. completing the circuit, laughter of a particularly boisterous and concussive variety interrupted his fragmentary speech. "ha ha, ha ha," echoed mr. leary in a palpably forced and hollow effort, to show that he, too, could enter into the spirit of the occasion with heartiness. "does strike one as rather unusual at first sight--doesn't it?" "why, you big hooman radish! why, you strollin' sunset!" thus mr. cassidy responded. "are you payin' an election bet three weeks after the election's over? or is it that you're just a plain bedaddled ijiet? or wot is it, i wonder?" "i explained to you that i went to a party. it was a fancy-dress party," stated mr. leary. sharp on the words mr. cassidy's manner changed. here plainly was a person of moods, changeable and tempersome. "ain't you ashamed of yourself, and you a large, grown man, to be skihootin' round with them kind of foolish duds on, and your own country at war this minute for decency and democracy?" from this it also was evident that mr. cassidy read the editorials in the papers. "you should take shame to yourself that you ain't in uniform instid of baby clothes." it was the part of discretion, so mr. leary inwardly decided, to ignore the fact that the interrogator himself appeared to be well within the military age. "i'm a bit old to enlist," he stated, "and i'm past the draft age." "then you're too old to be wearin' such a riggin'. but, by cripes, i'll say this for you--you make a picture that'd make a horse laugh." laughing like a horse, or as a horse would laugh if a horse ever laughed, he rocked to and fro on his heels. "sh-sh; not so loud, please," importuned mr. leary, casting an uneasy glance toward the lighted windows above. "somebody might hear you!" "i hope somebody does hear me," gurgled the temperamental mr. cassidy, now once more thoroughly beset by his mirth. "i need somebody to help me laugh. by cripes, i need a whole crowd to help me; and i know a way to get them!" he twisted his head round so his voice would ascend the hallway. "hey, fellers and skoirts," he called; "you that's fixin' to leave! hurry on down here quick and see algy, the livin' peppermint lossenger, before he melts away with his own sweetness." obeying the summons with promptness a flight of the lawrence p. mcgillicuddy's, accompanied for the most part by lady friends, cascaded down the stairs and erupted forth upon the sidewalk. "here y'are--right here!" clarioned mr. cassidy as the first skylarkish pair showed in the doorway. his manner was drolly that of a showman exhibiting a rare freak, newly captured. "come a-runnin'!" they came a-running and there were a dozen of them or possibly fifteen; blithesome spirits, all, and they fenced in the shrinking shape of mr. leary with a close and curious ring of themselves, and the combined volume of their glad, amazed outbursts might be heard for a distance of furlongs. on prankish impulse then they locked hands and with skippings and prancings and impromptu jig steps they circled about him; and he, had he sought to speak, could not well have been heard; and, anyway, he was for the moment past speech, because of being entirely engaged in giving vent to one vehement sneeze after another. and next, above the chorus of joyous whooping might be heard individual comments, each shrieked out shrilly and each punctuated by a sneeze from mr. leary's convulsed frame; or lacking that by a simulated sneeze from one of the revellers--one with a fine humorous flare for mimicry. and these comments were, for example, such as: "git onto the socks!" "ker-chew!" "and the slippers!" "ker-chew!" "and them lovely pink garters!" "ker-chew!" "oh, you cutey! oh, you cut-up!" "ker-chew!" "oh, you candy kid!" "and say, git onto the cunnin' elbow sleeves our little playmate's sportin'." "yes, but goils, just pipe the poilies--ain't they the greatest ever?" "they sure are. say, kiddo, gimme one of 'em to remember you by, won't you? you'll never miss it--you got a-plenty more." "wot d'ye call wot he's got on 'um, anyway?" the speaker was a male, naturally. "w'y, you big stoopid, can't you see he's wearin' rompers?" the answer came in a giggle, from a gay youthful creature of the opposite sex as she kicked out roguishly. "well, then be chee, w'y don't he romp a little?" "give 'um time, cancher? don't you see he's blowin' out his flues? he's busy now. he'll romp in a minute." "sure he will! we'll romp with 'um." a waggish young person in white beaded slippers and a green sport skirt broke free from the cavorting ring, and behind mr. leary's back the nimble fingers of the madcap tapped his spinal ornamentations as an instrumentalist taps the stops of an organ; and she chanted a familiar counting game of childhood: "rich man--poor man--beggar man--thief--doctor--loiryer----" "sure, he said he was a loiryer." it was mr. cassidy breaking in. "and he said his name was algernon. well, i believe the algernon part--the big a. p. a." "oh, you algy!" "algernon, does your mother know you're out?" "t'ree cheers for algy, the walkin' comic valentine!" "algy, algy--oh, you cutey algy!" these jolly greenwich villagers were going to make a song of his name. they did make a song of it, and it was a frolicsome song and pitched to a rollicksome key. congenial newcomers arrived, pelting down from upstairs whence they had been drawn by the happy rocketing clamour; and they caught spirit and step and tune with the rest and helped manfully to sing it. as one poet hath said, "and now reigned high carnival." and as another has so aptly phrased it, "there was sound of revelry by night." and, as the second poet once put it, or might have put it so if so be he didn't, "and all went merry as a marriage bell." but when we, adapting the line to our own descriptive usages, now say all went merry we should save out one exception--one whose form alternately was racked by hot flushes of a terrific self-consciousness and by humid gusts of an equally terrific sneezing fit. vi "here, here, here! cut out the yellin'! d'you want the whole block up out of their beds?" the voice of the personified law, gruff and authoritative, broke in upon the clamour, and the majesty of the law, typified in bulk, with galoshes, ear muffs and woollen gloves on, not to mention the customary uniform of blue and brass, ploughed a path toward the centre of the group. "'s all right, switzer," gaily replied a hoydenish lassie; she, the same who had begged mr. leary for a sea-pearl souvenir. "but just see wot morrie cassidy went and found here on the street!" patrolman switzer looked then where she pointed, and could scarce believe his eyes. in his case gleefulness took on a rumbling thunderous form, which shook his being as with an ague and made him to beat himself violently upon his ribs. "d'ye blame us for carryin' on, switzer, when we seen it ourselves?" "i don't--and that's a fact," switzer confessed between gurgles. "i wouldn't a blamed you much if you'd fell down and had a fit." and then he rocked on his heels, filled with joviality clear down to his rubber soles. anon, though, he remembered the responsibilities of his position. "still, at that, and even so," said he, sobering himself, "enough of a good thing's enough." he glared accusingly, yea, condemningly, at the unwitting cause of the quelled commotion. "say, what's the idea, you carousin' round noo york city this hour of the night diked up like a coney island maudie graw? and what's the idea, you causin' a boisterous and disorderly crowd to collect? and what's the idea, you makin' a disturbance in a vicinity full of decent hard-workin' people that's tryin' to get a little rest? what's the general idea, anyhow?" at this moment mr. leary having sneezed an uncountable number of times, regained the powers of coherent utterance. "it is not my fault," he said. "i assure you of that, officer. i am being misjudged; i am the victim of circumstances over which i have no control. you see, officer, i went last evening to a fancy-dress party and----" "well, then, why didn't you go on home afterwards and behave yourself?" "i did--i started, in a taxicab. but the taxicab driver was drunk and he went to sleep on the way and the taxicab stopped and i got out of it and started to walk across town looking for another taxicab and----" "started walkin', dressed like that?" "certainly not. i had an overcoat on, of course. but a highwayman held me up at the point of a revolver, and he took my overcoat and what money i had and my card case and----" "where did all this here happen--this here alleged robbery?" "not two blocks away from here, right over in the next street to this one." "i don't believe nothin' of the kind!" patrolman switzer spoke with enhanced severity; his professional honour had been touched in a delicate place. the bare suggestion that a footpad might dare operate in a district under his immediate personal supervision would have been to him deeply repugnant, and here was this weirdly attired wanderer making the charge direct. "but, officer, i insist--i protest that----" "young feller, i think you've been drinkin', that's what i think about you. your voice sounds to me like you've been drinkin' about a gallon of mixed ale. i think you dreamed all this here pipe about a robber and a pistol and an overcoat and a taxicab and all. now you take a friendly tip from me and you run along home as fast as ever you can, and you get them delirious clothes off of you and then you get in bed and take a good night's sleep and you'll feel better. because if you don't it's goin' to be necessary for me to run you in for a public nuisance. i ain't askin' you--i'm tellin' you, now. if you don't want to be locked up, start movin'--that's my last word to you." the recent merrymakers, who had fallen silent the better to hear the dialogue, grouped themselves expectantly, hoping and waiting for a yet more exciting and humorous sequel to what had gone before--if such a miracle might be possible. nor were they to be disappointed. the dénouement came quickly upon the heels of the admonition. for into mr. leary's reeling and distracted mind the warning had sent a clarifying idea darting. why hadn't he thought of a police station before now? perforce the person in charge at any police station would be under requirement to shelter him. what even if he were locked up temporarily? in a cell he would be safe from the slings and arrows of outrageous ridicule; and surely among the functionaries in any station house would be one who would know a gentleman in distress, however startlingly the gentleman might be garbed. surely, too, somebody--once that somebody's amazement had abated--would he willing to do some telephoning for him. perhaps, even, a policeman off duty might be induced to take his word for it that he was what he really was, and not what he seemed to be, and loan him a change of clothing. hot upon the inspiration mr. leary decided on his course of action. he would get himself safely and expeditiously removed from the hateful company and the ribald comments of the lawrence p. mcgillicuddys and their friends. he would get himself locked up--that was it. he would now take the first steps in that direction. "are you goin' to start on home purty soon like i've just been tellin' you; or are you ain't?" snapped patrolman switzer, who, it would appear, was by no means a patient person. "i am not!" the crafty mr. leary put volumes of husky defiance into his answer. "i'm not going home--and you can't make me go home, either." he rejoiced inwardly to see how the portly shape of switzer stiffened and swelled at the taunt. "i'm a citizen and i have a right to go where i please, dressed as i please, and you don't dare to stop me. i defy you to arrest me!" suddenly he put both his hands in patrolman switzer's fleshy midriff and gave him a violent shove. an outraged grunt went up from switzer, a delighted whoop from the audience. swept off his balance by the prospect of fruition for his design the plotter had technically been guilty before witnesses of a violent assault upon the person of an officer in the sworn discharge of his duty. he felt himself slung violently about. one mitted hand fixed itself in mr. leary's collar yoke at the rear; the other closed upon a handful of slack material in the lower breadth of mr. leary's principal habiliment just below where his buttons left off. "so you won't come, won't you? well then i'll show you--you pink strawberry drop!" enraged at having been flaunted before a jeering audience the patrolman pushed his prisoner ten feet along the sidewalk, imparting to the offender's movements an involuntary gliding gait, with backward jerks between forward shoves; this method of propulsion being known in the vernacular of the force as "givin' a skate the bum's rush." "hey, switzer, lend me your key and i'll ring for the wagon for you," volunteered mr. cassidy. his care-free companions, some of them, cheered the suggestion, seeing in it prospect of a prolonging of this delectable sport which providence without charge had so graciously deigned to provide. "never mind about the wagon. us two'll walk, me and him," announced the patrolman. "'taint so far where we're goin', and the walk'll do this fresh guy a little good--maybe'll sober him up. and never mind about any of the rest of you taggin' along behind us neither. this is a pinch--not a free street parade. go on home now, the lot of youse, before you wake up the whole lower west side." loath to be cheated out of the last act of a comedy so unique and so rich the whimsical mcgillicuddys and their chosen mates fell reluctantly away, with yells and gibes and quips and farewell bursts of laughter. vii closely hyphenated together the deep blue figure and the bright pink one rounded the corner and were alone. it was time to open the overtures which would establish patrolman switzer upon the basis of a better understanding of things. mr. leary, craning his neck in order to look rearward into the face of his custodian, spoke in a key very different from the one he had last employed. "i really didn't intend, you know, to resist you, officer. i had a private purpose in what i did. and you were quite within your rights. and i'm very grateful to you--really i am--for driving those people away." "is that so?" the inflection was grimly and heavily sarcastic. "yes. i am a lawyer by profession, and generally speaking i know what your duties are. i merely made a show--a pretence, as it were--of resisting you, in order to get away from that mob. it was--ahem--it was a device on my part--in short, a trick." "is that so? fixin' to try to beg off now, huh? well, nothin' doin'! nothin' doin'! i don't know whether you're a fancy nut or a plain souse or what-all, but whatever you are you're under arrest and you're goin' with me." "that's exactly what i desire to do," resumed the schemer. "i desire most earnestly to go with you." "you're havin' your wish, ain't you? well, then, the both of us should oughter be satisfied." "i feel sure," continued the wheedling and designing mr. leary, "that as soon as we reach the station house i can make satisfactory atonement to you for my behaviour just now and can explain everything to your superiors in charge there, and then----" "station house!" snorted patrolman switzer. "why, say, you ain't headin' for no station house. the crowd that's over there where you're headin' for should be grateful to me for bringin' you in. you'll be a treat to them, and it's few enough pleasures some of them gets----" a new, a horrid doubt assailed mr. leary's sorely taxed being. he began to have a dread premonition that all was not going well and his brain whirled anew. "but i prefer to be taken to the station house," he began. "and who are you to be preferrin' anything at all?" countered switzer. "i'll phone back to the station where i am and what i've done; though that part of it's no business of yours. i'll be doin' that after i've arrainged you over to jefferson market." "jeff--jefferson market!" "sure, 'tis to jefferson market night court you're headin' this minute. where else? they're settin' late over there to-night; the magistrate is expectin' some raids somewheres about daylight, i dope it. anyhow, they're open yet; i know that. so it'll be me and you for jefferson market inside of five minutes; and i'm thinkin' you'll get quite a reception." jefferson market! mr. leary could picture the rows upon rows of gloating eyes. he heard the incredulous shout that would mark his entrance, the swell of unholy glee from the benches that would interrupt the proceedings. he saw stretched upon the front pages of the early editions of the afternoon yellows the glaring black-faced headlines: well-known lawyer clad in pink rompers haled to night court he saw--but switzer's next remark sent a fresh shudder of apprehension through him, caught all again, as he was, in the coils of accursed circumstance. "magistrate voris will be gettin' sleepy what with waitin' for them raids to be pulled off, and i make no doubt the sight of you will put him in a good humour." and magistrate voris was his rival for the favours of miss milly hollister! and magistrate voris was a person with a deformed sense of humour! and magistrate voris was sitting in judgment this moment at jefferson market night court. and now desperation, thrice compounded, rent the soul of the trapped victim of his own misaimed subterfuge. "i won't be taken to any night court!" he shouted, wresting himself toward the edge of the sidewalk and dragging his companion along with him. "i won't go there! i demand to be taken to a station house. i'm a sick man and i require the services of a doctor." "startin' to be rough-house all over again, huh?" grunted switzer vindictively. "well, we'll see about that part of it, too--right now!" surrendering his lowermost clutch, the one in the silken seat of the suit of his writhing prisoner, he fumbled beneath the tails of his overcoat for the disciplinary nippers that were in his righthand rear trousers pocket. with a convulsive twist of his body mr. leary jerked himself free of the mittened grip upon his neckband, and as, released, he gave a deerlike lunge forward for liberty he caromed against a burdened ash can upon the curbstone and sent it spinning backward; then recovering sprang onward and outward across the gutter in flight. in the same instant he heard behind him a crash of metal and a solid thud, heard a sound as of a scrambling solid body cast abruptly prone, heard the name of deity profaned, and divined without looking back that the ash can, conveniently rolling between the plump legs of the personified arm of the law, had been officer switzer's undoing, and might be his salvation. viii with never a backward glance he ran on, not doubting as a hare before the beagle, but following a straight course, like unto a hunted roebuck. he did not know he could run so fast, and he could not have run so fast any other time than this. beyond was a crossing. it was blind instinct that made him double round the turn. and it was instinct, quickened and guided by desperation, that made him dart like a rose-tinted flash up the steps to the stoop of an old-fashioned residence standing just beyond the corner, spring inside the storm doors, draw them to behind him, and crouch there, hidden, as pursuit went lumbering by. through a chink between the door halves he watched breathlessly while switzer, who moved with a pronounced limp and rubbed his knees as he limped, hobbled halfway up the block, slowed down, halted, glared about him for sight or sign of the vanished fugitive, and then misled by a false trail departed, padding heavily with a galoshed tread, round the next turn. with his body still drawn well back within the shadow line of the overhanging cornice mr. leary, coyly protruded his head and took visual inventory of the neighbourhood. so far as any plan whatsoever had formed in the mind of our diffident adventurer he meant to bide where he was for the moment. here, where he had shelter of a sort, he would recapture his breath and reassemble his wits. even so, the respite from those elements which mr. leary dreaded most of all--publicity, observation, cruel jibes, the harsh raucous laughter of the populace--could be at best but a woefully transient one. he was not resigned--by no means was he resigned--to his fate; but he was helpless. for what ailed him there was no conceivable remedy. anon jocund day would stand tiptoe on something or other; greenwich village would awaken and bestir itself. discovery would come, and forth he would be drawn like a shy, unwilling periwinkle from its shell, once more to play his abased and bashful role of free entertainer to guffawing mixed audiences. for all others in the great city there were havens and homes. but for a poor, lorn, unguided vagrant, enmeshed in the burlesque garnitures of a three-year-old male child, what haven was there? by night the part had been hard enough--as the unresponsive heavens above might have testified. by the stark unmerciful sunlight; by the rude, revealing glow of the impending day how much more scandalous would it be! his haggard gaze swept this way and that, seeking possible succour where reason told him there could be no succour; and then as his vision pieced together this outjutting architectural feature and that into a coherent picture of his immediate surroundings he knew where he was. the one bit of chancy luck in a sequence of direful catastrophes had brought him here to this very spot. why, this must be west ninth street; it had to be, it was--oh joy, it was! and bob slack, his partner, lived in this identical block on this same side of the street. with his throat throbbing to the impulse of new-born hope he emerged completely from behind the refuge of the storm doors, backed himself out and down upon the top step, and by means of a dubious illumination percolating through the fanlight above the inner door he made out the figures upon the lintel. this was such and such a number; therefore bob slack's number must be the second number to the eastward, at the next door but one. ix five seconds later a fleet apparition of a prevalent pinkish tone gave a ranging house cat the fright of its life as former darted past latter to vault nimbly up the stone steps of a certain weatherbeaten four-story-and-basement domicile. set in the door jamb here was a vertical row of mail-slots, and likewise a vertical row of electric push buttons; these objects attesting to the fact that this house, once upon a time the home of a single family, had eventually undergone the transformation which in lower new york befalls so many of its kind, and had become a layer-like succession of light-housekeeping apartments, one apartment to a floor, and the caretaker in the basement. since bob slack's bachelor quarters were on the topmost floor bob slack's push button would be the next to the lowermost of the battery of buttons. a chilled tremulous finger found that particular button and pressed it long and hard, released it, pressed it again and yet again. and in the interval following each period of pressing the finger's owner hearkened, all ears, for the answering click-click that would tell him the sleeper having been roused by the ringing had risen and pressed the master button that released the mechanism of the street door's lock. but no welcome clicking rewarded the expectant ringer. assuredly bob slack must be the soundest sleeper in the known world. he who waited rang and rang and rerang. there was no response. eventually conviction was forced upon mr. leary that he must awaken the caretaker--who, he seemed dimly to recall as a remembrance of past visits to bob slack, was a woman; and this done he must induce the caretaker to admit him to the inside of the house. once within the building the refugee promised himself he would bring the slumberous slack to consciousness if he had to beat down that individual's door doing it. he centred his attack upon the bottom push button of all. directly, from almost beneath his feet, came the sound of an areaway window being unlatched, and a drowsy female somewhat crossly inquired to know who might be there and what might be wanted. "it's a gentleman calling on mr. slack," wheezed mr. leary with his head over the balusters. he was getting so very, very hoarse. "i've been ringing his bell, but i can't seem to get any answer." "a gentleman at this time o' night!" the tone was purely incredulous. "yes; a close friend of mr. slack's," assured mr. leary, striving to put stress of urgency into his accents, and only succeeding in imparting an added hoarseness to his fast-failing vocal cords. "i'm his law partner, in fact. i must see him at once, please--it's very important, very pressing indeed." "well, you can't be seein' him." "c-can't see him? what do you mean?" "i mean he ain't here, that's what. he's out. he's went out for the night. he's ginerally always out on friday nights--playin' cards at his club, i think. and sometimes he don't come in till it's near breakfast time. if you're a friend of his i sh'd think it'd be likely you'd know that same." "oh, i do--i do," assented mr. leary earnestly; "only i had forgotten it. i've had so many other things on my mind. but surely he'll be coming in quite soon now--it's pretty late, you know." "don't i know that for myself without bein' told?" "yes, quite so, of course; naturally so." mr. leary was growing more and more nervous, and more and more chilled, too. "but if you'll only be so very kind as to let me in i'll wait for him in his apartment." "let you in without seein' you or knowin' what your business is? i should guess not! besides, you couldn't be gettin' inside his flat anyways. he's locked it, unless he's forgot to, which ain't likely, him bein' a careful man, and he must a-took the key with him. i know i ain't got it." "but if you'll just let me inside the building that will be sufficient. i would much rather wait inside if only in the hall, than out here on the stoop in the cold." "no doubt, no doubt you would all of that." the tone of the unseen female was drily suspicious. "but is it likely i'd be lettin' a stranger into the place, that i never seen before, and ain't seen yet for that matter, just on the strength of his own word? and him comin' unbeknownst, at this hour of the mornin'? a fat chancet!" "but surely, though, you must recall me--mr. leary, his partner. i've been here before. i've spoken to you." "that voice don't sound to me like no voice i ever heard." "i've taken cold--that's why it's altered." "so? then why don't you come down here where i can have a look at you and make sure?" inquired this careful chatelaine. "i'm leaning with my head over the rail of the steps right above you," said mr. leary. "can't you poke your head out and see my face? i'm quite sure you would recall me then." "with this here iron gratin' acrost me window how could i poke me head out? besides, it's dark. say, mister, if you're on the level what's the matter with you comin' down here and not be standin' there palaverin' all the night?" "i--i--well, you see, i'd rather not come for just a minute--until i've explained to you that--that my appearance may strike you as being a trifle unusual, in fact, i might say, queer," pleaded mr. leary, seeking by subtle methods of indirection to prepare her for what must surely follow. "never mind explainin'--gimme a look!" the suspicious tenseness in her voice increased. "i tell you this--ayther you come down here right this secont or i shut the window and you can be off or you can go to the divil or go anywheres you please for all of me, because i'm an overworked woman and i need my rest and i've no more time to waste on you." "wait, please; i'm coming immediately," called out mr. leary. he forced his legs to carry him down the steps and reluctantly, yet briskly, he propelled his pink-hued person toward the ray of light that streamed out through the grated window-opening and fell across the areaway. "you mustn't judge by first appearances," he was explaining with a false and transparent attempt at matter-of-factness as he came into the zone of illumination. "i'm not what i seem, exactly. you see, i----" "mushiful evans!" the exclamation was half shrieked, half gasped out; and on the words the window was slammed to, the light within flipped out, and through the glass from within came a vehement warning. "get away, you--you lunatic! get away from here now or i'll have the cops on you." "but please, please listen," he entreated, with his face close against the bars. "i assure you, madam, that i can explain everything if you will only listen." there was no mercy, no suggestion of relenting in the threatening message that came back to him. "if you ain't gone from here in ten seconts i'll ring for the night watchman on the block, and i'll blow a whistle for the police. i've got me hand on the alarm hook right now. will you go or will i rouse the whole block?" "pray be calm, madam, i'll go. in fact, i'm going now." he fell back out of the areaway. fresh uproar at this critical juncture would be doubly direful. it would almost certainly bring the vengeful switzer, with his bruised shanks. it would inevitably bring some one. x mr. leary retreated to the sidewalk, figuratively casting from him the shards and potsherds of his reawakened anticipations, now all so rudely shattered again. he was doomed. it would inevitably be his fate to cower in these cold and drafty purlieus until---- no, it wouldn't either! like a golden rift in a sable sky a brand-new ray of cheer opened before him. who were those married friends of slack's, who lived on the third floor--friends with whom once upon a time he and slack had shared a chafing-dish supper? what was the name? brady? no, braydon. that was it--mr. and mrs. edward braydon. he would slip back again, on noiseless feet, to the doorway where the bells were. he would bide there until the startled caretaker had gone back to her sleep, or at least to her bed. then he would play a solo on the braydons' bell until he roused them. they would let him in, and beyond the peradventure of a doubt, they would understand what seemed to be beyond the ken of flighty and excitable underlings. he would make them understand, once he was in and once the first shock of beholding him had abated within them. they were a kindly, hospitable couple, the braydons were. they would be only too glad to give him shelter from the elements until bob slack returned from his session at bridge. he was saved! within the coping of the stoop he crouched and waited--waited for five long palpitating minutes which seemed to him as hours. then he applied an eager and quivering finger to the braydons' button. sweet boon of vouchsafed mercy! almost instantly the latch clicked. and now in another instant mr. leary was within solid walls, with the world and the weather shut out behind him. he stood a moment, palpitant with mute thanksgiving, in the hallway, which was made obscure rather than bright by a tiny pinprick of gaslight; and as thus he stood, fortifying himself with resolution for the embarrassing necessity of presenting himself, in all his show of quaint frivolity, before these comparative strangers, there came floating down the stair well to him in a sharp half-whisper a woman's voice. "is that you?" it asked. "yes," answered mr. leary, truthfully. it was indeed he, algernon leary, even though someone else seemingly was expected. but the explanation could wait until he was safely upstairs. indeed, it must wait. attempted at a distance it would take on rather a complicated aspect; besides, the caretaker just below might overhear, and by untoward interruptions complicate a position already sufficiently delicate and difficult. down from above came the response, "all right then. i've been worried, you were so late coming in, edward. please slip in quietly and take the front room. i'm going on back to bed." "all right!" grunted mr. leary. but already his plan had changed; the second speech down the stair well had caused him to change it. safety first would be his motto from now on. seeing that mr. edward braydon apparently was likewise out late it would be wiser and infinitely more discreet on his part did he avoid further disturbing mrs. braydon, who presumably was alone and who might be easily frightened. so he would just slip on past the braydon apartment, and in the hallway on the fourth floor he would cannily bide, awaiting the truant slack's arrival. on tiptoe then, flight by flight, he ascended toward the top of the house. he was noiselessly progressing along the hallway of the third floor; he was about midway of it when under his tread a loose plank gave off an agonized squeak, and, as involuntarily he crouched, right at his side a door was flung open. what the discomfited refugee saw, at a distance from him to be measured by inches rather than by feet, was the face of a woman; and not the face of young mrs. edward braydon, either, but the face of a middle-aged lady with startled eyes widely staring, with a mouth just dropping ajar as sudden horror relaxed her jaw muscles, and with a head of grey hair haloed about by a sort of nimbus effect of curl papers. what the strange lady saw--well, what the strange lady saw may best perhaps be gauged by what she did, and that was instantly to slam and bolt the door and then to utter a succession of calliopelike shrieks, which echoed through the house and which immediately were answered back by a somewhat similar series of outcries from the direction of the basement. xi up the one remaining flight of stairs darted the intruder. he flung himself with all his weight and all his force against bob slack's door. it wheezed from the impact, but its stout oaken panels held fast. who says the impossible is really impossible? the accumulated testimony of the ages shows that given the emergency a man can do anything he just naturally has to do. neither by training nor by habit of life nor yet by figure was mr. leary athletically inclined, but a trained gymnast might well have envied the magnificent agility with which he put a foot upon the doorknob and sprang upward, poising himself there upon a slippered toe, with one set of fingers clutching fast to the minute projections of the door frame while with his free hand he thrust recklessly against the transom. the transom gave under the strain, moving upward and inward upon its hinges, disclosing an oblong gap above the jamb. with a splendid wriggle the fugitive vaulted up, thrusting his person into the clear space thus provided. balanced across the opening upon his stomach, half in and half out, for one moment he remained there, his legs kicking wildly as though for a purchase against something more solid than air. then convulsive desperation triumphed over physical limitations. there was a rending, tearing sound as of some silken fabric being parted biaswise of its fibres, and mr. leary's droll after sections vanished inside; and practically coincidentally therewith, mr. leary descended upon the rugged floor with a thump which any other time would have stunned him into temporary helplessness, but which now had the effect merely of stimulating him onward to fresh exertion. in a fever of activity he sprang up. pawing a path through the encompassing darkness, stumbling into and over various sharp-cornered objects, barking his limbs with contusions and knowing it not, he found the door of the inner room--bob slack's bedroom--and once within that sanctuary he, feeling along the walls, discovered a push bulb and switched on the electric lights. what matter though the whole house grew clamorous now with a mounting and increasing tumult? what mattered it though he could hear more and more startled voices commingled with the shattering shrieks emanating from the braydon apartment beneath his feet? he, the hard-pressed and sore-beset and the long-suffering, was at last beyond the sight of mortal eyes. he was locked in, with two rooms and a bath to himself, and he meant to maintain his present refuge, meant to hold this fort against all comers, until bob slack came home. he would barricade himself in if need be. he would pile furniture against the doors. if they took him at all it would be by direct assault and overpowering numbers. and while he withstood siege and awaited attack he would rid himself of these unlucky caparisons that had been his mortification and his undoing. when they broke in on him--if they did break in on him--he would be found wearing some of bob slack's clothes. better far to be mistaken for a burglar than to be dragged forth lamentably yet fancifully attired as himself at the age of three. the one thing might be explained--and in time would be; but the other? he felt that he was near the breaking point; that he could no more endure. xii he stopped where he was, in the middle of the room, with his eyes and his hands seeking for the seams of the closing of his main garment. then he remembered what in his stress he had forgotten--the opening or perhaps one should say the closing was at the back. he twisted his arms rearward, his fingers groping along his spine. now any normal woman has the abnormal ability to do and then to undo a garment hitching behind. nature, which so fashioned her elbows that she cannot throw a stone at a hen in the way in which a stone properly should be thrown at a hen, made suitable atonement for this articular oversight by endowing her joints with the facile knack of turning on exactly the right angle, with never danger of sprain or dislocation, for the subjugation of a back-latching frock. moreover, years of practice have given her adeptness in accomplishing this achievement, so that to her it has become an everyday feat. but man has neither the experience to qualify him nor yet the bodily adaptability. by reaching awkwardly up and over his shoulder mr. leary managed to tug the topmost button of his array of buttons out of its attendant buttonholes, but below and beyond that point he could not progress. he twisted and contorted his body; he stretched his arms in their sockets until twin pangs of agony met and crossed between his shoulder blades, and with his two exploring hands he pulled and fumbled and pawed and wrenched and wrested, to make further headway at his task. but the sewing-on had been done with stout thread; the buttonholes were taut and snug and well made. those slippery flat surfaces amply resisted him. they eluded him; defied him; outmastered him. thanks be to, or curses be upon, the passionate zeal of miss rowena skiff for exactitudes, he, lacking the offices of an assistant undresser, was now as definitely and finally inclosed in this distressful pink garment as though it had been his own skin. speedily he recognised this fact in all its bitter and abominable truth, but mechanically, he continued to wrestle with the obdurate fastenings. while he thus vainly contended, events in which he directly was concerned were occurring beneath that roof. from within his refuge he heard the sounds of slamming doors, of hurrying footsteps, of excited voices merging into a distracted chorus; but above all else, and from the rest, two of these voices stood out by reason of their augmented shrillness, and mr. leary marked them both, for since he had just heard them he therefore might identify their respective unseen owners. "there's something--there's somebody in the house!" at the top of its register one voice was repeating the warning over and over again, and judging by direction this alarmist was shrieking her words through a keyhole on the floor below him. "i saw it--him--whatever it was. i opened my door to look out in the hall and it--he--was right there. oh, i could have touched him! and then it ran and i didn't see him any more and i slammed the door and began screaming." "you seen what?" the strident question seemed to come from far below, down in the depths of the house, where the caretaker abided. "whatever it was. i opened the door and he was right in the hall there glaring at me. i could have touched it. and then he ran and i----" "what was he like? i ast what was he like--it's that i'm astin' you!" the janitress was the one who pressed for an answer. for the moment the question, pointed though it was, went unanswered. the main speaker--shrieker, rather--was plainly a person with a mania for details, and even in this emergency she intended, as now developed, to present all the principal facts in the case, and likewise all the incidental facts so far as these fell within her scope of knowledge. "i was awake," she clarioned through the keyhole, speaking much faster than any one following this narrative can possibly hope to read the words. "i couldn't sleep. i never do sleep well when i'm in a strange house. and anyhow, i was all alone. my nephew by marriage--mr. edward braydon, you know--had gone out with the gentleman who lives on the floor above to play cards, and he said he was going to be gone nearly all night, and my niece--i'm mrs. braydon's unmarried aunt from poughkeepsie and i'm down here visiting them--my niece was called to long island yesterday by illness--it's her sister who's ill with something like the bronchitis. and he was gone and so she was gone, and so here i was all alone and he told me not to stay up for him, but i couldn't sleep well--i never can sleep in a strange house--and just a few minutes ago i heard the bell ring and i supposed he had forgotten to take his latchkey with him, and so i got up to let him in. and i called down the stairs and asked him if it was him and he answered back. but it didn't sound like his voice. but i didn't think anything of that. but, of course, it was out of the ordinary for him to have a voice like that. but all the same i went back to bed. but he didn't come in and i was just getting up again to see what detained him--his voice really sounded so strange i thought then he might have been taken sick or something. but just as i got to the door a plank creaked and i opened the door and there it was right where i could have touched him. and then it ran--and oh, what if----" "i'm astin' you once more what it was like?" "how should i know except that----" "was it a big, fat, wild, bare-headed, scary, awful-lookin' scoundrel dressed in some kind of funny pink clothes?" "yes, that's it! that's him--he was all sort of pink. oh, did you see him too? oh, is it a burglar?" "burglar nothin'! it's a ravin', rampagin' lunatic--that's what it is!" "oh, my heavens, a lunatic!" "sure it is. he tried to git me to let him in and----" "oh, whatever shall we do!" xiii "hey, what's all the excitement about?" a new and deeper voice here broke into the babel, and mr. leary recognising it at a distance, where he stood listening--but not failing, even while he listened, to strive unavailingly with his problem of buttons--knew he was saved. knowing this he nevertheless retreated still deeper into the inner room. the thought of spectators in numbers remained very abhorrent to him. so he did not hear all that happened next, except in broken snatches. he gathered though, from what he did hear, that bob slack and mr. edward braydon were coming up the stairs, and that a third male whom they called officer was coming with them, and that the janitress was coming likewise, and that divers lower-floor tenants were joining in the march, and that as they came the janitress was explaining to all and sundry how the weird miscreant had sought to inveigle her into admitting him to mr. slack's rooms, and how she had refused, and how with maniacal craft--or words to that effect--he had, nevertheless, managed to secure admittance to the house, and how he must still be in the house. and through all her discourse there were questions from this one or that, crossing its flow but in no-wise interrupting it; and through it all percolated hootingly the terrorised outcries of mr. braydon's maiden aunt-in-law, issuing through the keyhole of the door behind which she cowered. only now she was interjecting a new harassment into the already complicated mystery by pleading that someone repair straightway to her and render assistance, as she felt herself to be on the verge of fainting dead away. with searches into closets and close scrutiny of all dark corners passed en route, the procession advanced to the top floor, mainly guided in its oncoming by the clew deduced from the circumstances of the mad intruder having betrayed a desire to secure access to mr. slack's apartment, with the intention, as the caretaker more than once suggested on her way up, of murdering mr. slack in his bed. before the ascent had been completed she was quite certain this was the correct deduction, and so continued to state with all the emphasis of which she was capable. "he couldn't possibly have got downstairs again," somebody hazarded; "so he must be upstairs here still--must be right round here somewhere." "didn't i tell you he was lookin' for mr. slack to lay in wait for him and destroy the poor man in his bed?" shrilled the caretaker. "watch carefully now, everybody. he might rush out of some corner at us." "say, my transom's halfway open!" mr. bob slack exclaimed. "and, by jove, there's a light shining through it yonder from the bedroom. he's inside--we've got him cornered, whoever he is." boldly mr. slack stepped forward and rapped hard on the door. "better step on out peaceably," he called, "because there's an officer here with us and we've got you trapped." "it's me, bob, it's me," came in a wheezy, plaintive wail from somewhere well back in the apartment. "who's me?" demanded mr. slack, likewise forgetting his grammar in the thrill of this culminating moment. "algy--algernon leary." "not with that voice, it isn't. but i'll know in a minute who it is!" mr. slack reached pocketward for his keys. "better be careful. he might have a gun or something on him." "nonsense!" retorted mr. slack, feeling very valiant. "i'm not afraid of any gun. but you ladies might stand aside if you're frightened. all ready, officer? now then!" "please come in by yourself, bob. don't--don't let anybody else come with you!" xiv if he heard the faint and agonised appeal from within mr. slack chose not to heed it. he found the right key on his key ring, applied it to the lock, turned the bolt and shoved the door wide open, giving back then in case of an attack. the front room was empty. mr. slack crossed cautiously to the inner room and peered across the threshold into it, mr. braydon and a grey-coated private watchman and a procession of half-clad figures following along after him. where was the mysterious intruder? ah, there he was, huddled up in a far corner alongside the bed as though he sought to hide himself away from their glaring eyes. and at the sight of what he beheld mr. bob slack gave one great shocked snort of surprise, and then one of recognition. for all that the cowering wretch wore a quaint garment of a bright and watermelonish hue, except where it was streaked with transom dust and marked with ash-can grit; for all that his head was bare, and his knees, and a considerable section of his legs as well; for all that he had white socks and low slippers, now soaking wet, upon his feet; for all his elbow sleeves and his pink garters and his low neck; and finally for all that his face was now beginning, as they stared upon it, to wear the blank wan look of one who is about to succumb to a swoon of exhaustion induced by intense physical exertion or by acutely prolonged mental strain or by both together--mr. bob slack detected in this fabulous oddity a resemblance to his associate in the practice of law at number thirty-two broad street. "in the name of heaven, leary----" he began. but a human being can stand just so many shocks in a given number of minutes--just so many and no more. gently, slowly, the gartered legs gave way, bending outward, and as their owner collapsed down upon his side with the light of consciousness flickering in his eyes, his figure was half-turned to them, and they saw how that he was ornamentally but securely buttoned down the back with many large buttons and how that with a last futile fluttering effort of his relaxing hands he fumbled first at one and then at another of these buttons. "leary, what in thunder have you been doing? and where on earth have you been?" mr. slack shot the questions forth as he sprang to his partner's side and knelt alongside the slumped pink shape. languidly mr. leary opened one comatose eye. then he closed it again and the wraith of a smile formed about his lips, and just as he went sound asleep upon the floor mr. slack caught from mr. leary the softly whispered words, "i've been the life of the party!" a book about lawyers. by john cordy jeaffreson, barrister-at-law author of "a book about doctors," etc., etc. reprinted from the london edition. two volumes in one. new york: _carleton, publisher, madison square._ london: s. low, son & co., m dccc lxxv. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by g.w. carleton & co., in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. john f. trow & son, printers, - east th st., new york. contents. part i. houses and householders. chapter page i. ladies in law colleges ii. the last of the ladies iii. york house and powis house iv. lincoln's inn fields v. the old law quarter part ii. loves of the lawyers. vi. a lottery vii. good queen bess viii. rejected addresses ix. "cicero" upon his trial x. brothers in trouble xi. early marriages part iii. money. xii. fees to counsel xiii. retainers, general and special xiv. judicial corruption xv. gifts and sales xvi. a rod pickled by william cole xvii. chief justice popham xviii. judicial salaries part iv. costume and toilet. xix. bright and sad xx. millinery xxi. wigs xxii. bands and collars xxiii. bags and gowns xxiv. hats part v. music. xxv. the piano in chambers xxvi. the battle of the organs xxvii. the thickness in the throat part vi. amateur theatricals. xxviii. actors at the bar xxix. "the play's the thing" xxx. the river and the strand by torchlight xxxi. anti-prynne xxxii. an empty grate part vii. legal education xxxiii. inns of court and inns of chancery xxxiv. lawyers and gentlemen xxxv. law-french and law-latin xxxvi. student life in old time xxxvii. readers and mootmen xxxviii. pupils in chambers part viii. mirth. xxxix. wit of lawyers xl. humorous stories xli. wits in 'silk' and punsters in 'ermine' xlii. witnesses xliii. circuiteers xliv. lawyers and saints part ix. at home: in court: and in society. xlv. lawyers at their own tables xlvi. wine xlvii. law and literature part i. houses and householders. chapter i. ladies in law colleges. a law-student of the present day finds it difficult to realize the brightness and domestic decency which characterized the inns of court in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. under existing circumstances, women of character and social position avoid the gardens and terraces of gray's inn and the temple. attended by men, or protected by circumstances that guard them from impertinence and scandal, gentlewomen can without discomfort pass and repass the walls of our legal colleges; but in most cases a lady enters them under conditions that announce even to casual passers the object of her visit. in her carriage, during the later hours of the day, a barrister's wife may drive down the middle temple lane, or through the gate of lincoln's inn, and wait in king's bench walk or new square, until her husband, putting aside clients and papers, joins her for the homeward drive. but even thus placed, sitting in her carriage and guarded by servants, she usually prefers to fence off inquisitive eyes by a bonnet-veil, or the blinds of her carriage-windows. on sunday, the wives and daughters of gentle families brighten the dingy passages of the temple, and the sombre courts of lincoln's inn: for the musical services of the grand church and little chapel, are amongst the religious entertainments of the town. to those choral celebrations ladies go, just as they are accustomed to enter any metropolitan church; and after service they can take a turn in the gardens of either society, without drawing upon themselves unpleasant attention. so also, unattended by men, ladies are permitted to inspect the floral exhibitions with which mr. broome, the temple gardener, annually entertains london sightseers. but, save on these and a few similar occasions and conditions, gentlewomen avoid an inn of court as they would a barrack-yard, unless they have secured the special attendance of at least one member of the society. the escort of a barrister or student, alters the case. what barrister, young or old, cannot recall mirthful eyes that, with quick shyness, have turned away from his momentary notice, as in answer to the rustling of silk, or stirred by sympathetic consciousness of women's noiseless presence, he has raised his face from a volume of reports, and seen two or three timorous girls peering through the golden haze of a london morning, into the library of his inn? what man, thus drawn away for thirty seconds from prosaic toil, has not in that half minute remembered the faces of happy rural homes,--has not recalled old days when his young pulses beat cordial welcome to similar intruders upon the stillness of the bodleian, or the tranquil seclusion of trinity library? what occupant of dreary chambers in the temple, reading this page, cannot look back to a bright day, when young, beautiful, and pure as sanctity, lilian, or kate, or olive, entered his room radiant with smiles, delicate in attire, and musical with gleesome gossip about country neighbors, and the life of a joyous home? seldom does a templar of the present generation receive so fair and innocent a visitor. to him the presence of a gentlewoman in his court, is an occasion for ingenious conjecture; encountered on his staircase she is a cause of lively astonishment. his guests are men, more or less addicted to tobacco; his business callers are solicitors and their clerks; in his vestibule the masculine emissaries of tradesmen may sometimes be found--head-waiters from neighboring taverns, pot-boys from the 'cock' and the 'rainbow.' a printer's devil may from time to time knock at his door. but of women--such women as he would care to mention to his mother and sisters--he sees literally nothing in his dusty, ill-ordered, but not comfortless rooms. he has a laundress, one of a class on whom contemporary satire has been rather too severe. feminine life of another sort lurks in the hidden places of the law colleges, shunning the gaze of strangers by daylight; and even when it creeps about under cover of night, trembling with a sense of its own incurable shame. but of this sad life, the bare thought of which sends a shivering through the frame of every man whom god has blessed with a peaceful home and wholesome associations, nothing shall be said in this page. in past time the life of law-colleges was very different in this respect. when they ceased to be ecclesiastics, and fixed themselves in the hospices which soon after the reception of the gowned tenants, were styled inns of courts; our lawyers took unto themselves wives, who were both fair and discreet. and having so made women flesh of their flesh and bone of their bone, they brought them to homes within the immediate vicinity of their collegiate walls, and sometimes within the walls themselves. those who would appreciate the life of the inns in past centuries, and indeed in times within the memory of living men, should bear this in mind. when he was not on circuit, many a counsellor learned in the law, found the pleasures not less than the business of his existence within the bounds of his 'honorable society.' in the fullest sense of the words, he took his ease in his inn; besides being his workshop, where clients flocked to him for advice, it was his club, his place of pastime, and the shrine of his domestic affections. in this generation a successful chancery barrister, or equity draftsman, looks upon lincoln's inn merely as a place of business, where at a prodigious rent he holds a set of rooms in which he labors over cases, and satisfies the demands of clients and pupils. a century or two centuries since the case was often widely different. the rising barrister brought his bride in triumph to his 'chambers,' and in them she received the friends who hurried to congratulate her on her new honors. in those rooms she dispensed graceful hospitality, and watched her husband's toils. the elder of her children first saw the light in those narrow quarters; and frequently the lawyer, over his papers, was disturbed by the uproar of his heir in an adjoining room. young wives, the mistresses of roomy houses in the western quarters of town, shudder as they imagine the discomforts which these young wives of other days must have endured. "what! live in chambers?" they exclaim with astonishment and horror, recalling the smallness and cheerless aspect of their husbands' business chambers. but past usages must not be hastily condemned,--allowance must be made for the fact that our ancestors set no very high price on the luxuries of elbow-room and breathing-room. families in opulent circumstances were wont to dwell happily, and receive whole regiments of jovial visitors in little houses nigh the strand and fleet street, ludgate hill and cheapside;--houses hidden in narrow passages and sombre courts--houses, compared with which the lowliest residences in a "genteel suburb" of our own time would appear capacious mansions. moreover, it must be borne in mind that the married barrister, living a century since with his wife in chambers--either within or hard-by an inn or court--was, at a comparatively low rent, the occupant of far more ample quarters than those for which a working barrister now-a-days pays a preposterous sum. such a man was tenant of a 'set of rooms' (several rooms, although called 'a chamber') which, under the present system, accommodates a small colony of industrious 'juniors' with one office and a clerk's room attached. married ladies, who have lived in paris or vienna, in the 'old town' of edinburgh, or victoria street, westminster, need no assurance that life 'on a flat' is not an altogether deplorable state of existence. the young couple in chambers had six rooms at their disposal,--a chamber for business, a parlor, not unfrequently a drawing-room, and a trim, compact little kitchen. sometimes they had two 'sets of rooms,' one above another; in which case the young wife could have her bridesmaids to stay with her, or could offer a bed to a friend from the country. occasionally during the last fifty years of the last century, they were so fortunate as to get possession of a small detached house, originally built by a nervous bencher, who disliked the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside his door. time was when the inns comprised numerous detached houses, some of them snug dwellings, and others imposing mansions, wherein great dignitaries lived with proper ostentation. most of them have bean pulled down, and their sites covered with collegiate 'buildings;' but a few of them still remain, the grand piles having long since been partitioned off into chambers, and the little houses striking the eye as quaint, misplaced, insignificant blocks of human habitation. under the trees of gray's inn gardens may be seen two modest tenements, each of them comprising some six or eight rooms and a vestibule. at the present time they are occupied as offices by legal practitioners, and many a day has passed since womanly taste decorated their windows with flowers and muslin curtains; but a certain venerable gentleman, to whom the writer of this page is indebted for much information about the lawyers of the last century, can remember when each of those cottages was inhabited by a barrister, his young wife, and three or four lovely children. into some such a house near lincoln's inn, a young lawyer who was destined to hold the seals for many years, and be also the father of a lord chancellor, married in the year of our lord, . his name was philip yorke: and though he was of humble birth, he had made such a figure in his profession that great men's doors, were open to him. he was asked to dinner by learned judges, and invited to balls by their ladies. in chancery lane, at the house of sir joseph jekyll, master of the rolls, he met mrs. lygon, a beauteous and wealthy widow, whose father was a country squire, and whose mother was the sister of the great lord somers. in fact, she was a lady of such birth, position, and jointure, that the young lawyer--rising man though he was--seemed a poor match for her. the lady's family thought so; and if sir joseph jekyll had not cordially supported the suitor with a letter of recommendation, her father would have rejected him as a man too humble in rank and fortune. having won the lady and married her, mr. philip yorke brought her home to a 'very small house' near lincoln's inn; and in that lowly dwelling, the ground-floor of which was the barrister's office, they spent the first years of their wedded life. what would be said of the rising barrister who, now-a-days, on his marriage with a rich squire's rich daughter and a peer's niece, should propose to set up his household gods in a tiny crip just outside lincoln's inn gate, and to use the parlor of the 'very small house' for professional purposes? far from being guilty of unseemly parsimony in this arrangement, philip yorke paid proper consideration to his wife's social advantages, in taking her to a separate house. his contemporaries amongst the junior bar would have felt no astonishment if he had fitted up a set of chambers for his wealthy and well-descended bride. not merely in his day, but for long years afterward, lawyers of gentle birth and comfortable means, who married women scarcely if at all inferior to mrs. yorke in social condition, lived upon the flats of lincoln's inn and the temple. chapter ii. the last of the ladies. whatever its drawbacks, the system which encouraged the young barrister to marry on a modest income, and make his wife 'happy in chambers,' must have had special advantages. in their inn the husband was near every source of diversion for which he greatly cared, and the wife was surrounded by the friends of either sex in whose society she took most pleasure--friends who, like herself, 'lived in the inn,' or in one of the immediately adjacent streets. in 'hall' he dined and drank wine with his professional compeers and the wits of the bar: the 'library' supplied him not only with law books, but with poems and dramas, with merry trifles written for the stage, and satires fresh from the row; 'the chapel'--or if he were a templer, 'the church'--was his habitual place of worship, where there were sittings for his wife and children as well as for himself; on the walks and under the shady trees of 'the garden' he sauntered with his own, or, better still, a friend's wife, criticising the passers, describing the new comedy, or talking over the last ball given by a judge's lady. at times those gardens were pervaded by the calm of collegiate seclusion, but on 'open days' they were brisk with life. the women and children of the legal colony walked in them daily; the ladies attired in their newest fashions, and the children running with musical riot over lawns and paths. nor were the grounds mere places of resort for lawyers and their families. taking rank amongst the pleasant places of the metropolis, they attracted, on 'open days,' crowds from every quarter of the town--ladies and gallants from soho square and st. james's street, from whitehall and westminster; sightseers from the country and gorgeous alderwomic dowagers from cheapside. from the days of elizabeth till the middle, indeed till the close, of the eighteenth century the ornamental grounds of the four great inns were places of fashionable promenade, where the rank and talent and beauty of the town assembled for display and exercise, even as in our own time they assemble (less universally) in hyde park and kensington gardens. when ladies and children had withdrawn, the quietude of the gardens lured from their chambers scholars and poets, who under murmuring branches pondered the results of past study, or planned new works. ben jonson was accustomed to saunter beneath the elms of lincoln's inn; and steele--alike on 'open' and 'close' days--used to frequent the gardens of the same society. "i went," he writes in may, , "into lincoln's inn walks, and having taking a round or two, i sat down, according to the allowed familiarity of these places, on a bench." in the following november he alludes to the privilege that he enjoyed of walking there as "a favor that is indulged me by several of the benchers, who are very intimate friends, and grown in the neighborhood." but though on certain days, and under fixed regulations, the outside public were admitted to the college gardens, the assemblages were always pervaded by the tone and humor of the law. the courtiers and grand ladies from 'the west' felt themselves the guests of the lawyers; and the humbler folk, who by special grant had acquired the privilege of entry, or whose decent attire and aspect satisfied the janitors of their respectability, moved about with watchfulness and gravity, surveying the counsellors and their ladies with admiring eyes, and extolling the benchers whose benevolence permitted simple tradespeople to take the air side by side with 'the quality.' in , james ralph, in his 'new critical review of the publick buildings,' wrote about the square and gardens of lincoln's inn in a manner which testifies to the respectful gratitude of the public for the liberality which permitted all outwardly decent persons to walk in the grounds. "i may safely add," he says, "that no area anywhere is kept in better order, either for cleanliness and beauty by day, or illumination by night; the fountain in the middle is a very pretty decoration, and if it was still kept playing, as it was some years ago, 'twould preserve its name with more propriety." in his remarks on the chapel the guide observes, "the raising this chapel on pillars affords a pleasing, melancholy walk underneath, and by night, particularly, when illuminated by the lamps, it has an effect that may be felt, but not described." of the gardens mr. ralph could not speak in high praise, for they were ill-arranged and not so carefully kept as the square; but he observes, "they are convenient; and considering their situation cannot be esteemed to much. there is something hospitable in laying them open to public use; and while we share in their pleasures, we have no title to arraign their taste." the chief attraction of lincoln's inn gardens, apart from its beautiful trees, was for many years the terrace overlooking 'the fields,' which was made _temp._ car. ii. at the cost of nearly £ . dugdale, speaking of the recent improvements of the inn, says, "and the last was the enlargement of their garden, beautifying with a large tarras walk on the west side thereof, and raising the wall higher towards lincoln's inne fields, which was done in an. ( car. ii.), the charge thereof amounting to a little less than a thousand pounds, by reason that the levelling of most part of the ground, and raising the tarras, required such great labor." a portion of this terrace, and some of the old trees, were destroyed to make room for the new dining-hall. the old system supplied the barrister with other sources of recreation. within a stone's throw of his residence was the hotel where his club had its weekly meeting. either in hall, or with his family, or at a tavern near 'the courts,' it was his use, until a comparatively recent date, to dine in the middle of the day, and work again after the meal. courts sat after dinner as well as before; and it was observable that counsellors spoke far better when they were full of wine and venison than when they stated the case in the earlier part of the day. but in the evening the system told especially in the barrister's favor. all his many friends lying within a small circle, he had an abundance of congenial society. brother-circuiteers came to his wife's drawing-room for tea and chat, coffee and cards. there was a substantial supper at half-past eight or nine for such guests (supper cooked in my lady's little kitchen, or supplied by the 'society's cook'); and the smoking dishes were accompanied by foaming tankards of ale or porter, and followed by superb and richly aromatic bowls of punch. on occasions when the learned man worked hard and shut out visitors by sporting his oak, he enjoyed privacy as unbroken and complete as that of any library in kensington or tyburnia. if friends stayed away, and he wished for diversion, he could run into the chambers of old college-chums, or with his wife's gracious permission could spend an hour at chatelin's or nando's, or any other coffeehouse in vogue with members of his profession. during festive seasons, when the judges' and leaders' ladies gave their grand balls, the young couple needed no carriage for visiting purposes. from gray's inn to the temple they walked--if the weather was fine. when it rained they hailed a hackney-coach, or my lady was popped into a sedan and carried by running bearers to the frolic of the hour. of course the notes of the preceding paragraphs of this chapter are but suggestions as to the mode in which the artistic reader must call up the life of the old lawyers. encouraging him to realize the manners and usages of several centuries, not of a single generation, they do not attempt to entertain the student with details. it is needless to say that the young couple did not use hackney-coaches in times prior to the introduction of those serviceable vehicles, and that until sedans were invented my lady never used them. it is possible, indeed it is certain, that married ladies living in chambers occasionally had for neighbors on the same staircase women whom they regarded with abhorrence. sometimes it happened that a dissolute barrister introduced to his rooms a woman more beautiful than virtuous, whom he had not married, though he called her his wife. people can no more choose their neighbors in a house broken up into sets of chambers, than they can choose them in the street. but the cases where ladies were daily liable to meet an offensive neighbor on their common staircase were comparatively rare; and when the annoyance actually occurred, the discipline of the inn afforded a remedy. uncleanness too often lurked within the camp, but it veiled its face; and though in rare cases the error and sin of a powerful lawyer may have been notorious, the preccant man was careful to surround himself with such an appearance of respectability that society should easily feign ignorance of his offence. an elizabethan distich--familiar to all barristers, but too rudely worded for insertion in this page--informs us that in the sixteenth century gray's inn had an unenviable notoriety amongst legal hospices for the shamelessness of its female inmates. but the pungent lines must be regarded as a satire aimed at certain exceptional members, rather than as a vivacious picture of the general tone of morals in the society. anyhow the fact that gray's inn[ ] was alone designated as a home for infamy--whilst the inner temple was pointed to as the hospice most popular with rich men, the middle temple as the society frequented by templars of narrow means, and lincoln's inn as the abode of gentlemen--is, of itself, a proof that the pervading manners of the last three institutions were outwardly decorous. under the least favorable circumstances, a barrister's wife living in chambers, within or near lincoln's inn, or the temple, during charles ii.'s reign, fared as well in this respect as she would have done had fortune made her a lady-in-waiting at whitehall. a good story is told of certain visits paid to william murray's chambers at no. , king's bench walk temple, in the year . born in , murray was still a young man when in he made his brilliant speech in behalf of colonel sloper, against whom colley cibber's rascally son had brought an action for _crim. con._ with his wife--the lovely actress who was the rival of mrs. clive. amongst the many clients who were drawn to murray by that speech, sarah, duchess of marlborough, was neither the least powerful nor the least distinguished. her grace began by sending the rising advocate a general retainer, with a fee of a thousand guineas; of which sum he accepted only the two-hundredth part, explaining to the astonished duchess that "the professional fee, with a general retainer, could neither be less nor more than five guineas." if murray had accepted the whole sum he would not have been overpaid for his trouble; for her grace persecuted him with calls at most unseasonable hours. on one occasion, returning to his chambers after "drinking champagne with the wits," he found the duchess's carriage and attendants on king's bench walk. a numerous crowd of footmen and link-bearers surrounded the coach; and when the barrister entered his chambers he encountered the mistress of that army of lackeys. "young man," exclaimed the grand lady, eying the future lord mansfield with a look of warm displeasure, "if you mean to rise in the world, you must not sup out." on a subsequent night sarah of marlborough called without appointment at the same chambers, and waited till past midnight in the hope that she would see the lawyer ere she went to bed. but murray being at an unusually late supper-party, did not return till her grace had departed in an over-powering rage. "i could not make out, sir, who she was," said murray's clerk, describing her grace's appearance and manner, "for she would not tell me her name; _but she swore so dreadfully that i am sure she must be a lady of quality_." perhaps the inns of court may still shelter a few married ladies, who either from love of old-world ways, or from stern necessity, consent to dwell in their husbands' chambers. if such ladies can at the present time be found, the writer of this page would look for them in gray's inn--that straggling caravansary for the reception of money-lenders, bohemians, and eccentric gentlemen--rather than in the other three inns of court, which have undoubtedly quite lost their old population of lady-residents. but from those three hospices the last of the ladies must have retreated at a comparatively recent date. fifteen years since, when the writer of this book was a beardless undergraduate, he had the honor of knowing some married ladies, of good family and unblemished repute, who lived with their husbands in the middle temple. one of those ladies--the daughter of a country magistrate, the sister of a distinguished classic scholar--was the wife of a common law barrister who now holds a judicial appointment in one of our colonies. the women of her old home circle occasionally called on this young wife: but as they could not reach her quarters in sycamore court without attracting much unpleasant observation, their visits were not frequent. living in a barrack of unwed men, that charming girl was surrounded by honest fellows who would have resented as an insult to themselves an impertinence offered to her. still her life was abnormal, unnatural, deleterious; it was felt by all who cared for her that she ought not to be where she was; and when an appointment with a good income in a healthy and thriving colony was offered to her husband, all who knew her, and many who had never spoken to her, rejoiced at the intelligence. at the present time, in the far distant country which looks up to her as a personage of importance, this lady--not less exemplary as wife and mother than brilliant as a woman of society--takes pleasure in recalling the days when she was a prisoner in the temple. one of the last cases of married life in the temple, that came before the public notice, was that of a barrister and his wife who incurred obloquy and punishment for their brutal conduct to a poor servant girl. no one would thank the writer for re-publishing the details of that nauseous illustration of the degradation to which it is possible for a gentleman and scholar to sink. but, however revolting, the case is not without interest for the reader who is curious about the social life of the temple. the portion of the temple in which the old-world family life of the inns held out the longest, is a clump of commodious houses lying between the middle temple garden and essex street, strand. having their entrance-doors in essex street, these houses are, in fact, as private as the residences of any london quarter. the noise of the strand reaches them, but their occupants are as secure from the impertinent gaze or unwelcome familiarities of law-students and barristers' clerks, as they would be if they lived at st. john's wood. in essex street, on the eastern side, the legal families maintained their ground almost till yesterday. fifteen years since the writer of this page used to be invited to dinners and dances in that street--dinners and dances which were attended by prosperous gentlefolk from the west end of the town. at that time he often waltzed in a drawing-room, the windows of which looked upon the spray of the fountain--at which ruth pinch loved to gaze when its jet resembled a wagoner's whip. how all old and precious things pass away! the dear old 'wagoner's whip' has been replaced by a pert, perky squirt that will never stir the heart or brain of a future ruth. [ ] the scandalous state of gray's inn at this period is shown by the following passage in dugdale's 'origines:'--"in eliz. ( jan.) there was an order made that no laundress, nor women called victuallers, should thenceforth come into the gentlemen's chambers of this society, until they were full forty years of age, and not send their maid-servants, of what age soever, in the said gentlemen's chambers, upon penalty, for the first offence of him that should admit of any such, to be put out of commons: and for the second, to be expelled the house." the stringency and severity of this order show a determination on the part of the authorities to cure the evil. chapter iii. york house and powis house. whilst the great body of lawyers dwelt in or hard by the inns, the dignitaries of the judicial bench, and the more eminent members of the bar, had suitable palaces or mansions at greater or less distances from the legal hostelries. the ecclesiastical chancellors usually enjoyed episcopal or archiepiscopal rank, and lived in the london palaces attached to their sees or provinces. during his tenure of the seals, morton, bishop of ely, years before he succeeded to the archbishopric of canterbury, and received the honors of the cardinalate, grew strawberries in his garden on holborn hill, and lived in the palace surrounded by that garden. as archbishop of canterbury, chancellor warham maintained at lambeth palace the imposing state commemorated by erasmus. when wolsey made his first progress to the court of chancery in westminster hall, a progress already alluded to in these pages, he started from the archiepiscopal palace, york house or place--an official residence sold by the cardinal to henry viii. some years later; and when the same superb ecclesiastic, towards the close of his career, went on the memorable embassy to france, he set out from his palace at westminster, "passing through all london over london bridge, having before him of gentlemen a great number, three in rank in black velvet livery coats, and the most of them with great chains of gold about their necks." at later dates gardyner, whilst he held the seals, kept his numerous household at winchester house in southwark; and williams, the last clerical lord keeper, lived at the deanery, westminster. the lay chancellors also maintained costly and pompous establishments, apart from the inns of court. sir thomas more's house stood in the country, flanked by a garden and farm, in the cultivation of which ground the chancellor found one of his chief sources of amusement. in aldgate, lord chancellor audley built his town mansion, on the site of the priory of the canons of the holy trinity of christ church. wriothesley dwelt in holborn at the height of his unsteady fortunes, and at the time of his death. the infamous but singularly lucky rich lived in great st. bartholomew's, and from his mansion there wrote to the duke of northumberland, imploring that messengers might be sent to him to relieve him of the perilous trust of the great seal. christopher hatton wrested from the see of ely the site of holborn, whereon he built his magnificent palace. the reluctance with which the bishop of ely surrendered the ground, and the imperious letter by which elizabeth compelled the prelate to comply with the wish of her favorite courtier, form one of the humorous episodes of that queen's reign. hatton house rose over the soil which had yielded strawberries to morton; and of that house--where the dancing chancellor received elizabeth as a visitor, and in which he died of "diabetes _and_ grief of mind"--the memory is preserved by hatton garden, the name of the street where some of our wealthiest jewelers and gold assayers have places of business. public convenience had long suggested the expediency of establishing a permanent residence for the chancellors of england, when either by successive expressions of the royal will, or by the individual choice of several successive holders of the _clavis regni_, a noble palace on the northern bank of the thames came to be regarded as the proper domicile for the great seal. york house, memorable as the birthplace of francis bacon, and the scene of his brightest social splendor, demands a brief notice. wolsey's 'york house' or whitehall having passed from the province of york to the crown, nicholas heath, archbishop of york, established himself in another york house on a site lying between the strand and the river. in this palace (formerly leased to the see of norwich as a bishop's inn, and subsequently conferred on charles brandon by henry viii.) heath resided during his chancellorship; and when, in consequence of his refusal to take the oath of supremacy, elizabeth deprived him of his archbishopric, york house passed into the hands of her new lord keeper, sir nicholas bacon. on succeeding to the honors of the marble chair, hatton did not move from holborn to the strand; but otherwise all the holders of the great seal, from heath to francis bacon inclusive, seem to have occupied york house; heath, of course, using it by right as archbishop of york, and the others holding it under leases granted by successive archbishops of the northern province. so little is known of bromley, apart from the course which he took towards mary of scotland, that the memory of old york house gains nothing of interest from him. indeed it has been questioned whether he was one of its tenants. puckering, egerton, and francis bacon certainly inhabited it in succession. on bacon's fall it was granted to buckingham, whose desire to possess the picturesque palace was one of the motives which impelled him to blacken the great lawyer's reputation. seized by the long parliament, it was granted to lord fairfax. in the following generation it passed into the hands of the second duke of buckingham, who sold house and precinct for building-ground. the bad memory of the man who thus for gold surrendered a spot of earth sacred to every scholarly englishman is preserved in the names of _george_ street, _duke_ street, _villiers_ street, _buckingham_ street. the engravings commonly sold as pictures of the york house, in which lord bacon kept the seals, are likenesses of the building after it was pulled about, diminished, and modernized, and in no way whatever represent the architecture of the original edifice. amongst the art-treasures of the university of oxford, mr. hepworth dixon fortunately found a rough sketch of the real house, from which sketch mr. e.m. ward drew the vignette that embellishes the title-page of 'the story of lord bacon's life.' after the expulsion of the great seal from old york house, it wandered from house to house, manifesting, however, in its selections of london quarters, a preference for the grand line of thoroughfare between charing cross and the foot of ludgate hill. escaping from the westminster deanery, where williams kept it in a box, the _clavis regni_ inhabited durham house, strand, whilst under lord keeper coventry's care. lord keeper littleton, until he made his famous ride from london to york, lived in exeter house. clarendon resided in dorset house, salisbury court, fleet street, and subsequently in worcester house, strand, before he removed to the magnificent palace which aroused the indignation of the public in st. james's street. the greater and happier part of his official life was passed in worcester house. there he held councils in his bedroom when he was laid up with gout; there king charles visited him familiarly, even condescending to be present to the bedside councils; and there he was established when the great fire of london caused him, in a panic, to send his most valuable furniture to his villa at twickenham. thanet house, aldersgate street, is the residence with which shaftesbury, the politician, is most generally associated; but whilst he was lord chancellor he occupied exeter house, strand, formerly the abode of keeper littleton. lord nottingham slept with the seals under his pillow in great queen street, lincoln's inn fields, the same street in which his successor, lord guildford, had the establishment so racily described by his brother, roger north. and lord jeffreys moving westward, gave noisy dinners in duke street, westminster, where he opened a court-house that was afterwards consecrated as a place of worship, and is still known as the duke street chapel. says pennant, describing the chancellor's residence, "it is easily known by a large flight of stone steps, which his royal master permitted to be made into the park adjacent for the accommodation of his lordship. these steps terminate above in a small court, on three sides of which stands the house." the steps still remain, but their history is unknown to many of the habitual frequenters of the chapel. after jefferys' fall the spacious and imposing mansion, where the _bon-vivants_ of the bar used to drink inordinately with the wits and buffoons of the london theatres, was occupied by government; and there the lords of the admiralty had their offices until they moved to their quarters opposite scotland yard. narcissus luttrell's diary contains the following entry:--"april , . the late lord chancellor's house at westminster is taken for the lords of the admiralty to keep the admiralty office at." william iii., wishing to fix the holders of the great seal in a permanent official home, selected powis house (more generally known by the name of newcastle house), in lincoln's inn fields, as a residence for somers and future chancellors. the treasury minute books preserve an entry of september , , directing a privy seal to "discharge the process for the apprised value of the house, and to declare the king's pleasure that the lord keeper or lord chancellor for the time being should have and enjoy it for the accommodation of their offices." soon after his appointment to the seals, somers took possession of this mansion at the north-west corner of the fields; and after him lord keeper sir nathan wright, lord chancellor cowper, and lord chancellor harcourt used it as an official residence. but the arrangement was not acceptable to the legal dignitaries. they preferred to dwell in their private houses, from which they were not liable to be driven by a change of ministry or a grist of popular disfavor. in the year the mansion was therefore sold to john holles, duke of newcastle, to whom it is indebted for the name which it still bears. this large, unsightly mansion is known to every one who lives in london, and has any knowledge of the political and social life of the earlier georgian courtiers and statesmen. chapter iv. lincoln's inn fields. the annals of the legal profession show that the neighborhood of guildhall was a favorite place of residence with the ancient lawyers, who either held judicial offices within the circle of the lord mayor's jurisdiction, or whose practice lay chiefly in the civic courts. in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries there was quite a colony of jurists hard by the temple of gogmagog and cosineus--or gog and magog, as the grotesque giants are designated by the unlearned, who know not the history of the two famous effigies, which originally figured in an elizabethan pageant, stirring the wonder of the illiterate, and reminding scholars of two mythical heroes about whom the curious reader of this paragraph may learn further particulars by referring to michael drayton's 'polyolbion.' in milk street, cheapside, lived sir john more, judge in the court of king's bench; and in milk street, a.d. , was born sir john's famous son thomas, the chancellor, who was at the same time learned and simple, witty and pious, notable for gentle meekness and firm resolve, abounding with tenderness and hot with courage. richard rich--who beyond scroggs or jeffreys deserves to be remembered as the arch-scoundrel of the legal profession--was one of thomas more's playmates and boon companions for several years of their boyhood and youth. richard's father was an opulent mercer, and one of sir john's near neighbors; so the youngsters were intimate until master dick, exhibiting at an early age his vicious propensities, came to be "esteemed very light of his tongue, a great dicer and gamester, and not of any commendable fame." on marrying his first wife sir thomas more settled in a house in bucklersbury, the city being the proper quarter for his residence, as he was an under-sheriff of the city of london, in which character he both sat in the court of the lord mayor and sheriffs, and presided over a separate court on the thursday of each week. whilst living in bucklersbury he had chambers in lincoln's inn. on leaving bucklersbury he took a house in crosby place, from which he moved, in , to chelsea, in which parish he built the house that was eventually pulled down by sir hans sloane in the year . a generation later, sir nicholas bacon was living in noble street, foster lane, where he had built the mansion known as bacon house, in which he resided till, as lord keeper, he took possession of york house. chief justice bramston lived, at different parts of his career, in whitechapel; in philip lane, aldermanbury; and (after his removal from bosworth court) in warwick lane, sir john bramston (the autobiographer) married into a house in charterhouse yard, where his father, the chief justice, resided with him for a short time. but from an early date, and especially during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the more prosperous of the working lawyers either lived within the walls of the inns, or in houses lying near the law colleges. fleet street, the strand, holborn, chancery lane, and the good streets leading into those thoroughfares, contained a numerous legal population in the times between elizabeth's death and george iii.'s first illness. rich benchers and judges wishing for more commodious quarters than they could obtain at any cost within college-walls, erected mansions in the immediate vicinity of their inns; and their example was followed by less exalted and less opulent members of the bar and judicial bench. the great lord strafford first saw the light in chancery lane, in the house of his maternal grandfather, who was a bencher of lincoln's inn. lincoln's inn fields was principally built for the accommodation of wealthy lawyers; and in charles ii.'s reign queen street, lincoln's inn fields was in high repute with legal magnates. sir edward coke lived alternately in chambers, and in hatton house, holborn, the palace that came to him by his second marriage. john kelyng's house stood in hatton garden, and there he died in . in his mansion in lincoln's inn fields, sir harbottle grimston, on june , (shortly before his appointment to the mastership of the rolls, for which place he is said to have given clarendon £ ), entertained charles ii. and a grand gathering of noble company. after his marriage francis north took his high-born bride into chambers, which they inhabited for a short time until a house in chancery lane, near serjeants' inn, was ready for their use. on nov. , ,--the year of the fire of london, in which year hyde had his town house in the strand--glyn died in his house, in portugal row, lincoln's inn fields. on june , , henry pollexfen, chief justice of common pleas, expired in his mansion in lincoln's inn fields. these addresses--taken from a list of legal addresses lying before the writer--indicate with sufficient clearness the quarter of the town in which charles ii.'s lawyers mostly resided. under charles ii. the population of the inns was such that barristers wishing to marry could not easily obtain commodious quarters within college-walls. dugdale observes "that all but the benchers go two to a chamber: a bencher hath only the privilege of a chamber to himself." he adds--"if there be any one chamber consisting of two parts, and the one part exceeds the other in value, and he who hath the best part sells the same, yet the purchaser shall enter into the worst part; for it is a certain rule that the auntient in the chamber--_viz._, he who was therein first admitted, without respect to their antiquity in the house, hath his choice of either part." this custom of sharing chambers gave rise to the word 'chumming,' an abbreviation of 'chambering.' barristers in the present time often share a chamber--_i.e._, set of rooms. in the seventeenth century an utter-barrister found the half of a set of rooms inconveniently narrow quarters for himself and wife. by arranging privately with a non-resident brother of the long robe, he sometimes obtained an entire "chamber," and had the space allotted to a bencher. when he could not make such an arrangement, he usually moved to a house outside the gate, but in the immediate vicinity of his inn, as soon as his lady presented him with children, if not sooner. of course working, as well as idle, members of the profession were found in other quarters. some still lived in the city; others preferred more fashionable districts. roger north, brother of the lord keeper and son of a peer, lived in the piazza of covent garden, in the house formerly occupied lely the painter. to this house sir dudley north moved from his costly and dark mansion in the city, and in it he shortly afterwards died, under the hands of dr. radcliffe and the prosperous apothecary, mr. st. amand. "he had removed," writes roger, "from his great house in the city, and came to that in the piazza which sir peter lely formerly used, and i had lived in alone for divers years. we were so much together, and my incumbrances so small, that so large a house might hold us both." roger was a practicing barrister and recorder of bristol. during his latter years sir john bramston (the autobiographer) kept house in greek street, soho. in the time of charles ii. the wealthy lawyers often maintained suburban villas, where they enjoyed the air and pastimes of the country. when his wife's health failed, francis north took a villa for her at hammersmith, "for the advantage of better air, which he thought beneficial for her;" and whilst his household tarried there, he never slept at his chambers in town, "but always went home to his family, and was seldom an evening without company agreeable to him." in his latter years, chief justice pemberton had a rural mansion in highgate, where his death occurred on june , , in the th year of his age. a pleasant chapter might be written on the suburban seats of our great lawyers from the restoration down to the present time. lord mansfield's 'kenwood' is dear to all who are curious in legal _ana_. charles yorke had a villa at highgate, where he entertained his political and personal friends. holland, the architect, built a villa at dulwich for lord thurlow; and in consequence of a quarrel between the chancellor and the builder, the former took such a dislike to the house, that after its completion he never slept a night in it, though he often passed his holidays in a small lodge standing in the grounds of the villa. "lord thurlow," asked a lady of him, as he was leaving the queen's drawing-room, "when are you going into your new house?" "madam," answered the surly chancellor, incensed by her curiosity, "the queen has asked me that impudent question, and i would not answer her; i will not tell you." for years loughborough and erskine had houses in hampstead. "in lord mansfield's time," erskine once said to lord campbell, "although the king's bench monopolized all the common-law business, the court often rose at one or two o'clock--the papers, special, crown, and peremptory, being cleared; and then i refreshed myself by a drive to my villa at hampstead." it was on hampstead heath that loughborough, meeting erskine in the dusk, said, "erskine, you must not take paine's brief;" and received the prompt reply, "but i have been retained, and i will take it, by g-d!" much of that which is most pleasant in erskine's career occurred at his hampstead villa. of lord kenyon's weekly trips from his mansion in lincoln's inn fields to his farm-house at richmond notice has been taken in a previous chapter. the memory of charles abbott's hendon villa is preserved in the name, style, and title of lord tenterden, of hendon, in the county of middlesex. indeed, lawyers have for many generations manifested much fondness for fresh air; the impure atmosphere of their courts in past time apparently whetting their appetites for wholesome breezes. throughout the eighteenth century lincoln's inn fields, an open though disorderly spot, was a great place for the residence of legal magnates. somers, nathan wright, cowper, harcourt, successively inhabited powis house. chief justice parker (subsequently lord chancellor macclesfield) lived there when he engaged philip yorke (then an attorney's articled clerk, but afterwards lord chancellor of england) to be his son's law tutor. on the south side of the square, lord chancellor henley kept high state in the family mansion that descended to him on the death of his elder brother, and subsequently passed into the hands of the surgeons, whose modest but convenient college stands upon its site. wedderburn and erskine had their mansions in lincoln's inn fields, as well as their suburban villas. and between the lawyers of the restoration and the judges of george iii.'s reign, a large proportion of our most eminent jurists and advocates lived in that square and the adjoining streets; such as queen street on the west, serle street, carey street, portugal street, chancery lane, on the south and south-east. the reader, let it be observed, may not infer that this quarter was confined to legal residents. the lawyers were the most conspicuous and influential occupants; but they had for neighbors people of higher quality, who, attracted to the square by its openness, or the convenience of its site, or the proximity of the law colleges, made it their place of abode in london. such names as those of the earl of lindsey and the earl of sandwich in the seventeenth, and of the duke of ancaster and the duke of newcastle in the eighteenth century, establish the patrician character of the quarter for many years. moreover, from the books of popular antiquaries, a long list might be made of wits, men of science, and minor celebrities, who, though in no way personally connected with the law, lived during the same period under the shadow of lincoln's inn. whilst lincoln's inn fields took rank amongst the most aristocratic quarters of the town, it was as disorderly a square as could be found in all london. royal suggestions, the labors of a learned committee especially appointed by james i. to decide on a proper system of architecture, and inigo jones's magnificent but abortive scheme had but a poor result. in queen anne's reign, and for twenty years later, the open space of the fields was daily crowded with beggars, mountebanks, and noisy rabble; and it was the scene of constant uproar and frequent riots. as soon as a nobleman's coach drew up before one of the surrounding mansions, a mob of half-naked rascals swarmed about the equipage, asking for alms in alternate tones of entreaty and menace. pugilistic encounters, and fights resembling the faction fights of an irish row, were of daily occurrence there; and when the rabble decided on torturing a bull with dogs, the wretched beast was tied to a stake in the centre of the wide area, and there baited in the presence of a ferocious multitude, and to the diversion of fashionable ladies, who watched the scene from their drawing-room windows. the sacheverell outrage was wildest in this chosen quarter of noblemen and blackguards; and in george ii.'s reign, when sir joseph jekyll, the master of the rolls, made himself odious to the lowest class by his act for laying an excise upon gin, a mob assailed him in the middle of the fields, threw him to the ground, kicked him over and over, and savagely trampled upon him. it was a marvel that he escaped with his life; but with characteristic good humor, he soon made a joke of his ill-usage, saying that until the mob made him their football he had never been master of _all_ the _rolls_. soon after this outbreak of popular violence, the inhabitants enclosed the middle of the area with palisades, and turned the enclosure into an ornamental garden. describing the fields in , the year in which the obnoxious act concerning gin became law, james ralph says, "several of the original houses still remain, to be a reproach to the rest; and i wish the disadvantageous comparison had been a warning to others to have avoided a like mistake.... but this is not the only quarrel i have to lincoln's inn fields. the area is capable of the highest improvement, might be made a credit to the whole city, and do honor to those who live round it; whereas at present no place can be more contemptible or forbidding; in short, it serves only as a nursery for beggars and thieves, and is a daily reflection on those who suffer it to be in its abandoned condition." during the eighteenth century, a tendency to establish themselves in the western portion of the town was discernible amongst the great law lords. for instance, lord cowper, who during his tenure of the seals resided in powis house, during his latter years occupied a mansion in great george street, westminster--once a most fashionable locality, but now a street almost entirely given up to civil engineers, who have offices there, but usually live elsewhere. in like manner, lord harcourt, moving westwards from lincoln's inn fields, established himself in cavendish square. lord henley, on retiring from the family mansion in lincoln's inn fields, settled in grosvenor square. lord camden lived in hill street, berkeley square. on being entrusted with the sole custody of the seals, lord apsley (better known as lord chancellor bathurst) made his first state-progress to westminster hall from his house in dean street, soho; but afterwards moving farther west, he built apsley house (familiar to every englishman as the late duke of wellington's town mansion) upon the site of squire western's favorite inn--the 'hercules' pillars.' chapter v. the old law quarter. fifteen years since the writer of this page used to dine with a conveyancer--a lawyer of an old and almost obsolete school--who had a numerous household, and kept a hospitable table in lincoln's inn fields; but the conveyancer was almost the last of his species. the householding legal _resident_ of the fields, like the domestic resident of the temple, has become a feature of the past. among the ordinary nocturnal population of the square called lincoln's inn fields, may be found a few solicitors who sleep by night where they work by day, and a sprinkling of young barristers and law students who have residential chambers in grand houses that less than a century since were tenanted by members of a proud and splendid aristocracy; but the gentle families have by this time altogether disappeared from the mansions. but long before this aristocratic secession, the lawyers took possession of a new quarter. the great charm of lincoln's inn fields had been the freshness of the air which played over the open space. so also the recommendation of great queen street had been the purity of its rural atmosphere. built between and , that thoroughfare--at present hemmed in by fetid courts and narrow passages--caught the keen breezes of hampstead, and long maintained a character for salubrity as well as fashion. of those fine squares and imposing streets which lie between high holborn and hampstead, not a stone had been laid when the ground covered by the present freemason's tavern was one of the most desirable sites of the metropolis. indeed, the houses between holborn and great queen street were not erected till the mansions on the south side of the latter thoroughfare--built long before the northern side--had for years commanded an unbroken view of holborn fields. notwithstanding many gloomy predictions of the evils that would necessarily follow from over-building, london steadily increased, and enterprising architects deprived lincoln's inn fields and great queen street of their rural qualities. crossing holborn, the lawyers settled on a virgin plain beyond the ugly houses which had sprung up on the north of great queen street, and on the country side of holborn. speedily a new quarter arose, extending from gray's inn on the east to southampton row on the west, and lying between holborn and the line of ormond street, red lion street, bedford row, great ormond street, little ormond street, great james street, and little james street were amongst its best thoroughfares; in its centre was red lion square, and in its northwestern corner lay queen's square. steadily enlarging its boundaries, it comprised at later dates guildford street, john's street, doughty street, mecklenburgh square, brunswick square, bloomsbury square, russell square, bedford square--indeed, all the region lying between gray's inn lane (on the east), tottenham court road (on the west), holborn (on the south), and a line running along the north of the foundling hospital and 'the squares.' of course this large residential district was more than the lawyers required for themselves. it became and long remained a favorite quarter with merchants, physicians,[ ] and surgeons; and until a recent date it comprised the mansions of many leading members of the aristocracy. but from its first commencement it was so intimately associated with the legal profession that it was often called the 'law quarter;' and the writer of this page has often heard elderly ladies and gentlemen speak of it as the 'old law quarter.' although lawyers were the earliest householders in this new quarter, its chief architect encountered at first strong opposition from a section of the legal profession. anxious to preserve the rural character of their neighborhood, the gentlemen of gray's inn were greatly displeased with the proposal to lay out holborn fields in streets and squares. under date june , , narcissus luttrell wrote in his diary--"dr. barebone, the great builder, having some time since bought the red lyon fields, near graie's inn walks, to build on, and having for that purpose employed severall workmen to goe on with the same, the gentlemen of graie's inn took notice of it, and, thinking it an injury to them, went with a considerable body of persons; upon which the workmen assaulted the gentlemen, and flung bricks at them, and the gentlemen at them again. so a sharp engagement ensued, but the gentlemen routed them at last, and brought away one or two of the workmen to graie's inn; in this skirmish one or two of the gentlemen and servants of the house were hurt, and severall of the workmen." james ralph's remarks on the principal localities of this district are interesting. "bedford row," he says, "is one of the most noble streets that london has to boast of, and yet there is not one house in it which deserves the least attention." he tells us that "ormond street is another place of pleasure, and that side of it next the fields is, beyond question, one of the most charming situations about town." this 'place of pleasure' is now given up for the most part to hospitals and other charitable institutions, and to lodging-houses of an inferior sort. passing on to bloomsbury square, and speaking of the duke of bedford's residence, which stood on the north side of the square, he says, "then behind it has the advantage of most agreeable gardens, and a view of the country, which would make a retreat from the town almost unnecessary, besides the opportunity of exhibiting another prospect of the building, which would enrich the landscape and challenge new approbation." this was written in . at that time the years of two generations were appointed to pass away ere the removal of bedford house should make way for lower bedford place, leading into russell square. so late as the opening years of george iii.'s reign, queen's square enjoyed an unbroken prospect in the direction of highgate and hampstead. 'the foreigner's guide: or a necessary and instructive companion both to the foreigner and native, in their tours through the cities of london and westminster' ( ), contains the following passage:--"queen's square, which is pleasantly situated at the extreme part of the town, has a fine open view of the country, and is handsomely built, as are likewise the neighboring streets--viz., southampton row, ormond street, &c. in this last is powis house, so named from the marquis of powis, who built the present stately structure in the year . it is now the town residence of the earl of hardwicke, late lord chancellor. the apartments are noble, and the whole edifice is commendable for its situation, and the fine prospect of the country. not far from thence is bloomsbury square. this square is commendable for its situation and largeness. on the north side is the house of the duke of bedford. this building was erected from a design of inigo jones, and is very elegant and spacious." from the duke's house in bloomsbury square and his surrounding property, the political party, of which he was the chief, obtained the nickname of the bloomsbury gang. chief justice holt died march , , at his house[ ] in bedford row. in red lion square chief justice raymond had the town mansion wherein he died on april , ; twelve years after sir john pratt, lord camden's father, died at his house in ormond street. on december , , chief justice willes died at his house in bloomsbury square. chagrin at missing the seals through his own arrogance, when they had been actually offered to him, was supposed to be a principal cause of the chief justice's death. his friends represented that he died of a broken heart; to which assertion flippant enemies responded that no man ever had a heart after living seventy-four years. murray for many years inhabited a handsome house in lincoln's inn fields; but his name is more generally associated with bloomsbury square, where stood the house which was sacked and burnt by the gordon rioters. in bloomsbury square our grandfathers used to lounge, watching the house of edward law, subsequently lord ellenborough, in the hope of seeing mrs. law, as she watered the flowers of her balcony. mrs. law's maiden name was towry, and, as a beauty, she remained for years the rage of london. even at this date there remain a few aged gentlemen whose eyes sparkle and whose checks flush when they recall the charms of the lovely creature who became the wife of ungainly edward law, after refusing him on three separate occasions. on becoming lord ellenborough and chief justice, edward law moved to a great mansion in st. james's square, the size of which he described to a friend by saying: "sir, if you let off a piece of ordnance in the hall, the report is not heard in the bedrooms." in this house the chief justice expired, on december , . speaking of lord ellenborough's residence in st. james's square, lord campbell says: "this was the first instance of a common law judge moving to the 'west end.' hitherto all the common law judges had lived within a radius of half a mile from lincoln's inn; but they are now spread over the regent's park, hyde park gardens, and kensington gore." lord harwicke and lord thurlow have been more than once mentioned as inhabitants of ormond street. eldon's residences may be noticed with advantage in this place. on leaving oxford and settling in london, he took a small house for himself and mrs. scott in cursitor street, chancery lane. about this dwelling he wrote to his brother henry:--"i have got a house barely sufficient to hold my small family, which (so great is the demand for them here) will, in rent and taxes, cost me annually six pounds." to this house he used to point in the days of his prosperity, and, in allusion to the poverty which he never experienced, he would add, "there was my first perch. many a time have i run down from cursitor street to fleet market and bought sixpenn'orth of sprats for our supper." after leaving cursitor street, he lived in carey street, lincoln's inn fields, where also, in his later years, he believed himself to have endured such want of money that he and his wife were glad to fill themselves with sprats. when he fixed this anecdote upon carey street, the old chancellor used to represent himself as buying the sprats in clare market instead of fleet market. after some successful years he moved his household from the vicinity of lincoln's inn, and took a house in the law quarter, selecting one of the roomy houses (no. ) of gower street, where he lived when as attorney general he conducted the futile prosecutions of hardy, horne tooke, and thelwall, in . on quitting gower street, eldon took the house in bedford square, which witnessed so many strange scenes during his tenure of the seals, and also during his brief exclusion from office. in bedford square he played the part of chivalric protector to the princess of wales, and chuckled over the proof-sheets of that mysterious 'book' by the publication of which the injured wife and the lawyer hoped to take vengeance on their common enemy. there the chancellor, feeling it well to protract his flirtation with the princess of wales, entertained her in the june of , with a grand banquet, from which lady eldon was compelled by indisposition to be absent. and there, four years later, when he was satisfied that her royal highness's good opinion could be of no service to him, the crafty, self-seeking minister gave a still more splendid dinner to the husband whose vices he had professed to abhor, whose meanness of spirit he had declared the object of his contempt. "however," writes lord campbell, with much satiric humor, describing this alliance between the selfish voluptuary and the equally selfish lawyer, "he was much comforted by having the honor, at the prorogation, of entertaining at dinner his royal highness the regent, with whom he was now a special favorite, and who, enjoying the splendid hospitality of bedford square, forgot that the princess of wales had sat in the same room; at the same table; on the same chair; had drunk of the same wine; out of the same cup; while the conversation had turned on her barbarous usage, and the best means of publishing to the world _her_ wrongs and _his_ misconduct." another of the prince regent's visits to bedford square is surrounded with comic circumstances and associations. in the april of , a mastership of chancery became vacant by the death of mr. morris; and forthwith the chancellor was assailed with entreaties from every direction for the vacant post. for two months eldon, pursuing that policy of which he was a consummate master, delayed to appoint; but on june , he disgusted the bar and shocked the more intelligent section of london society, by conferring the post on jekyll, the courtly _bon vivant_ and witty descendant of sir joseph jekyll, master of the rolls. amiable, popular, and brilliant, jekyll received the congratulations of his numerous personal friends; but beyond the circle of his private acquaintance the appointment created lively dissatisfaction--dissatisfaction which was heightened rather than diminished by the knowledge that the placeman's good fortune was entirely due to the personal importunity of the prince regent, who called at the chancellor's house, and having forced his way into the bedroom, to which eldon was confined by an attack of gout, refused to take his departure without a promise that his friend should have the vacant place. how this royal influence was applied to the chancellor, is told in the 'anecdote book.' fortunately jekyll was less incompetent for the post than his enemies had declared, and his friends admitted. he proved a respectable master, and held his post until age and sickness compelled him to resign it; and then, sustained in spirits by the usual retiring pension, he sauntered on right mirthfully into the valley of the shadow of death. on the day after his retirement, the jocose veteran, meeting eldon in the street, observed:--"yesterday, lord chancellor, i was your master; to-day i am my own." from bedford square, lord eldon, for once following the fashion, moved to hamilton place, piccadilly. with the purpose of annoying him the 'queen's friends,' during the height of the 'queen caroline agitation,' proposed to buy the house adjoining the chancellor's residence in hamilton place, and to fit it up for the habitation of that not altogether meritorious lady. such an arrangement would have been an humiliating as well as exasperating insult to a lawyer who, as long as the excitement about the poor woman lasted, would have been liable to affront whenever he left his house or looked through the windows facing hamilton place. the same mob that delighted in hallooing round whatever house the queen honored with her presence, would have varied their 'hurrahs' for the lady with groans for the lawyer who, after making her wrongs the stalking-horse of his ambition, had become one of her chief oppressors. eldon determined to leave hamilton place on the day which should see the queen enter it; and hearing that the lords of the treasury were about to assist her with money for the purchase of the house, he wrote to lord liverpool, protesting against an arrangement which would subject him to annoyance at home and to ridicule out of doors. "i should," he wrote, "be very unwilling to state anything offensively, but i cannot but express my confidence that government will not aid a project which must remove the chancellor from his house the next hour that it takes effect, and from his office at the same time." this decided attitude caused the government to withdraw their countenance from the project; whereupon a public subscription was opened for its accomplishment. sufficient funds were immediately proffered; and the owner of the mansion had verbally made terms with the patriots, when the chancellor, outbidding them, bought the house himself. "i had no other means," he wrote to his daughter, "of preventing the destruction of my present house as a place in which i could live, or which anybody else would take. the purchase-money is large, but i have already had such offers, that i shall not, i think, lose by it." russell square--where lord loughborough (who knows aught of the earl of rosslyn?) had his town house, after leaving lincoln's inn fields, and where charles abbott (lord tenterden) established himself on leaving the house in queen square, into which he married during the summer of --maintained a quasi-fashionable repute much later than the older and therefore more interesting parts of the 'old law quarter.' theodore hook's disdain for bloomsbury is not rightly appreciated by those who fail to bear in mind that the russell square of hook's time was tenanted by people who--though they were unknown to 'fashion,' in the sense given to the word by men of brummel's habit and tone--had undeniable status amongst the aristocracy and gentry of england. with some justice the witty writer has been charged with snobbish vulgarity because he ridiculed humble bloomsbury for being humble. his best defence is found in the fact that his extravagant scorn was not directed at helpless and altogether obscure persons so much as at an educated and well-born class who laughed at his caricatures, and gave dinners at which he was proud to be present. though it fails to clear the novelist of the special charge, this apology has a certain amount of truth; and in so far as it palliates some of his offences against good taste and gentle feeling, by all means let him have the full benefit of it. criticism can afford to be charitable to the clever, worthless man, now that no one admires or tries to respect him. again, it may be advanced, in hook's behalf, that political animosity--a less despicable, though not less hurtful passion than love of gentility--contributed to hook's dislike of the quarter on the north side of holborn. as a humorist he ridiculed, as a panderer to fashionable prejudices he sneered at, bloomsbury; but as a tory he cherished a genuine antagonism to the district of town that was associated in the public mind with the wealth and ascendency of the house of bedford. anyhow, the russell square neighborhood--although it was no longer fashionable, as belgravia and mayfair are fashionable at the present day--remained the locality of many important families, at the time when mr. theodore hook was pleased to assume that no one above the condition of a rich tradesman or second-rate attorney lived in it. of the lawyers whose names are mournfully associated with the square itself are sir samuel romilly and sir thomas noon talfourd. in , the year of his destruction by his own hand, sir samuel romilly lived there; and talfourd had a house on the east side of the square up to the time of his lamented death in . that theodore hook's ridicule of bloomsbury greatly lessened for a time the value of its houses there is abundant evidence. when he deluged the district with scornful satire, his voice was a social power, to which a considerable number of honest people paid servile respect. his clever words were repeated; and bloomsbury having become a popular by-word for contempt, aristocratic families ceased to live, and were reluctant to invest money, in its well-built mansions. but hook only accelerated a movement which had for years been steadily though silently making progress. erskine knew red lion square when every house was occupied by a lawyer of wealth and eminence, if not of titular rank; but before he quitted the stage, barristers had relinquished the ground in favor of opulent shopkeepers. when an ironmonger became the occupant of a house in red lion square on the removal of a distinguished counsel, erskine wrote the epigram-- "this house, where once a lawyer dwelt, is now a smith's,--alas! how rapidly the iron age succeeds the age of brass." these lines point to a minor change in the social arrangements of london, which began with the century, and was still in progress when erskine had for years been mouldering in his grave. in , the year of erskine's death, chief baron richards expired in his town house, in great ormond street. in the july of the following year baron wood--_i.e._, george wood, the famous special pleader--died at his house in bedford square, about seventeen months after his resignation of his seat in the court of exchequer to john hullock. at the present time the legal fraternity has deserted bloomsbury. the last of the judges to depart was chief baron pollock, who sold his great house in queen square at a quite recent date. with the disappearance of this venerable and universally respected judge, the legal history of the neighborhood may be said to have closed. some wealthy solicitors still live in russell square and the adjoining streets; a few old-fashioned barristers still linger in upper bedford place and lower bedford place. guilford street and doughty street, and the adjacent thoroughfares of the same class, still number a sprinkling of rising juniors, literary barristers, and fairly prosperous attorneys. perhaps the ancient aroma of the 'old law quarter'--mesopotamia, us it is now disrespectfully termed--is still strong and pleasant enough to attract a few lawyers who cherish a sentimental fondness for the past. a survey of the post office directory creates an impression that, compared with other neighborhoods, the district north and northeast of bloomsbury square still possesses more than an average number of legal residents; but it no longer remains the quarter of the lawyers. there still resides in mecklenburgh square a learned queen's counsel, for whose preservation the prayers of the neighborhood constantly ascend. to his more scholarly and polite neighbors this gentleman is an object of intellectual interest and anxious affection. as the last of an extinct species, as a still animate dodo, as a lordly mohican who has outlived his tribe, this isolated counselor of her gracious majesty is watched by heedful eyes whenever he crosses his threshold. in the morning, as he paces from his dwelling to chambers, his way down doughty street and john street, and through gray's inn gardens, is guarded by men anxious for his safety. shreds of orange-peel are whisked from the pavement on which he is about to tread; and when he crosses holborn he walks between those who would imperil their lives to rescue him from danger. the gatekeeper in doughty street daily makes him low obeisance, knowing the historic value and interest of his courtly presence. occasionally the inhabitants of mecklenburgh square whisper a fear that some sad morning their q.c. may flit away without giving them a warning. long may it be before the residents of the 'old law quarter' shall wail over the fulfillment of this dismal anticipation! [ ] dr. clench lived in brownlow street, holborn; and until his death, in , john abernethy occupied in bedford row the house which is still inhabited by an eminent surgeon, who was abernethy's favorite pupil. of dr. clench's death in january, - , narcissus luttrell gives the following account: "the th, last night, dr. clench, the physician, was strangled in a coach; two persons came to his house in brownlow street, holborn, in a coach, and pretended to carry him to a patient's in the city; they drove backward and forward, and after some time stopt by leadenhall, and sent the coachman to buy a couple of fowls for supper, who went accordingly; and in the meantime they slipt away, and the coachman when he returned found dr. clench with a handkerchief tyed about his neck, with a hard sea-coal twisted in it, and clapt against his windpipe; he had spirits applied to him and other means, but too late, he having been dead some time." dr. clench's murderer, one mr. harrison, a man of gentle condition, was apprehended, tried, found guilty, and hung in chains. [ ] holt's country seat was redgrave hall, formerly the home of the bacons. it was on his manor of redgrave, that sir nicholas bacon entertained queen elizabeth, when she remarked that her lord keeper's house was too small for him, and he answered--"your majesty has made me too great for my house." part ii. loves of the lawyers. chapter vi. a lottery. "i would compare the multitude of women which are to be chosen for wives unto a bag full of snakes, having among them a single eel; now if a man should put his hand into this bag, he may chance to light on the eel; but it is an hundred to one he shall be stung by a snake." these words were often heard from the lips of that honest judge, sir john more, whose son thomas stirred from brain to foot by the bright eyes, and snowy neck, and flowing locks of _cara elizabetha_ (the _cara elizabetha_ of a more recent tom more was 'bessie, my darling')--penned those warm and sweetly-flowing verses which delight scholars of the present generation, and of which the following lines are neither the least musical nor the least characteristic:-- "jam subit illa dies quæ ludentem obtulit olim inter virgineos te mibi prima choros. lactea cum flavi decuerunt colla capilli, cum gena par nivibus visa, labella rosis: cum tua perstringunt oculos duo sydera nostros perque oculos intrant in mea corda meos." the goddess of love played the poet more than one droll trick. having approached her with musical flattery, he fled from her with fear and abhorrence. for a time the highest and holiest of human affections was to his darkened mind no more than a carnal appetite; and he strove to conquer the emotions which he feared would rouse within him a riot of impious passions. with fasting and cruel discipline he would fain have killed the devil that agitated him, whenever he passed a pretty girl in the street. as a lay carthusian he wore a hair-shirt next his skin, disciplined his bare back with scourges, slept on the cold ground or a hard bench, and by a score other strong measures sought to preserve his spiritual by ruining his bodily health. but nature was too powerful for unwholesome doctrine and usage, and before he rashly took a celibatic vow, he knelt to fair jane colt--and rising, kissed her on the lips. when spiritual counsel had removed his conscientious objections to matrimony, he could not condescend to marry for love, but must, forsooth, choose his wife in obedience to considerations of compassion and mercy. loving her younger sister, he paid his addresses to jane, because he shrunk from the injustice of putting the junior above the older of the two girls. "sir thomas having determined, by the advice and direction of his ghostly father, to be a married man, there was at that time a pleasant conceited gentleman of an ancient family in essex, one mr. john colt, of new hall, that invited him into his house, being much delighted in his company, proffering unto him the choice of any of his daughters, who were young gentlewomen of very good carriage, good complexions, and very religiously inclined; whose honest and sweet conversation and virtuous education enticed sir thomas not a little; and although his affection most served him to the second, for that he thought her the fairest and best favored, yet when he thought within himself that it would be a grief and some blemish to the eldest to have the younger sister preferred before her, he, out of a kind of compassion, settled his fancy upon the eldest, and soon after married her with all his friends' good liking." the marriage was a fair happy union, but its duration was short. after giving birth to four children jane died, leaving the young husband, who had instructed her sedulously, to mourn her sincerely. that his sorrow was poignant may be easily believed; for her death deprived him of a docile pupil, as well as a dutiful wife. "virginem duxit admodum puellam," erasmus says of his friend, "claro genere natam, rudem adhuc utpote ruri inter parentes ac sorores semper habitam, quo magis illi liceret illam ad suos mores fingere. hanc et literis instruendam curavit, et omni musices genere doctam reddidit." here is another insight into the considerations which brought about the marriage. when he set out in search of a wife, he wished to capture a simple, unsophisticated, untaught country girl, whose ignorance of the world should incline her to rely on his superior knowledge, and the deficiencies of whose intellectual training should leave him an ample field for educational experiments. seeking this he naturally turned his steps toward the eastern countries; and in essex he found the young lady, who to the last learnt with intelligence and zeal the lessons which he set her. more's second choice of a wife was less fortunate than his first. wanting a woman to take care of his children and preside over his rather numerous establishment, he made an offer to a widow, named alice middleton. plain and homely in appearance and taste, mistress alice would have been invaluable to sir thomas as a superior domestic servant, but his good judgment and taste deserted him when he decided to make her a closer companion. bustling, keen, loquacious, tart, the good dame scolded servants and petty tradesmen with admirable effect; but even at this distance of time the sensitive ear is pained by her sharp, garrulous tongue, when its acerbity and virulence are turned against her pacific and scholarly husband. a smile follows the recollection that he endeavored to soften her manners and elevate her nature by a system of culture similar to that by which jane colt, 'admodum puella,' had been formed and raised into a polished gentlewoman. past forty years of age, mistress alice was required to educate herself anew. erasmus assures his readers that "though verging on old age, and not of a yielding temper," she was prevailed upon "to take lessons on the lute, the cithara, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, which she daily practised to him." it has been the fashion with biographers to speak bitterly of this poor woman, and to pity more for his cruel fate in being united to a termagant. no one has any compassion for her. sir thomas is the victim; mistress alice the shrill virago. in those days, when every historic reprobate finds an apologist, is there no one to say a word in behalf of the widow middleton, whose lot in life and death seems to this writer very pitiable? she was quick in temper, slow in brain, domineering, awkward. to rouse sympathy for such a woman is no easy task; but if wretchedness is a title to compassion, mistress alice has a right to charity and gentle usage. it _was not_ her fault that she could not sympathize with her grand husband, in his studies and tastes, his lofty life and voluntary death; it _was_ her misfortune that his steps traversed plains high above her own moral and intellectual level. by social theory they were intimate companions; in reality, no man and woman in all england were wider apart. from his elevation he looked down on her with commiseration that was heightened by curiosity and amazement; and she daily writhed under his gracious condescension and passionless urbanity; under her own consciousness of inferiority and consequent self-scorn. he could no more sympathize with her petty aims, than she with the high views and ambitions; and conjugal sympathy was far more necessary to her than to him. his studious friends and clever children afforded him an abundance of human fellowship; his public cares and intellectual pursuits gave him constant diversion. he stood in such small need of her, that if some benevolent fairy had suddenly endowed her with grace, wisdom, and understanding, the sum of his satisfaction would not have been perceptibly altered. but apart from him she had no sufficient enjoyments. his genuine companionship was requisite for her happiness; but for this society nature had endowed her with no fitness. in the case of an unhappy marriage, where the unhappiness is not caused by actual misconduct, but is solely due to incongruity of tastes and capacities, it is cruel to assume that the superior person of the ill-assorted couple has the stronger claim to sympathy. finding his wife less tractable than he wished, more withheld his confidence from her, taking the most important steps of his life, without either asking for her advice, or even announcing the course which he was about to take. his resignation of the seals was announced to her on the day _after_ his retirement from office, and in a manner which, notwithstanding its drollery, would greatly pain any woman of ordinary sensibility. the day following the date of his resignation was a holiday; and in accordance with his usage the ex-chancellor, together with his household, attended service in chelsea church. on her way to church, lady more returned the greetings of her friends with a stateliness not unseemly at that ceremonious time in one who was the lady of the lord high chancellor. at the conclusion of service, ere she left her pew, the intelligence was broken to her in a jest that she had lost her cherished dignity. "and whereas upon the holidays during his high chancellorship one of his gentlemen, when the service of the church was done, ordinarily used to come to my lady his wife's pew-door, and say unto her '_madam, my lord is gone_,' he came into my lady his wife's pew himself, and making a low courtesy, said unto her, 'madam, my lord is gone,' which she, imagining to be but one of his jests, as he used many unto her, he sadly affirmed unto her that it was true. this was the way he thought fittest to break the matter unto his wife, who was full of sorrow to hear it." equally humorous and pathetic was that memorable interview between more and his wife in the tower, when she, regarding his position by the lights with which nature had endowed her, counseled him to yield even at that late moment to the king. "what the goodyear, mr. more!" she cried, bustling up to the tranquil and courageous man. "i marvel that you, who have been hitherto always taken for a wise man, will now so play the fool as to lie here in this close, filthy prison, and be content to be shut up thus with mice and rats, when you might be abroad at your liberty, with the favor and good-will both of the king and his council, if you would but do as the bishops and best learned of his realm have done; and, seeing you have at chelsea a right fair house, your library, your books, your gallery, and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might, in company with me, your wife, your children, and household, be merry, i muse what, in god's name, you mean, here thus fondly to tarry." having heard her out--preserving his good-humor, he said to her, with a cheerful countenance, "i pray thee, good mrs. alice, tell me one thing!" "what is it?" saith she, "is not this house as near heaven as my own?" sir thomas more was looking towards heaven. mistress alice had her eye upon the 'right fair house' at chelsea. chapter vii. good queen bess. amongst the eminent men who are frequently mentioned as notorious suitors for the personal affection of queen elizabeth, a conspicuous place is awarded to hatton, by the scandalous memoirs of his time and the romantic traditions of later ages. historians of the present generation have accepted without suspicion the story that hatton was elizabeth's amorous courtier, that the fanciful letters of 'lydds' were fervent solicitations for response to his passion; that he won her favor and his successive promotions by timely exhibition of personal grace and steady perseverance in flattery. campbell speaks of the queen and her chancellor as 'lovers;' and the view of the historian has been upheld by novelists and dramatic writers. the writer of this page ventures to reject a story which is not consistent with truth, and casts a dark suspicion on her who was not more powerful as a queen than virtuous as a woman. for illustrations of lovers' pranks amongst the elizabethan lawyers, the reader must pass to two great judges, the inferior of whom was a far greater man than christopher hatton. rivals in law and politics, bacon and coke were also rivals in love. having wooed the same proud, lovely, capricious, violent woman, the one was blessed with failure, and the other was cursed with success. until a revolution in the popular estimate of bacon was effected by mr. hepworth dixon's vindication of that great man, it was generally believed that love was no appreciable element in his nature. delight in vain display occupied in his affections the place which should have been held by devotion to womanly beauty and goodness; he had sneered at love in an essay, and his cold heart never rebelled against the doctrine of his clever brain; he wooed his notorious cousin for the sake of power, and then married alice barnham for money. such was the theory, the most solid foundation of which was a humorous treatise,[ ] misread and misapplied. the lady's wealth, rank, and personal attractions were in truth the only facts countenancing the suggestion that francis bacon proffered suit to his fair cousin from interested motives. notwithstanding her defects of temper, no one denies that she was a woman qualified by nature to rouse the passion of man. a wit and beauty, she was mistress of the arts which heighten the powers of feminine tact and loveliness. the daughter of sir thomas cecil, the grandchild of lord burleigh, she was francis bacon's near relation; and though the cecils were not inclined to help him to fortune, he was nevertheless one of their connection, and consequently often found himself in familiar conversation with the bright and fascinating woman. doubtless she played with him, persuading herself that she merely treated him with cousinly cordiality, when she was designedly making him her lover. the marvel was that she did not give him her hand; that he sought it is no occasion for surprise--or for insinuations that he coveted her wealth. biography is by turns mischievously communicative and vexatiously silent. that bacon loved sir william hatton's widow, and induced essex to support his suit, and that rejecting him she gave herself to his enemy, we know; but history tells us nothing of the secret struggle which preceded the lady's resolution to become the wife of an unalluring, ungracious, peevish, middle-aged widower. she must have felt some tenderness for her cousin, whose comeliness spoke to every eye, whose wit was extolled by every lip. perhaps she, like many others, had misread the essay 'of love,' and felt herself bound in honor to bring the philosopher to his knees at her feet. it is credible that from the outset of their sentimental intercourse, she intended to win and then to flout him. but coquetry cannot conquer the first laws of human feeling. to be a good flirt, a woman must have nerve and a sympathetic nature; and doubtless the flirt in this instance paid for her triumph with the smart of a lasting wound. is it fanciful to argue that her subsequent violence and misconduct, her impatience of control and scandalous disrespect for her aged husband, may have been in some part due to the sacrifice of personal inclination which she made in accepting coke at the entreaty of prudent and selfish relations--and to the contrast, perpetually haunting her, between what she was as sir edward's termagant partner, and what she might have been as francis bacon's wife? she consented to a marriage with edward coke, but was so ashamed of her choice, that she insisted on a private celebration of their union, although archbishop whitgift had recently raised his voice against the scandal of clandestine weddings, and had actually forbidden them. in the face of the primate's edict the ill-assorted couple were united in wedlock, without license or publication of banns, by a country parson, who braved the displeasure of whitgift, in order that he might secure the favor of a secular patron. the wedding-day was november , , the bridegroom's first wife having been buried on the th of the previous july.[ ] on learning the violation of his orders, the archbishop was so incensed that he resolved to excommunicate the offenders, and actually instituted for that purpose legal proceedings, which were not dropped until bride and bridegroom humbly sued for pardon, pleading ignorance of law in excuse of their misbehavior. the scandalous consequences of that marriage are known to every reader who has laughed over the more pungent and comic scenes of english history. whilst lady hatton gave masques and balls in the superb palace which came into her possession through marriage with sir christopher hatton's nephew, coke lived in his chambers, working at cases and writing the books which are still carefully studied by every young man who wishes to make himself a master of our law. in private they had perpetual squabbles, and they quarrelled with equal virulence and indecency before the world. the matrimonial settlement of their only and ill-starred daughter was the occasion of an outbreak on the part of husband and wife, that not only furnished diversion for courtiers but agitated the council table. of all the comic scenes connected with that unseemly _fracas_, not the least laughable and characteristic was the grand festival of reconciliation at hatton house, when lady hatton received the king and queen in holborn, and expressly forbade her husband to presume to show himself among her guests. "the expectancy of sir edward's rising," says a writer of the period,[ ] "is much abated by reason of his lady's liberty,[ ] who was brought in great honor to exeter house by my lord of buckingham from sir william craven's, whither she had been remanded, presented by his lordship to the king, received gracious usage, reconciled to her daughter by his majesty, and her house in holborn enlightened by his presence at a dinner, where there was a royal feast; and to make it more absolutely her own, express commandment given by her ladyship, that neither sir edward coke nor any of his servants should be admitted." if tradition may be credited, the law is greatly indebted to the class of women whom it was our forefathers' barbarous wont to punish with the ducking-stool. had coke been happy in his second marriage, it is assumed that he would have spent more time in pleasure and fewer hours at his desk, that the suitors in his court would have had less careful decisions, and that posterity would have been favored with fewer reports. if the inference is just, society may point to the commentary on littleton, and be thankful for the lady's unhappy temper and sharp tongue. in like manner the wits of the following century maintained that holt's steady application to business was a consequence of domestic misery. the lady who ruled his house in bedford row, is said to have been such a virago, that the chief justice frequently retired to his chambers, in order that he might place himself beyond reach of her voice. amongst the good stories told of radcliffe, the tory physician, is the tradition of his boast, that he kept lady holt alive out of pure political animosity to the whig chief justice. another eminent lawyer, over whose troubles people have made merry in the same fashion, was jeffrey gilbert, baron of the exchequer. at his death, october , , this learned judge left behind him that mass of reports, histories, and treatises by which he is known as one of the most luminous, as well as voluminous of legal writers. none of his works passed through the press during his life, and when their number and value were discovered after his departure to another world, it was whispered that they had been composed in hours of banishment from a hearth where a _scolding wife_ made misery for all who came within the range of her querulous notes. disappointed in his suit to his beautiful and domineering cousin, bacon let some five or six years pass before he allowed his thoughts again to turn to love, and then he wooed and waited for nearly three years more, ere, on a bright may day, he met alice barnham in marylebone chapel, and made her his wife in the presence of a courtly company. in the july of , he wrote to cecil:--"for this divulged and almost prostituted title of knighthood, i could, without charge by your honor's mean, be content to have it, both because of this late disgrace, and because i have three new knights in my mess in gray's inn commons, and because i have found out an alderman's daughter, a handsome maiden, to my liking. so as if your honor will find the time, i will come to the court from gorhambury upon any warning." this expression, 'an alderman's daughter,' contributed greatly, if it did not give rise to, the misapprehension that bacon's marriage was a mercenary arrangement. in these later times the social status of an alderman is so much beneath the rank of a distinguished member of the bar, that a successful queen's counsel, who should make an offer to the daughter of a city magistrate, would be regarded as bent upon a decidedly unambitious match; and if in a significant tone he spoke of the lady as 'an alderman's daughter' his words might be reasonably construed as a hint that her fortune atoned for her want of rank. but it never occurred to bacon's contemporaries to put such a construction on the announcement. far from using the words in an apologetic manner, the lover meant them to express concisely that alice barnham was a lady of suitable condition to bear a title as well as to become his bride. cecil regarded them merely as an assurance that his relative meditated a suitable and even advantageous alliance, just as any statesman of the present day would read an announcement that a kinsman, making his way in the law-courts, intended to marry 'an admiral's daughter' or a 'bishop's daughter.' that it was the reverse of a mercenary marriage, mr. hepworth dixon has indisputably proved in his eighth chapter of 'the story of lord bacon's life,' where he contrasts lady bacon's modest fortune with her husband's personal acquisitions and prospects. [ ] to readers who have no sense of humor and irony, the essay 'of love' unquestionably gives countenance to the theory that francis bacon was cold and passionless in all that concerned woman. of the many strange constructions put upon this essay, not the least amusing and perverse is that which would make it a piece of adroit flattery to elizabeth, who never permitted love "to check with business," though she is represented to have used it as a diversion in idle moments. if sir thomas more's 'utopia' had been published a quarter of a century after (the date of its appearance), a similar construction would have been put on the passage, which urges that lovers should not be bound by an indissoluble tie of wedlock, until mutual inspection has satisfied each of the contracting parties that the other does not labor under any grave personal defect. if it were possible to regard the passage containing this proposal as an interpolation in the original romance, it might then be regarded as an attempt to palliate henry viii.'s conduct to anne of cleves. [ ] when due allowance has been made for the difference between the usages of the sixteenth century and the present time, decency was signally violated by this marriage, which followed so soon upon mrs. coke's death, and still sooner upon the death of lady hatton's famous grandfather, at whose funeral the lawyer made the first overtures for her hand. mrs. coke died june , , and was buried at huntingfield, co. suffolk, july , . lord burleigh expired on august , of the same year. coke's first marriage was not unhappy; and on the death of his wife by that union, he wrote in his note-book:--"most beloved and most excellent wife, she well and happily lived, and, as a true handmaid of the lord, fell asleep in the lord, and now lives and reigns in heaven." in after years he often wished most cordially that he could say _as much_ for his second wife. [ ] strafford's letters and despatches, i. . [ ] lady hatton never used her second husband's name either before or after his knighthood. a good case, touching the customary right of a married lady to bear the name, and take her title from the rank of a former husband, is that of sir dudley north, charles ii.'s notorious sheriff of london. the son of an english peer, he married lady gunning, the widow of a wealthy civic knight, and daughter of sir robert cann, "a morose old merchant of bristol"--the same magistrate whom judge jeffreys, in terms not less just than emphatic, upbraided for his connection with, or to speak moderately, his connivance at, the bristol kidnappers. it might be thought that the merchant's daughter, on her marriage with a peer's son, would be well content to relinquish the title of lady gunning; but roger north tells us that his brother dudley accepted knighthood, in order that he might avoid giving offence to the city, and also, in order that his wife might be called lady north, and not lady gunning.--_vide life of the hon. sir dudley north._ after sir thomas wilde (subsequently lord truro), married augusta emma d'este, the daughter of the duke of sussex and lady augusta murray, that lady, of whose legitimacy sir thomas had vainly endeavored to convince the house of lords, retained her maiden surname. in society she was generally known as the princess d'este, and the bilious satirists of the inns of court used to speak of sir thomas as 'the prince.' it was said that one of wilde's familiar associates, soon after the lawyer's marriage, called at his house and asked if the princess d'este was at home. "no, sir," replied the servant, "the princess d'este is not at home, but the prince is!" that this malicious story obtained a wide currency is not wonderful; that it is a truthful anecdote the writer of this book would not like to pledge his credit. the case of sir john campbell and lady strathedon, was a notable instance of a lawyer and his wife bearing different names. raised to the peerage, with the title of baroness stratheden, the first lord abinger's eldest daughter was indebted to her husband for an honor that made him her social inferior. many readers will remember a droll story of a misapprehension caused by her ladyship's title. during an official journey, sir john campbell and baroness stratheden slept at lodgings which he had frequently occupied as a circuiteer. on the morning after his arrival, the landlady obtained a special interview with campbell, and in the baroness's absence thus addressed him, with mingled indignation and respectfulness:--"sir john campbell, i am a lone widow, and live by my good name. it is not in my humble place to be too curious about the ladies brought to my lodgings by counsellors and judges. it is not in me to make remarks if a counsellor's lady changes the color of her eyes, and her complexion every assizes. but, sir john, a gentleman ought not to bring a lady to a lone widow's lodgings, unless so long as he 'okkipies' the apartments he makes all honorable professions that the lady is his wife, and as such gives her the use of his name." chapter viii. rejected addresses. no lawyer of the second charles's time surpassed francis north in love of money, or was more firmly resolved not to marry, without due and substantial consideration. his first proposal was for the daughter of a gray's inn money-lender. usury was not a less contemptible vocation in the seventeenth century than it is at the present time; and most young barristers of gentle descent and fair prospects would have preferred any lot to the degradation of marriage with the child of the most fortunate usurer in charles ii.'s london. but the hon. francis north was placed comfortably _beneath_ the prejudices of his order and time of life. he was of noble birth, but quite ready to marry into a plebeian family; he was young, but loved money more than aught else. so his hearing was quickened and his blood beat merrily when, one fine morning, "there came to him a recommendation of a lady, who was an only daughter of an old usurer in gray's inn, supposed to be a good fortune in present, for her father was rich; but, after his death, to become worth, nobody could tell what." one would like to know how that 'recommendation of a lady' reached the lawyer's chambers; above all, who sent it? "his lordship," continues roger north, "got a sight of the lady, and did not dislike her; thereupon he made the old man a visit, and a proposal of himself to marry his daughter." by all means let this ingenuous, high-spirited templar have a fair judgment. he would not have sold himself to just any woman. he required a _maximum_ of wealth with a _minimum_ of personal repulsiveness. he therefore 'took a sight of the lady' (it does not appear that he talked with her) before he committed himself irrevocably by a proposal. the _sight_ having been taken, as he did not dislike her (mind, he did not positively like her) he made the old man a visit. loving money, and believing in it, this 'old man' wished to secure as much of it as possible for his only child; and therefore looking keenly at the youthful admirer of a usurer's heiress, "asked him what estate his father intended to settle upon him for present maintenance, jointure, and provision for children." mildly and not unjustly roger calls this "an inauspicious question." it was so inauspicious that mr. francis north abruptly terminated the discussion by wishing the usurer good-morning. so ended love affair no. . having lost his dear companion, mr. edward palmer, son of the powerful sir geoffry palmer, mr. francis north soon regarded his friend's wife with tender longing. it was only natural that he should desire to mitigate his sorrow for the dead by possession of the woman who was "left a flourishing widow, and very rich." but the lady knew her worth, as well she might, for "never was lady more closely besieged with wooers: she had no less than five younger sons sat down before her at one time, and she kept them well in hand, as they say, giving no definite answers to any of one of them." small respect did mistress edward palmer show her late husband's most intimate friend. for weeks she tortured the wretched, knavish fellow with coquettish tricks, and having rendered him miserable in many ways, made him ludicrous by jilting him. "he was held at the long saw above a month, doing his duty as well as he might, and that was but clumsily; for he neither dressed nor danced, when his rivals were adroit at both, and the lady used to shuffle her favors amongst them affectedly, and on purpose to mortify his lordship, and at the same time be as civil to him, with like purpose to mortify them." poor mr. francis! well may his brother write indignantly, "it was very grievous to him--that had his thoughts upon his clients' concerns, which came in thick upon him--to be held in a course of bo-peep play with a crafty widow." at length, "after a clancular proceeding," this crafty widow, by marrying "a jolly knight of a good estate," set her victims free; and mr. francis was at liberty to look elsewhere for a lapful of money. roger north tells the story of the third affair so concisely and pithily that his exact words must be put before the reader:--"another proposition came to his lordship," writes the fraternal biographer, giving francis north credit for the title he subsequently won, although at the time under consideration he was plain _mister_ north, on the keen look-out for the place of solicitor general, "by a city broker, from sir john lawrence, who had many daughters, and those reputed beauties; and the fortune was to be £ . his lordship went and dined with the alderman, and liked the lady, who (as the way is) was dressed out for a muster. and coming to treat, the portion shrank to £ , and upon that his lordship parted, and was not gone far before mr. broker (following) came to him, and said sir john would give £ more at the birth of the first child; but that would not do, for his lordship hated such screwing. not long after this dispute, his lordship was made the king's solicitor general, and then the broker came again, with news that sir john would give £ , . 'no,' his lordship said, 'after such usage he would not proceed if he might have £ , .'" the intervention of the broker in this negotiation is delightfully suggestive. more should have been said about him--his name, address, and terms for doing business. was he paid for his services on all that he could save from a certain sum beyond which his employer would not advance a single gold-piece for the disposal of his child? were there, in olden time, men who avowed themselves 'heart and jointure brokers, agents for lovers of both sexes, contractors of mutual attachments, wholesale and retail dealers in reciprocal affection, and general referees, respondents, and insurers in all sentimental affairs, clandestine or otherwise?' after these mischances francis north made an eligible match under somewhat singular circumstances. as co-heiresses of thomas, earl of down, three sisters, the ladies pope, claimed under certain settlements large estates of inheritance, to which lady elizabeth lee set up a counter claim. north, acting as lady elizabeth lee's counsel, effected a compromise which secured half the property in dispute to his client, and diminished by one-half the fortunes to which each of the three suitors on the other side had maintained their right. having thus reduced the estate of lady frances pope to a fortune estimated at about £ , , the lawyer proposed for her hand, and was accepted. after his marriage, alluding to his exertions in behalf of lady elizabeth lee's very disputable claim, he used to say that "he had been counsel against himself;" but roger north frankly admits that "if this question had not come to such a composition, which diminished the ladies' fortunes, his brother had never compassed his match." it was not without reluctance that the countess of downs consented to the union of her daughter with the lawyer who had half ruined her, and who (though he was solicitor general and in fine practice) could settle only £ upon the lady. "i well remember," observes roger, "the good countess had some qualms, and complained that she knew not how she could justify what she had done (meaning the marrying her daughters with no better settlement)." to these qualms francis north, with lawyer-like coolness, answered--"madam, if you meet with any question about that, _say_ that your daughter has £ per annum jointure." the marriage was celebrated in wroxton church; and after bountiful rejoicings with certain loyalist families of oxfordshire, the happy couple went up to london and lived in chambers until they moved into a house in chancery lane. it may surprise some readers of this book to learn that george jeffreys, the odious judge of the bloody circuit, was a successful gallant. tall, well-shaped, and endowed by nature with a pleasant countenance and agreeable features, jeffreys was one of the most fascinating men of his time. a wit and a _bon-vivant_, he could hit the humor of the roystering cavaliers who surrounded the 'merry monarch;' a man of gallantry and polite accomplishments, he was acceptable to women of society. the same tongue that bullied from the bench, when witnesses were perverse or counsel unruly, could flatter with such melodious affectation of sincerity, that he was known as a most delightful companion. as a musical connoisseur he spoke with authority; as a teller of good stories he had no equal in town. even those who detested him did not venture to deny that in the discharge of his judicial offices he could at his pleasure assume a dignity and urbane composure that well became the seat of justice. in short, his talents and graces were so various and effective, that he would have risen to the bench, even if he had labored under the disadvantages of pure morality and amiable temper. women declared him irresistible. at court he had the ear of nell gwyn and the duchess of portsmouth--the protestant favorite and the catholic mistress; and before he attained the privilege of entering whitehall--at a time when his creditors were urgent, and his best clients were the inferior attorneys of the city courts--he was loved by virtuous girls. he was still poor, unknown, and struggling with difficulties, when he induced an heiress to accept his suit,--the daughter of a rural squire whose wine the barrister had drunk upon circuit. this young lady was wooed under circumstances of peculiar difficulty; and she promised to elope with him if her father refused to receive him as a son-in-law. ill-luck befell the scheme; and whilst young jeffreys was waiting in the temple for the letter which should decide his movements, an intimation reached him that elopement was impossible and union forbidden. the bearer of this bad news was a young lady--the child of a poor clergyman--who had been the confidential friend and paid companion of the squire's daughter. the case was hard for jeffreys, cruel for the fair messenger. he had lost an advantageous match, she had lost her daily bread. furious with her for having acted as the _confidante_ of the clandestine lovers, the squire had turned this poor girl out of his house; and she had come to london to seek for employment as well as to report the disaster. jeffreys saw her overpowered with trouble and shame--penniless in the great city, and disgraced by expulsion from her patron's roof. seeing that her abject plight was the consequence of amiable readiness to serve him, jeffreys pitied and consoled her. most young men would have soothed their consciences and dried the running tears with a gift of money or a letter recommending the outcast to a new employer. as she was pretty, a libertine would have tried to seduce her. in jeffreys, compassion roused a still finer sentiment: he loved the poor girl and married her. on may , , sarah neesham was married to george jeffreys of the inner temple; and her father, in proof of his complete forgiveness of her _escapade_, gave her a fortune of £ --a sum which the poor clergyman could not well afford to bestow on the newly married couple. having outlived sarah neesham, jeffreys married again--taking for his second wife a widow whose father was sir thomas bludworth, ex-lord mayor of london. whether rumor treated her unjustly it is impossible to say at this distance of time; but if reliance may be put on many broad stories current about the lady, her conduct was by no means free from fault. she was reputed to entertain many lovers. jeffreys would have created less scandal if, instead of taking her to his home, he had imitated the pious sir matthew hale, who married his maid-servant, and on being twitted by the world with the lowliness of his choice, silenced his censors with a jest. amongst the love affairs of seventeenth-century lawyers place must be made for mention of the second wife whom chief justice bramston brought home from ireland, where she had outlived two husbands (the bishop of clogher and sir john brereton), before she gave her hand to the judge who had loved her in his boyhood. "when i see her," says the chief justice's son, who describes the expedition to dublin, and the return to london, "i confess i wondered at my father's love. she was low, fatt, red-faced; her dress, too, was a hat and ruff, which tho' she never changed to death. but my father, i believe, seeing me change countenance, told me it was not beautie, but virtue, he courted. i believe she had been handsome in her youth; she had a delicate, fine hand, white and plump, and indeed proved a good wife and mother-in-law, too." on her journey to charles i.'s london, this elderly bride, in her antiquated attire, rode from holyhead to beaumaris on a pillion behind her step-son. "as she rode over the sandes," records her step-son, "behind mee, and pulling off her gloves, her wedding ringe fell off, and sunk instantly. she caused her man to alight; she sate still behind me, and kept her eye on the place, and directed her man, but he not guessing well, she leaped off, saying she would not stir without her ringe, it being the most unfortunate thinge that could befall any one to lose the wedding-ringe--made the man thrust his hand into the sands (the nature of which is not to bear any weight but passing), he pulled up sand, but not the ringe. she made him strip his arme and put it deeper into the sand, and pulled up the ringe; and this done, he and shee, and all that stood still, were sunk almost to the knees, but we were all pleased that the ringe was found." in the legal circle of charles the second's london, lady king was notable as a virago whose shrill tongue disturbed her husband's peace of mind by day, and broke his rest at night. earning a larger income than any other barrister of his time, he had little leisure for domestic society; but the few hours which he could have spent with his wife and children, he usually preferred to spend in a tavern, beyond the reach of his lady's sharp querulousness. "all his misfortune," says roger north, "lay at home, in perverse consort, who always, after his day-labor done, entertained him with all the chagrin and peevishness imaginable; so that he went home as to his prison, or worse; and when the time came, rather than go home, he chose commonly to get a friend to go and sit in a free chat at the tavern, over a single bottle, till twelve or one at night, and then to work again at five in the morning. his fatigue in business, which, as i said, was more than ordinary to him, and his no comfort, or rather, discomfort at home, and taking his refreshment by excising his sleep, soon pulled him down; so that, after a short illness, he died." on his death-bed, however, he forgave the weeping woman, who, more through physical irritability than wicked design, had caused him so much undeserved discomfort; and by his last will and testament he made liberal provision for her wants. having made his will, "he said, i am glad it is done," runs the memoir of sir john king, written by his father, "and after took leave of his wife, who was full of tears; seeing it is the will of god, let us part quietly in friendship, with submissiveness to his will, as we came together in friendship by his will." chapter ix. "cicero" upon his trial. a complete history of the loves of lawyers would notice many scandalous intrigues and disreputable alliances, and would comprise a good deal of literature for which the student would vainly look in the works of our best authors. from the days of wolsey, whose amours were notorious, and whose illegitimate son became dean of wells, down to the present time of brighter though not unimpeachable morality, the domestic lives of our eminent judges and advocates have too frequently invited satire and justified regret. in the eighteenth century judges, without any loss of _caste_ or popular regard, openly maintained establishments that in these more decorous and actually better days would cover their keepers with obloquy. attention could be directed to more than one legal family in which the descent must be traced through a succession of illegitimate births. not only did eminent lawyers live openly with women who were not their wives, and with children whom the law declined to recognize as their offspring; but these women and children moved in good society, apparently indifferent to shame that brought upon them but few inconveniences. in great ormond street, where a mistress and several illegitimate children formed his family circle, lord thurlow was visited by bishops and deans; and it is said that in , when sir james mansfield, chief justice of the common pleas, was invited to the woolsack and the peerage, he was induced to decline the offer more by consideration for his illegitimate children than by fears for the stability of the new administration. speaking of lord thurlow's undisguised intercourse with mrs. hervey, lord campbell says, "when i first knew the profession, it would not have been endured that any one in a judicial situation should have had such a domestic establishment as thurlow's; but a majority of judges had married their mistresses. the understanding then was that a man elevated to the bench, if he had a mistress, must either marry her or put her away. for many years there has been no necessity for such an alternative." either lord campbell had not the keen appetite for professional gossip, with which he is ordinarily credited, or his conscience must have pricked him when he wrote, "for many years there has been no necessity for such an alternative." to show how far his lordship erred through want of information or defect of candor is not the duty of this page; but without making any statement that can wound private feeling, the present writer may observe that 'the understanding,' to which lord campbell draws attention, has affected the fortune of ladies within the present generation. that the bright and high-minded somers was the debauchee that mrs. manley and mr. cooksey would have us believe him is incredible. it is doubtful if mackey in his 'sketch of leading characters at the english court' had sufficient reasons for clouding his sunny picture of the statesman with the assertion that he was "something of a libertine." but there are occasions when prudence counsels us to pay attention to slander. having raised himself to the office of solicitor general, somers, like francis bacon, found an alderman's daughter to his liking; and having formed a sincere attachment for her, he made his wishes known to her father. miss anne bawdon's father was a wealthy merchant, styled sir john bawdon--a man proud of his civic station and riches, and thinking lightly of lawyers and law. when somers stated his property and projects, the rental of his small landed estate and the buoyancy of his professional income, the opulent knight by no means approved the prospect offered to his child. the lawyer might die in the course of twelve months; in which case the worcestershire estate would be still a small estate, and the professional income would cease. in twelve mouths mr. solicitor might be proved a scoundrel, for at heart all lawyers were arrant rogues; in which case matters would be still worse. having regarded the question from these two points of view, sir john bawdon gave somers his dismissal and married miss anne to a rich turkey merchant. three years later, when somers had risen to the woolsack, and it was clear that the rich turkey merchant would never be anything grander than a rich turkey merchant, sir john saw that he had made a serious blunder, for which his child certainly could not thank him. a goodly list might be made of cases where papas have erred and repented in sir john bawdon's fashion. sir john lawrence would have made his daughter a lord keeper's lady and a peeress, if he and his broker had dealt more liberally with francis north. had it not been for sir joseph jekyll's counsel, mr. cocks, the worcestershire squire, would have rejected philip yorke as an ineligible suitor, in which case _plain_ mrs. lygon would never have been lady hardwicke, and worked her husband's twenty purses of state upon curtains and hangings of crimson velvet. and, if he were so inclined, this writer could point to a learned judge, who in his days of 'stuff' and 'guinea fees' was deemed an ineligible match for a country apothecary's pretty daughter. the country doctor being able to give his daughter £ , , turned away disdainfully from the unknown 'junior,' who five years later was leading his circuit, and quickly rose to the high office which he still fills to the satisfaction of his country. disappointed in his pursuit of anne bawdon, somers never again made any woman an offer of marriage; but scandalous gossip accused him of immoral intercourse with his housekeeper. this woman's name was blount; and while she resided with the chancellor, fame whispered that her husband was still living. not only was somers charged with open adultery, but it was averred that for the sake of peace he had imprisoned in a madhouse his mistress's lawful husband, who was originally a worcester tradesman. the chief authority for this startling imputation is mrs. manley, who was encouraged, if not actually paid, by swift to lampoon his political adversaries. in her 'new atalantis'--the 'cicero' of which scandalous work was understood by its readers to signify 'lord somers,'--this shameless woman entertained quid-nuncs and women of fashion by putting this abominable story in written words, the coarseness of which accorded with the repulsiveness of the accusation. at a time when honest writers on current politics were punished with fine and imprisonment, the pillory and the whip, statesmen and ecclesiastics were not ashamed to keep such libellers as mrs. manley in their pay. that the reader may fully appreciate the change which time has wrought in the tone of political literature, let him contrast the virulence and malignity of this unpleasant passage from the new atalantis, with the tone which recently characterized the public discussion of the case which is generally known by the name of 'the edmunds scandal.' notwithstanding her notorious disregard of truth, it is scarcely credible that mrs. manley's scurrilous charge was in no way countenanced by facts. at the close of the seventeenth century to keep a mistress was scarcely regarded as an offence against good morals; and living in accordance with the fashion of the time, it is probable that somers did that which lord thurlow, after an interval of a century, was able to do without rousing public disapproval. had his private life been spotless, he would doubtless have taken legal steps to silence his traducer; and unsustained by a knowledge that he dared not court inquiry into his domestic arrangements, mrs. manley would have used her pen with greater caution. but all persons competent to form an opinion on the case have agreed that the more revolting charges of the indictment were the baseless fictions of a malicious and unclean mind. chapter x. brothers in trouble. in the 'philosophical dictionary,' voltaire, laboring under misapprehension or carried away by perverse humor, made the following strange announcement:--"il est public en angleterre, et on voudroit le nier en vain, que le chancelier cowper épousa deux femmes, qui vécurent ensemble dans sa maison avec une concorde singulière qui fit honneur à tous trois. plusieurs curieux ont encore le petit livre que ce chancelier composa en faveur de la polygamie." tickled by the extravagant credulity or grotesque malice of this declaration, an english wit, improving upon the published words, represented the frenchman as maintaining that the custodian of the great seal of england was called the _lord keeper_, because, by english law, he was permitted to keep as many wives as he pleased. the reader's amusement will not be diminished by a brief statement of the facts to which we are indebted for voltaire's assertions. william cowper, the first earl of his line, began life with a reputation for dissipated tastes and habits, and by unpleasant experience he learned how difficult it is to get rid of a bad name. the son of a hertfordshire baronet, he was still a law student when he formed a reprehensible connexion with an unmarried lady of that county--miss (or, as she was called by the fashion of the day mistress) elizabeth culling, of hertingfordbury park. but little is known of this woman. her age is an affair of uncertainty, and all the minor circumstances of her intrigue with young william cowper are open to doubt and conjecture; but the few known facts justify the inference that she neither merited nor found much pity in her disgrace, and that william erred through boyish indiscretion rather than from vicious propensity. she bore him two children, and he neither married her nor was required by public opinion to marry her. the respectability of their connexions gave the affair a peculiar interest, and afforded countenance to many groundless reports. by her friends it was intimated that the boy had not triumphed over the lady's virtue until he had made her a promise of marriage; and some persons even went so far as to assert that they were privately married. it is not unlikely that at one time the boy intended to make her his wife as soon as he should be independent of his father, and free to please himself. beyond question, however, is it that they were never united in wedlock, and that will cowper joined the home circuit with the tenacious fame of a scapegrace and _roué_. that he was for any long period a man of dissolute morals is improbable; for he was only twenty-four years of age when he was called to the bar, and before his call he had married (after a year's wooing) a virtuous and exemplary young lady, with whom he lived happily for more than twenty years. a merchant's child, whose face was her fortune--judith, the daughter of sir robert booth, is extolled by biographers for reclaiming her young husband from a life of levity and culpable pleasure. that he loved her sincerely from the date of their imprudent marriage till the date of her death, which occurred just about six months before his elevation to the woolsack, there is abundant evidence. judith died april , , and in the september of the following year the lord keeper married mary clavering, the beautiful and virtuous lady of the bedchamber to caroline wilhelmina dorothea, princess of wales. this lady was the countess cowper whose diary was published by mr. murray in the spring of ; and in every relation of life she was as good and noble a creature as her predecessor in william cowper's affection. of the loving terms on which she lived with her lord, conclusive testimony is found in their published letters and her diary. frequently separated by his professional avocations and her duties of attendance upon the princess of wales, they maintained, during the periods of personal severance, a close and tender intercourse by written words; and at all other times, in sickness not less than in health, they were a fondly united couple. one pathetic entry in the countess's diary speaks eloquently of their nuptial tenderness and devotion:--"april th, . after dinner we went to sir godfrey kneller's to see a picture of my lord, which he is drawing, and is the best that was ever done for him; it is for my drawing-room, and in the same posture that he watched me so many weeks in my great illness." lord cowper's second marriage was solemnized with a secrecy for which his biographers are unable to account. the event took place september, , about two months before his father's death, but it was not announced till the end of february, , at which time luttrell entered in his diary, "the lord keeper, who not long since was privately married to mrs. clavering of the bishoprick of durham, brought her home this day." mr. foss, in his 'judges of england,' suggests that the concealment of the union "may not improbably be explained by the lord keeper's desire not to disturb the last days of his father, who might perhaps have been disappointed that the selection had not fallen on some other lady to whom he had wished his son to be united." but this conjecture, notwithstanding its probability, is only a conjecture. unless they had grave reasons for their conduct, the lord keeper and his lady had better have joined hands in the presence of the world, for the mystery of their private wedding nettled public curiosity, and gave new life to an old slander. cowper's boyish _escapade_ was not forgotten by the malicious. no sooner had he become conspicuous in his profession and in politics, than the story of his intercourse with miss culling was told in coffee-rooms with all the exaggerations that prurient fancy could devise or enmity dictate. the old tale of a secret marriage--or, still worse, of a mock marriage--was caught from the lips of some hertford scandal-monger, and conveyed to the taverns and drawing-rooms of london. in taking sir robert booth's daughter to church, he was said to have committed bigamy. even while he was in the house of commons he was known by the name of 'will bigamy;' and that _sobriquet_ clung to him ever afterwards. twenty years of wholesome domestic intercourse with his first wife did not free him from the abominable imputation, and his marriage with miss clavering revived the calumny in a new form. fools were found to believe that he had married her during judith booth's life and that their union had been concealed for several years instead of a few months. the affair with miss culling was for a time forgotten, and the charge preferred against the keeper of the queen's conscience was bigamy of a much more recent date. in various forms this ridiculous accusation enlivens the squibs of the pamphleteers of queen anne's reign. in the 'new atalantis' mrs. manley certified that the fair victim was first persuaded by his lordship's sophistries to regard polygamy as accordant with moral law. having thus poisoned her understanding, he gratified her with a form of marriage, in which his brother spencer, in clerical disguise, acted the part of a priest. it was even suggested that the bride in this mock marriage was the lawyer's ward. never squeamish about the truth, when he could gain a point by falsehood, swift endorsed the spiteful fabrication, and in the _examiner_, pointing at lord cowper, wrote--"this gentleman, knowing that marriage fees were a considerable perquisite to the clergy, found out a way of improving them cent. per cent. for the benefit of the church. his invention was to marry a second wife while the first was alive; convincing her of the lawfulness by such arguments as he did not doubt would make others follow the same example. _these he had drawn up in writing with intention to publish for the general good, and it is hoped he may now have leisure to finish them._" it is possible that the words in italics were the cause of voltaire's astounding statement: "plusieurs curieux ont encore le petit livre que ce chancelier composa en faveur de la polygamie." on this point lord campbell, confidently advancing an opinion which can scarcely command unanimous assent, says, "the fable of the '_treatise_' is evidently taken from the panegyric on 'a plurality of wives,' which mrs. manley puts into the mouth of lord cowper, in a speech supposed to be addressed by hernando to lousia." but whether voltaire accepted the 'new atalantis,' or the _examiner_, as an authority for the statements of his very laughable passage, it is scarcely credible that he believed himself to be penning the truth. the most reasonable explanation of the matter appears to be, that tickled by swift's venomous lines, the sarcastic frenchman in malice and gaiety adopted them, and added to their piquancy by the assurance that the chancellor's book was not only published, but was preserved by connoisseurs as a literary curiosity. like his elder brother, the chancellor, spencer cowper married at an early age, lived to wed a second wife, and was accused of immorality that was foreign to his nature. the offence with which the younger cowper was charged, created so wide and profound a sensation, and gave rise to such a memorable trial, that the reader will like to glance at the facts of the case. born in , spencer cowper was scarcely of age when he was called to the bar, and made comptroller of the bridge house estate. the office, which was in the gift of the corporation of london, provided him with a good income, together with a residence in the bridge house, st. olave's, southwark, and brought him in contact with men who were able to bring him briefs or recommend him to attorneys. for several years the boy-barrister was thought a singularly lucky fellow. his hospitable house was brightened by a young and lovely wife (pennington, the daughter of john goodeve), and he was so much respected in his locality that he was made a justice of the peace. in his profession he was equally fortunate: his voice was often heard at westminster and on the home circuit, the same circuit where his brother william practised and his family interest lay. he found many clients. envy is the shadow of success; and the cowpers were watched by men who longed to ruin them. from the day when they armed and rode forth to welcome the prince of orange, the lads had been notably fortunate. notwithstanding his reputation for immorality william cowper had sprung into lucrative practice, and in was returned to parliament as representative for hartford, the other seat for the borough being filled by his father, sir william cowper. in spite of their comeliness and complaisant manners, the lightness of their wit and the _prestige_ of their success, hertford heard murmurs that the young cowpers were _too_ lucky by half, and that the cowper interest was dangerously powerful in the borough. it was averred that the cowpers were making unfair capital out of liberal professions: and when the hertford whigs sent the father and son to the house of commons, the vanquished party cursed in a breath the dutch usurper and his obsequious followers. it was resolved to damage the cowpers:--by fair means or foul, to render them odious in their native town. ere long the malcontents found a good cry. scarcely less odious to the hertford tories than the cowpers themselves was an influential quaker of the town, named stout, who actively supported the cowper interest. a man of wealth and good repute, this follower of george fox exerted himself enthusiastically in the election contest of : and in acknowledgment of his services the cowpers honored him with their personal friendship. sir william cowper asked him to dine at hertford castle--the baronet's country residence; sir william's sons made calls on his wife and daughter. of course these attentions from cowpers to 'the shaker' were offensive to the tory magnates of the place: and they vented their indignation in whispers, that the young men never entered stout's house without kissing his pretty daughter. while these rumors were still young, mr. stout died leaving considerable property to his widow, and to his only child--the beauteous sarah; and after his death the intercourse between the two families became yet more close and cordial. the lawyers advised the two ladies about the management of their property: and the baronet gave them invitations to his london house in hatton garden, as well as to hertford castle. the friendship had disastrous consequences. both the brothers were very fascinating men--men, moreover, who not only excelled in the art of pleasing, but who also habitually exercised it. from custom, inclination, policy, they were very kind to the mother and daughter; probably paying the latter many compliments which they would never have uttered had they been single men. coming from an unmarried man the speech is often significant of love, which on the lips of a husband is but the language of courtesy. but, unfortunately, miss ('mistress' is her style in the report of a famous trial) sarah stout fell madly in love with spencer cowper notwithstanding the impossibility of marriage. not only did she conceive a dangerous fondness for him, but she openly expressed it--by speech and letters. she visited him in the temple, and persecuted him with her embarrassing devotion whenever he came to hertford. it was a trying position for a young man not thirty years of age, with a wife to whom he was devotedly attached, and a family whose political influence in his native town might be hurt by publication of the girl's folly. taking his elder brother into his confidence, he asked what course he ought to pursue. to withdraw totally and abruptly from the two ladies, would be cruel to the daughter, insulting to the mother; moreover, it would give rise to unpleasant suspicions and prejudicial gossip in the borough. it was decided that spencer must repress the girl's advances--must see her loss frequently--and, by a reserved and frigid manner, must compel her to assume an appearance of womanly discretion. but the plan failed. at the opening of the year she invited him to take up his quarters in her mother's house, when he came to hertford at the next spring assizes. this invitation he declined, saying that he had arranged to take his brother's customary lodgings in the house of mr. barefoot, in the market place, but with manly consideration he promised to call upon her. "i am glad," sarah wrote to him on march , , "you have not quite forgot there is such a person as i in being: but i am willing to shut my eyes and not see anything that looks like unkindness in you, and rather content myself with what excuses you are pleased to make, than be inquisitive into what i must not know: i am sure the winter has been too unpleasant for me to desire the continuance of it: and i wish you were to endure the sharpness of it but for one short hour, as i have done for many long nights and days, and then i believe it would move that rocky heart of yours that can be so thoughtless of me as you are." on monday, march , following the date of the words just quoted, spencer cowper rode into hertford, alighted at mrs. stout's house, and dined with the ladies. having left the house after dinner, in order that he might attend to some business, he returned in the evening and supped with the two women. supper over, mrs. stout retired for the night, leaving her daughter and the young barrister together. no sooner had the mother left the room, than a distressing scene ensued. unable to control or soothe her, spencer gently divided the clasp of her hands, and having freed himself from her embrace, hastened from the room and abruptly left the house. he slept at his lodgings; and the next morning he was horror-struck on hearing that sarah stout's body had been found drowned in the mill-stream behind her old home. that catastrophe had actually occurred. scarcely had the young barrister reached the market place, when the miserable girl threw herself into the stream from which her lifeless body was picked on the following morning. at the coroner's inquest which ensued, spencer cowper gave his evidence with extreme caution, withholding every fact that could be injurious to sarah's reputation; and the jury returned a verdict that the deceased gentlewoman had killed herself whilst in a state of insanity. in deep dejection spencer cowper continued the journey of the circuit. but the excitement of the public was not allayed by the inquest and subsequent funeral. it was rumored that it was no case of self-murder, but a case of murder by the barrister, who had strangled his dishonored victim, and had then thrown her into the river. anxious to save their sect from the stigma of suicide the quakers concurred with the tories in charging the young man with a hideous complication of crimes. the case against spencer was laid before chief justice holt, who at first dismissed the accusation as absurd, but was afterwards induced to commit the suspected man for trial; and in the july of the charge actually came before a jury at the hertford assizes. four prisoners--spencer cowper, two attorneys, and a law-writer--were placed in the dock on the charge of murdering sarah stout. on the present occasion there is no need to recapitulate the ridiculous evidence and absurd misconduct of the prosecution in this trial; though criminal lawyers who wish to know what unfairness and irregularities were permitted in such inquiries in the seventeenth century cannot do better than to peruse the full report of the proceedings, which may be found in every comprehensive legal library. in this place it is enough to say that though the accusation was not sustained by a shadow of legal testimony, the prejudice against the prisoners, both on the part of a certain section of the hertford residents and the presiding judge, mr. baron hatsel, was such that the verdict for acquittal was a disappointment to many who heard it proclaimed by the foreman of the jury. narcissus luttrell, indeed, says that the verdict was "to the satisfaction of the auditors;" but in this statement the diarist was unquestionably wrong, so far as the promoters of the prosecution were concerned. instead of accepting the decision without demur, they attempted to put the prisoners again on their trial by the obsolete process of "appeal of murder;" but this endeavor proving abortive, the case was disposed of, and the prisoners' minds set at rest. the barrister who was thus tried on a capital charge, and narrowly escaped a sentence that would have consigned him to an ignominious death, resumed his practice in the law courts, sat in the house of commons and rose to be a judge in the court of common pleas. it is said that he "presided on many trials for murder; ever cautious and mercifully inclined--remembering the great peril which he himself had undergone." the same writer who aspersed somers with her unchaste thoughts, and reiterated the charge of bigamy against lord chancellor cowper, did not omit to give a false and malicious version to the incidents which had acutely wounded the fine sensibilities of the younger cowper. but enough notice has been taken of the 'new atalantis' in this chapter. to that repulsive book we refer those readers who may wish to peruse mrs. manley's account of sarah stout's death. a distorted tradition of sarah stout's tragic end, and of lord cowper's imputed bigamy, was contributed to an early number of the 'european' by a clerical authority--the rev. j. hinton, rector of alderton, in northamptonshire. "mrs. sarah stout," says the writer, "whose death was charged upon spencer cowper, was strangled accidentally by drawing the steenkirk too tight upon her neck, as she, with four or five young persons, were at a game of romp upon the staircase; but it was not done by mr. cowper, though one of the company. mrs. clavering, lord chancellor cowper's second wife, whom he married during the life of his first, was there too; they were so confounded with the accident, that they foolishly resolved to throw her into the water, thinking it would pass that she had drowned herself." this charming paragraph illustrates the vitality of scandal, and at the same time shows how ludicrously rumor and tradition mistell stories in the face of evidence. spencer cowper's second son, the rev. john cowper, d.d., was the father of william cowper, the poet. chapter xi. early marriages. notwithstanding his illustrious descent, simon harcourt raised himself to the woolsack by his own exertions, and was in no degree indebted to powerful relatives for his elevation. the son of a knight, whose loyalty to the house of stuart had impoverished his estate, he spent his student-days at pembroke, oxford, and the inner temple, in resolute labor, and with few indulgences. his father could make him but a slender allowance; and when he assumed the gown of a barrister, the future chancellor, like erskine in after years, was spurred to industry by the voices of his wife and children. whilst he was still an undergraduate of the university, he fell in love with rebecca clark, daughter of a pious man, of whose vocation the modern peerages are ashamed. sir philip harcourt (the chancellor's father) in spite of his loyalty quarrelled with the established church, and joined the presbyterians: and thomas clark was his presbyterian chaplain, secretary, and confidential servant. great was sir philip's wrath on learning that his boy had not only fallen in love with rebecca clark, but had married her privately. it is probable that the event lowered the worthy knight's esteem for the presbyterian system; but as anger could not cut the nuptial bond, the father relented--gave the young people all the assistance he could, and hoped that they would live long without repenting their folly. the match turned out far better than the old knight feared. taking his humble bride to modest chambers, young harcourt applied sedulously to the study of the law; and his industry was rewarded by success, and by the gratitude of a dutiful wife. in unbroken happiness they lived together for a succession of years, and their union was fruitful of children. harcourt fared better with his love-match than sergeant hill with his heiress, miss medlycott of cottingham, northamptonshire. on the morning of his wedding the eccentric sergeant, having altogether forgotten his most important engagement for the day, received his clients in chambers after his usual practice, and remained busy with professional cares until a band of devoted friends forcibly carried him to the church, where his bride had been waiting for him more than an hour. the ceremony having been duly performed, he hastened back to his chambers, to be present at a consultation. notwithstanding her sincere affection for him, the lady proved but an indifferent wife to the black-letter lawyer. empowered by act of parliament to retain her maiden-name after marriage, she showed her disesteem for her husband's patronymic by her mode of exercising the privilege secured to her by special law; and many a time the sergeant indignantly insisted that she should use his name in her signatures. "my name is hill, madam; my father's name was hill, madam; all the hills have been named hill, madam; hill is a good name--and by ----, madam, you _shall_ use it." on other matters he was more compliant--humoring her old-maidish fancies in a most docile and conciliating manner. curiously neat and orderly, mrs. medlycott took great pride in the faultlessness of her domestic arrangements, so far as cleanliness and precise order were concerned. to maintain the whiteness of the pipe-clayed steps before the front door of her bedford square mansion was a chief object of her existence; and to gratify her in this particular, sergeant hill use daily to leave his premises by the kitchen steps. having outlived the lady, hill observed to a friend who was condoling with him on his recent bereavement, "ay, my poor wife is gone! she was a good sort of woman--in _her_ way a _very_ good sort of woman. i do honestly declare my belief that in _her_ way she had no equal. but--but--i'll tell you something in confidence. if ever i marry again, _i won't marry merely for money_." the learned sergeant died in his ninety-third year without having made a second marriage. like harcourt, john scott married under circumstances that called forth many warm expressions of censure; and like harcourt, he, in after life, reflected on his imprudent marriage as one of the most fortunate steps of his earlier career. the romance of the law contains few more pleasant episodes than the story of handsome jack scott's elopement with bessie surtees. there is no need to tell in detail how the comely oxford scholar danced with the banker's daughter at the newcastle assemblies; how his suit was at first recognised by the girl's parents, although the scotts were but rich 'fitters,' whereas aubone surtees, esquire, was a banker and gentleman of honorable descent; how, on the appearance of an aged and patrician suitor for bessie's hand, papa and mamma told jack scott not to presume on their condescension, and counseled bessie to throw her lover over and become the lady of sir william blackett; how bessie was faithful, and jack was urgent; how they had secret interviews on tyne-side and in london, meeting clandestinely on horseback and on foot, corresponding privately by letters and confidential messengers; how, eventually, the lovers, to the consternation of 'good society' in newcastle, were made husband and wife at blackshiels, north britain. who is ignorant of the story? does not every visitor to newcastle pause before an old house in sandhill, and look up at the blue pane which marks the window from which bessie descended into her lover's arms? jack and bessie were not punished with even that brief period of suffering and uncertainty which conscientious novelists are accustomed, for the sake of social morals, to assign to run-away lovers before the merciful guardian or tender parent promises forgiveness and a liberal allowance, paid in quarterly installments. in his old age eldon used to maintain that their plight was very pitiable on the third morning after their rash union. "our funds were exhausted: we had not a home to go to, and we knew not whether our friends would ever speak to us again." in this strain ran the veteran's story, which, like all other anecdotes from the same source, must be received with caution. but even the old peer, ever ready to exaggerate his early difficulties, had not enough effrontery to represent that their dejection lasted more than three days. the fathers of the bride and bridegroom soon met and came to terms, and with the beginning of the new year bessie scott was living in new inn hall, oxford, whilst her husband read vinerian lectures, and presided over that scholastic house. the position of scott at this time was very singular. he was acting as substitute for sir robert chambers, the principal of new inn hall and vinerian professor of law, who contrived to hold his university preferments, whilst he discharged the duties of a judge in india. to give an honest color to this indefensible arrangement, it was provided that the lectures read from the vinerian chair should actually be written by the professor, although they were delivered by deputy. scott, therefore, as the professor's mouth-piece, on a salary of £ a year, with free quarters in the principal's house, was merely required to read a series of treatises sent to him by the absent teacher. "the law-professor," the ex-chancellor used to relate with true eldonian humor and _fancy_--"sent me the first lecture, which i had to read immediately to the students, and which i began without knowing a single word that was in it. it was upon the statute ( and p. and m. c. ), 'of young men running away with maidens.' fancy me reading, with about boys and young men all giggling at the professor! such a tittering audience no one ever had." if this incident really occurred on the occasion of his 'first reading,' the laughter must have been inextinguishable; for, of course, jack scott's run-away marriage had made much gossip in oxford common rooms, and the singular loveliness of his girlish wife (described by an eye-witness as being "so very young as to give the impression of childhood,") stirred the heart of every undergraduate who met her in high street. there is no harm done by laughter at the old chancellor's romantic fictions about the poverty which he and his bessie encountered, hand in hand, at the outset of life; for the laughter blinds no one to the genuine affection and wholesome honesty of the young husband and wife. one has reason to wish that marriages such as theirs were more frequent amongst lawyers in these ostentatious days. at present the young barrister, who marries before he has a clear fifteen hundred a year, is charged with reckless imprudence; and unless his wife is a woman of fortune, or he is able to settle a heavy sum of money upon her, his anxious friends terrify him with pictures of want and sorrow stored up for him in the future. society will not let him live after the fashion of 'juniors' eighty or a hundred years since. he must maintain two establishments--his chambers for business, his house in the west-end of town for his wife. moreover, the lady must have a brougham and liberal pin money, or four or five domestic servants and a drawing-room well furnished with works of art and costly decorations. they must give state dinners and three or four routs every season; and in all other matters their mode of life must be, or seem to be, that of the upper ten thousand. either they must live in this style, or be pushed aside and forgotten. the choice for them lies between very expensive society or none at all--that is to say, none at all amongst the rising members of the legal profession, and the sort of people with whom young barristers, from prudential motives, wish to form acquaintance. doubtless many a fair reader of this page is already smiling at the writer's simplicity, and is saying to herself, "here is one of the advocates of marriage on three hundred a year." but this writer is not going to advocate marriage on that or any other particular sum. from personal experience he knows what comfort a married man may have for an outlay of three or four hundred per annum; and from personal observation he knows what privations and ignominious poverty are endured by unmarried men who spend twice the larger of those sums on chamber-and-club life. he knows that there are men who shiver at the bare thought of losing caste by marriage with a portionless girl, whilst they are complacently leading the life which, in nine cases out of ten, terminates in the worst form of social degradation--matrimony where the husband blushes for his wife's early history, and dares not tell his own children the date of his marriage certificate. if it were his pleasure he could speak sad truths about the bachelor of modest income, who is rich enough to keep his name on the books of two fashionable clubs, to live in a good quarter of london, and to visit annually continental capitals, but far too poor to think of incurring the responsibilities of marriage. it could be demonstrated that in a great majority of instances this wary, prudent, selfish gentleman, instead of being the social success which many simple people believe him, is a signal and most miserable failure; that instead of pursuing a career of various enjoyments and keen excitements, he is a martyr to _ennui_, bored by the monotony of an objectless existence, utterly weary of the splendid clubs, in which he is presumed by unsophisticated admirers to find an ample compensation for want of household comfort and domestic affection: that as soon as he has numbered forty years, he finds the roll of his friends and cordial acquaintances diminish, and is compelled to retire before younger men, who snatch from his grasp the prizes of social rivalry; and that, as each succeeding lustre passes, he finds the chain of his secret disappointments and embarrassments more galling and heavy. it is not a question of marriage on three hundred a year without prospects, but a marriage on five or six hundred a year with good expectations. in the inns of court there are, at the present time, scores of clever, industrious fine-hearted gentlemen who have sure incomes of three or four hundred pounds per annum. in tyburnia and kensington there is an equal number of young gentlewomen with incomes varying between £ and £ a year. these men and women see each other at balls and dinners, in the parks and at theatres; the ladies would not dislike to be wives, the men are longing to be husbands. but that hideous tyrant, social opinion, bids them avoid marriage. in lord eldon's time the case was otherwise. society saw nothing singular or reprehensible in his conduct when he brought bessie to live in the little house in cursitor street. no one sneered at the young law-student, whose home was a little den in a dingy thoroughfare. at a later date, the rising junior, whose wife lived over his business chambers in carey street, was the object of no unkind criticism because his domestic arrangements were inexpensive, and almost frugal. had his success been tardy instead of quick and decisive, and had circumstances compelled him to live under the shadow of lincoln's inn wall for thirty years on a narrow income, he would not on that account have suffered from a single disparaging criticism. amongst his neighbors in adjacent streets, and within the boundaries of his inn, he would have found society for himself and wife, and playmates for his children. good fortune coming in full strong flood, he was not compelled to greatly change his plan of existence. even in those days, when costly ostentation characterized aristocratic society--he was permitted to live modestly--and lay the foundation of that great property which he transmitted to his ennobled descendants. when satire has done its worst with the miserly propensities of the great lawyer and his wife, their long familiar intercourse exhibits a wealth of fine human affection and genuine poetry which sarcasm cannot touch. often as he had occasion to regret lady eldon's peculiarities--the stinginess which made her grudge the money paid for a fish or a basket of fruit; the nervous repugnance to society, which greatly diminished his popularity; and the taste for solitude and silence which marked her painfully towards the close of her life--the chancellor never even hinted to her his dissatisfaction. when their eldest daughter, following her mother's example, married without the permission of her parents, it was suggested to lord eldon that her ladyship ought to take better care of her younger daughter, lady frances, and entering society should play the part of a vigilant _chaperon_. the counsel was judicious; but the chancellor declined to act upon it, saying,--"when she was young and beautiful, she gave up everything for me. what she is, i have made her; and i cannot now bring myself to compel her inclinations. our marriage prevented her mixing in society when it afforded her pleasure; it appears to give pain now, and why should i interpose?" in his old age, when she was dead, he visited his estate in durham, but could not find heart to cross the tyne bridge and look at the old house from which he took her in the bloom and tenderness of her girlhood. an urgent invitation to visit newcastle drew from him the reply--"i know my fellow-townsmen complain of my not coming to see them; but _how can i pass that bridge?_" after a pause, he added, "poor bessie! if ever there was an angel on earth she was one. the only reparation which one man can make to another for running away with his daughter, is to be exemplary in his conduct towards her." in pecuniary affairs not less prudent than his brother, lord stowell in matters of sentiment was capable of indiscretion. in the long list of legal loves there are not many episodes more truly ridiculous than the story of the older scott's second marriage. on april , , the decorous sir william scott, and louisa catharine, widow of john, marquis of sligo, and daughter of admiral lord howe, were united in the bonds of holy wedlock, to the infinite amusement of the world of fashion, and to the speedy humiliation of the bridegroom. so incensed was lord eldon at his brother's folly, that he refused to appear at the wedding; and certainly the chancellor's displeasure was not without reason, for the notorious absurdity of the affair brought ridicule on the whole of the scott family connexion. the happy couple met for the first time in the old bailey, when sir william scott and lord ellenborough presided at the trial of the marchioness's son, the young marquis of sligo, who had incurred the anger of the law by luring into his yacht, in mediterranean waters, two of the king's seamen. throughout the hearing of that _cause célèbre_, the marchioness sat in the fetid court of the old bailey, in the hope that her presence might rouse amongst the jury or in the bench feelings favorable to her son. this hope was disappointed. the verdict having been given against the young peer, he was ordered to pay a fine of £ , and undergo four months' incarceration in newgate, and--worse than fine and imprisonment--was compelled to listen to a parental address from sir william scott on the duties and responsibilities of men of high station. either under the influence of sincere admiration for the judge, or impelled by desire for vengeance on the man who had presumed to lecture her son in a court of justice, the marchioness wrote a few hasty words of thanks to sir william scott for his salutary exhortation to her boy. she even went so far as to say that she wished the erring marquis could always have so wise a counsellor at his side. this communication was made upon a slip of paper, which the writer sent to the judge by an usher of the court. sir william read the note as he sat on the bench, and having looked towards the fair scribe, he received from her a glance and smile that were fruitful of much misery to him. within four months the courteous sir william scott was tied fast to a beautiful, shrill, voluble termagant, who exercised marvellous ingenuity in rendering him wretched and contemptible. reared in a stately school of old-world politeness, the unhappy man was a model of decorum and urbanity. he took reasonable pride in the perfection of his tone and manner; and the marchioness--whose malice did not lack cleverness--was never more happy than when she was gravely expostulating with him, in the presence of numerous auditors, on his lamentable want of style, tact, and gentlemanlike bearing. it is said that, like coke and holt under similar circumstances, sir william preferred the quietude of his chambers to the society of an unruly wife, and that in the cellar of his inn he sought compensation for the indignities and sufferings which he endured at home. fifty years since the crusted port of the middle temple could soothe the heart at night, without paining the head in the morning. part iii. money. chapter xii. fees to counsel. from time immemorial popular satire has been equally ready to fix the shame of avarice upon divinity physic, and law; and it cannot be denied that in this matter the sarcasms of the multitude are often sustained by the indisputable evidence of history. the greed of the clergy for tithes and dues is not more widely proverbial than the doctor's thirst for fees, or the advocate's readiness to support injustice for the sake of gain. of guyllyam of horseley, physician to charles vi. of france, froissart says, "all his dayes he was one of the greatest nygardes that ever was;" and the chronicler adds, "with this rodde lightly all physicians are beaten." in his address to the sergeants who were called soon after his elevation to the marble chair, the lord keeper puckering, directing attention to the grasping habits which too frequently disgraced the leaders of the bar, observed: "i am to exhort you also not to embrace multitude of causes, or to undertake more places of hearing causes than you are well able to consider of or perform, lest thereby you either disappoint your clients when their causes be heard, or come unprovided, or depart when their causes be in hearing. for it is all one not to come, as either to come unprovided, or depart before it be ended." notwithstanding lingard's able defence of the cardinal, scholars are still generally of opinion that beaufort--the chancellor who lent money on the king's crown, the bishop who sold the pope's soldiers for a thousand marks--is a notable instance of the union of legal covetousness and ecclesiastical greed. the many causes which affect the value of money in different ages create infinite perplexity for the antiquarian who wishes to estimate the prosperity of the bar in past times; but the few disjointed data, that can be gathered from old records, create an impression that in the fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the ordinary fees of eminent counsel were by no means exorbitant, although fortunate practitioners could make large incomes. dugdale's 'baronage' describes with delightful quaintness william de beauchamp's interview with his lawyers when that noble (on the death of john hastings, earl of pembroke, _temp._ richard ii., without issue), claimed the earl's estates under an entail, in opposition to edward hastings, the earl's heir-male of the half-blood. "beauchamp," says dugdale, "invited his learned counsel to his house in paternoster row, in the city of london; amongst whom were robert charlton (then a judge), william pinchbek, william branchesley, and john catesby (all learned lawyers); and after dinner, coming out of his chapel, in an angry mood, threw to each of them a piece of gold, and said, 'sirs, i desire you forthwith to tell me whether i have any right or title to hastings' lordship and lands.' whereupon pinchbek stood up (the rest being silent, fearing that he suspected them), and said, 'no man here nor in england dare say that you have any right in them, except hastings do quit his claim therein; and should he do it, being now under age, it would be of no validitie.'" had charlton, the chief justice of the common pleas, taken gold for his opinion on a case put before him in his judicial character, he would have violated his judicial oath. but in the earl's house in paternoster row he was merely a counsellor learned in the law, not a judge. manifest perils attend a system which permits a judge in his private character to give legal opinions concerning causes on which he may be required to give judgment from the bench; but notwithstanding those perils, there is no reason for thinking that charlton on this occasion either broke law or etiquette. the fair inference from the matter is, that in the closing years of the fourteenth century judges were permitted to give opinions for money to their private clients, although they were forbidden to take gold or silver from any person having "plea or process hanging before them." in the year of our lord the corporation of canterbury paid for advice regarding their civic interests _s._ _d._ to each of three sergeants, and gave the recorder of london _s._ _d._ as a retaining-fee. five years later, mr. serjeant wood received a fee of _s._ from the goldsmiths' company; and it maybe fairly assumed, that so important and wealthy a body paid the sergeant on a liberal scale. in the sixteenth century it was, and for several generations had been, customary for clients to provide food and drink for their counsel. mr. foss gives his readers the following list of items, taken from a bill of costs, made in the reign of edward iv.:-- _s._ _d._ for a breakfast at westminster spent on our counsel to another time for boat-hire in and out, and a breakfast for two days in like manner the accountant of st. margaret's, westminster, entered in the parish books, "also, paid to roger fylpott, learned in the law, for his counsel given, _s._ _d._, with _d._ for his dinner." a yet more remarkable custom was that which enabled clients to hire counsel to plead for them at certain places, for a given time, in whatever causes their eloquence might be required. there still exists the record of an agreement by which, in the reign of henry vii., sergeant yaxley bound himself to attend the assizes at york, nottingham and derby, and speak in court at each of those places, whenever his client, sir robert plumpton--"that perpetual and always unfortunate litigant," as he is called by sergeant manning--required him to do so. this interesting document runs thus--"this bill, indented at london the th day of july, the th yeare of the reigne of king henry the th, witnesseth that john yaxley, sergeant-at-law, shall be at the next assizes to be holden at york, nottin., and derb., if they be holden and kept, and there to be of council with sir robert plumpton, knight, such assizes and actions as the said sir robert shall require the said john yaxley, for the which premises, as well as for his costs and his labours, john pulan, gentleman, bindeth him by thease presents to content and pay to the said john yaxley marks sterling at the feast of the nativetie of our lady next coming, or within eight days next following, with li paid aforehand, parcell of paiment of the said marks. provided alway that if the said john yaxley have knowledg and warning only to cum to nottin. and derby, then the said john yaxley is agread by these presents to take only xv li besides the li aforesaid. provided alwaies that if the said john yaxley have knowledg and warning to take no labour in this matter, then he to reteine and hold the said li resaived for his good will and labour. in witness hereof, the said john yaxley, serjeant, to the part of this indenture remaining with the said john pulan have put his seale the day and yeare above-written. provided also that the said robert plumpton shall beare the charges of the said john yaxley, as well at york as at nottingham and derby, and also to content and pay the said money to the said john yaxley comed to the said assizes att nott., derb., and york. john yaxley." this remarkable agreement--made after richard iii. had vainly endeavored to compose by arbitration the differences between sir robert and sir robert's heir-general--certifies that sir robert plumpton engaged to provide the sergeant with suitable entertainment at the assize towns, and also throws light upon the origin of retaining-fees. it appears from the agreement that in olden time a retaining fee was merely part (surrendered in advance) of a certain sum stipulated to be paid for certain services. in principle it was identical with the payment of the shilling, still given in rural districts, to domestic servants on an agreement for service, and with the transfer of the queen's shilling given to every soldier on enlistment. there is no need to mention the classic origin of this ancient mode of giving force to a contract. from the 'household and privy purse expenses of the le stranges of hunstanton,' published in the archæologia, may be gleamed some interesting particulars relating to the payment of counsel in the reign of henry viii. in , mr. cristofer jenney received from the le stranges a half-yearly fee of ten shillings; and this general retainer was continued on the same terms till , when the fee was raised from £ per annum to a yearly payment of £ _s._ _d._ to mr. knightley was paid the sum of _s._ _d._ "for his fee, and that money yt he layde oute for suying of simon holden;" and the same lawyer also received at another time _s._ _d._ "for his fee and cost of sute for iii termes." a fee of _s._ _d._ was paid to "mr. spelman, s'jeant, for his counsell in makyng my answer in ye duchy cham.;" and the same serjeant received a fee of _s._ _d._ "for his counsell in putting in of the answer." fees of _s._ _d._ were in like manner given "for counsell" to mr. knightley and mr. whyte; and in , mr. yelverton was remunerated "for his counsell" with the unusually liberal honorarium of twenty shillings. from the household book of the earl of northumberland, it appears that order was made, in this same reign, for "every oone of my lordes counsaill to have c's. fees, if he have it in household and not by patent." after the earl's establishment was reduced to forty-two persons, it still retained "one of my lordes counsaill for annswering and riddying of causes, whenne sutors cometh to my lord." at a time when every lord was required to administer justice to his tenants and the inferior people of his territory, a counsellor learned in the law, was an important and most necessary officer in a grand seigneur's retinue. whilst sir thomas more lived in bucklersbury, he "gained, without grief, not so little as £ by the year." this income doubtless accrued from the emoluments of his judicial appointment in the city, as well as from his practice at westminster and elsewhere. in henry viii.'s time it was a very considerable income, such as was equalled by few leaders of the bar not holding high office under the crown. in elizabeth's reign, and during the time of her successor, barristers' fees show a tendency toward increase; and the lawyers who were employed as advocates for the crown, or held judicial appointments, acquired princely incomes, and in some cases amassed large fortunes. fees of _s._ were more generally paid to counsel under the virgin queen, than in the days of her father; but still half that fee was not thought too small a sum for an opinion given by her majesty's solicitor general. indeed, the ten-shilling fee was a very usual fee in elizabeth's reign; and it long continued an ordinary payment for one opinion on a case, or for one speech in a cause of no great importance and of few difficulties. 'a barrister is like balaam's ass, only speaking when he sees the angel,' was a familiar saying in the seventeenth century. in chancery, however, by an ordinance of the lords commissioners passed in , to regulate the conduct of suits and the payments to masters, counsel, and solicitors, it was arranged that on the hearing of a cause, utter-barristers should receive £ fees, whilst the lord protector's counsel and sergeants-at-law should receive £ fees, _i.e._, 'double fees.' the archives of lyme regis show that under elizabeth the usage was maintained of supplying counsel with delicacies of the table, and also of providing them with means of locomotion. here are some items in an old record of disbursements made by the corporation of lyme regis:--"a.d. paid for wine carried with us to mr. poulett--£ _s._ _d._; wine and sugar given to mr. poulett, £ _s._ _d._; horse-hire, and for the sergeant to ride to mr. walrond, of bovey, and for a loaf of sugar, and for conserves given there to mr. poppel, £ _s._ _d._; wine and sugar given to judge anderson, £ _s._ _d._ a bottle and sugar given to mr. gibbs (a lawyer)." under elizabeth, the allowance made to queen's sergeants was £ _s._ _d._ for fee, reward, and robes; and £ . for his services whenever a queen's sergeant travelled circuit as justice of assize. the fee for her solicitor general was £ . when francis bacon was created king's counsel to james i., an annual salary of forty pounds was assigned to him from the royal purse; and down to william iv.'s time, king's counsel received a stipend of £ a year, and an allowance for stationery. under the last mentioned monarch, however, the stipend and allowance were both withdrawn; and at present the status of a q.c. is purely an affair of professional precedence, to which no fixed emolument is attached. but a list of the fees, paid from the royal purse to each judge or crown lawyer under james i., would afford no indication as to the incomes enjoyed by the leading members of the bench and bar at that period. the salaries paid to those officers were merely retaining fees, and their chief remuneration consisted of a large number of smaller fees. like the judges of prior reigns, king james's judges were forbidden to accept _presents_ from actual suitors; but no suitor could obtain a hearing from any one of them, until he had paid into court certain fees, of which the fattest was a sum of money for the judge's personal use. at one time many persons labored under an erroneous impression, that as judges were forbidden to accept presents from actual suitors, the honest judge of past times had no revenue besides his specified salary and allowance. like the king's judges, the king's counsellors frequently made great incomes by fees, though their nominal salaries were invariably insignificant. at a time when francis bacon was james's attorney general, and received no more than £ _s._ _d._ for his yearly salary, he made £ per annum in his profession; and of that income--a royal income in those days--the greater portion consisted of fees paid to him for attending to the king's business. "i shall now," bacon wrote to the king, "again make oblation to your majesty,--first of my heart, then of my service; thirdly, of my place of attorney, which i think is honestly worth £ per annum; and fourthly, of my place in the star chamber, which is worth £ per annum, and with the favor and countenance of a chancellor, much more." coke had made a still larger income during his tenure of the attorney's place, the fees from his private official practice amounting to no loss a sum than seven thousand pounds in a single year. at later periods of the seventeenth century barristers made large incomes, but the fees seem to have been by no means exorbitant. junior barristers received very modest payments, and it would appear that juniors received fees from eminent counsel for opinions and other professional services. whilst he acted as treasurer of the middle temple, at an early period of his career, whitelock received a fee from attorney general noy. "upon my carrying the bill," writes whitelock, "to mr. attorney general noy for his signature, with that of the other benchers, he was pleased to advise with me about a patent the king had commanded him to draw, upon which he gave me a fee for it out of his little purse, saying, 'here, take those single pence,' which amounted to eleven groats, 'and i give you more than an attorney's fee, because you will be a better man than the attorney general. this you will find to be true.' after much other drollery, wherein he delighted and excelled, we parted, abundance of company attending to speak to him all this time." of course the payment itself was no part of the drollery to which whitelock alludes, for as a gentleman he could not have taken money proffered to him in jest, unless etiquette encouraged him to look for it, and allowed him to accept it. the incident justifies the inference that the services of junior counsel to senior barristers--services at the present time termed 'devilling'--were formerly remunerated with cash payments. toward the close of charles i.'s reign--at a time when political distractions were injuriously affecting the legal profession, especially the staunch royalists of the long robe--maynard, the parliamentary lawyer, received on one round of the western circuit, £ , "which," observes whitelock, to whom maynard communicated the fact, "i believe was more than any one of our profession got before." concerning the incomes made by eminent counsel in charles ii.'s time, many _data_ are preserved in diaries and memoirs. that a thousand a year was looked upon as a good income for a flourishing practitioner of the 'merry monarch's' chancery bar, may be gathered from a passage in 'pepys's diary,' where the writer records the compliments paid to him regarding his courageous and eloquent defence of the admiralty, before the house of commons, in march, . under the influence of half-a-pint of mulled sack and a dram of brandy, the admiralty clerk made such a spirited and successful speech in behalf of his department, that he was thought to have effectually silenced all grumblers against the management of his majesty's navy. compliments flowed in upon the orator from all directions. sir william coventry pledged his judgment that the fame of the oration would last for ever in the commons; silver-tongued sir heneage finch, in the blandest tones, averred that no other living man could have made so excellent a speech; the placemen of the admiralty vied with each other in expressions of delight and admiration; and one flatterer, whose name is not recorded, caused mr. pepys infinite pleasure by saying that the speaker who had routed the accusers of a government office, might easily earn a thousand a year at the chancery bar. that sum, however, is insignificant when it is compared with the incomes made by the most fortunate advocates of that period. eminent speakers of the common law bar made between £ and £ per annum on circuit and at westminster, without the aid of king's business; and still larger receipts were recorded in the fee-books of his majesty's attorneys and solicitors. at the chancery bar of the second charles, there was at least one lawyer, who in one year made considerably more than four times the income that was suggested to pepys's vanity and self-complacence. at stanford court, worcestershire, is preserved a fee-book kept by sir francis winnington, solicitor-general to the 'merry monarch,' from december to january , , from the entries of which record the reader may form a tolerably correct estimate of the professional revenues of successful lawyers at that time. in easter term, , sir francis pocketed £ ; in trinity term £ s.; in michaelmas term £ ; and in hilary term , £ s.; the income for the year being £ , without his earnings on the oxford circuit and during vacation. in , sir francis received £ ; in , he earned £ ;[ ] and in --_i.e._, the first year of his tenure of the solicitor's office--his professional income wars £ , of which sum £ were office fees. concerning the attorney-general's receipts about this time, we have sufficient information from roger north, who records that his brother, whilst attorney general, made nearly seven thousand pounds in one year, from private and official business. it is noteworthy that north, as attorney general, made the same income which coke realized in the same office at the commencement of the century. but under the stuarts this large income of £ --in those days a princely revenue--was earned by work so perilous and fruitful of obloquy, that even sir francis, who loved money and cared little for public esteem, was glad to resign the post of attorney and retire to the pleas with £ a year. that the fees of the chancery lawyers under charles ii. were regulated upon a liberal scale we know from roger north, and the record of sir john king's success. speaking of his brother francis, the biographer says: "after he, as king's counsel, came within the bar, he began to have calls into the court of chancery; which he liked very well, because the quantity of the business, _as well as the fees_, was greater; but his home was the king's bench, where he sat and reported like as other practitioners." and in sir john king's memoirs it is recorded that in he made £ , and that he received from £ to £ a day during the last four days of his appearance in court. dying in ,[ ] whilst his supremacy in his own court was at its height, sir john king was long spoken of as a singularly successful chancery barrister. of francis north's mode of taking and storing his fees, the 'life of lord keeper guildford' gives the following picture: "his business increased, even while he was solicitor, to be so much as to have overwhelmed one less dexterous; but when he was made attorney general, though his gains by his office were great, they were much greater by his practice; for that flowed in upon him like an orage, enough to overset one that had not an extraordinary readiness in business. his skull-caps, which he wore when he had leisure to observe his constitution, as i touched before, were now destined to lie in a drawer to receive the money that came in by fees. one had the gold, another the crowns and half-crowns, and another the smaller money. when these vessels were full, they were committed to his friend (the hon. roger north), who was constantly near him, to tell out the cash, and put it into the bags according to the contents; and so they went to his treasurers, blanchard and child, goldsmiths, temple bar."[ ] in the days of wigs, skull-caps like those which francis north used as receptacles for money, were very generally worn by men of all classes and employments. on returning to the privacy of his home, a careful citizen usually laid aside his costly wig, and replaced it with a cheap and durable skull-cap, before he sat down in his parlor. so also, men careful of their health often wore skull-caps _under_ their wigs, on occasions when they were required to endure a raw atmosphere without the protection of their beavers. in days when the law-courts were held in the open hall of westminster, and lawyers practising therein, were compelled to sit or speak for hours together, exposed to sharp currents of cold air, it was customary for wearers of the long robe to place between their wigs and natural hair closely-fitting caps, made of stout silk or soft leather. but more interesting than the money-caps, are the fees which they contained. the ringing of the gold pieces, the clink of the crowns with the half-crowns, and the rattle of the smaller money, led back the barrister to those happier and remote times, when the 'inferior order' of the profession paid the superior order with 'money down;' when, the advocate never opened his mouth till his fingers had closed upon the gold of his trustful client; when 'credit' was unknown in transactions between counsel and attorney;--that truly _golden_ age of the bar, when the barrister was less suspicious of the attorney, and the attorney held less power over the barrister. having profited by the liberal payments of chancery whilst he was an advocate, lord keeper guildford destroyed one source of profit to counsel from which francis north, the barrister, had drawn many a capful of money. saith roger, "he began to rescind all motions for speeding and delaying the hearing of causes besides the ordinary rule of court; and this lopped off a limb of the motion practice. i have heard sir john churchill, a famous chancery practitioner, say, that in his walk from lincoln's inn down to the temple hall, where, in the lord keeper bridgman's time, causes and motions out of term were heard, he had taken £ . with breviates only for motions and defences for hastening and retarding hearings. his lordship said, that the rule of the court allowed time enough for any one to proceed or defend; and if, for special reasons, he should give way to orders for timing matters, it would let in a deluge of vexatious pretenses, which, true or false, being asserted by the counsel with equal assurance, distracted the court and confounded the suitors." let due honor be rendered to one caroline, lawyer, who was remarkable for his liberality to clients, and carelessness of his own pecuniary interests. from his various biographers, many pleasant stories may be gleaned concerning hale's freedom from base love of money. in his days, and long afterward, professional etiquette permitted clients and counsel to hold intercourse without the intervention of an attorney. suitors, therefore, frequently addressed him personally and paid for his advice with their own hands, just as patients are still accustomed to fee their doctors. to these personal applicants, and also to clients who approached him by their agents, he was very liberal. "when those who came to ask his counsel gave him a piece, he used to give back the half, and to make ten shillings his fee in ordinary matters that did not require much time or study." from this it may be inferred that whilst hale was an eminent member of the bar, twenty shillings was the usual fee to a leading counsel, and an angel the customary honorarium to an ordinary practitioner. as readers have already been told, the angel[ ] was a common fee in the seventeenth century; but the story of hale's generous usage implies that his more distinguished contemporaries were wont to look for and accept a double fee. moreover, the anecdote would not be told in hale's honor, if etiquette had fixed the double fee as the minimum of remuneration for a superior barrister's opinion. he was frequently employed in arbitration cases, and as an arbitrator he steadily refused payment for his services to legal disputants, saying, in explanation of his moderation, "in these cases i am made a judge, and a judge ought to take no money." the misapprehension as to the nature of an arbitrator's functions, displayed in these words, gives an instructive insight into the mental constitution of the judge who wrote on natural science, and at the same time exerted himself to secure the conviction of witches. a more pleasant and commendable illustration of his conscientiousness in pecuniary matters, is found in the steadiness with which he refused to throw upon society the spurious coin which he had taken from his clients. in a tone of surprise that raises a smile at the average morality of our forefathers, bishop burnet tells of hale: "another remarkable instance of his justice and goodness was, that when he found ill money had been put into his hands, he would never suffer it to be vented again; for he thought it was no excuse for him to put false money in other people's hands, because some had put it into his. a great heap of this he had gathered together, for many had so abused his goodness as to mix base money among the fees that were given him." in this particular case, the judge's virtue was its own reward. his house being entered by burglars, this accumulation of bad money attracted the notice of the robbers, who selected it from a variety of goods and chattels, and carried it off under the impression that it was the lawyer's hoarded treasure. besides large sums expended on unusual acts of charity, this good man habitually distributed amongst the poor a tithe of his professional earnings. in the seventeenth century, general retainers were very common, and the counsel learned in the law, were ready to accept them from persons of low extraction and questionable repute. indeed, no upstart deemed himself properly equipped for a campaign at court, until he had recorded a fictitious pedigree at the herald's college, taken a barrister as well as a doctor into regular employment, and hired a curate to say grace daily at his table. in the summer of his vile triumph, titus oates was attended, on public occasions, by a robed counsel and a physician. [ ] in his 'survey of the state of england in ,' macauley--giving one of those misleading references with which his history abounds--says: "a thousand a year was thought a large income for a barrister. two thousand a year was hardly to be made in the court of king's bench, except by crown lawyers." whilst making the first statement, he doubtless remembered the passage in 'pepys's diary.' for the second statement, he refers to 'layton's conversation with chief justice hale.' it is fair to assume that lord macauley had never seen sir francis winnington's fee-book. [ ] in the fourth day of his fever, he being att the chancery bar, he fell so ill of the fever, that he was forced to leave the court and come to his chambers in the temple, with one of his clerks, which constantly wayted on him and carried his bags of writings for his pleadings, and there told him that he should return to every clyent his breviat and his fee, for he could serve them no longer, for he had done with this world, and thence came home to his house in salisbury court, and took his bed.... and there he sequestered himself to meditation between god and his own soul, without the least regret, and quietly and patiently contented himself with the will of god.--_vide memoir of sir john king, knt., written by his father._ [ ] the lawyers of the seventeenth century were accustomed to make a show of their fees to the clients who called upon them. hudibras's lawyer (hud., part iii. cant. ) is described as sitting in state with his books and money before him: "to this brave man the knight repairs for counsel in his law affairs, and found him mounted in his pew, with books and money placed for shew, like nest-eggs, to make clients lay, and for his false, opinion pay: to whom the knight, with comely grace, put off his hat to put his case, which he as proudly entertain'd as the other courteously strain'd; and to assure him 'twas not that he looked for, bid him put on's hat." under victoria, the needy junior is compelled, for the sake of appearances, to furnish his shelves with law books, and cover his table with counterfeit briefs. under the stuarts, he placed a bowl of spurious money amongst the sham papers that lay upon his table. [ ] in the 'serviens ad legem,' mr. sergeant manning raises question concerning the antiquity of _guineas_ and half-guineas, with the following remarks:--"should any cavil be raised against this jocular allusion, on the ground that guineas and half-guineas were unknown to sergeants who flourished in the sixteenth century, the objector might be reminded, that in antique records, instances occur in which the 'guianois d'or,' issued from the ducal mint at bordeaux, by the authority of the plantagenet sovereigns of guienne, were by the same authority, made current among their english subjects; and it might be suggested that those who have gone to the coast of africa for the origin of the modern guinea, need not have carried their researches beyond the bay of biscay. _quære_, whether the guinea coast itself may not owe its name to the 'guianois d'or' for which it furnished the raw material." chapter xiii. retainers general and special. pemberton's fees for his services in behalf of the seven bishops show that the most eminent counsel of his time were content with very modest remuneration for advice and eloquence. from the bill of an attorney employed in that famous trial, it appears that the ex-chief justice was paid a retaining-fee of five guineas, and received twenty guineas with his brief. he also pocketed three guineas for a consultation. at the present date, thirty times the sum of these paltry payments would be thought an inadequate compensation for such zeal, judgment, and ability as francis pemberton displayed in the defence of his reverend clients. but, though lawyers were paid thus moderately in the seventeenth century, the complaints concerning their avarice and extortions were loud and universal. this public discontent was due to the inordinate exactions of judges and place-holders rather than to the conduct of barristers and attorneys; but popular displeasure seldom cares to discriminate between the blameless and the culpable members of an obnoxious system, or to distinguish between the errors of ancient custom and the qualities of those persons who are required to carry out old rules. hence the really honest and useful practitioners of the law endured a full share of the obloquy caused by the misconduct of venal justices and corrupt officials. counsel, attorneys, and even scriveners came in for abuse. it was averred that they conspired to pick the public pocket; that eminent conveyancers not less than copying clerks, swelled their emoluments by knavish tricks. they would talk for the mere purpose of protracting litigation, injure their clients by vexations and bootless delays, and do their work so that they might be fed for doing it again. draughtsmen find their clerks wrote loosely and wordily, because they were paid by the folio. "a term," writes the quaint author of 'saint hillaries teares,' in , "so like a vacation; the prime court, the chancery (wherein the clerks had wont to dash their clients out of countenance with long dashes); the examiners to take the depositions in hyperboles, and roundabout _robinhood_ circumstances with _saids_ and _aforesaids_, to enlarge the number of sheets." 'hudibras' contains, amongst other pungent satires against the usages of lawyers, an allusion to this characteristic custom of legal draughtsmen, who being paid by the sheet, were wont "to make 'twixt words and lines large gaps, wide as meridians in maps; to squander paper and spare ink, or cheat men of their words some think." in the following century the abuses consequent on the objectionable system of folio-payment were noticed in a parliamentary report (bearing date november , ), which was the most important result of an ineffectual attempt to reform the superior courts of law and to lessen the expenses of litigation. more is known about the professional receipts of lawyers since the revolution of than can be discovered concerning the incomes of their precursors in westminster hall. for six years, commencing with michaelmas term, , sir john cheshire, king's sergeant, made an average annual income of _l._ being then sixty-three years of age, he limited his practice to the common pleas, and during the next six years made in that one court _l._ per annum. mr. foss, to whom the present writer is indebted for these particulars with regard to sir john cheshire's receipts, adds: "the fees of counsel's clerks form a great contrast with those that are now demanded, being only threepence on a fee of half-a-guinea, sixpence for a guinea, and one shilling for two guineas." of course the increase of clerk's fees tells more in favor of the master than the servant. at the present time the clerk of a barrister in fairly lucrative practice costs his master nothing. bountifully paid by his employer's clients, he receives no salary from the counsellor whom he serves; whereas, in old times, when his fees were fixed at the low rate just mentioned, the clerk could not live and maintain a family upon them, unless his master belonged to the most successful grade of his order. horace walpole tells his readers that charles yorke "was reported to have received , guineas in fees;" but his fee-book shows that his professional rise was by no means so rapid as those who knew him in his sunniest days generally supposed. the story of his growing fortunes is indicated in the following statement of successive incomes:-- st year of practice at the bar, _l._ nd, _l._; rd and th, between _l._ and _l._ per annum; th, _l._; th, _l._; th, _l._; th, _l._; th, _l._ whilst solicitor general he made _l._ in ; and in the following year he earned _l._ his receipts during the last year of his tenure of the attorney generalship amounted to _l._ the reader should observe that as attorney general he made but little more than coke had realized in the same office,--a fact serving to show how much better paid were crown lawyers in times when they held office like judges during the sovereign's pleasure, than in these latter days when they retire from place together with their political parties. the difference between the incomes of scotch advocates and english barristers was far greater in the eighteenth century than at the present time, although in our own day the receipts of several second-rate lawyers of the temple and lincoln's inn far surpass the revenues of the most successful advocates of the edinburgh faculty. a hundred and thirty years since a scotch barrister who earned _l._ per annum by his profession was esteemed notably successful. just as charles yorke's fee-book shows us the pecuniary position of an eminent english barrister in the middle of the last century, john scott's list of receipts displays the prosperity of a very fortunate crown lawyer in the next generation. without imputing motives the present writer, may venture to say that lord eldon's assertions with regard to his earnings at the bar, and his judicial incomes, were not in strict accordance with the evidence of his private accounts. he used to say that his first year's earnings in his profession amounted to half-a-guinea, but there is conclusive proof that he had a considerable quantity of lucrative business in the same year. "when i was called to the bar," it was his humor to say, "bessie and i thought all our troubles were over, business was to pour in, and we were to be rich almost immediately. so i made a bargain with her that during the following year all the money i should receive in the first eleven months should be mine, and whatever i should get in the twelfth month should be hers. that was our agreement, and how do you think it turned out? in the twelfth month i received half-a-guinea--eighteenpence went for charity, and bessy got nine shillings. in the other eleven months i got one shilling." john scott, be it remembered, was called to the bar on february , , and on october , of the same year, william scott wrote to his brother henry--"my brother jack seems highly pleased with his circuit business. i hope it is only the beginning of future triumphs. all appearances speak strongly in his favor." there is no need to call evidence to show that eldon's success was more than respectable from the outset of his career, and that he had not been called many years before he was in the foremost rank of his profession. his fee-book gives the following account of his receipts in thirteen successive years:-- , _l._ _s._; , _l._ _s._; , _l._ _s._; , _l._ _s._; , _l._ _s._; , , _l._ _s._ _d._; , _l._ _s._; , , _l._ _s._ _d._; , , _l._; , , _l._ _s._ _d._; , , _l._ _s._ _d._; , , _l._ _s._ _d_; , , _l._ _s._ during the last six of the above-mentioned years he was attorney general, and during the preceding four years solicitor general. although general retainers are much less general than formerly, they are by no means obsolete. noblemen could be mentioned who at the present time engage counsel with periodical payments, special fees of course being also paid for each professional service. but the custom is dying out, and it is probable that after the lapse of another hundred years it will not survive save amongst the usages of ancient corporations. notice has already been taken of murray's conduct when he returned nine hundred and ninety-five out of a thousand guineas to the duchess of marlborough, informing her that the professional fee with the general retainer was neither more nor less than five guineas. the annual salary of a queen's counsel in past times was in fact a fee with a general retainer; but this periodic payment is no longer made to wearers of silk. in his learned work on 'the judges of england,' mr. foss observes: "the custom of retaining counsel in fee lingered in form, at least in one ducal establishment. by a formal deed-poll between the proud duke of somerset and sir thomas parker, dated july , , the duke retains him as his 'standing counsell in ffee,' and gives and allows him 'the yearly ffee of four markes, to be paid by my solicitor' at michaelmas, 'to continue during my will and pleasure.'" doubtless mr. foss is aware that this custom still 'lingers in form;' but the tone of his words justifies the opinion that he underrates the frequency with which general retainers are still given. the 'standing counsel' of civic and commercial companies are counsel with general retainers, and usually their general retainers have fees attached to them. the payments of english barristers have varied much more than the remunerations of english physicians. whereas medical practitioners in every age have received a certain definite sum for each consultation, and have been forbidden by etiquette to charge more or less than the fixed rate, lawyers have been allowed much freedom in estimating the worth of their labor. this difference between the usages of the two professions is mainly due to the fact, that the amount of time and mental effort demanded by patients at each visit or consultation is very nearly the same in all cases, whereas the requirements of clients are much more various. to get up the facts of a law-case may be the work of minutes, or hours, or days, or even weeks; to observe the symptoms of a patient, and to write a prescription, can be always accomplished within the limits of a short morning call. in all times, however, the legal profession has adopted certain scales of payment--that fixed the _minimum_ of remuneration, but left the advocate free to get more, as circumstances might encourage him to raise his demands. of the many good stories told of artifices by which barristers have delicately intimated their desire for higher payment, none is better than an anecdote recorded of sergeant hill. a troublesome case being laid before this most erudite of george iii.'s sergeants, he returned it with a brief note, that he "saw more difficulty in the case than, _under all the circumstances_, he could well solve." as the fee marked upon the case was only a guinea, the attorney readily inferred that its smallness was one of the circumstances which occasioned the counsel's difficulty. the case, therefore, was returned, with a fee of two guineas. still dissatisfied, sergeant hill wrote that "he saw no reason to change his opinion." by the etiquette of the bar no barrister is permitted to take a brief on any circuit, save that on which he habitually practises, unless he has received a special retainer; and no wearer of silk can be specially retained with a less fee than three hundred guineas. erskine's first special retainer was in the dean of st. asaph's case, his first speech in which memorable cause was delivered when he had been called to the bar but little more than five years. from that time till his elevation to the bench he received on an average twelve special retainers a year, by which at the minimum of payment he made £ per annum. besides being lucrative and honorable, this special employment greatly augmented his practice in westminster hall, as it brought him in personal contact with attorneys in every part of the country, and heightened his popularity amongst all classes of his fellow-countrymen. in he entirely withdrew from ordinary circuit practice, and confined his exertions in provincial courts to the causes for which he was specially retained. no advocate since his time has received an equal number of special retainers; and if he did not originate the custom of special retainers,[ ] he was the first english barrister who ventured to reject all other briefs. there is no need to recapitulate all the circumstances of erskine's rapid rise in his profession--a rise due to his effective brilliance and fervor in political trial: but this chapter on lawyers' fees would be culpably incomplete, if it failed to notice some of its pecuniary consequences. in the eighth month after his call to the bar he thanked admiral keppel for a splendid fee of one thousand pounds. a few years later a legal gossip wrote: "everybody says that erskine will be solicitor general, and if he is, and indeed whether he is or not, he will have had the most rapid rise that has been known at the bar. it is four years and a half since he was called, and in that time he has cleared £ or £ , besides paying his debts--got a silk gown, and business of at least £ a year--a seat in parliament--and, over and above, has made his brother lord advocate." merely to mention large fees without specifying the work by which they were earned would mislead the reader. during the railway mania of , the few leaders of the parliamentary bar received prodigious fees; and in some cases the sums were paid for very little exertion. frequently it happened that a lawyer took heavy fees in causes, at no stage of which he either made a speech or read a paper in the service of his too liberal employers. during that period of mad speculation the committee-rooms of the two houses were an el dorado to certain favored lawyers, who were alternately paid for speech and _silence_ with reckless profusion. but the time was so exceptional, that the fees received and the fortunes made in it by a score of lucky advocates and solicitors cannot be fairly cited as facts illustrating the social condition of legal practitioners. as a general rule, it may be stated that large fortunes are not made at the bar by large fees. our richest lawyers have made the bulk of their wealth by accumulating sufficient but not exorbitant payments. in most cases the large fee has not been a very liberal remuneration for the work done. edward law's retainer for the defence of warren hastings brought with it £ --a sum which caused our grandfathers to raise their hands in astonishment at the nabob's munificence; but the sum was in reality the reverse of liberal. in all, warren hastings paid his leading advocate considerably less than four thousand pounds; and if law had not contrived to win the respect of solicitors by his management of the defence, the case could not be said to have paid him for his trouble. so also the eminent advocate, who in the great case of small _v._ attwood received a fee of £ , was actually underpaid. when he made up the account of the special outlay necessitated by that cause, and the value of business which the burdensome case compelled him to decline, he had small reason to congratulate himself on his remuneration. a statement of the incomes made by chamber-barristers, and of the sums realized by counsel in departments of the profession that do not invite the attention of the general public, would astonish those uninformed persons who estimate the success of a barrister by the frequency with which his name appears in the newspaper reports of trials and suits. the talkers of the bar enjoy more _éclat_ than the barristers who confine themselves to chamber practice, and their labors lead to the honors of the bench; but a young lawyer, bent only on the acquisition of wealth, is more likely to achieve his ambition by conveyancing or arbitration-business than by court-work. kenyon was never a popular or successful advocate, but he made £ a year by answering cases. charles abbott at no time of his life could speak better than a vestryman of average ability; but by drawing informations and indictments, by writing opinions on cases, he made the greater part of the eight thousand pounds which he returned as the amount of his professional receipts in . in our own time, when that popular common law advocate, mr. edwin james, was omnipotent with juries, his income never equalled the incomes of certain chamber-practitioners whose names are utterly unknown to the general body of english society. [ ] lord campbell observes: "some say that special retainers began with erskine; but i doubt the fact." it is strange that there should be uncertainty as to the time when special retainers--unquestionably a comparatively recent innovation in legal practice--came into vogue. chapter xiv. judicial corruption. to a young student making his first researches beneath the surface of english history, few facts are more painful and perplexing than the judicial corruption which prevailed in every period of our country's growth until quiet recent times--darkening the brightest pages of our annals, and disfiguring some of the greatest chieftains of our race. where he narrates the fall and punishment of de weyland towards the close of the thirteenth century, speed observes: "while the jews by their cruel usuries had in one way eaten up the people, the justiciars, like another kind of jews, had ruined them with delay in their suits, and enriched themselves with wicked convictions." of judicial corruption in the reigns of edward i. and edward ii. a vivid picture is given in a political ballad, composed in the time of one or the other of those monarchs. of this poem mr. wright, in his 'political songs,' gives a free version, a part of which runs thus:-- "judges there are whom gifts and favorites control, content to serve the devil alone and take from him a toll; if nature's law forbids the judge from selling his decree, how dread to those who finger bribes the punishment shall be. "such judges have accomplices whom frequently they send to get at those who claim some land, and whisper as a friend, ''tis i can help you with the judge, if you would wish to plead, give me but half, i'll undertake before him you'll succeed.' "the clerks who sit beneath the judge are open-mouthed as he, as if they were half-famished and gaping for a fee; of those who give no money they soon pronounce the state, however early they attend, they shall have long to wait. "if comes some noble lady, in beauty and in pride, with golden horns upon her head, her suit he'll soon decide; but she who has no charms, nor friends, and is for gifts too poor, her business all neglected, she's weeping shown the door. "but worse than all, within the court we some relators meet, who take from either side at once, and both their clients cheat; the ushers, too, to poor men say, 'you labor here in vain, unless you tip us all around, you may go back again.' "the sheriff's hard upon the poor who cannot pay for rest, drags them about to every town, on all assizes press'd compell'd to take the oath prescrib'd without objection made, for if they murmur and can't pay, upon their backs they're laid. "they enter any private house, or abbey that they choose, where meat and drink and all things else are given as their dues; and after dinner jewels too, or this were all in vain, bedels and garçons must receive, and all that form the train. "and next must gallant robes be sent as presents to their wives, or from the manor of the host some one his cattle drives; while he, poor man, is sent to gaol upon some false pretence, and pays at last at double cost, ere he gets free from thence. "i can't but laugh to see their clerks, whom once i knew in need, when to obtain a bailiwick they may at last succeed; with pride in gait and countenance and with their necks erect they lands and houses quickly buy and pleasant rents collect. "grown rich they soon the poor despise, and new-made laws display, oppress their neighbors and become the wise men of their day; unsparing of the least offence, when they can have their will, the hapless country all around with discontent they fill." in the fourteenth century judicial corruption was so general and flagrant, that cries came from every quarter for the punishment of offenders. the knights hospitallers' survey, made in the year , gives us revelations that confound the indiscreet admirers of feudal manners. from that source of information it appears that regular stipends were paid to persons "tam in curia domini regis quam justiciariis, clericis, officiariis et aliis ministris, in diversis curiis suis, ac etiam aliis familaribus magnatum tam pro terris tenementis redditbus et libertatibus hospitalis, quam templariorum, et maxime pro terris templariorum manutenendis." of pensions to the amount of £ mentioned in the account, £ were paid to judges, clerks, and minor officers of courts. robert de sadington, the chief baron, received marks annually; twice a year the knights hospitallers presented caps to one hundred and forty officers of the exchequer; and they expended marks _per annum_ on gifts that were distributed in law courts, "_pro favore habendo_, et pro placitis habendis, et expensis parliamentorum." in that age, and for centuries later, it was customary for wealthy men and great corporations to make valuable presents to the judges and chief servants the king's courts; but it was always presumed that the offerings were simple expressions of respect--not tribute rendered, "pro favore habendo." bent on purifying the moral atmosphere of his courts, edward iii. raised the salaries of his judges, and imposed upon them such oaths that none of their order could pervert justice, or even encourage venal practices, without breaking his solemn vow[ ] to the king's majesty. from the amounts of the _royal_ fees or stipends paid to edward iii.'s judges, it may be vaguely estimated how far they were dependent on gifts and _court_ fees for the means of living with appropriate state. john knyvet, chief justice of the king's bench, has £ and marks per annum. the annual fee of thomas de ingleby, the solitary puisne judge of the king's bench at that time, was at first marks; but he obtained an additional £ when the 'fees' were raised, and he received moreover £ a year as a judge of assize. the chief of the common pleas, robert de thrope, received £ per annum, payable during his tenure of office, and another annual sum of £ payable during his life. john de mowbray, william de wychingham, and william de fyncheden, the other judges of the common pleas, received marks each as official salary, and £ per annum for their services at assizes. mowbray's stipend was subsequently increased by marks, whilst wychingham and fyncheden received an additional £ par annum. to the chief baron and the other two barons of the exchequer annual fees of marks each were paid, the chief baron receiving £ per annum as justice of assize, and one of the puisne barons, almaric de shirland, getting an additional marks for certain special services. the 'issue roll of edward iii., ,' also shows that certain sergeants-at-law acted as justices of assize, receiving for their service £ per annum. throughout his reign edward iii. strenuously exerted himself to purge his law courts of abuses, and to secure his subjects from evils wrought by judicial dishonesty; and though there is reason to think that he prosecuted his reforms, and punished offending judges with more impulsiveness than consistency--with petulance rather than firmness[ ]--his action must have produced many beneficial results. but it does not seem to have occurred to him that the system adopted by his predecessors, and encouraged by the usages of his own time, was the real source of the mischief, and that so long as judges received the greater part of their remuneration from suitors, fees and the donations of the public, enactments and proclamations would be comparatively powerless to preserve the streams of justice from pollution. the fee-system poisoned the morality of the law-courts. from the highest judge to the lowest usher, every person connected with a court of justice was educated to receive small sums of money for trifling services, to be always looking out for paltry dues or gratuities, to multiply occasions for demanding, and reasons for pocketing petty coins, to invent devices for legitimate peculation. in time the system produced such complications of custom, right, privilege, claim, that no one could say definitely how much a suitor was actually bound to pay at each stage of a suit. the fees had an equally bad influence on the public. trained to approach the king's judges with costly presents, to receive them on their visits with lavish hospitality, to send them offerings at the opening of each year, the rich and the poor learnt to look on judicial decisions as things that were bought and sold. in many cases this impression was not erroneous. judges were forbidden to accept gifts from actual suitors, or to take payments _for_ judgments after their delivery; but on the judgment-seat they were often influenced by recollections of the conduct of suitors who _had been_ munificent before the commencement of proceedings, and most probably would be equally munificent six months after delivery of a judgment favorable to their claims. humorous anecdotes heightened the significance of patent facts. throughout a shire it would be told how this suitor won a judgment by a sumptuous feast; how that suitor bought the justice's favor with a flask of rare wine, a horse of excellent breed, a hound of superior sagacity. in the fifteenth century the judge whose probity did not succumb to an excellent dinner was deemed a miracle of virtue. "a lady," writes fuller of chief justice markham, who was dismissed from his place in , "would traverse a suit of law against the will of her husband, who was contented to buy his quiet by giving her her will therein, though otherwise persuaded in his judgment the cause would go against her. this lady, dwelling in the shire town, invited the judge to dinner, and (though thrifty enough herself) treated him with sumptuous entertainment. dinner being done, and the cause being called, the judge gave it against her. and when, in passion, she vowed never to invite the judge again, 'nay, wife,' said he, 'vow never to invite a _just judge_ any more.'" it may be safely affirmed that no english lady of our time ever tried to bribe sir alexander cockburn or sir frederick pollock with a dinner _à la russe_. by his eulogy of chief justice dyer, who died march , , whetstone gives proof that in elizabethan england purity was the exception rather than the rule with judges:-- "and when he spake he was in speeche reposde; his eyes did search the simple suitor's harte; to put by bribes his hands were ever closde, his processe juste, he tooke the poore man's parte. he ruld by lawe and listened not to arte, those foes to truthe--loove, hate, and private gain, which most corrupt, his conscience could not staine." there is no reason to suppose that the custom of giving and receiving presents was more general or extravagant in the time of elizabeth than in previous ages; but the fuller records of her splendid reign give greater prominence to the usage than it obtained in the chronicles of any earlier period of english history. on each new year's day her courtiers gave her costly presents--jewels, ornaments of gold or silver workmanship, hundreds of ounces of silver-gilt plate, tapestry, laces, satin dresses, embroidered petticoats. not only did she accept such costly presents from men of rank and wealth, but she graciously received the donations of tradesmen and menials. francis bacon made her majesty "a poor oblation of a garment;" charles smith, the dustman, threw upon the pile of treasure "two bottes of cambric." the fashion thus countenanced by the queen was followed in all ranks of society; all men, from high to low, receiving presents, as expressions of affection when they came from their equals, as declarations of respect when they came from their social inferiors. each of her great officers of state drew a handsome revenue from such yearly offerings. but though the burdens and abuses of this system were excessive under elizabeth, they increased in enormity and number during the reigns of the stuarts. that the salaries of the elizabethan judges were small in comparison with the sums which they received in presents and fees may be seen from the following table of stipends and allowances annually paid, towards the close of the sixteenth century:-- £ _s._ _d._ the lord cheefe justice of england:-- fee, reward and robes wyne, tunnes at £ the tunne allowance for being justice of assize the lord cheefe justice of the common pleas:-- fee, reward, and robes wyne, two tunnes allowance as justice of assize fee for keeping the assize in the augmentation court each of the three justices in these two courts:-- fee, reward and robes £ _s._ _d._ allowance as justice of assize the lord cheefe baron of the exchequer:-- fee lyvery allowance as justice of the assize each of the three barons:-- fee lyvery a peece allowance as justice of assize prior to and in the earlier part of elizabeth's reign, the sheriffs had been required to provide diet and lodging for judges travelling on circuit, each sheriff being responsible for the proper entertainment of judges within the limits of his jurisdiction. this arrangement was very burdensome upon the class from which the sheriffs were elected, as the official host had not only to furnish suitable lodging and cheer for the justices themselves, but also to supply the wants of their attendants and servants. the ostentatious and costly hospitality which law and public opinion thus compelled or encouraged them to exercise towards circuiteers of all ranks had seriously embarrassed a great number of country gentlemen; and the queen was assailed with entreaties for a reform that should free a sheriff of small estate from the necessity of either ruining himself, or incurring a reputation for stinginess. in consequence of these urgent representations, an order of council, bearing date february , , decided "the justices shall have of her majesty several sums of money out of her coffers for their daily diet." hence rose the usage of 'circuit allowances.' the sheriffs, however, were still bound to attend upon the judges, and make suitable provision for the safe conduct of the legal functionaries from assize town to assize town;--the sheriff of each county being required to furnish a body-guard for the protection of the sovereign's representatives. this responsibility lasted till the other day, when an innovation (of which mr. arcedeckne, of glevering hall, suffolk, was the most notorious, though not the first champion), substituted guards of policemen, paid by county-rates, for bands of javelin-men equipped and rewarded by the sheriffs. in some counties the javelin-men--remote descendants of the mail-clad knights and stalwart men-at-arms who formerly mustered at the summons of sheriffs--still do duty with long wands and fresh rosettes; but they are fast giving way to the wielders of short staves. amongst the bad consequences of the system of gratuities was the color which it gave to idle rumors and malicious slander against the purity of upright judges. when sir thomas more fell, charges of bribery were preferred against him before the privy council. a disappointed suitor, named parnell, declared that the chancellor had been bribed with a gift-cup to decide in favor of his (parnell's) adversary. mistress vaughan, the successful suitor's wife, had given sir thomas the cup with her own hands. the fallen chancellor admitting that "he had received the cup as a new year's gift," lord wiltshire cried, with unseemly exultation, "lo! did i not tell you, my lords, that you would find this matter true?" it seemed that more had pleaded guilty, for his oath did not permit him to receive a new year's gift from an actual suitor. "but, my lords," continued the accused man, with one of his characteristic smiles, "hear the other part of my tale. after having drunk to her of wine, with which my butler had filled the cup, and when she had pledged me, i restored it to her, and would listen to no refusal." it is possible that mistress vaughan did not act with corrupt intention, but merely in ignorance of the rule which forbade the chancellor to accept her present. as much cannot be said in behalf of mrs. croker, who, being opposed in a suit to lord arundel, sought to win sir thomas more's favor by presenting him with a pair of gloves containing forty angels. with a courteous smile he accepted the gloves, but constrained her to take back the gold. the gentleness of this rebuff is charming; but the story does not tell more in favor of sir thomas than to the disgrace of the lady and the moral tone of the society in which she lived. readers should bear in mind the part which new year's gifts and other customary gratuities played in the trumpery charges against lord bacon. adopting an old method of calumny, the conspirators against his fair fame represented that the gifts made to him, in accordance with ancient usage, were bribes. for instance reynel's ring, presented on new year's day, was so construed by the accusers; and in his comment upon the charge, bacon, who had inadvertently accepted the gift during the progress of a suit, observes, "this ring was received certainly _pendente lite_, and though it were at new year's tide, yet it was too great a value for a new year's gift, though, as i take it, nothing near the value mentioned in the articles." so also trevor's gift was a new year's present, of which bacon says, "i confess and declare that i received at new year's tide an hundred pounds from sir john trevor, and because it came as a new year's gift, i neglected to inquire whether the cause was ended or depending; but since i find that though the cause was then dismissed to a trial at law, yet the equity is reserved, so as it was in that kind _pendente lite_." bacon knew that this explanation would be read by men familiar with the history of new year's gifts, and all the circumstances of the ancient usage; and it is needless to say that no man of honor thought the less highly of bacon at that time, because his pure and guiltless acceptance of customary presents was by ingenious and unscrupulous adversaries made to assume an appearance of corrupt compliance. how far the chancellors of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries depended upon customary gratuities for their revenues may be seen from the facts which show the degree of state which they were required to maintain, and the inadequacy of the ancient fees for the maintenance of that pomp. when elizabeth pressed hatton for payment of the sums which he owed her, the chancellor lamented his inability to liquidate her just claims, and urged in excuse that the _ancient fees_ were very inadequate to the expenses of the chancellor's office. but though elizabethan chancellors could not live upon their ancient fees, they kept up palaces in town and country, fed regiments of lackeys, and surpassed the ancient nobility in the grandeur of their equipages. egerton--the needy and illegitimate son of a rural knight, a lawyer who fought up from the ranks--not only sustained the costly dignities of office, but left to his descendants a landed estate worth £ per annum. bacon's successor in the 'marble chair,' lord keeper williams, assured buckingham that in egerton's time the chancellor's lawful income was less than three thousand per annum. "the lawful revenue of the office stands thus," wrote williams, speaking from his intimate knowledge of ellesmere's affairs, "or not much above it at anytime:--in fines certain, £ per annum, or thereabouts; in fines casual, £ or thereabouts; in greater writs, £ ; for impost of wine, £ --in all, £ ; and these are all the true means of that great office." it is probable that williams under-stated the revenue, but it is certain that the income, apart from gratuities, was insufficient. the chancellor was not more dependent on customary gratuities than the chief of the three common law courts. at westminster and on circuit, whenever he was required to discharge his official functions, the english judge extended his hand for the contributions of the well-disposed. no one thought of blaming judges for their readiness to take customary benevolences. to take gifts was a usage of the profession, and had its parallel in the customs of every calling and rank of life. the clergy took dues in like manner: from the earliest days of feudal life the territorial lords had supplied their wants in the same way; amongst merchants and yeomen, petty traders and servants, the system existed in full force. these presents were made without any secrecy. the aldermen of borough towns openly voted presents to the judges; and the judges received their offerings--not as benefactions, but as legitimate perquisites. in --just a year before lord bacon's fall--the municipal council of lyme regis left it to the "mayor's discretion" to decide "what gratuity he will give to the lord chief baron and his men" at the next assizes. the system, it is needless to say, had disastrous results. empowering the chief judge of every court to receive presents not only from the public, but from subordinate judges, inferior officers, and the bar; and moreover empowering each place-holder to take gratuities from persons officially or by profession concerned in the business of the courts, it produced a complicated machinery for extortion. by presents the chief justices bought their places from the crown or a royal favorite; by presents the puisne justices, registrars, counsel bought place or favor from the chief; by presents the attorneys, sub-registrars, and outside public sought to gain their ends with the humbler place-holders. the meanest ushers of westminster hall took coins from ragged scriveners. hence every place was actually bought and sold, the sum being in most cases very high. sir james ley offered the duke of buckingham £ , for the attorney's place. at the same period the solicitor general's office was sold for £ . under charles i. matters grew still worse than they had been under his father. when sir charles cæsar consulted laud about the worth of the vacant mastership of the rolls, the archbishop frankly said, "that as things then stood, the place was not likely to go without more money than he thought any wise man would give for it." disregarding this intimation, sir charles paid the king £ , for the place, and added a loan of £ . sir thomas richardson, at the opening of the reign, gave £ , for the chiefship of the common pleas. if judges needed gifts before the days when vacant seats were put up to auction, of course they stood all the more in need of them when they bought their promotions with such large sums. it is not wonderful that the wearers of ermine repaid themselves by venal practices. the sale of judicial offices was naturally followed by the sale of judicial decisions. the judges having submitted to the extortions of the king, the public had to endure the extortions of the judges. corruption on the bench produced corruption at the bar. counsel bought the attention and compliance of 'the court,' and in some cases sold their influence with shameless rascality. they would take fees to speak from one side in a cause and fees to be silent from the other side--selling their own clients as coolly as judges sold the suitors of their courts. sympathizing with the public, and stung by personal experience of legal dishonesty, the clergy sometimes denounced from the pulpit the extortions of corrupt judges and unprincipled barristers. the assize sermons of charles i.'s reign were frequently seasoned with such animadversions. at thetford assizes, march, , the rev. mr. ramsay, in the assize-sermon, spoke indignantly of judges who "favored causes," and of "counsellors who took fees to be silent." in the summer of , at the bury assizes, "one mr. scott made a sore sermon in discovery of corruption in judges and others." at norwich, the same authority, viz., 'sir john rous's diary,' informs us--"mr. greene was more plaine, insomuch that judge harvey, in his charge, broke out thus: 'it seems by the sermon that we are corrupt, but we know that we can use conscience in our places as well as the best clergieman of all.'" in his 'life and death of sir matthew hale,' bishop burnet tells a good story of the chief's conduct with regard to a customary gift. "it is also a custom," says the biographer, "for the marshall of the king's bench to present the judges of that court with a piece of plate for a new year's gift, that for the chief justice being larger than the rest. this he intended to have refused, but the other judges told him it belonged to his office, and the refusing it would be a prejudice to his successors; so he was persuaded to take it, but he sent word to the marshall, that instead of plate he should bring him the value of it in money, and when he received it, he immediately sent it to the prisons for the relief and discharge of the poor there." [ ] a portion of the oath prescribed for judges in the 'ordinances for justices,' edward iii., will show the reader the evils which called for correction and the care taken to effect their cure. "ye shall swear," ran the injunction to which each judge was required to vow obedience, "that well and lawfully ye shall serve our lord the king and his people in the office of justice; ... and that ye take not by yourself or by other, privily or apertly, gift or reward of gold or silver, nor any other thing which may turn to your profit, unless it be meat nor drink, and that of small value, _of any man that shall have plea or process before you, as long as the same process shall be so hanging, nor after for the same cause: and that ye shall take no fee as long as ye shall be justice, nor robes of any man, great or small_, but of the king himself: and that ye give none advice or counsel to no man, great or small, in any case where the king is party; &c. &c. &c." the clause forbidding the judge to receive gifts of actual suitors was a positive recognition of his right to customary gifts rendered by persons who had no process hanging before him. it should, moreover, be observed that in the passage, "ye shall take no fee as long as ye shall be justice, nor robes of any man," the word "fee" signifies "salary," and not a single payment or gratuity. the judge was forbidden to receive from any man a fixed stipend (by the acceptance of which he would become the donor's servant), or robes (the assumption of which would be open declaration of service); but he was at liberty to accept the offerings which the public were wont to make to men of his condition, as well as the sums (or 'fees,' as they would be termed at the present day) due on different processes of his court. that the word 'fee' is thus used in the ordinance may be seen from the words "for this cause we have increased the fees (les feez) of the same our justices, in such manner as it ought reasonably to suffice them," by which language attention is drawn to the increase of judicial salaries. [ ] mr. foss observes: "in , william de thrope, chief justice of the king's bench, was convicted on his own confession of receiving bribes to stay justice; but though his property was forfeited to the crown on his condemnation, the king appears to have relented, and to have made him second baron of the exchequer in may, , unless i am mistaken in supposing the latter to have been the same person." chapter xv. gifts and sales. by degrees the public ceased to make presents to the principal judges of the kingdom; but long after the chancellor and the three chiefs had taken the last offerings of general society, they continued to receive yearly presents from the subordinate judges, placemen, and barristers of their respective courts. lord cowper deserves honor for being the holder of the seals who, by refusing to pocket these customary donations, put an end to a very objectionable system, so far as the court of chancery was concerned. on being made lord keeper, he resolved to depart from the custom of his predecessors for many generations, who on the first day of each new year had invariably entertained at breakfast the persons from whom tribute was looked for. very droll were these receptions in the old time. the repast at an end, the guests forthwith disburdened themselves of their gold--the payers approaching the holder of the seals in order of rank, and laying on his table purses of money, which the noble payee accepted with his own hands. sometimes his lordship was embarrassed by a ceremony that required him to pick gold from the fingers of men, several of whom he knew to be in indigent circumstances. in charles ii.'s time it was observed that the silver-tongued lord nottingham on such occasions always endeavored to hide his confusion under a succession of nervous smiles and exclamations--"oh, tyrant cuthtom!--oh, tyrant cuthtom!" it is noteworthy that in relinquishing the benefit of these exactions, the lord keeper feared unfriendly criticism much more than he anticipated public commendation. in his diary, under date december , cowper wrote:--"i acquainted my lord treasurer with my design to refuse new year's gifts, if he had no objection against it, as spoiling, in some measure, a place of which he had the conferring. he answered it was not expected of me, but that i might do as my predecessors had done; but if i refused, he thought nobody could blame me for it." anxious about the consequences of his innovation, the new lord keeper gave notice that on january , - , he would receive no gifts; but notwithstanding this proclamation, several officers of chancery and counsellors came to his house with tribute, and were refused admittance. "new year's gifts turned back," he wrote in his diary at the close of the eventful day, "and pray god it doth me more credit and good than hurt, by making secret enemies _in fæce romuli_." his fears were in a slight degree fulfilled. the chiefs of the three common law courts were greatly displeased with an innovation which they had no wish to adopt; and their warm expressions of dissatisfaction induced the lord keeper to cover his disinterestedness with a harmless fiction. to pacify the indignant chiefs and the many persons who sympathized with them, he pretended that though he had declined intentionally the gifts of the chancery barristers, he had not designed to exercise the same self-denial with regard to the gifts of chancery officers.[ ] the common law chiefs were slow to follow in the lord keeper's steps, and many years passed before the reform, effected in chancery by accident or design, or by a lucky combination of both, was adopted in the other great courts. in his memoir of lord cowper, campbell observes: "his example with respect to new year's gifts was not speedily followed; and it is said that till very recently the chief justice of the common pleas invited the officers of his court to a dinner at the beginning of the year, when each of them deposited under his plate a present in the shape of a bank of england note, instead of a gift of oxen roaring at his levee, as in ruder times." there is no need to remind the reader in this place of the many veracious and the many apocryphal stories concerning the basket justices of fielding's time--stories showing that in law courts of the lowest sort applicants for justice were accustomed to fee the judges with victuals and drink until a comparatively recent date. lucky would it have been for the first earl of macclesfield if the custom of selling places in chancery had been put an end to forever by the lord keeper who abolished the custom of new year's gifts; but the judge who at the sacrifice of one-fourth of his official income swept away the pernicious usage which had from time immemorial marked the opening of each year, saw no reason why he should purge chancery of another scarcely less objectionable practice. following the steps of their predecessors, the chancellors cowper, harcourt, and macclesfield sold subordinate offices in their court; and whereas all previous chancellors had been held blameless for so doing, lord macclesfield was punished with official degradation, fine, imprisonment, and obloquy. by birth as humble[ ] as any layman who before or since his time has held the seals, thomas parker raised himself to the woolsack by great talents and honorable industry. as an advocate he won the respect of society and his profession; as a judge he ranks with the first expositors of english law. although for imputed corruption he was hurled with ignominy from his high place, no one has ventured to charge him with venality on the bench. that he was a spotless character, or that his career was marked by grandeur of purpose, it would be difficult to establish; but few englishmen could at the present time be found to deny that he was in the main an upright peer, who was not wittingly neglectful of his duty to the country which had loaded him with wealth and honors. amongst the many persons ruined by the bursting of the south sea bubble were certain masters of chancery, who had thrown away on that wild speculation large sums of which they were the official guardians. lord macclesfield was one of the victims on whom the nation wreaked its wrath at a crisis when universal folly had produced universal disaster. to punish the masters for their delinquencies was not enough; greater sacrifices than a few comparatively obscure placemen were demanded by the suitors and wards whose money had been squandered by the fraudulent trustees. the lord chancellor should be made responsible for the chancery defalcations. that was the will of the country. no one pretended that lord macclesfield had originated the practice which permitted masters in chancery to speculate with funds placed under their care; attorneys and merchants were well aware that in the days of harcourt, cowper, wright, and somers, it had been usual for masters to pocket interest accruing from suitors' money; notorious also was it that, though the chancellor was theoretically the trustee of the money confided to his court, the masters were its actual custodians. had the chancellor known that the masters were trafficking in dangerous investments to the probable loss of the public, duty would have required him to examine their accounts and place all trust-moneys beyond their reach; but until the crash came, lord macclesfield knew neither the actual worthlessness of the south sea stock, nor the embarrassed circumstances of the defaulting masters, nor the peril of the persons committed to his care. the system which permitted the masters to speculate with money not their own was execrable, but the lord chancellor was not the parent of that system. infuriated by the national calamity, in which they were themselves great sufferers, the commons impeached the chancellor, charging him with high crimes and misdemeanors, of which the peers unanimously declared him guilty. in this famous trial the great fact established against his lordship was that he had sold masterships to the defaulters. it appeared that he had not only sold the places, but had stood out for very high prices; the inference being, that in consideration of these large sums he had left the purchasers without the supervision usually exercised by chancellors over such officers, and had connived at the practices which had been followed by ruinous results. to this it was replied, that if the chancellor had sold the places at higher prices than his predecessors, he had done so because the places had become much more valuable; that at the worst he had but sold them to the highest bidder, after the example of his precursors; that the inference was not supported by any direct testimony. very humorous was some of the evidence by which the sale of the masterships was proved. master elde deposed that he bought his office for guineas, the bargain being finally settled and fulfilled after a personal interview with the accused lord. master thurston, another purchaser at the high rate of guineas, paid his money to lady macclesfield. it must be owned that these sums were very large, but their magnitude does not fix fraudulent purpose upon the chancellor. that he believed himself fairly entitled to a moderate present on appointing to a mastership is certain; that he regarded £ as the gratuity which he might accept, without blushing at its publication, may be inferred from the restitution of £ which he made to one of the purchasers for £ at a time when he anticipated an inquiry into his conduct; that he felt himself acting indiscreetly if not wrongfully in pressing for such large sums is testified by the caution with which he conferred with the purchasers and the secrecy with which he accepted their money. his defence before the peers admitted the sales of the places, but maintained that the transactions were legitimate. the defence was of no avail. when the question of guilty or not guilty was put to the peers, each of the noble lords present answered, "guilty, upon my honor." sentenced to pay a fine of £ , , and undergo imprisonment until the mulct was paid, the unfortunate statesman bitterly repented the imprudence which had exposed him to the vengeance of political adversaries and to the enmity of the vulgar. whilst the passions roused by the prosecution were at their height, the fallen chancellor was treated with much harshness by parliament, and with actual brutality by the mob. ever ready to vilify lawyers, the rabble seized on so favorable an occasion for giving expression to one of their strongest prejudices. amongst the crowds who followed the earl to the tower with curses, voices were heard to exclaim that "staffordshire had produced the three greatest scoundrels of england--jack sheppard, jonathan wilde, and tom parker." jonathan wilde was executed in --the year of lord macclesfield's impeachment; and jack sheppard died on the gallows at tyburn, november , . throughout the inquiry, and after the adverse verdict, george i. persisted in showing favor to the disgraced chancellor; and when the violent emotions of the crisis had passed away it was generally admitted by enlightened critics of public events that lord macclesfield had been unfairly treated. the scape-goat of popular wrath, he suffered less for his own faults, than for the evil results of a bad system; and at the present time--when the silence of more than a hundred and thirty years rests upon his tomb--englishmen, with one voice, acknowledge the valuable qualities that raised him to eminence, and regret the proceedings which consigned him in his old age to humiliation and gloom. [ ] it should be observed that many persons are of opinion that the lord keeper's assertion on this point was not an artifice, but a simple statement of fact. to those who take this view, his lordship's position seems alike ridiculous and respectable--respectable because he actually intended to forbear from taking the barrister's money; ridiculous because, through clumsy and inadequate arrangements, he missed the other and not less precious gifts which he did not mean to decline. anyhow, the critics admit that credit is due to him for persisting in a change--wrought in the first instance partly by honorable design and partly by accident. [ ] the cases of john scott, philip yorke, and edward sugden are before the mind of the present writer, when he pens the sentence to which this note refers. the social extraction of the english bar will be considered in a later chapter of this work. chapter xvi. a rod pickled by william cole. "a proneness to take bribes may be generated from the habit of taking fees," said lord keeper williams in his inaugural address, making an ungenerous allusion to francis bacon, whilst he uttered a statement which was no calumny upon king james's bench and bar, though it is signally inapplicable to lawyers of the present day. of williams, tradition preserves a story that illustrates the prevalence of judicial corruption in the seventeenth century, and the jealousy with which that right reverend lord keeper watched for attempts to tamper with his honesty. whilst he was taking exercise in the great park of nonsuch house, his attention was caught by a church recently erected at the cost of a rich chancery suitor. having expressed satisfaction with the church, williams inquired of george minors, "has he not a suit depending in chancery?" and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, observed, "he shall not fare the worse for building of churches." these words being reported to the pious suitor, he not illogically argued that the keeper was a judge likely to be influenced in making his decisions by matters distinct from the legal merits of the case put before him. acting on this impression, the good man forthwith sent messengers to nonsuch house, bearing gifts of fruits and poultry to the holder of the seals. "nay, carry them back," cried the judge, looking with a grim smile from the presents to george minors; "nay, carry them back, george, and tell your friend that he shall not fare the better for sending of presents." rich in satire directed against law and its professors, the literature of the commonwealth affords conclusive testimony of the low esteem in which lawyers were held in the seventeenth century by the populace, and shows how universal was the belief that wearers of ermine and gentlemen of the long robe would practice any sort of fraud or extortion for the sake of personal advantage. in the pamphlets and broadsides, in the squibs and ballads of the period, may be found a wealth of quaint narrative and broad invective, setting forth the rascality of judges and attorneys, barristers and scriveners. any literary effort to throw contempt upon the law was sure of success. the light jesters, who made merry with the phraseology and costumes of westminster hall, were only a few degrees less welcome than the stronger and more indignant scribes who cried aloud against the sins and sinners of the courts. when simple folk had expended their rage in denunciations of venal eloquence and unjust judgments, they amused themselves with laughing at the antiquated verbiage of the rascals who sought to conceal their bad morality under worse latin. 'a new modell, or the conversion of the infidell terms of the law: for the better promoting of misunderstanding according to common sense,' is a publication consisting of a cover or fly-leaf and two leaves, that appeared about a year before the restoration. the wit is not brilliant; its humor is not free from uncleanness; but its comic renderings[ ] of a hundred law terms illustrate the humor of the times. more serious in aim, but not less comical in result, is william cole's 'a rod for the lawyers. london, printed in the year .' the preface of this mad treatise ends thus--"i do not altogether despair but that before i dye i may see the inns of courts, or dens of thieves, converted into hospitals, which were a rare piece of justice; that as they formerly have immured those that robbed the poor of houses, so they may at last preserve the poor themselves." another book touching on the same subject and belonging to the same period, is, 'sagrir, or doomsday drawing nigh; with thunder and lightning to lawyers, ( ) by john rogers.' violent, even for a man holding fifth-monarchy views, john rogers prefers a lengthy indictment against lawyers, for whose delinquencies and heinous offence he admits neither apology nor palliation. in his opinion all judges deserve the death of arnold and hall, whose last moments were provided for by the hangman. the wearers of the long robe are perjurers, thieves, enemies of mankind; their institutions are hateful, and their usages abominable. in olden time they were less powerful and rapacious. but prosperity soon exaggerated all their evil qualities. sketching the rise of the profession, the author observes--"these men would get sometimes parents, friends, brothers, neighbors, sometimes _others_ to be (in their absence) agents, factors, or solicitors for them at westminster, and as yet they had no stately houses or mansions to live in, as they have now (called inns of court), but they lodged like countrymen or strangers in ordinary inns. but afterwards, when the interests of lawyers began to look big (as in edward iii.'s days), they got mansions or colleges, which they called inns, and by the king's favor had an addition of honor, whence they were called inns of court."[ ] the familiar anecdotes which are told as illustrations of chief justice hale's integrity are very ridiculous, but they serve to show that the judges of his time were believed to be very accessible to corrupt influences. during his tenure of the chiefship of the exchequer, hale rode the western circuit, and met with the loyal reception usually accorded to judges on circuit in his day. amongst other attentions offered to the judges on this occasion was a present of venison from a wealthy gentleman who was concerned in a cause that was in due course called for hearing. no sooner was the call made than chief baron hale resolved to place his reputation for judicial honesty above suspicion, and the following scene occurred:-- "_lord chief baron._--'is this plaintiff the gentleman of the same name who hath sent me the venison?' _judge's servant._--'yes, please you, my lord.' _lord chief baron._--'stop a bit, then. do not yet swear the jury. i cannot allow the trial to go on till i have paid him for his buck!' _plaintiff._--'i would have your lordship to know that neither myself nor my forefathers have ever sold venison, and i have done nothing to your lordship which we have not done to every judge that has come this circuit for centuries bygone.' _magistrate of the county._--'my lord, i can confirm what the gentleman says for truth, for twenty years back.' _other magistrates._--'and we, my lord, know the same.' _lord chief baron._--'that is nothing to me. the holy scripture says, 'a gift perverteth the ways of judgment.' i will not suffer the trial to go on till the venison is paid for. let my butler count down the full value thereof.' _plaintiff._--'i will not disgrace myself and my ancestors by becoming a venison butcher. from the needless dread of _selling_ justice, your lordship _delays_ it. i withdraw my record.'" as far as good taste and dignity were concerned, the gentleman of the west country was the victor in this absurd contest: on the other hand, hale had the venison for nothing, and was relieved of the trouble of hearing the cause. in the same manner hale insisted on paying for six loaves of sugar which the dean and chapter of salisbury sent to his lodgings, in accordance with ancient usage. similar cases of the judge's readiness to construe courtesies as bribes may be found in notices of trials and books of _ana_. _a propos_ of these stories of hale's squeamishness, lord campbell tells the following good anecdote of baron graham: "the late baron graham related to me the following anecdote to show that he had more firmness than judge hale:--'there was a baronet of ancient family with whom the judges going the western circuit had always been accustomed to dine. when i went that circuit i heard that a cause, in which he was plaintiff, was coming on for trial: but the usual invitation was received, and lest the people might suppose that judges could be influenced by a dinner; i accepted it. the defendant, a neighboring squire, being dreadfully alarmed by this intelligence, said to himself, 'well, if sir john entertains the judge hospitably, i do not see why i should not do the same by the jury.' so he invited to dinner the whole of the special jury summoned to try the cause. thereupon the baronet's courage failed him, and he withdrew the record, so that the cause was not tried; and although i had my dinner, i escaped all suspicion of partiality." this story puts the present writer in mind of another story which he has heard told in various ways, the wit of it being attributed by different narrators to two judges who have left the bench for another world, and a master of chancery who is still alive. on the present occasion the master of chancery shall figure as the humorist of the anecdote. less than twenty years since, in one of england's southern counties, two neighboring landed proprietors differed concerning their respective rights over some unenclosed land, and also about certain rights of fishing in an adjacent stream. the one proprietor was the richest baronet, the other the poorest squire of the county; and they agreed to settle their dispute by arbitration. our master in chancery, slightly known to both gentlemen, was invited to act as arbitrator after inspecting the localities in dispute. the invitation was accepted and the master visited the scene of disagreement, on the understanding that he should give up two days to the matter. it was arranged that on the first day he should walk over the squire's estate, and hear the squire's uncontradicted version of the case, dining at the close of the day with both contendents at the squire's table; and that on the second day, having walked over the baronet's estate, and heard without interruption the other side of the story, he should give his award, sitting over wine after dinner at the rich man's table. at the close of the first day the squire entertained his wealthy neighbor and the arbitrator at dinner. in accordance with the host's means, the dinner was modest but sufficient. it consisted of three fried soles, a roast leg of mutton, and vegetables; three pancakes, three pieces of cheese, three small loaves of bread, ale, and a bottle of sherry. on the removal of the viands, three magnificent apples, together with a magnum of port, were placed on the table by way of dessert. at the close of the second day the trio dined at the baronet's table, when it appeared that, struck by the simplicity of the previous day's dinner, and rightly attributing the absence of luxuries to the narrowness of the host's purse, the wealthy disputant had resolved not to attempt to influence the umpire by giving him a superior repast. sitting at another table the trio dined on exactly the same fare,--three fried soles, a roast leg of mutton, and vegetables; three pancakes, three pieces of cheese, three small loaves of bread, ale, and a bottle of sherry; and for dessert three magnificent apples, together with a magnum of port. the dinner being over, the apples devoured, and the last glass of port drunk, the arbitrator (his eyes twinkling brightly as he spoke) introduced his award with the following exordium:--"gentlemen, i have with all proper attention considered your _sole_ reasons: i have taken due notice of your _joint_ reasons, and i have come to the conclusion that your _des(s)erts_ are about equal." [ ] of these renderings the subjoined may be taken as favorable specimens:--"breve originale, original sinne; capias, a catch to a sad tune; alias capias, another to the same (sad tune); habeas corpus, a trooper; capias ad satisfaciend., a hangman: latitat, bo-peep; nisi prius, first come first served; demurrer, hum and haw; scandal. magnat., down with the lords." [ ] even vacations stink in the nostrils of mr. rogers; for he maintains that they are not so much periods when lawyers cease from their odious practices, as times of repose and recreation wherein they gain fresh vigor and daring for the commission of further outrages, and allow their unhappy victims to acquire just enough wealth to render them worth the trouble of despoiling. chapter xvii. chief justice popham. one of the strangest cases of corruption amongst english judges still remains to be told on the slender authority which is the sole foundation of the weighty accusation. in comparatively recent times there have not been many eminent englishmen to whom 'tradition's simple tongue' has been more hostile than queen elizabeth's lord chief justice, popham. the younger son of a gentle family, john popham passed from oxford to the middle temple, raised himself to the honors of the ermine, secured the admiration of illustrious contemporaries, in his latter years gained abundant praise for wholesome severity towards footpads, and at his death left behind him a name--which, tradition informs us, belonged to a man who in his reckless youth, and even after his call to the bar, was a cut-purse and highwayman. in mitigation of his conduct it is urged by those who credit the charge, that young gentlemen of his date were so much addicted to the lawless excitement of the road, that when he was still a beardless stripling, an act ( ed. vi. c. , s. ) was passed, whereby any peer of the realm or lord of parliament, on a first conviction for robbery, was entitled to benefit of clergy, though he could not read. but bearing in mind the liberties which rumor is wont to take with the names of eminent persons, the readiness the multitude always display to attribute light morals to grave men, and the infrequency of the cases where a dissolute youth is the prelude to a manhood of strenuous industry and an old age of honor--the cautious reader will require conclusive testimony before he accepts popham's connection with 'the road' as one of the unassailable facts of history. the authority for this grave charge against a famous judge is john aubrey, the antiquary, who was born in , just twenty years after popham's death. "for severall yeares," this collector says of the chief justice, "he addicted himself but little to the studie of the lawes, but profligate company, and was wont to take a purse with them. his wife considered her and his condition, and at last prevailed with him to lead another life and to stick to the studie of the lawe, which, upon her importunity, he did, being then about thirtie yours old." as popham was born in , he withdrew, according to this account, from the company of gentle highwaymen about the year --more than sixty years before aubrey's birth, and more than a hundred years before the collector committed the scandalous story to writing. the worth of such testimony is not great. good stories are often fixed upon eminent men who had no part in the transactions thereby attributed to them. if this writer were to put into a private note-book a pleasant but unauthorized anecdote imputing _kleptomania_ to chief justice wiles (who died in ), and fifty years hence the note-book should be discovered in a dirty corner of a forgotten closet and published to the world--would readers in the twentieth century be justified in holding that sir john willes was an eccentric thief? but aubrey tells a still stranger story concerning popham, when he sets forth the means by which the judge made himself lord of littlecote hall in wiltshire. the case must be given in the narrator's own words. "sir richard dayrell of littlecot in com. wilts. having got his lady's waiting-woman with child, when her travell came sent a servant with a horse for a midwife, whom he was to bring hoodwinked. she was brought, and layd the woman; but as soon as the child was born, she saw the knight take the child and murther it, and burn it in the fire in the chamber. she having done her business was extraordinarily rewarded for her paines, and went blindfold away. this horrid action did much run in her mind, and she had a desire to discover it, but knew not where 'twas. she considered with herself the time she was riding, and how many miles she might have rode at that rate in that time, and that it must be some great person's house, for the roome was twelve foot high: and she should know the chamber if she sawe it. she went to a justice of peace, and search was made. the very chamber found. the knight was brought to his tryall; and, to be short, this judge had this noble house, park, and manor, and (i think) more, for a bribe to save his life. sir john popham gave sentence according to lawe, but being a great person and a favorite, he procured a _nolle prosequi_." this ghastly tale of crime following upon crime has been reproduced by later writers with various exaggerations and modifications. dramas and novels have been founded upon it; and a volume might be made of the ballads and songs to which it has given birth. in some versions the corrupt judge does not even go through the form of passing sentence, but secures an acquittal from the jury; according to one account, the mother, instead of the infant, was put to death; according to another, the erring woman was the murderer's daughter, instead of his wife's waiting-woman; another writer, assuming credit as a conscientious narrator of facts, places the crime in the eighteenth instead of the sixteenth century, and transforms the venal judge into a clever barrister. in a highly seasoned statement of the repulsive tradition communicated by lord webb seymour to walter scott, the murder is described with hideous minuteness. changing the midwife into 'a friar of orders grey,' and murdering the mother instead of the baby, sir walter scott revived the story in one of his most popular ballads. but of all the versions of the tradition that have come under this writer's notice, the one that departs most widely from aubrey's statement is given in mr. g.l. rede's 'anecdotes and biography,' ( ). chapter xviii. judicial salaries. for the last three hundred years the law has been a lucrative profession, our great judges during that period having in many instances left behind them large fortunes, earned at the bar or acquired from official emoluments. the rental of egerton's landed estates was £ , per annum--a royal income in the days of elizabeth and james. maynard left great wealth to his grand-daughters, lady hobart and mary countess of stamford. lord mansfield's favorite investment was mortgage; and towards the close of his life the income which he derived for moneys lent on sound mortgages was £ , per annum. when lord kenyon had lost his eldest son, he observed to mr. justice allan park--"how delighted george would be to take his poor brother from the earth and restore him to life, although he receives £ , by his decease." lord eldon is said to have left to his descendants £ , ; and his brother, lord stowell, to whom we are indebted for the phrase 'the elegant simplicity of the three per cents.,' also acquired property that at the time of his death yielded £ , per annum. lord stowell's personalty was sworn under £ , , and he had invested considerable sums in land. it is noteworthy that this rich lawyer did not learn to be contented with the moderate interest of the three per cents. until he had sustained losses from bad speculations. notable also is it that this rich lawyer--whose notorious satisfaction with three per cent. interest has gained for him a reputation of noble indifference to gain--was inordinately fond of money. these great fortunes were raised from fees taken in practice at the bar, from judicial salaries or pensions, and from other official gains--such as court dues, perquisites, sinecures, and allowances. since the revolution of these last named irregular or fluctuating sources of judicial income have steadily diminished, and in the present day have come to an end. eldon's receipts during his tenure of the seals cannot be definitely stated, but more is known about them and his earnings at the bar than he intended the world to discover, when he declared in parliament "that in no one year, since he had been made lord chancellor, had he received the same amount of profit which he enjoyed while at the bar." whilst he was attorney general he earned something more than £ , a year; and in returns which he himself made to the house of commons, he admits that in he received, as lord chancellor, a gross income of £ , , from which sum, after deduction of all expenses, there remained a net income of £ , per annum. he was enabled also to enrich the members of his family with presentations to offices, and reversions of places. until comparatively recent times, judges were dangerously dependent on the king's favor; for they not only held their offices during the pleasure of the crown, but on dismissal they could not claim a retiring pension. in the seventeenth century, an aged judge, worn out by toil and length of days, was deemed a notable instance of royal generosity, if he obtained a small allowance on relinquishing his place in court. chief justice hale, on his retirement, was signally favored when charles ii. graciously promised to continue his salary till the end of his life--which was manifestly near its close. under the stuarts, the judges who lost their places for courageous fidelity to law, were wont to resume practice at the bar. to provide against the consequences of ejection from office, great lawyers, before they consented to exchange the gains of advocacy for the uncertain advantages of the woolsack, used to stipulate for special allowance--over and above the ancient emoluments of place. lord nottingham had an allowance of £ per annum; and lord guildford, after a struggle for better times, was constrained, at a cost of mental serenity, to accept the seals, with a special salary of half that sum.[ ] from down to the present time, the chronicler of changes in the legal profession, has to notice a succession of alterations in the system and scale of judicial payments--all of the innovations having a tendency to raise the dignity of the bench. under william and mary, an allowance (still continued), was made to holders of the seal on their appointment, for the cost of outfit and equipages. the amount of this special aid was £ , but fees reduced it to £ _s._ mr. foss observes--"the earliest existing record of this allowance, is dated june , , when sir nathan wright was made lord keeper, which states it to be the same sum as had been allowed to his predecessor." at the same period, the salary of a puisne judge was but £ a year--a sum that would have been altogether insufficient for his expenses. a considerable part of a puisne's remuneration consisted of fees, perquisites, and presents. amongst the customary presents to judges at this time, may be mentioned the _white gloves_, which men convicted of manslaughter, presented to the judges when they pleaded the king's pardon; the _sugar loaves_, which the warden of the fleet annually sent to the judges of the common pleas; and the almanacs yearly distributed amongst the occupants of the bench by the stationers' company. from one of these almanacs, in which judge rokeby kept his accounts, it appears that in the year , the casual profits of his place amounted to £ , _s._ _d._ here is the list of his official incomes, (net) for ten years:--in , £ , _s._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._; in , £ , _s._ _d._ the fluctuation of the amounts in this list, is worthy of observation; as it points to one bad consequence of the system of paying judges by fees, gratuities, and uncertain perquisites. a needy judge, whose income in lucky years was over two thousand pounds, must have been sadly pinched in years when he did not receive fifteen hundred. under the heading, "the charges of my coming into my judge's place, and the taxes upon it the first yeare and halfe," judge rokeby gives the following particulars: " , may . to mr. milton, deputy clerk of the crown, as per note, for the patent and swearing privately, £ , _s._ _d._ may . to mr. english, charges of the patent at the secretary of state's office, as per note, said to be a new fee, £ , _s._ inrolling the patent in exchequer and treasury, £ , _s._ _d._ ju. . wine given as a judge, as per vintner's note, £ , _s._ ju. . cakes, given as a judge, as per vintner's note, £ , _s._ _d._ second-hand judge's robes, with some new lining, £ . charges for my part of the patent for our salarys, to aaron smith, £ , _s._, and the dormant warrant £ .--£ , _s._--£ , _s._ _d._ "taxes, £ . "the charges of my being made a serjeant-at-law, and of removing myselfe and family to london, and a new coach and paire of horses, and of my knighthood (all which were within the first halfe year of my coming from york), upon the best calculation i can make of them, were att least £ ." concerning the expenses attendant on his removal from the common pleas to the king's bench in --a removal which had an injurious result upon his income--the judge records: nov. . to mr. partridge, the crier of king's bench, claimed by him as a fee due to the criers, £ . nov. . to mr. ralph hall, in full of the clerk of the crown's bill for my patent, and swearing at the lord keeper's, and passing it through the offices, £ , _s._ _d._ dec. . to mr. carpenter, the vintner, for wine and bottles, £ , _s._ _d._ to gwin, the confectioner, for cakes, £ , _s._ _d._ to mr. mand (his clerk), which he paid att the treasury, and att the pell for my patent, allowed there, £ , _s._ tot. £ , _s._ _d._ the charges for wine and cakes were consequences of a custom which required a new judge to send biscuits and macaroons, sack and claret, to his brethren of the bench. in the reign of george i. the salaries of the common law judges were raised--the pensions of the chiefs being doubled, and the _puisnes_ receiving fifteen hundred instead of a thousand pounds. cowper's incomes during his tenure of the seals varied between something over seven and something under nine thousand per annum: but there is some reason to believe that on accepting office, he stipulated for a handsome yearly salary, in case he should be called upon to relinquish the place. evelyn, not a very reliable authority, but still a chronicler worthy of notice even on questions of fact, says:--"oct. . mr. cowper made lord keeper. observing how uncertain greate officers are of continuing long in their places, he would not accept it unless £ , a yeare were given him in reversion when he was put out, in consideration of his loss of practice. his predecessors, how little time soever they had the seal, usually got £ , , and made themselves barons." it is doubtful whether this bargain was actually made; but long after cowper's time, lawyers about to mount the woolsack, insisted on having terms that should compensate them for loss of practice. lord macclesfield had a special salary of £ per annum, during his occupancy of the marble chair, and obtained a grant of £ , from the king;--a tellership in the exchequer being also bestowed upon his eldest son. lord king obtained even better terms--a salary of £ per annum from the post office, and £ from the hanaper office; this large income being granted to him in consideration of the injury done to the chancellor's emoluments by the proceedings against lord macclesfield--whereby it was declared illegal for chancellors to sell the subordinate offices in the court of chancery. this arrangement--giving the chancellor an increased salary in _lieu_ of the sums which he could no longer raise by sales of offices--is conclusive testimony that in the opinion of the crown lord macclesfield had a right to sell the masterships. the terms made by lord northington, in , on resigning the seals and becoming president of the council, illustrate this custom. on quitting the marble chair, he obtained an immediate pension of £ per annum; and an agreement that the annual payment should be made £ per annum, as soon as he retired from the presidency: he also obtained a reversionary grant for two lives of the lucrative office of clerk of the hanaper in chancery. in lord chancellor king's time, amongst the fees and perquisites which he wished to regulate and reform were the supplies of stationery, provided by the country for the great law-officers. it may be supposed that the sum thus expended on paper, pens, and wax was an insignificant item in the national expenditure; but such was not the case--for the chief of the courts were accustomed to place their personal friends on the free-list for articles of stationery. the archbishop of dublin, a dignitary well able to pay for his own writing materials, wrote to lord king, april , : "my lord,--ever since i had the honor of being acquainted with lord chancellors, i have lived in england and ireland upon chancery paper, pens, and wax. i am not willing to lose an old advantageous custom. if your lordship hath any to spare me by my servant, you will oblige your very humble servant, "john dublin." so long as judges or subordinate officers were paid by casual perquisites and fees, paid directly to them by suitors, a taint of corruption lingered in the practice of our courts. long after judges ceased to sell injustice, they delayed justice from interested motives, and when questions concerning their perquisites were raised, they would sometimes strain a point, for the sake of their own private advantage. even lord ellenborough, whose fame is bright amongst the reputations of honorable men, could not always exercise self-control when attempts were made to lessen his customary profits, "i never," writes lord campbell, "saw this feeling at all manifest itself in lord ellenborough except once, when a question arose whether money paid into court was liable to poundage. i was counsel in the case, and threw him into a furious passion, by strenuously resisting the demand; the poundage was to go into his own pocket--being payable to the chief clerk--an office held in trust for him. if he was in any degree influenced by this consideration, i make no doubt that he was wholly unconscious of it." george iii.'s reign witnessed the introduction of changes long required, and frequently demanded in the mode and amounts of judicial payments. in , puisne judges and barons received an additional £ per annum, and the chief baron an increase of £ a year. twenty years later, stat. , geo. iii., c. , gave the master of the rolls, £ a year, the lord chief baron £ a year, and each of the puisne judges and barons, £ per annum. by the same act also, life-pensions of £ per annum were secured to retiring holders of the seal, and it was provided that after fifteen years of service, or in case of incurable infirmity, the chief justice of the king's bench could claim, on retirement, £ per annum, the master of the rolls, chief of common pleas, and chief baron £ per annum, and each minor judge of those courts or baron of the coif, £ a year. in , ( geo. iii., c. ) the lord chief baron's annual salary was raised to £ ; whilst a yearly stipend of £ was assigned to each puisne judge or baron. by geo. iii., c. , the chiefs and master of the rolls, received on retirement an additional yearly £ , and the puisnes an additional yearly £ . a still more important reform of george iii.'s reign was the creation of the first vice chancellor in march, . rank was assigned to the new functionary next after the master of the rolls, and his salary was fixed at £ per annum. until the reign of george iv. judges continued to take fees and perquisites; but by geo. iv. c. , , , it was arranged that the fees should be paid into the exchequer, and that the undernamed great officers of justice should receive the following salaries and pensions on retirement:-- an. pension an. sal. on retirement. lord chief justice of king's bench £ , £ lord chief justice of common pleas the master of the rolls the vice chancellor of england the chief baron of the exchequer each puisne baron or judge moreover by this act, the second judge of the king's bench was entitled, as in the preceding reign, to £ for giving charge to the grand jury in each term, and pronouncing judgment on malefactors. the changes with regard to judicial salaries under william iv. were comparatively unimportant. by and will. iv. c. , the salaries of puisne judges and barons were reduced to £ a year; and by and will. iv. c. , the chancellor's pension, on retirement, was raised to £ , the additional £ per annum being assigned to him in compensation of loss of patronage occasioned by the abolition of certain offices. these were the most noticeable of william's provisions with regard to the payment of his judges. the present reign, which has generously given the country two new judges, called lord justices, two additional vice chancellors, and a swarm of paid justices, in the shape of county court judges and stipendiary magistrates, has exercised economy with regard to judicial salaries. the annual stipends of the two chief justices, fixed in at £ , for the chief of the king's bench, and £ for the chief of the common pleas, have been reduced, in the former case to £ per annum, in the latter to £ per annum. the chancellor's salary for his services as speaker of the house of lords, has been made part of the £ , assigned to his legal office; so that his income is no more than ten thousand a year. the salary of the master of the rolls has been reduced from £ to £ a year; the same stipend, together with a pension on retirement of £ , being assigned to each of the lords justices. the salary of a vice chancellor is £ per annum; and after fifteen years' service, or in case of incurable sickness, rendering him unable to discharge the functions of his office, he can retire with a pension of £ . thurlow had no pension on retirement; but with much justice lord campbell observes: "although there was no parliamentary retired allowance for ex-chancellors, they were better off than at present. thurlow was a teller of the exchequer, and had given sinecures to all his relations, for one of which his nephew now receives a commutation of £ a year." lord loughborough was the first ex-chancellor who enjoyed, on retirement, a pension of £ per annum, under stat. geo. iii. c. . the next claimant for an ex-chancellor's pension was eldon, on his ejection from office in ; and the third claimant was erskine, whom the possession of the pension did not preserve from the humiliation of indigence. eldon's obstinate tenacity of office, was attended with one good result. it saved the nation much money by keeping down the number of ex-chancellors entitled to £ per annum. the frequency with which governments have been changed during the last forty years has had a contrary effect, producing such a strong bevy of lawyers--who are pensioners as well as peers--that financial reformers are loudly asking if some scheme cannot be devised for lessening the number of these costly and comparatively useless personages. at the time when this page is written, there are four ex-chancellors in receipt of pensions--lords brougham, st. leonards, cranworth, and westbury; but death has recently diminished the roll of chancellors by removing lords truro and lyndhurst. not long since the present writer read a very able, but one-sided article in a liberal newspaper that gave the sum total spent by the country since lord eldon's death in ex-chancellors' pensions; and in simple truth it must be admitted that the bill was a fearful subject for contemplation. [ ] during the commonwealth, the people, unwilling to pay their judges liberally, decided that a thousand a year was a sufficient income for a lord commissioner of the great seal. part iv. costume and toilet. chapter xix. bright and sad. from the days of the conqueror's chancellor, baldrick, who is reputed to have invented and christened the sword-belt that bears his name, lawyers have been conspicuous amongst the best dressed men of their times. for many generations clerical discipline restrained the members of the bar from garments of lavish costliness and various colors, unless high rank and personal influence placed them above the fear of censure and punishment; but as soon as the law became a lay-profession, its members--especially those who were still young--eagerly seized the newest fashions of costume, and expended so much time and money on personal decoration, that the governors of the inns deemed it expedient to make rules, with a view to check the inordinate love of gay apparel. by these enactments, foppish modes of dressing the hair was discountenanced or forbidden, not less than the use of gaudy clothes and bright arms. some of these regulations have a quaint air to readers of this generation; and as indications of manners in past times, they deserve attention. from dugdale's 'origines juridiciales,' it appears that in the earlier part of henry viii.'s reign, the students and barristers of the inns were allowed great licence in settling for themselves minor points of costume; but before that paternal monarch died, this freedom was lessened. accepting the statements of a previous chronicler, dugdale observes of the members of the middle temple under henry--"they have no order for their apparell; but every man may go as him listeth, so that his apparell pretend no lightness or wantonness in the wearer; for, even as his apparell doth shew him to be, even so he shall be esteemed among them." but at the period when this licence was permitted in respect of costume, the general discipline of the inn was scandalously lax; the very next paragraph of the 'origines' showing that the templars forbore to shut their gates at night, whereby "their chambers were oftentimes robbed, and many other misdemeanors used." but measures were taken to rectify the abuses and evil manners of the schools. in the thirty-eighth year of henry viii. an order was made "that the gentlemen of this company" (_i.e._, the inner temple) "should reform themselves in their cut or disguised apparel, and not to have long beards. and that the treasurer of this society should confer with the other treasurers of court for an uniform reformation." the authorities of lincoln's inn had already bestirred themselves to reduce the extravagances of dress and toilet which marked their younger and more frivolous fellow-members. "and for decency in apparel," writes dugdale, concerning lincoln's inn, "at a council held on the day of the nativity of st. john the baptist, hen. viii. it was ordered that for a continual rule, to be thenceforth kept in this house, no gentleman, being a fellow of this house, should wear any cut or pansid hose, or bryches; or pansid doublet, upon pain of putting out of the house." ten years later the authorities of lincoln's inn ( hen. viii.) ordered that no member of the society "being in commons, or at his repast, should wear a beard; and whoso did, to pay double commons or repasts in this house during such time as he should have any beard." by an order of maii, and philip and mary, the gentlemen of the inner temple were forbidden to wear long beards, no member of the society being permitted to wear a beard of more than three weeks' growth. every breach of this law was punished by the heavy fine of twenty shillings. in and of philip and mary it was ordered that no member of the middle temple "should thenceforth wear any great bryches in their hoses, made after the dutch, spanish, or almon fashion; or lawnde upon their capps; or cut doublets, upon pain of iiis iiiid forfaiture for the first default, and the second time to be expelled the house." at lincoln's inn, "in and philip and mary, one mr wyde, of this house, was (by special order made upon ascension day) fined at five groats, for going in his study gown in cheapside, on a sunday, about ten o'clock before noon; and in westminister hall, in the term time, in the forenoon." mr. wyde's offence was one of remissness rather than of excessive care for his personal appearance. with regard to beards in the same reign lincoln's inn exacted that such members "as had beards should pay _d._ for every meal they continued them; and every man" was required "to be shaven upon pain of putting out of commons." the orders made under elizabeth with regard to the same or similar matters are even more humorous and diverse. at the inner temple "it was ordered in elizabeth ( junii), that if any fellow in commons, or lying in the louse, did wear either hat or cloak in the temple church, hall, buttry, kitchen, or at the buttry-barr, dresser, or in the garden, he should forfeit for every such offence vis viiid. and in eliz. ( febr.) that they go not in cloaks, hatts, bootes, and spurs into the city, but when they ride out of the town." this order was most displeasing to the young men of the legal academies, who were given to swaggering amongst the brave gallants of city ordinaries, and delighted in showing their rich attire at paul's. the templar of the inner temple who ventured to wear arms (except his dagger) in hall committed a grave offence, and was fined five pounds. "no fellow of this house should come into the hall" it was enacted at the inner temple, eliz. ( dec.) "with any weapons, except his dagger, or his knife, upon pain of forfeiting the sum of five pounds." in old time the lawyers often quarrelled and drew swords in hall; and the object of this regulation doubtless was to diminish the number of scandalous affrays. the middle temple, in eliz., made six prohibitory rules with regard to apparel, enacting, " . that no ruff should be worn. . nor any white color in doublets or hoses. . nor any facing of velvet in gownes, but by such as were of the bench. . that no gentleman should walk in the streets in their cloaks, but in gownes. . that no hat, or long, or curled hair be worn. . nor any gown, but such as were of a sad color." of similar orders made at gray's inn, during elizabeth's reign, the following edict of eliz. (feb. ) may be taken as a specimen:--"that no gentleman of this society do come into the hall, to any meal, with their hats, boots, or spurs; but with their caps, decently and orderly, according to the ancient order of this house: upon pain, for every offence, to forfeit iiis d, and for the third offence expulsion. likewise, that no gentleman of this society do go into the city, or suburbs, or to walk in the fields, otherwise than in his gown, according to the ancient usage of the gentlemen of the inns of court, upon penalty of iiis iiiid for every offence; and for the third, expulsion and loss of his chamber." at lincoln's inn it was enacted, "in eliz., that if any fellow of this house, being a commoner or repaster, should within the precinct of this house wear any cloak, boots and spurs, or long hair, he should pay for every offence five shillings for a fine, and also to be put out of commons." the attempt to put down beards at lincoln's inn failed. dugdale says, in his notes on that inn, "and in eliz. it was further ordered, that no fellow of this house should wear any beard above a fortnight's growth; and that whoso transgresses therein should for the first offence forfeit _s._ d., to be paid and cast with his commons; and for the second time _s_ d., in like manner to be paid and cast with his commons; and the third time to be banished the house. but the fashion at that time of wearing beards grew then so predominant, as that the very next year following, at a council held at this house, upon the th of november, it was agreed and ordered, that all orders before that time touching beards should be void and repealed." in the same year in which the authorities of lincoln's inn forbade the wearing of beards, they ordered that no fellow of their society "should wear any sword or buckler; or cause any to be born after him into the town." this was the first of the seven orders made in eliz. for _all_ the inns of court; of which orders the sixth runs thus:--"that none should wear any velvet upper cap, neither in the house nor city. and that none after the first day of january then ensuing, should wear any furs, nor any manner of silk in their apparel, otherwise than he could justifie by the stature of apparel, made _an._ h. , under the penalty aforesaid." in the eighth year of the following reign it was ordained at lincoln's inn "that no rapier should be worn in this house by any of the society." other orders made in the reign of james i., and similar enactments passed by the inns in still more recent periods, can be readily found on reference to dugdale and later writers upon the usages of lawyers. on such matters, however, fashion is all-powerful; and however grandly the benchers of an inn might talk in their council-chamber, they could not prevail on their youngsters to eschew beards when beards were the mode, or to crop the hair of their heads when long tresses were worn by gallants at court. even in the time of elizabeth--when authority was most anxious that utter-barristers should in matters of costume maintain that reputation for 'sadness' which is the proverbial characteristic of apprentices of the law--counsellors of various degrees were conspicuous throughout the town for brave attire. if we had no other evidence bearing on the point, knowledge of human nature would make us certain that the bar imitated lord chancellor hatton's costume. at gray's inn, francis bacon was not singular in loving rich clothes, and running into debt for satin and velvet, jewels and brocade, lace and feathers. even of that contemner of frivolous men and vain pursuits, edward coke, biography assures us, "the jewel of his mind was put into a fair case, a beautiful body with comely countenance; a case which he did wipe and keep clean, delighting in good clothes, well worn; being wont to say that the outward neatness of our bodies might be a monitor of purity to our souls." the courts of james i. and his son drew some of their most splendid fops from the multitude of young men who were enjoined by the elders of their profession to adhere to a costume that was a compromise between the garb of an oxford scholar and the guise of a london 'prentice. the same was the case with charles ii.'s london. students and barristers outshone the brightest idlers at whitehall, whilst within the walls of their inns benchers still made a faint show of enforcing old restrictions upon costume. at a time when every templar in society wore hair--either natural or artificial--long and elaborately dressed, sir william dugdale wrote, "to the office of the chief butler" (_i.e._, of the middle temple) "it likewise appertaineth to take the names of those that be absent at the said solemn revells, and to present them to the bench, as also inform the bench of such as wear hats, bootes, _long hair_, or the like (for the which he is commonly out of the young gentlemen's favor)." chapter xx. millinery. saith sir william dugdale, in his chapter concerning the personal attire of judges--"that peculiar and decent vestments have, from great antiquity, been used in religious services, we have the authority of god's sacred precept to moses, '_thou shall make holy rayments for aaron and his sons, that are to minister unto me, that they may be for glory and beauty_.'" in this light and flippant age there are men irreverent enough to smile at the habiliments which our judges wear in court, for the glory of god and the seemly embellishment of their own natural beauty. like the stuff-gown of the utter-barrister, the robes of english judges are of considerable antiquity; but antiquaries labor in vain to discover all the facts relating to their origin and history. mr. foss says that at the stuart restoration english judges resumed the robes worn by their predecessors since the time of edward i.; but though the judicial robes of the present day bear a close resemblance to the vestments worn by that king's judges, the costume of the bench has undergone many variations since the twentieth year of his reign. in the eleventh year of richard ii. a distinction was made between the costumes of the chiefs of the king's bench and common pleas and their assistant justices; and at the same time the chief baron's inferiority to the chief justices was marked by costume. henry vi.'s chief justice of the king's bench, sir john fortescue, in his delightful treatise 'de laudibus legum angliæ,' describes the ceremony attending the creation of a justice, and minutely sets forth the chief items of judicial costume in the bench and common pleas during his time. "howbeit," runs robert mulcaster's rendering of the 'de laudibus,' "the habite of his rayment, hee shall from time to time forwarde, in some pointes change, but not in all the ensignments thereof. for beeing serjeaunt at lawe, hee was clothed in a long robe priestlyke, with a furred cape about his shoulders, and thereupon a hoode with two labels such as doctours of the lawes use to weare in certayne universityes, with the above described quoyfe. but being once made a justice, in steede of his hoode, hee shall weare a cloake cloased upon his righte shoulder, all the other ornaments of a serjeant still remayning; sauing that a justyce shall weare no partye coloured vesture as a serjeant may. and his cape is furred with none other than menever, whereas the serjeant's cape is ever furred with whyte lambe." judicial costume varied with the fashion of the day or the whim of the sovereign in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. subsequent generations saw the introduction of other changes; and in the time of charles i. questions relating to the attire of the common law judges were involved in so much doubt, and surrounded with so many contradictory precedents and traditions, that the judges resolved to simplify matters by conference and unanimous action. the result of their deliberation was a decree, dated june , , to which sir john bramston, chief of the king's bench, sir john finch, chief of the common pleas, sir humphrey davenport, chief of the exchequer, and all the minor judges of the three courts, gave subscription. chapter xxi. wigs. the changes effected in judicial costume during the commonwealth, like the reformation introduced at the same period into the language of the law, were all reversed in , when charles ii.'s judges resumed the attire and usages of their predecessors in the first charles's reign. when he had satisfied himself that monarchical principles were sure of an enduring triumph, and that their victory would conduce to his own advantage, great was young samuel pepys's delight at seeing the ancient customs of the lawyers restored, one after another. in october, , he had the pleasure of seeing "the lord chancellor and all the judges riding on horseback, and going to westminster hall, it being the first day of term." in the february of - his eyes were gladdened by the revival of another old practice. " th (lord's day). up and walked to st. paul's," he writes, "and, by chance, it was an extraordinary day for the readers of inns of the court and all the students to come to church, it being an old ceremony not used these twenty-five years, upon the first sunday in lent. abundance there was of students, more than there was room to seat but upon forms, and the church mighty full. one hawkins preached, an oxford man, a good sermon upon these words, 'but the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable.'" hawkins was no doubt a humorist, and smiled in the sleeve of his oxford gown as he told the law-students that _peace_ characterized the highest sort of _wisdom_. but, notwithstanding their zeal in reviving old customs, the lawyers of the restoration introduced certain novelties into legal life. from paris they imported the wig which still remains one of the distinctive adornments of the english barrister; and from the same centre of civilization they introduced certain refinements of cookery, which had been hitherto unknown in the taverns of fleet street and the strand. in the earlier part of the 'merry monarch's' reign, the eating-house most popular with young barristers and law-students was kept by a french cook named chattelin, who, besides entertaining his customers with delicate fare and choice wine, enriched our language with the word 'cutlet'--in his day spelt costelet. in the seventeenth century, until wigs were generally adopted, the common law judges, like their precursors for several past generations, wore in court velvet caps, coifs, and cornered caps. pictures preserve to us the appearance of justices, with their heads covered by one or two of these articles of dress, the moustache in many instances adorning the lip, and a well-trimmed beard giving point to the judicial chin. the more common head-dress was the coif and coif-cap, of which it is necessary to say a few words. the coif was a covering for the head, made of white lawn or silk, and common law judges wore it as a sign that they were members of the learned brotherhood of sergeants. speaking of the sergeants, fortescue, in his 'de laudibus,' says--"wherefore to this state and degree hath no man beene hitherto admitted, except he hath first continued by the space of sixteene years in the said generall studio of the law, and in token or signe, that all justices are thus graduat, every one of them alwaies, while he sitteth in the kinge's courts, weareth a white quoyfe of silke; which is the principal and chiefe insignment of habite, wherewith serjeants-at-lawe in their creation are decked. and neither the justice, nor yet the serjeaunt, shall ever put off the quoyfe, no not in the kinge's presence, though he bee in talke with his majestie's highnesse." at times it was no easy matter to take the coif from the head; for the white drapery was fixed to its place with strings, which in the case of one notorious rascal were not untied without difficulty. in henry iii.'s reign, when william de bossy was charged in open court with corruption and dishonesty, he claimed the benefit of clerical orders, and endeavored to remove his coif in order that he might display his tonsure; but before he could effect his purpose, an officer of the court seized him by the throat and dragged him off to prison. "voluit," says matthew paris, "ligamenta coifæ suæ solvere, ut, palam monstraret se tonsuram habere clericalem; sed non est permissus. satelles vero eum arripiens, non per coifæ ligamina sed per guttur eum apprehendens, traxit ad carcerem." from which occurrence spelman drew the untenable, and indeed, ridiculous inference, that the coif was introduced as a veil, beneath which ecclesiastics who wished to practice as judges or counsel in the secular courts, might conceal the personal mark of their order. the coif-cap is still worn in undiminished proportions by judges when they pass sentence of death, and is generally known as the 'black cap.' in old time the justice, on making ready to pronounce the awful words which consigned a fellow-creature to a horrible death, was wont to draw up the flat, square, dark cap, that sometimes hung at the nape of his neck or the upper part of his shoulder. having covered the whiteness of his coif, and partially concealed his forehead and brows with the sable cloth, he proceeded to utter the dread sentence with solemn composure and firmness. at present the black cap is assumed to strike terror into the hearts of the vulgar; formerly it was pulled over the eyes, to hide the emotion of the judge. shorn of their original size, the coif and the coif-cap may still be seen in the wigs worn by sergeants at the present day. the black blot which marks the crown of a sergeant's wig is generally spoken of as his coif, but this designation is erroneous. the black blot is the coif-cap; and those who wish to see the veritable coif must take a near view of the wig, when they will see that between the black silk and the horsehair there lies a circular piece of white lawn, which is the vestige of that pure raiment so reverentially mentioned by fortescue. on the general adoption of wigs, the sergeants, like the rest of the bar, followed in the wake of fashion: but at first they wore their old coifs and caps over their false hair. finding this plan cumbersome, they gradually diminished the size of the ancient covering, until the coif and cap became the absurd thing which resembles a bald place covered with court-plaster quite as much as the rest of the wig resembles human hair. whilst the common law judges of the seventeenth century, before the introduction of wigs, wore the undiminished coif and coif-cap, the lord chancellor, like the speaker of the house of commons, wore a hat. lord keeper williams, the last clerical holder of the seals, used to wear in the court of chancery a round, conical hat. bradshaw, sitting as president of the commissioners who tried charles i., wore a hat instead of the coif and cap which he donned at other times as a serjeant of law. kennett tells us that "mr. sergeant bradshaw, the president, was afraid of some tumult upon such new and unprecedented insolence as that of sitting judge upon his king; and therefore, beside other defence, he had a thick big-crowned beaver hat, lined with plated steel, to ward off blows." it is scarcely credible that bradshaw resorted to such means for securing his own safety, for in the case of a tumult, a hat, however strong, would have been an insignificant protection against popular fury. if conspirators had resolved to take his life, they would have tried to effect their purpose by shooting or stabbing him, not by knocking him on the head. a steel-plated hat would have been but a poor guard against a bludgeon, and a still poorer defence against poignard or pistol. it is far more probable that in laying aside the ordinary head-dress of an english common law judge, and in assuming a high-crowned hat, the usual covering of a speaker, bradshaw endeavored to mark the exceptional character of the proceeding, and to remind the public that he acted under parliamentary sanction. whatever the wearer's object, england was satisfied that he had a notable purpose, and persisted in regarding the act as significant of cowardice or of insolence, of anxiety to keep within the lines of parliamentary privilege or of readiness to set all law at defiance. at the time and long after bradshaw's death, that hat caused an abundance of discussion; it was a problem which men tried in vain to solve, an enigma that puzzled clever heads, a riddle that was interpreted as an insult, a caution, a protest, a menace, a doubt. oxford honored it with a latin inscription, and a place amongst the curiosities of the university, and its memory is preserved to englishmen of the present day in the familiar lines-- "where england's monarch once uncovered sat, and bradshaw bullied in a broad-brimmed hat." judges were by no means unanimous with regard to the adoption of wigs, some of them obstinately refusing to disfigure themselves with false tresses, and others displaying a foppish delight in the new decoration. sir matthew hale, who died in , to the last steadily refused to decorate himself with artificial locks. the likeness of the chief justice that forms the frontispiece to burnet's memoir of the lawyer, represents him in his judicial robes, wearing his ss collar, and having on his head a cap--not the coif-cap, but one of the close-fitting skull-caps worn by judges in the seventeenth century. such skull-caps, it has been observed in a prior page of this work, were worn by barristers under their wigs, and country gentlemen at home, during the last century. into such caps readers have seen sir francis north put his fees. the portrait of sir cresswell levinz (who returned to the bar on dismissal from the bench in ) shows that he wore a full-bottomed wig whilst he was a judge; whereas sir thomas street, who remained a judge till the close of james ii.'s reign, wore his own hair and a coif-cap. when shaftesbury sat in court as lord high chancellor of england he wore a hat, which roger north is charitable enough to think might have been a black hat. "his lordship," says the 'examen,' "regarded censure so little, that he did not concern himself to use a decent habit as became a judge of his station; for he sat upon the bench in an ash-colored gown silver-laced, and full-ribboned pantaloons displayed, without any black at all in his garb, unless it were his hat, which, now, i cannot positively say, though i saw him, was so." even so late as queen anne's reign, which witnessed the introduction of three-cornered hats, a lord keeper wore his own hair in court instead of a wig, until he received the sovereign's order to adopt the venerable disguise of a full-bottomed wig. lady sarah cowper recorded of her father, :--"the queen after this was persuaded to trust a whigg ministry, and in the year , octr., she made my father ld. keeper of the great seal, in the st year of his age--'tis said the youngest lord keeper that ever had been. he looked very young, and wearing his own hair made him appear yet more so, which the queen observing, obliged him to cut it off, telling him the world would say she had given the seals to a boy." the young lord keeper of course obeyed; and when he appeared for the first time at court in a wig, his aspect was so grave and reverend that the queen had to look at him twice before she recognized him. more than half a century later, george ii. experienced a similar difficulty, when lord hardwicke, after the close of his long period of official service, showed himself at court in a plain suit of black velvet, with a bag and sword. familiar with the appearance of the chancellor dressed in full-bottomed wig and robes, the king failed to detect his old friend and servant in the elderly gentleman who, in the garb of a private person of quality, advanced and rendered due obeisance. "sir, it is lord hardwicke," whispered a lord in waiting who stood near his majesty's person, and saw the cause of the cold reception given to the ex-chancellor. but unfortunately the king was not more familiar with the ex-chancellor's title than his appearance, and in a disastrous endeavor to be affable inquired, with an affectation of interest, "how long has your lordship been in town?" the peer's surprise and chagrin were great until the monarch, having received further instruction from the courtly prompter at his elbow, frankly apologized in bad english and with noisy laughter. "had lord hardwicke," says campbell, "worn such a uniform as that invented by george iv. for ex-chancellors (very much like a field marshal's), he could not have been mistaken for a common man." the judges who at the first introduction of wigs refused to adopt them were prone to express their dissatisfaction with those coxcombical contrivances when exhibited upon the heads of counsel; and for some years prudent juniors, anxious to win the favorable opinion of anti-wig justices, declined to obey the growing fashion. chief justice hale, a notable sloven, conspicuous amongst common law judges for the meanness of his attire, just as shaftesbury was conspicuous in the court of chancery for foppishness, cherished lively animosity for two sorts of legal practitioners--attorneys who wore swords, and young templars who adorned themselves with periwigs. bishop burnet says of hale: "he was a great encourager of all young persons that he saw followed their books diligently, to whom he used to give directions concerning the method of their study, with a humanity and sweetness that wrought much on all that came near him; and in a smiling, pleasant way he would admonish them, if he saw anything amiss in them; particularly if they went too fine in their clothes, he would tell them it did not become their profession. he was not pleased to see students wear long periwigs, or attorneys go with swords, so that such men as would not be persuaded to part with those vanities, when they went to him laid them aside and went as plain as they could, to avoid the reproof which they knew they might otherwise expect." in england, however, barristers almost universally wore wigs at the close of the seventeenth century; but north of the tweed advocates wore cocked hats and powdered hair so late as the middle of the eighteenth century. when alexander wedderburn joined the scotch bar in , wigs had not come into vogue with the members of his profession. many are the good stories told of judicial wigs, and amongst the best of them, is the anecdote which that malicious talker samuel rogers delighted to tell at edward law's expense. "lord ellenborough," says the 'table-talk,' "was once about to go on circuit, when lady ellenborough said that she should like to accompany him. he replied that he had no objection provided she did not encumber the carriage with bandboxes, which were his utter abhorrence. during the first day's journey lord ellenborough, happening to stretch his legs, struck his foot against something below the seat; he discovered that it was a bandbox. up went the window, and out went the bandbox. the coachman stopped, and the footman, thinking that the bandbox had tumbled out of the window by some extraordinary chance, was going to pick it up, when lord ellenborough furiously called out, 'drive on!' the bandbox, accordingly, was left by the ditch-side. having reached the county town where he was to officiate as judge, lord ellenborough proceeded to array himself for his appearance in the court-house. 'now,' said he, 'where's my wig?--where _is_ my wig?' 'my lord,' replied his attendant, 'it was thrown out of the carriage window!'" changing together with fashion, barristers ceased to wear their wigs in society as soon as the gallants and bucks of the west end began to appear with their natural tresses in theatres and ball rooms; but the conservative genius of the law has hitherto triumphed over the attempts of eminent advocates to throw the wig out of westminster hall. when lord campbell argued the great privilege case, he obtained permission to appear without a wig; but this concession to a counsel--who, on that occasion, spoke for sixteen hours--was accompanied with an intimation that "it was not to be drawn into precedent." less wise or less fortunate than the bar, the judges of england wore their wigs in society after advocates of all ranks and degrees had agreed to lay aside the professional head-gear during hours of relaxation. lady eldon's good taste and care for her husband's comfort, induced lord eldon, soon after his elevation to the pillow of the common pleas, to beg the king's permission that he might put off his judicial wig on leaving the courts, in which as chief justice he would be required to preside. the petition did not meet with a favorable reception. for a minute george iii. hesitated; whereupon eldon supported his prayer by observing, with the fervor of an old-fashioned tory, that the lawyer's wig was a detestable innovation--unknown in the days of james i. and charles the martyr, the judges of which two monarchs would have rejected as an insult any proposal that they should assume a head-dress fit only for madmen at masquerades or mummers at country wakes. "what! what!" cried the king, sharply; and then, smiling mischievously, as he suddenly saw a good answer to the plausible argument, he added--"true, my lord, charles the first's judges wore no wigs, but they wore beards. you may do the same, if you like. you may please yourself about wearing or not wearing your wig; but mind, if you please yourself by imitating the old judges, as to the head--you must please me by imitating them as to the chin. you may lay aside your wig; but if you do--you must wear a beard." had he lived in these days, when barristers occasionally wear beards in court, and judges are not less conspicuous than the junior bar for magnitude of nose and whisker, eldon would have accepted the condition. but the last year of the last century, was the very centre and core of that time which may be called the period of close shavers; and john scott, the decorous and respectable, would have endured martyrdom rather than have grown a beard, or have allowed his whiskers to exceed the limits of mutton-chop whiskers. as chief justice of the common pleas, and subsequently as chancellor, eldon wore his wig whenever he appeared in general society; but in the privacy of his own house he gratified lady eldon by laying aside the official head-gear. that this was his usage, the gossips of the law-courts knew well; and at carlton house, when the prince of wales was most indignant with the chancellor, who subsequently became his familiar friend, courtiers were wont to soothe the royal rage with diverting anecdotes of the attention which the odious lawyer lavished on the natural hair that gave his bessie so much delight. on one occasion, when eldon was firmly supporting the cause of the princess of wales, 'the first gentleman of europe' forgot common decency so far, that he made a jeering allusion to this instance of the chancellor's domestic amiability. "i am not the sort of person," growled the prince with an outbreak of peevishness, "to let my hair grow under my wig to please my wife." with becoming dignity eldon answered--"your royal highness condescends to be personal. i beg leave to withdraw;" and suiting his action to his words, the chancellor made a low bow to the angry prince, and retired. the prince sneaked out of the position by an untruth, instead of an apology. on the following day he caused a written assurance to be conveyed to the chancellor, that the offensive speech "was nothing personal, but simply a proverb--a proverbial way of saying a man was governed by his wife." it is needless to say that the expression was not proverbial, but distinctly and grossly personal. lord malmesbury's comment on this affair is "very absurd of lord eldon; but explained by his having literally done what the prince said." lord eldon's conduct absurd! what was the prince's? chapter xxii. bands and collars. bands came into fashion with englishmen many years before wigs, but like wigs they were worn in general society before they became a recognized and distinctive feature of professional costume. ladies of rank dyed their hair, and wore false tresses in elizabethan england; but their example was not extensively followed by the men of their time--although the courtiers of the period sometimes donned 'periwinkes,' to the extreme disgust of the multitude, and the less stormy disapprobation of the polite. the frequency with which bands are mentioned in elizabethan literature, affords conclusive evidence that they were much worn toward the close of the sixteenth century; and it is also matter of certainty that they were known in england at a still earlier period. henry viii. had " shirte bands of silver with ruffes to the same, whereof one was perled with golde;" and in peacham observed, "king henry viii. was the first that ever wore a band about his neck, and that very plain, without lace, and about an inch or two in depth. we may see how the case is altered, he is not a gentleman, or in the fashion, whose band of italian cutwork standeth him not at the least in three or four pounds; yea, a sempster in holborn told me there are of threescore pound price apiece." that the fops of charles i.'s reign were spending money on a fashion originally set by king henry the bluff, was the opinion also of taylor the water poet, who in wrote-- "now up alofte i mount unto the ruffe, which into foolish mortals pride doth puffe; yet ruffes' antiquity is here but small-- within this eighty years not one at all; for the eighth henry (so i understand) was the first king that ever wore a _band_; and but a _falling-band_, plaine with a hem; all other people knew no use of them. yet imitation in small time began to grow, that it the kingdom overran; the little falling-bands encreased to ruffes, ruffes (growing great) were waited on by cuffes, and though our frailties should awake our care, we make our ruffes as careless as we are." in regarding the falling-band as the germ of the ruff, the water-poet differs from those writers who, with greater appearance of reason, maintain that the ruff was the parent of the band. into this question concerning origin of species, there is no occasion to enter on the present occasion. it is enough to state that in the earlier part of the seventeenth century bands or collars--bands stiffened and standing at the backward part, and bands falling upon the shoulder and breast--were articles of costume upon which men of expensive and modish habits spent large sums. in the days of james i., when standing bands were still the fashion, and falling-bands had not come in, the inns of court men were very particular about the stiffness, cut, and texture of their collars. speaking of the inns of court men, sir thomas overbury, (who was poisoned in ), says: "he laughs at every man whose band sits not well, or that hath not a fair shoe-type, and is ashamed to be in any man's company who wears not his cloathes well." if portraits may be trusted, the falling-band of charles i.'s time, bore considerable resemblance to the falling neck-frill, which twenty years since was very generally worn by quite little boys, and is still sometimes seen on urchins who are about six years of age. the bands worn by the barristers and clergy of our own time are modifications of this antique falling-band, and like the coif cap of the modern sergeant, they bear only a faint likeness to their originals. but though bands--longer than those still worn by clergymen--have come to be a distinctive feature of legal costume, the bar was slow to adopt falling-collars--regarding them as a strange and fanciful innovation. whitelock's personal narrative furnishes pleasant testimony that the younger gentry of charles i.'s england adopted the new collar before the working lawyers. "at the quarter-sessions of oxford," says whitelock, speaking of the year , when he was only thirty years of age, "i was put into the chair in court, though i was in colored clothes, a sword by my side, and a falling-band, which was unusual for lawyers in those days, and in this garb i gave the charge to the grand jury. i took occasion to enlarge on the point of jurisdiction in the temporal courts in matters ecclesiastical, and the antiquity thereof, which i did the rather because the spiritual men began in those days to swell higher than ordinary, and to take it as an injury to the church that anything savoring of the spirituality, should be within the cognisance of ignorant laymen. the gentlemen and freeholders seemed well pleased with my charge, and the management of the business of the sessions; and said they perceived one might speak as good sense in a falling-band as in a ruff." at this time whitelock had been about seven years at the bar; but at the quarter-sessions the young templar was playing the part of country squire, and as his words show, he was dressed in a fashion that directly violated professional usage. whitelock's speech seems to have been made shortly before the bar accepted the falling-band as an article of dress admissible in courts of law. towards the close of charles's reign, such bands were very generally worn in westminster hall by the gentlemen of the long robe; and after the restoration, a barrister would as soon have thought of appearing at the king's bench without his gown as without his band. unlike the bar-bands of the present time--which are lappets of fine lawn, of simple make--the bands worn by charles ii.'s lawyers were dainty and expensive articles, such as those which peacham exclaimed against in the preceding reign. at that date the templar in prosperous circumstances had his bands made entirely of point lace, or of fine lawn edged with point lace; and as he wore them in society as well as in court, he was constantly requiring a fresh supply of them. few accidents were more likely to ruffle a templar's equanimity than a mishap to his band occurring through his own inadvertence or carelessness on the part of a servant. at table the pieces of delicate lace-work were exposed to many dangers. continually were they stained with wine or soiled with gravy, and the young lawyer was deemed a marvel of amiability who could see his point lace thus defiled and abstain from swearing. "i remember," observes roger north, when he is showing the perfect control in which his brother francis kept his temper, at his table a stupid servant spilt a glass of red wine upon his point band and clothes. "he only wiped his face and clothes with the napkin, and 'here,' said he, 'take this away;' and no more." in 'the london spy,' ned ward shows that during queen anne's reign legal practitioners of the lowest sort were particular to wear bands. describing the pettifogger, ward says, "he always talks with as great assurance as if he understood what he pretends to know; and always wears a band, in which lies his gravity and wisdom." at the same period a brisk trade was carried on in westminster hall by the sempstresses who manufactured bands and cuffs, lace ruffles, and lawn kerchiefs for the grave counsellors and young gallants of the inns of court. "from thence," says the author of 'the london spy', "we walked down by the sempstresses, who were very nicely digitising and pleating turnsovers and ruffles for the young students, and coaxing them with amorous looks, obliging cant, and inviting gestures, to give so extravagant a price for what they buy." from collars of lace and lawn, let us turn to collars of precious metal. antiquarians have unanimously rejected the fanciful legend adopted by dugdale concerning the ss collar, as well as many not less ingenious interpretations of the mystic letters; and at the present time it is almost unanimously settled that the ss collar is the old lancastrian badge, corresponding to the yorkist collar of roses and suns, and that the s is either the initial of the sentimental word 'souvenez,' or, as mr. beltz maintains, the initial letter of the sentimental motto, 'souvenez-vous de moi.' in mr. foss's valuable work, 'the judges of england,' at the commencement of the seventh volume, the curious reader may find an excellent summary of all that has been or can be said about the origin of this piece of feudal livery, which, having at one time been very generally assumed by all gentle and fairly prosperous partisans of the house of lancaster, has for many generations been the distinctive badge of a few official persons. in the second year of henry iv. an ordinance forbade knights and esquires to wear the collar, save in the king's presence; and in the reign of henry viii., the privilege of wearing the collar was taken away from simple esquires by the 'acte for reformacyon of excesse in apparayle,' henry viii. c. , which ordained "that no man oneless he be a knight ... weare any color of gold, named a color of s." gradually knights and non-official persons relinquished the decoration; and in our own day the right to bear it is restricted to the two chief justices, the chief baron, the sergeant-trumpetor, and all the officers of the heralds' college, pursuivants excepted; "unless," adds mr. foss, "the lord mayor of london is to be included, whose collar is somewhat similar, and is composed of twenty-eight ss, fourteen roses, thirteen knots; and measures sixty-four inches." chapter xxiii. bags and gowns. on the stages of the caroline theatres the lawyer is found with a green bag in his hand; the same is the case in the literature of queen anne's reign; and until a comparatively recent date green bags were generally carried in westminster hall and in provincial courts by the great body of legal practitioners. from wycherley's 'plain dealer,' it appears that in the time of charles ii. angry clients were accustomed to revile their lawyers as 'green bag-carriers.' when the litigious widow blackacre upbraids the barrister who declines to argue for her, she exclaims--"impertinent again, and ignorant to me! gadsboddikins! you puny upstart in the law, to use me so, you green-bag carrier, you murderer of unfortunate causes, the clerk's ink is scarce off of your fingers." in the same drama, making much play with the green bag, wycherley indicates the widow blackacre's quarrelsome disposition by decorating her with an enormous green reticule, and makes her son the law-student, stagger about the stage in a gown, and under a heavy burden of green bags. so also in the time of queen anne, to say that a man intended to carry a green bag, was the same as saying that he meant to adopt the law as a profession. in dr. arbuthnot's 'history of john bull,' the prevalence of the phrase is shown by the passage, "i am told, cousin diego, you are one of those that have undertaken to manage me, and that you have said you will carry a green bag yourself, rather than we shall make an end of our lawsuit. i'll teach them and you too to manage." it must, however, be borne in mind that in queen anne's time, green bags, like white bands, were as generally adopted by solicitors and attorneys, as by members of the bar. in his 'character of a pettifogger' the author of 'the london spy' observes--"his learning is commonly as little as his honesty, and his conscience much larger than his green bag." some years have elapsed since green bags altogether disappeared from our courts of law; but the exact date of their disappearance has hitherto escaped the vigilance and research of colonel landman, 'causidicus,' and other writers who in the pages of that useful and very entertaining publication, _notes and queries_, have asked for information on that point and kindred questions. evidence sets aside the suggestion that the color of the lawyer's bag was changed from green to red because the proceedings at queen caroline's trial rendered green bags odious to the public, and even dangerous to their bearers; for it is a matter of certainty that the leaders of the chancery and common law bars carried red bags at a time considerably anterior to the inquiry into the queen's conduct. in a letter addressed to the editor of _notes and queries_, a writer who signs himself 'causidicus,' observes--"when i entered the profession (about fifty years ago) no junior barrister presumed to carry a bag in the court of chancery, unless one had been presented to him by a king's counsel; who, when a junior was advancing in practice, took an opportunity of complimenting him on his increase of business, and giving him his own bag to carry home his papers. it was then a distinction to carry a bag, and a proof that a junior was rising in his profession. i do not know whether the custom prevailed in other courts." from this it appears that fifty years since the bag was an honorable distinction at the chancery bar, giving its bearer some such professional status as that which is conferred by 'silk' in these days when queen's counsel are numerous. the same professional usage seems to have prevailed at the common law bar more than eighty years ago; for in , when edward law joined the northern circuit, and forthwith received a large number of briefs, he was complimented by wallace on his success, and presented with a bag. lord campbell asserts that no case had ever before occurred where a junior won the distinction of a bag during the course of his first circuit. there is no record of the date when members of the junior bar received permission to carry bags according to their own pleasure; it is even matter of doubt whether the permission was ever expressly accorded by the leaders of the profession--or whether the old restrictive usage died a gradual and unnoticed death. the present writer, however, is assured that at the chancery bar, long after _all_ juniors were allowed to carry bags, etiquette forbade them to adopt bags of the same color as those carried by their leaders. an eminent queen's counsel, who is a member of that bar, remembers that when he first donned a stuff gown, he, like all chancery jurors, had a purple bag--whereas the wearers of silk at the same period, without exception, carried red bags. before a complete and satisfactory account can be given of the use of bags by lawyers, as badges of honor and marks of distinction, answers must be found for several questions which at present remain open to discussion. so late as queen anne's reign, lawyers of the lowest standing, whether advocates or attorneys, were permitted to carry bags;--a right which the junior bar appears to have lost when edward law joined the northern circuit. at what date between queen anne's day and (the year in which lord ellenborough made his _début_ in the north), was this change effected? was the change gradual or sudden? to what cause was it due? again, is it possible that lord campbell and causidicus wrote under a misapprehension, when they gave testimony concerning the usages of the bar with regard to bags, at the close of the last and the beginning of the present century? the memory of the distinguished queen's counsel, to whom allusion is made in the preceding paragraph, is quite clear that in his student days chancery jurors were forbidden by etiquette to carry _red_ bags, but were permitted to carry blue bags; and he is strongly of opinion that the restriction, to which lord campbell and causidicus draw attention, did not apply at any time to blue bags, but only concerned red bags, which, so late as thirty years since, unquestionably were the distinguishing marks of men in leading chancery practice. perhaps legal readers of this chapter will favor the writer with further information on this not highly important, but still not altogether uninteresting subject. the liberality which for the last five and-twenty years has marked the distribution of 'silk' to rising members of the bar, and the ease with which all fairly successful advocates may obtain the rank of queen's counsel, enable lawyers of the present generation to smile at a rule which defined a man's professional position by the color of his bag, instead of the texture of his gown; but in times when 'silk' was given to comparatively few members of the bar, and when that distinction was most unfairly withheld from the brightest ornaments of their profession, if their political opinions displeased the 'party in power,' it was natural and reasonable in the bar to institute for themselves an 'order of merit'--to which deserving candidates could obtain admission without reference to the prejudices of a chancellor or the whims of a clique. at present the sovereign's counsel learned in the law constitute a distinct order of the profession; but until the reign of william iv. they were merely a handful of court favorites. in most cases they were sound lawyers in full employment; but the immediate cause of their elevation was almost always some political consideration--and sometimes the lucky wearer of a silk gown had won the right to put k.c. or q.c. after his name by base compliance with ministerial power. that our earlier king's counsel were not created from the purest motives or for the most honorable purposes will be readily admitted by the reader who reflects that 'silk gowns' are a legal species, for which the nation is indebted to the stuarts. for all practical purposes francis bacon was a q.c. during the reign of queen elizabeth. he enjoyed peculiar and distinctive _status_ as a barrister, being consulted on legal matters by the queen, although he held no place that in familiar parlance would entitle him to rank with her crown lawyers; and his biographers have agreed to call him elizabeth's counsellor learned in the law. but a q.c. holding his office by patent--that is to say, a q.c. as that term is understood at the present time--francis bacon never was. on the accession, however, of james i., he received his formal appointment of k.c., the new monarch having seen fit to recognise the lawyer's claim to be regarded as a 'special counsel,' or 'learned counsel extraordinary.' another barrister of the same period who obtained the same distinction was sir henry montague, who, in a patent granted in to the two temples, is styled "one of our counsel learned in the law." thus planted, the institution of monarch's special counsel was for many generations a tree of slow growth. until george iii.'s reign the number of monarch's counsel, living and practising at the same time, was never large; and throughout the long period of that king's rule the fraternity of k.c. never assumed them agnitude and character of a professional order. it is uncertain what was the greatest number of contemporaneous k.c.'s during the stuart dynasty; but there is no doubt that from the arrival of james i. to the flight of james ii. there was no period when the k.c.'s at all approached the sergeants in name and influence. in rymer's 'foedera' mention is made of four barristers who were appointed counsellors to charles i., one of whom, sir john finch, in a patent of precedence is designated "king's counsel;" but it is not improbable that the royal martyr had other special counsellors whose names have not been recorded. at different times of charles ii.'s reign, there were created some seventeen k.c.'s, and seven times that number of sergeants. james ii. made ten k.c.'s; william and mary appointed eleven special counsellors; and the number of q.c.'s appointed by anne was ten. the names of george i.'s learned counsel are not recorded; the list of george ii.'s k.c.'s, together with barristers holding patents of precedence, comprise thirty names; george iii. throughout his long tenure of the crown, gave 'silk' with or without the title of k.c., to ninety-three barristers; george iv. to twenty-six; whereas the list of william iv.'s appointments comprised sixty-five names, and the present queen has conferred the rank of q.c. on about two hundred advocates--the law-list for mentioning one hundred and thirty-seven barristers who are q.c.'s, or holders of patents of precedence; and only twenty-eight sergeants-at-law, not sitting as judges in any of the supreme courts. the diminution in the numbers of the sergeants is due partly to the loss of their old monopoly of business in the common pleas, and partly--some say chiefly--to the profuseness with which silk gowns, with q.c. rank attached, have been thrown to the bar since the passing of the reform bill. under the old system when 'silk' was less bountifully bestowed, eminent barristers not only led their circuits in stuff; but, after holding office as legal advisers to the crown and wearing silk gowns whilst they so acted with their political friends, they sometimes resumed their stuff gowns and places 'outside the bar,' on descending from official eminence. when charles york in resigned the post of attorney general, he returned to his old place in court without the bar, clad in the black bombazine of an ordinary barrister, whereas during his tenure of office he had worn silk and sat within the bar. in the same manner when dunning resigned the solicitor generalship in , he reappeared in the court of king's bench, attired in stuff, and took his place without the bar; but as soon as he had made his first motion, he was addressed by lord mansfield, who with characteristic courtesy informed him that he should take precedence in that court before all members of the bar, whatever might be their standing, with the exception of king's counsel, sergeants, and the recorder of london. on joining the northern circuit in , edward law found wallace and lee leading in silk, and twenty years later he and jemmy park were the k.c.'s of the same district; of course the circuit was not without wearers of the coif, one of its learned sergeants being cockell, who, before law obtained the leading place, was known as 'the almighty of the north;' and whose success, achieved in spite of an almost total ignorance of legal science, was long quoted to show that though knowledge is power, power may be won without knowledge. from pure dislike of the thought that younger men should follow closely or at a distance in his steps to the highest eminences of legal success, lord eldon was disgracefully stingy in bestowing honors on rising barristers who belonged to his own party, but his injustice and downright oppression to brilliant advocates in the whig ranks merit the warmest expressions of disapproval and contempt. the most notorious sufferers from his rancorous intolerance were henry brougham and mr. denman, who, having worn silk gowns as queen caroline's attorney general and solicitor general, were reduced to stuff attire on that wretched lady's death. it is worthy of notice that in old time, when silk gowns were few, their wearers were sometimes very young men. from the days of francis north, who was made k.c. before he was a barrister for seven full years' standing, down to the days of eldon, who obtained silk after seven years' service in stuff, instances could be cited of the rapidity with which lucky youngsters rose to the honors of silk, whilst hard-worked veterans were to the last kept outside the bar. thurlow was called to the bar in november, , and donned silk in december, . six years had now elapsed since his call to the english bar, when alexander wedderburn was entitled to put the initials k.c. after his name, and wrote to his mother in scotland, "i can't very well explain to you the nature of my preferment, but it is what most people at the bar are very desirous of, and yet most people run a hazard of losing money by it. i can scarcely expect any advantage from it for some time equal to what i give up; and, notwithstanding, i am extremely happy, and esteem myself very fortunate in having obtained it." erskine's silk was won with even greater speed, for he was invited within the bar, but his silk gown came to him with a patent of precedence, giving him the status without the title of a king's counsel. bar mourning is no longer a feature of legal costume in england. on the death of charles ii. members of the bar donned gowns indicative of their grief for the national loss, and they continued, either universally or in a large number of cases, to wear these woful habiliments till , when chief justice holt ordered all barristers practising in his court to appear "in their proper gowns and not in mourning ones"--an order which, according to narcissus luttrell, compelled the bar to spend £ per man. from this it may be inferred that (regard being had to change in value of money) a bar-gown at the close of the seventeenth century cost about ten times as much as it does at the present time. chapter xxiv. hats. not less famous in history than bradshaw's broad-brimmed hat, nor less graceful than shaftesbury's jaunty beaver, nor less memorable than the sailor's tarpaulin, under cover of which jeffreys slunk into the red cow, wapping, nor less striking than the black cap still worn by justice in her sternest mood, nor less fanciful than the cocked hat which covered wedderburn's powdered hair when he daily paced the high street of edinburgh with his hands in a muff--was the white hat which an illustrious templar invented at an early date of the eighteenth century. beau brummel's original mind taught the human species to starch their white cravats; richard nash, having surmounted the invidious bar of plebeian birth and raised himself upon opposing circumstances to the throne of bath, produced a white hat. to which of these great men society owes the heavier debt of gratitude thoughtful historians cannot agree; but even envious detraction admits that they deserve high rank amongst the benefactors of mankind. brummel was a soldier; but law proudly claims as her own the parent of the pale and spotless _chapeau_. about lawyers' cocked hats a capital volume might be written, that should contain no better story than the one which is told of ned thurlow's discomfiture in , when he was playing a trickster's game with his friends and foes. windsor castle just then contained three distinct centres of public interest--the mad king in the hands of his keepers; on the one side of the impotent monarch the prince of wales waiting impatiently for the regency; on the other side, the queen with equal impatience longing for her husband's recovery. the prince and his mother both had apartments in the castle, her majesty's quarters being the place of meeting for the tory ministers, whilst the prince's apartments were thrown open to the select leaders of the whig expectants. of course the two coteries kept jealously apart; but thurlow, who wished to be still lord chancellor, "whatever king might reign," was in private communication with the prince's friends. with furtive steps he passed from the queen's room (where he had a minute before been assuring the ministers that he would be faithful to the king's adherents), and made clandestine way to the apartment where sheridan and payne were meditating on the advantages of a regency without restriction. on leaving the prince, the wary lawyer used to steal into the king's chamber, and seek guidance or encouragement from the madman's restless eyes. was the malady curable? if curable, how long a time would elapse before the return of reason? these were the questions which the chancellor put to himself, as he debated whether he should break with the tories and go over to the whigs. through the action of the patient's disease, the most delicate part of the lawyer's occupation was gone; and having no longer a king's conscience to keep, he did not care, by way of diversion--to keep his own. for many days ere they received clear demonstration of the chancellor's deceit, the other members of the cabinet suspected that he was acting disingenuously, and when his double-dealing was brought to their sure knowledge, their indignation was not even qualified with surprise. the story of his exposure is told in various ways; but all versions concur in attributing his detection to an accident. like the gallant of the french court, whose clandestine intercourse with a great lady was discovered because, in his hurried preparations for flight from her chamber, he appropriated one of her stockings, thurlow, according to one account, was convicted of perfidy by the prince's hat, which he bore under his arm on entering the closet where the ministers awaited his coming. another version says that thurlow had taken his seat at the council-table, when his hat was brought to him by a page, with an explanation that he had left it in the prince's private room. a third, and more probable representation of the affair, instead of laying the scene in the council-chamber, makes the exposure occur in a more public part of the castle. "when a council was to be held at windsor," said the right honorable thomas grenville, in his old age recounting the particulars of the mishap, "to determine the course which ministers should pursue, thurlow had been there some time before any of his colleagues arrived. he was to be brought back to london by one of them, and the moment of departure being come, the chancellor's hat was nowhere to be found. after a fruitless search in the apartment where the council had been held, a page came with the hat in his hand, saying aloud, and with great _naïveté_, 'my lord, i found it in the closet of his royal highness the prince of wales.' the other ministers were still in the hall, and thurlow's confusion corroborated the inference which they drew." cannot an artist be found to place upon canvas this scene, which furnishes the student of human nature with an instructive instance of "that combination strange--a lawyer and a blush?" for some days thurlow's embarrassment and chagrim were very painful. but a change in the state of the king's health caused a renewal of the lawyer's attachment to tory principles and to his sovereign. the lawyers of what may be termed the cocked hat period seldom maintained the happy mean between too little and too great care for personal appearance. for the most part they were either slovenly or foppish. from the days when as a student he used to slip into nando's in a costume that raised the supercilious astonishment of his contemporaries, thurlow to the last erred on the side of neglect. camden roused the satire of an earlier generation by the miserable condition of the tiewig which he wore on the bench of chancery, and by an undignified and provoking habit of "gartering up his stockings while counsel were the most strenuous in their eloquence." on the other hand joseph yates--the puisne judge whom mansfield's jeers and merciless oppressions drove from the king's bench to the common pleas, where he died within four months of his retreat--was the finest of fine gentlemen. before he had demonstrated his professional capacity, the habitual costliness and delicacy of his attire roused the distrust of attorneys, and on more than one occasion wrought him injury. an awkward, crusty, hard-featured attorney entered the foppish barrister's chambers with a bundle of papers, and on seeing the young man in a superb and elaborate evening dress, is said to have inquired, "can you say, sir, when mr. yates will return?" "return, my good sir!" answered the barrister, with an air of surprise, "i am mr. yates, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to talk with you about those papers." having taken a deliberate survey of the young templar, and made a mental inventory of all the fantastic articles of his apparel, the honest attorney gave an ominous grunt, replaced the papers in one of the deep pockets of his long-skirted coat, twice nodded his head with contemptuous significance, and then, without another word--walked out of the room. it was his first visit to those chambers, and his last. joseph yates lost his client, before he could even learn his name; but in no way influenced by the occurrence he maintained his reputation for faultless taste in dress, and when he had raised himself to the bench, he was amongst the judges of his day all that revell reynolds was amongst the london physicians of a later date. living in the midst of the fierce contentions which distracted ireland in the days of our grandfathers, john toler, first earl of norbury, would not have escaped odium and evil repute, had he been a merciful man and a scrupulous judge; but in consequence of failings and wicked propensities, which gave countenance to the slanders of his enemies and at the same time earned for him the distrust and aversion of his political coadjutors, he has found countless accusers and not a single vindicator. resembling george jeffreys in temper and mental capacity, he resembled him also in posthumous fame. a shrewd, selfish, overbearing man, possessing wit which was exercised with equal promptitude upon friends and foes, he alternately roused the terror and the laughter of his audiences. at the bar and in the irish house of commons he was alike notorious as jester and bully; but he was a courageous bully, and to the last was always as ready to fight with bullets as with epigrams, and though his humor was especially suited to the taste and passions of the rabble, it sometimes convulsed with merriment those who were shocked by its coarseness and brutality. having voted for the abolition of the irish parliament, the right honorable john toler was prepared to justify his conduct with hair-triggers or sarcasms. to the men who questioned his patriotism he was wont to answer, "name any hour before my court opens to-morrow," but to the patriotic irish lady who loudly charged him in a crowded drawing-room with having sold his country, he replied, with an affectation of cordial assent, "certainly, madam, i have sold my country. it was very lucky for me that i had a country to sell--i wish i had another." on the bench he spared neither counsel nor suitors, neither witnesses nor jurors. when daniel o'connell, whilst he was conducting a cause in the irish court of common pleas, observed, "pardon me, my lord, i am afraid your lordship does not apprehend me;" the chief justice (alluding to a scandalous and false report that o'connell had avoided a duel by surrendering himself to the police) retorted, "pardon me also; no one is more easily apprehended than mr. o'connell"--(a pause--and then with emphatic slowness of utterance)--"whenever he wishes to be apprehended." it is _said_ that when this same judge passed sentence of death on robert emmett, he paused when he came to the point where it is usual for a judge to add in conclusion, "and may the lord have mercy on your soul!" and regarded the brave young man with searching eyes. for a minute there was an awful silence in the court; the bar and the assembled crowd supposing that the chief justice had paused so that a few seconds of unbroken stillness might add to the solemnity of his last words. the disgust and indignation of the spectators were beyond the power of language, when they saw a smile of brutal sarcasm steal over the face of the chief justice as he rose from his seat of judgment without uttering another word. whilst the state prosecutions were going forward, lord norbury appeared on the bench in a costume that accorded ill with the gravity of his office. the weather was intensely hot; and whilst he was at his morning toilet the chief justice selected from his wardrobe the dress which was most suited to the sultriness of the air. the garb thus selected for its coolness was a dress which his lordship had worn at a masquerade ball, and consisted of a green tabinet coat decorated with huge mother-of-pearl buttons, a waistcoat of yellow relieved by black stripes, and buff breeches. when he first entered the court, and throughout all the earlier part of the proceedings against a party of rebels, his judicial robes altogether concealed this grotesque attire; but unfortunately towards the close of the sultry day's work, lord norbury--oppressed by the stifling atmosphere of the court, and forgetting all about the levity as well as the lightness of his inner raiment--threw back his judicial robe and displayed the dress which several persons then present had seen him wear at lady castlereagh's ball. ere the spectators recovered from their first surprise, lord norbury, quite unconscious of his indecorum, had begun to pass sentence of death on a gang of prisoners, speaking to them in a solemn voice that contrasted painfully with the inappropriateness of his costume. in the following bright and picturesque sentence, dr. dibdin gives a life-like portrait of erskine, whose personal vanity was only equalled by the egotism which often gave piquancy to his orations, and never lessened their effect:--"cocked hats and ruffles, with satin small-clothes and silk stockings, at this time constituted the usual evening dress. erskine, though a good deal shorter than his brethren, somehow always seemed to take the lead both in pace and in discourse, and shouts of laughter would frequently follow his dicta. among the surrounding promenaders, he and the one-armed mingay seemed to be the main objects of attraction. towards evening, it was the fashion for the leading counsel to promenade during the summer in the temple gardens, and i usually formed one in the thronging mall of loungers and spectators. i had analysed blackstone, and wished to publish it under a dedication to mr. erskine. having requested the favor of an interview, he received me graciously at breakfast before nine, attired in the smart dress of the times, a dark green coat, scarlet waistcoat, and silk breeches. he left his coffee, stood the whole time looking at the chart i had cut in copper, and appeared much gratified. on leaving him, a chariot-and-four drew up to wheel him to some provincial town on a special retainer. he was then coining money as fast as his chariot wheels rolled along." erskine's advocacy was marked by that attention to trifles which has often contributed to the success of distinguished artists. his special retainers frequently took him to parts of the country where he was a stranger, and required him to make eloquent speeches in courts which his voice had never tested. it was his custom on reaching the town where he would have to plead on the following day, to visit the court over-night, and examine its arrangements, so that when the time for action arrived he might address the jury from the most favorable spot in the chamber. he was a theatrical speaker, and omitted no pains to secure theatrical effect. it was noticed that he never appeared within the bar until the _cause célèbre_ had been called; and a buzz of excitement and anxious expectation testified the eagerness of the assembled crowd to _see_, as well as to hear, the celebrated advocate. every article of his bar costume received his especial consideration; artifice could be discerned in the modulations of his voice, the expressions of his countenance, and the movements of his entire body; but the coldest observer did not detect the artifice until it had stirred his heart. rumor unjustly asserted that he never uttered an impetuous peroration which he had not frequently rehearsed in private before a mirror. about the cut and curls of his wigs, their texture and color, he was very particular: and the hands which he extended in entreaty towards british juries were always cased in lemon-colored kid gloves. erskine was not more noticeable for the foppishness of his dress than was lord kenyon for a sordid attire. whilst he was a leading advocate within the bar, lord kenyon's ordinary costume would have disgraced a copying clerk; and during his later years, it was a question amongst barristers whether his breeches were made of velvet or leather. the wits maintained that when he kissed hands upon his elevation to the attorney's place, he went to court in a second-hand suit purchased from lord stormont's _valet_. in the letter attributed to him by a clever writer in the 'rolliad,' he is made to say--"my income has been cruelly estimated at seven, or, as some will have it, eight thousand pounds per annum. i shall save myself the mortification of denying that i am rich, and refer you to the constant habits and whole tenor of my life. the proof to my friends is easy. my tailor's bill for the last fifteen years is a record of the most indisputable authority. malicious souls may direct you, perhaps, to lord stormont's _valet de chambre_, and can vouch the anecdote that on the day when i kissed hands for my appointment to the office of attorney general, i appeared in a laced waistcoat that once belonged to his master. i bought the waistcoat, but despise the insinuation; nor is this the only instance in which i am obliged to diminish my wants and apportion them to my very limited means. lady k---- will be my witness that until my last appointment i was an utter stranger to the luxury of a pocket-handkerchief." the pocket-handkerchief which then came into his possession was supposed to have been found in the pocket of the second-hand waistcoat; and jekyll always maintained that, as it was not considered in the purchase, it remained the valet's property, and did not pass into the lawyer's rightful possession. this was the only handkerchief which lord kenyon is said to have ever possessed, and lord ellenborough alluded to it when, in a conversation that turned upon the economy which the income-tax would necessitate in all ranks of life, he observed--"lord kenyon, who is not very nice, intends to meet the crisis by laying down his handkerchief." of his lordship's way of getting through seasons of catarrh without a handkerchief, there are several stories that would scarcely please the fastidious readers of this volume. of his two wigs (one considerably less worn than the other), and of his two hats (the better of which would not have greatly disfigured an old clothesman, whilst the worse would have been of service to a professional scarecrow), lord kenyon took jealous care. the inferior wig was always worn with the better hat, and the more dilapidated hat with the superior wig; and it was noticed that when he appeared in court with the shabbier wig he never removed his _chapeau_; whereas, on the days when he sat in his more decent wig, he pushed his old cocked hat out of sight. in the privacy of his house and in his carriage, whenever he traveled beyond the limits of town, he used to lay aside wig and hat, and cover his head with an old red night-cap. concerning his great-coat, the original blackness of which had been tempered by long usage into a fuscous green, capital tales were fabricated. the wits could not spare even his shoes. "once," dr. didbin gravely narrated, "in the case of an action brought for the non-fulfillment of a contract on a large scale for shoes, the question mainly was, whether or not they were well and soundly made, and with the best materials. a number of witnesses were called, one of them, a first-rate character in the gentle craft, being closely questioned, returned contradictory answers, when the chief justice observed, pointing to his own shoes, which were regularly bestridden by the broad silver buckle of the day, 'were the shoes anything like these?' 'no, my lord,' replied the evidence, 'they were a good deal better and more genteeler.'" dr. didbin is at needless pains to assure his readers that the shoemaker's answer was followed by uproarious laughter. part v. music. chapter xxv. the piano in chambers. in the inns of court, even more often than in the colleges of oxford and cambridge, musical instruments and performances are regarded by severe students with aversion and abhorrence. mr. babbage will live in peace and charity with the organ-grinders who are continually doing him an unfriendly turn before the industrious conveyancer on the first floor will pray for the welfare of 'that fellow upstairs' who daily practises the flute or cornopean from a.m. to p.m. the 'wandering minstrels' and their achievements are often mentioned with respect in the western drawing-rooms of london; but if the gentlemen who form that distinguished _troupe_ of amateur performers wish to sacrifice their present popularity and take a leading position amongst the social nuisances of the period, they should migrate from the district which delights to honor them to chambers in old square, lincoln's inn, and give morning concerts every day of term time. working lawyers feel warmly on this subject, maintaining that no man should be permitted to be an _amateur_-barrister and an _amateur_-musician at the same time, and holding that law-students with a turn for wind-instruments should, like vermin, be hunted down and knocked on the head--without law. strange stories might be told of the discords and violent deeds to which music has given rise in the four inns. in the last century many a foolish fellow was 'put up' at ten paces, because he refused to lay down an ophicleide; even as late as george iv.'s time death has followed from an inordinate addiction to the violin; and it was but the other day that the introduction of a piano into a house in carey street led to the destruction of three close and warm friendships. so alive are lawyers to the frightful consequences of a wholesale exhibition of melodious irritants, that a natural love of order and desire for self-preservation has prompted them to raise numerous obstructions to the free development of musical science in their peculiar localities of town. in the inns of court and chancery lane professional etiquette forbids barristers and solicitors to play upon organs, harmoniums, pianos, violins, or other stringed instruments, drums, trumpets, cymbals, shawms, bassoons, triangles, castanets or any other bony devices for the production of noise, flageolets, hautboys, or any other sort of boys--between the hours of a.m. and p.m. and this rule of etiquette is supported by various special conditions introduced into the leases by which the tenants hold much of the local house property. under some landlords, a tenant forfeits his lease if he indulges in any pursuit that causes annoyance to his immediate neighbors; under others, every occupant of a set of chambers binds himself not to play any musical instrument therein, save between the hours of a.m. and p.m.; and in more than one clump of chambers, situated within a stone's throw from chancery lane, glee-singing is not permitted at any period of the four-and-twenty hours. that the pursuit of harmony is a dangerous pastime for young lawyers cannot be questioned, although a long list might be given of cases where musical barristers have gained the confidence of many clients, and eventually raised themselves to the bench. a piano is a treacherous companion for the student who can touch, it deftly--dangerous as an idle friend, whose wit is ever brilliant; fascinating as a beautiful woman, whose smile is always fresh; deceptive as the drug which seems to invigorate, whilst in reality it is stealing away the intellectual powers. every persevering worker knows how large a portion of his hard work has been done 'against the grain,' and in spite of strong inclinations to indolence--in hours when pleasant voices could have seduced him from duty, and any plausible excuse for indulgence would have been promptly accepted. in the piano these pleasant voices are constantly present, and it can always show good reason--why reluctant industry should relax its exertions. chapter xxvi. the battle of the organs. sir thomas more and lord bacon--the two most illustrious laymen who have held the great seal of england--were notable musicians; and many subsequent keepers and chancellors are scarcely less famous for love of harmonious sounds than for judicial efficiency. lord keeper guildford was a musical amateur, and notwithstanding his low esteem of literature condescended to write about melody. lord jeffreys was a good after-dinner vocalist, and was esteemed a high authority on questions concerning instrumental performance. lord camden was an operatic composer; and lord thurlow studied thorough-bass, in order that he might direct the musical exercises of his children. in moments of depression more's favorite solace was the viol; and so greatly did he value musical accomplishments in women, that he not only instructed his first and girlish wife to play on various instruments, but even prevailed on the sour mistress alice middleton "to take lessons on the lute, the cithara, the viol, the monochord, and the flute, which she daily practised to him." but more's love of music was expressed still more forcibly in the zeal with which he encouraged and took part in the choral services of chelsea church. throughout his residence at chelsea, sir thomas was a regular attendant at the church, and during his tenure of the seals he not only delighted to chant the appointed psalms, but used to don a white surplice, and take his place among the choristers. having invited the duke of norfolk to dine with him, the chancellor prepared himself for the enjoyment of that great peer's society by attending divine service, and he was still occupied with his religious exercises when his grace of norfolk entered the church, and to his inexpressible astonishment saw the keeper of the king's conscience in the flowing raiment of a chorister, and heard him give "glory to god in the highest!" as though he were a hired singer. "god's body! god's body! my lord chancellor a parish clerk?--a parish clerk?" was the duke's testy expostulation with the chancellor. whereupon more, with gentle gravity, answered, "nay; your grace may not think that the king--your master and mine--will with me, for serving his master, be offended, and thereby account his office dishonored." not only was it more's custom to sing in the church choir, but he used also to bear a cross in religious processions; and on being urged to mount horse when he followed the rood in rogation week round the parish boundaries, he answered, "it beseemeth not the servant to follow his master prancing on a cock-horse, his master going on foot." few incidents in sir thomas more's remarkable career point more forcibly to the vast difference between the social manners of the sixteenth century and those of the present day. if lord chelmsford were to recreate himself with leading the choristers in margaret street, and after service were seen walking homewards in an ecclesiastical dress, it is more than probable that public opinion would declare him a fit companion for the lunatics of whose interests he has been made the official guardian. society felt some surprise as well as gratification when sir roundell palmer recently published his 'book of praise;' but if the attorney general, instead of printing his select hymns had seen fit to exemplify their beauties with his own voice from the stall of a church-singer, the piety of his conduct would have scarcely reconciled lord palmerston to its dangerous eccentricity. amongst elizabethan lawyers, chief justice dyer was by no means singular for his love of music, though whetstone's lines have given exceptional celebrity to his melodious proficiency:-- "for publique good, when care had cloid his minde, the only joye, for to repose his sprights, was musique sweet, which showd him well inclind; for he doth in musique much delight, a conscience hath disposed to do most right: the reason is, her sound within our eare, a sympathie of heaven we thinke we heare." like james dyer, francis bacon found music a pleasant and salutary pastime, when he was fatigued by the noisy contentions of legal practice or by strenuous application to philosophic pursuits. a perfect master of the science of melody, lord bacon explained its laws with a clearness which has satisfied competent judges that he was familiar with the practice as well as the theories of harmony; but few passages of his works display more agreeably his personal delight and satisfaction in musical exercise and investigation than that section of the 'natural history,' wherein he says, "and besides i practice as i do advise; which is, after long inquiry of things immersed in matter, to interpose some subject which is immateriate or less materiate; such as this of sounds: to the end that the intellect may be rectified and become not partial." a theorist as well as performer, the lord keeper guilford enunciated his views regarding the principles of melody in 'a philosophical essay of musick, directed to a friend'--a treatise that was published without the author's name, by martin, the printer to the royal society, in the year , at which time the future keeper was chief justice of the common pleas. the merits of the tract are not great; but it displays the subtlety and whimsical quaintness of the musical lawyer, who performed on several instruments, was very vain of a feeble voice, and used to attribute much of his professional success to the constant study of music that marked every period of his life. "i have heard him say," roger records, "that if he had not enabled himself by these studies, and particular his practice of music upon his bass or lyra viol (which he used to touch lute-fashion upon his knee), to divert himself alone, he had never been a lawyer. his mind was so airy and volatile he could not have kept his chamber if he must needs be there, staked down purely to the drudgery of the law, whether in study or practice; and yet upon such a leaden proposition, so painful to brisk spirits, all the success of the profession, regularly pursued, depends." his first acquaintance with melodious art was made at cambridge, where in his undergraduate days he took lessons on the viol. at this same period he "had the opportunity of practice so much in his grandfather's and father's families, where the entertainment of music in full concert was solemn and frequent, that he outdid all his teachers, and became one of the neatest violinists of his time." scarcely in consistence with this declaration of the lord keeper's proficiency on the violin is a later passage of the biography, where roger says that his brother "attempted the violin, being ambitious of the prime part in concert, but soon found that he began such a difficult art too late." it is, however, certain that the eminent lawyer in the busiest passages of his laborious life found time for musical practice, and that besides his essay on music, he contributed to his favorite art several compositions which were performed in private concert-rooms. sharing in the musical tastes of his family, roger north, the biographer, was the _friend_ who used to touch the harpsichord that stood at the door of the lord keeper's bedchamber; and when political changes had extinguished his hopes of preferment, he found consolation in music and literature. retiring to his seat in norfolk, roger fitted up a concert-room with instruments that roused the astonishment of country squires, and an organ that was extolled by critical professors for the sweetness of its tones. in that seclusion, where he lived to extreme old age, the lettered lawyer composed the greater part of those writings which have rendered him familiar to the present generation. of his 'memoirs of musick,' readers are not accustomed to speak so gratefully as of his biographies; but the curious sketch which dr. rimbault edited and for the first time published in , is worthy of perusal, and will maintain a place on the shelves of literary collectors by the side of his brother's 'essay.' in that treatise roger alludes to a contest which in the reigns of charles ii. and james ii. agitated the musicians of london, divided the templars into two hostile parties, and for a considerable time gave rise to quarrels in every quarter of the town. all this disturbance resulted from "a competition for an organ in the temple church, for which the two competitors, the best artists in europe, smith and harris, were but just not ruined." the struggle thus mentioned in the 'memoirs of musick' is so comic an episode in the story of london life, and has been the occasion of so much error amongst writers, that it claims brief restatement in the present chapter. in february, , the benchers of the temples, wishing to obtain for their church an organ of superlative excellence, invited father smith and renatus harris to compete for the honor of supplying the instrument. the masters of the benchers pledged themselves that "if each of these excellent artists would set up an organ in one of the halls belonging to either of the societies, they would have erected in their church that which, in the greatest number of excellencies, deserved the preference." for more than twenty years father smith had been the first organ-builder in england; and the admirable qualities of his instruments testify to his singular ability. a german artist (in his native country called bernard schmidt, but in london known as father smith), he had established himself in the english capital as early as the summer of ; and gaining the cordial patronage of charles ii., he and his two grand-nephews soon became leaders of their craft. father smith built organs for westminster abbey, for the church of st. giles-in-the-fields, for st. margaret's church, westminster, for durham cathedral, and for other sacred buildings. in st. paul's cathedral he placed the organ which wren disdainfully designated a "box of whistles;" and dying in , he left his son-in-law, christopher schreider, to complete the organ which still stands in the chapel of trinity college, cambridge. but notwithstanding his greatness, father smith had rivals; his first rival being harris the elder, who died in , his second being renatus harris, or harris the younger. the elder harris never caused smith much discomfort; but his son, renatus, was a very clever fellow, and a strong party of fashionable _connoisseurs_ declared that he was greatly superior to the german. such was the position of these two rivals when the benchers made their proposal, which was eagerly accepted by the artificers, each of whom saw in it an opportunity for covering his antagonist with humiliation. the men went to work: and within fourteen months their instruments were ready for competition. smith finished work before harris, and prevailed on the benchers to let him place his organ in the temple church, well knowing that the powers of the instrument could be much more readily and effectively displayed in the church than in either of the dining-halls. the exact site where he fixed his organ is unknown, but the careful author of 'a few notes on the temple organ, ,' is of opinion that it was put up "on the screen between the round and oblong churches--the position occupied by the organ until the present organ-chamber was built, and the organ removed there during the progress of the complete restoration of the church in the year ." no sooner had harris finished his organ, than, following father smith's example, he asked leave of the benchers to erect it within the church. harris's petition to this effect bears date may , ; and soon afterwards the organ was "set up in the church on the south side of the communion table." both organs being thus stationed under the roof of the church, the committee of benchers appointed to decide on their relative merits declared themselves ready to listen. the trial began, but many months--ay, some years--elapsed ere it came to an end. on either side the credit of the manufacturer was sustained by execution of the highest order of art. father smith's organ was handled alternately by purcell and dr. blow; and draghi, the queen's organist, did his best to secure a verdict for renatus harris. of course the employment of these eminent musicians greatly increased the number of persons who felt personal interest in the contest. whilst the pupils and admirers of purcell and blow were loud in declaring that smith's organ ought to win, draghi's friends were equally sure that the organ touched by his expert fingers ought not to lose. discussion soon became violent; and in every profession, clique, coterie of the town, supporters of smith wrangled with supporters of harris. like the battle of the gauges in our time, the battle of the organs was the grand topic with every class of society, at court and on 'change, in coffee-houses and at ordinaries. again and again the organs were tested in the hearing of dense and fashionable congregations; and as often the judicial committee was unable to come to a decision. the hesitation of the judges put oil upon the fire; for smith's friends, indignant at the delay, asserted that certain members of the committee were bound to harris by corrupt considerations--an accusation that was retorted by the other side with equal warmth and want of justice. after the squabble had been protracted through many months, harris created a diversion by challenging father smith to make additional reed-stops within a given time. the challenge was accepted; and forthwith the father went to work and made vox humana, cremorne, double courtel, or double bassoon, and other stops. a day was appointed for the renewal of the contest; but party feeling ran so high, that during the night preceding the appointed day a party of hot-headed harrissians broke into the temple church, and cut smith's bellows--so that on the following morning his organ was of no more service than an old linen-press. a row ensued; and in the ardor of debate swords were drawn. in june, , the benchers of the middle temple, made a written declaration in favor of father smith, and urged that his organ should be forthwith accepted. strongly and rather discourteously worded, this declaration gave offence to the benchers of the inner temple, who regarded it as an attempt at dictation; and on june , , they recommended the appointment of another committee with powers to decide the contest. declining to adopt this suggestion, the middle temple benchers reiterated their high opinion of smith's instrument. on this the battle of the organs became a squabble between the two temples; and the outside public, laughing over the quarrel of the lawyers, expressed a hope that honest men would get their own since the rogues had fallen out. at length, when the organ-builders had well-nigh ruined each other, and the town had grown weary of the dispute, the inner temple yielded somewhere about the beginning of --at an early date of which year smith received a sum of money in part payment for his organ. on may th of the same year, mr. pigott was appointed organist. after its rejection by the temple, renatus harris divided his organ into two, and having sent the one part to the cathedral of christ's church, dublin, he set up the other part in the church of st. andrew, holborn. three years after his disappointment, renatus harris was tried at the old bailey for a political offence, the nature of which may be seen from the following entry in narcissus luttrell's diary:--"april, . the sessions have been at the old bailey, where these persons, renatus harris, john watts, william rutland, henry gandy, and thomas tysoe, were tried at the old bailey for setting up policies of insurance that dublin would be in the hands of some other king than their present majesties by christmas next: the jury found them guilty of a misdemeanor." for this offence renatus harris was fined £ , and was required to give security for his good conduct until christmas. an erroneous tradition assigns to lord jeffreys the honor of bringing the battle of the organs to a conclusion, and writers improving upon this tradition, have represented that jeffreys acted as sole umpire between the contendants. in his 'history of music,' dr. burney, to whom the prevalence of this false impression is mainly due, observes--"at length the decision was left to lord chief justice jeffries, afterwards king james the second's pliant chancellor, who was of that society (the inner temple), and he terminated the controversy in favor of father smith; so that harris's organ was taken away without loss of reputation, having so long pleased and puzzled better judges than jefferies." careful inquirers have ascertained that harris's organ did not go to wolverhampton, but to dublin and st. andrew's holborn, part of it being sent to the one, and part to the other place. it is certain that jeffrys was not chosen to act as umpire in , for the benchers did not make their original proposal to the rival builders until february, ; and years passed between that date and the termination of the squabble. when burney wrote:--"at length the decision was left to lord chief justice jefferies, _afterwards king james ii.'s pliant chancellor_," the musician was unaware that the squabble was still at white heat whilst jeffreys occupied the woolsack. on his return from the western campaign, jeffreys received the seals in september, , whereas the dispute about the organs did not terminate till the opening of , or at earliest till the close of . there is no authentic record in the archives of the temples which supports, or in any way countenances, the story that jeffreys made choice of smith's instrument; but it is highly probable that the lord chancellor exerted his influence with the inner temple (of which society he was a member), and induced the benchers, for the sake of peace, to yield to the wishes of the middle temple. it is no less probable that his fine musical taste enabled him to see that the middle temple benchers were in the right, and gave especial weight to his words when he spoke against harris's instrument. though jeffreys delighted in music, he does not seem to have held its professors in high esteem. in the time of charles ii. musical artists of the humbler grades liked to be styled 'musitioners;' and on a certain occasion, when he was sitting as recorder for the city of london, george jeffreys was greatly incensed by a witness who, in a pompous voice, called himself a musitioner. with a sneer the recorder interposed--"a musitioner! i thought you were a fiddler!" "i am a musitioner," the violinist answered, stoutly. "oh, indeed," croaked jeffreys. "that is very important--highly important--extremely important! and pray, mr. witness, what is the difference between a musitioner and a fiddler?" with fortunate readiness the man answered, "as much, sir, as there is between a pair of bag-pipes and a recorder." chapter xxvii. a thickness in the throat. the date is september, , and the room before us is a drawing-room in a pleasant house at brighton. the hot sun is beating down on cliff and terrace, beach and pier, on the downs behind the town and the sparkling sea in front. the brightness of the blue sky is softened by white vapor that here and there resembles a vast curtain of filmy gauze, but nowhere has gathered into visible masses of hanging cloud. in the distance the sea is murmuring audibly, and through the screened windows, together with the drowsy hum of the languid waves, comes a light breeze that is invigorating, notwithstanding its sensible warmth. besides ourselves there are but two people in the room: a gentlewoman who has said farewell to youth, but not to feminine grade and delicacy; and an old man, who is lying on a sofa near one of the open windows, whilst his daughter plays passages of handel's music on the piano-forte. the old man wears the dress of an obsolete school of english gentlemen; a large brown wig with three rows of curls, the lowest row resting on the curve of his shoulders; a loose grey coat, notable for the size of its cuffs and the bigness of its heavy buttons; ruffles at his wrists, and frills of fine lace below his roomy cravat. these are the most conspicuous articles of his costume, but not the most striking points of his aspect. over his huge, pallid, cadaverous, furrowed face there is an air singularly expressive of exhaustion and power, of debility and latent strength--an air that says to sensitive beholders, "this prostrate veteran was once a giant amongst giants; his fires are dying out; but the old magnificent courage and ability will never altogether leave him until the beatings of his heart shall have quite ceased: touch him with foolishness or disrespect, and his rage will be terrible." standing here we can see his prodigious bushy eyebrows, that are as white as driven snow, and under them we can see the large black eyes, beneath the angry fierceness of which hundreds of proud british peers, assembled in their council-chamber, have trembled like so many whipped schoolboys. there is no lustre in them now, and their habitual expression is one of weariness and profound indifference to the world--a look that is deeply pathetic and depressing, until some transient cause of irritation or the words of a sprightly talker rouse him into animation. but the most noticeable quality of his face is its look of extreme age. only yesterday a keen observer said of him, "lord thurlow is, i believe, only seventy-four; and from his appearance i should think him a hundred years old." so quiet is the reclining form, that the pianist thinks her father must be sleeping. turning on the music-stool to get a view of his countenance, and to satisfy herself as to his state, she makes a false note, when, quick as the blunder, the brown wig turns upon the pillow--the furrowed face is presented to her observation, and an electric brightness fills the big black eyes, as the veteran, with deep rolling tones, reproves her carelessness:--"what are you doing?--what are you doing? i had almost forgotten the world. play that piece again." twelve months more--and the lady will be playing handel's music on that same instrument; but the old man will not be a listener. from brighton, in , let readers transport themselves to canterbury in , and let them enter a barber's shop, hard by canterbury cathedral. it is a primitive shop, with the red and white pole over the door, and a modest display of wigs and puff-boxes in the window. a small shop, but, notwithstanding its smallness, the best shop of its kind in canterbury; and its lean, stiff, exceedingly respectable master is a man of good repute in the cathedral town. his hands have, ere now, powdered the archbishop's wig, and he is specially retained by the chief clergy of the city and neighborhood to keep their false hair in order, and trim the natural tresses of their children. not only have the dignitaries of the cathedral taken the worthy barber under their special protection, but they have extended to his little boy charles, a demure, prim lad, who is at this present time a pupil in the king's school, to which academy clerical interest gained him admission. the lad is in his fourteenth year; and dr. osmund beauvoir, the master of the school, gives him so good a character for industry and dutiful demeanor, that some of the cathedral ecclesiastics have resolved to make the little fellow's fortune--by placing him in the office of a chorister. there is a vacant place in the cathedral choir; and the boy who is lucky enough to receive the appointment will be provided for munificently. he will forthwith have a maintenance, and in course of time his salary will be £ per annum. during the last fortnight the barber has been in great and constant excitement--hoping that his little boy will obtain this valuable piece of preferment; persuading himself that the lad's thickness of voice, concerning which the choir-master speaks with aggravating persistence, is a matter of no real importance; fearing that the friends of another contemporary boy, who is said by the choir-master to have an exceedingly mellifluous voice, may defeat his paternal aspirations. the momentous question agitates many humble homes in canterbury; and whilst mr. abbott, the barber, is encouraged to hope the best for his son, the relatives and supporters of the contemporary boy are urging him not to despair. party spirit prevails on either side--mr. abbott's family associates maintaining that the contemporary boy's higher notes resemble those of a penny whistle; whilst the contemporary boy's father, with much satire and some justice, murmurs that "old abbott, who is the gossip-monger of the parsons, wants to push his son into a place for which there is a better candidate." to-day is the eventful day when the election will be made. even now, whilst abbott, the barber, is trimming a wig at his shop window, and listening to the hopeful talk of an intimate neighbor, his son charley is chanting the old hundredth before the whole chapter. when charley has been put through his vocal paces, the contemporary boy is requested to sing. whereupon that clear-throated competitor, sustained by justifiable self-confidence and a new-laid egg which he had sucked scarcely a minute before he made his bow to their reverences, sings out with such richness and compass that all the auditors recognize his great superiority. ere ten more minutes have passed charley abbot knows that he has lost the election; and he hastens from the cathedral with quick steps. running into the shop he gives his father a look that tells the whole story of--failure, and then the little fellow, unable to command his grief, sits down upon the floor and sobs convulsively. failure is often the first step to eminence. had the boy gained the chorister's place, he would have a cathedral servant all his days. having failed to get it, he returned to the king's school, went a poor scholar to oxford, and fought his way to honor. he became chief justice of the king's bench, and a peer of the realm. towards the close of his honorable career lord tenterden attended service in the cathedral of canterbury, accompanied by mr. justice richardson. when the ceremonial was at an end the chief justice said to his friend--"do you see that old man there amongst the choristers? in him, brother richardson, behold the only being i ever envied: when at school in this town we were candidates together for a chorister's place; he obtained it; and if i had gained my wish he might have been accompanying you as chief justice, and pointing me out as his old school-fellow, the singing man." part vi. amateur theatricals. chapter xxviii. actors at the bar. some years since the late sergeant wilkins was haranguing a crowd of enlightened electors from the hustings of a provincial borough, when a stentorian voice exclaimed, "go home, you rope-dancer!" disdaining to notice the interruption, the orator continued his speech for fifty seconds, when the same voice again cried out, "go home, you rope-dancer!" a roar of laughter followed the reiteration of the insult; and in less than two minutes thrice fifty unwashed blackguards were roaring with all the force of their lungs, "ah-h-h--go home, you rope-dancer!" not slow to see the moaning of the words, the unabashed lawyer, who in his life had been a dramatic actor, replied with his accustomed readiness and effrontery. a young man unacquainted with mobs would have descanted indignantly and with many theatrical flourishes on the dignity and usefulness of the player's vocation; an ordinary demagogue would have frankly admitted the discourteous impeachment, and pleaded in mitigation that he had always acted in leading parts and for high salaries. sergeant wilkins took neither of those courses, for he knew his audience, and was aware that his connection with the stage was an affair about which he had better say as little as possible. instead of appealing to their generosity, or boasting of his histrionic eminence, he threw himself broadly on their sense of humor. drawing himself up to his full height, the big, burly man advanced to the marge of the platform, and extending his right hand with an air of authority, requested silence by the movement of his arm. the sign was instantly obeyed; for having enjoyed their laugh, the multitude wished for the rope-dancer's explanation. as soon as the silence was complete, he drew back two paces, put himself in an oratorical _pose_, as though he were about to speak, and then, disappointing the expectations of the assembly, deliberately raised forwards and upwards the skirts of his frock-coat. having thus arranged his drapery he performed a slow gyration--presenting his huge round shoulders and unwieldy legs to the populace. when his back was turned to the crowd, he stooped and made a low obeisance to his vacant chair, thereby giving the effect of caricature to the outlines of his most protuberant and least honorable part. this pantomime lasted scarcely a minute; and before the spectators could collect themselves to resent so extraordinary an affront, the sergeant once again faced them, and in a clear, rich, jovial tone exclaimed, "_he_ called me a rope-dancer!--after what you have seen, do you believe him?" with the exception of the man who started the cry, every person in the dense multitude was convulsed with laughter; and till the end of the election no turbulent rascal ventured to repeat the allusion to the sergeant's former occupation. at a moment of embarrassment, mr. disraeli, in the course of one of his youthful candidatures, created a diversion in his favor by telling a knot of unruly politicians that he _stood on his head_. with less wit, and much less decency, but with equal good fortune, sergeant wilkins took up his position on a baser part of his frame. the electors who respected mr. wilkins because he was a successful barrister, whilst they reproached him with having been a stage-player, were unaware how close an alliance exists between the art of the actor and the art of the advocate. to lawyers of every grade and speciality the histrionic faculty is a useful power; but to the advocate who wishes to sway the minds of jurors it is a necessary endowment. comprising several distinct abilities, it not only enables the orator to rouse the passions and to play on the prejudices of his hearers, but it preserves him from the errors of judgment, tone, emphasis--in short, from manifold blunders of indiscretion and tact by which verdicts are lost quite as often as through defect of evidence and merit. like the dramatic performer, the court-speaker, especially at the common law bar, has to assume various parts. not only should he know the facts of his brief, but he should thoroughly identify himself with the client for whom his eloquence is displayed. on the theatrical stage mimetic business is cut up into specialities, men in most cases filling the parts of men, whilst actresses fill the parts of women; the young representing the characteristics of youth, whilst actors with special endowments simulate the qualities of old age; some confining themselves to light and trivial characters, whilst others are never required to strut before the scenes with hurried paces, or to speak in phrases that lack dignity and fine sentiment. but the popular advocate must in turn fill every _rôle_. if childish simplicity be his client's leading characteristic, his intonations will express pliancy and foolish confidence; or if it is desirable that the jury should appreciate his client's honesty of purpose, he speaks with a voice of blunt, bluff, manly frankness. whatever quality the advocate may wish to represent as the client's distinctive characteristic, it must be suggested to the jury by mimetic artifice of the finest sort. speaking of a famous counsel, an enthusiastic juryman once said to this writer--"in my time i have heard sir alexander in pretty nearly every part: i've heard him as an old man and a young woman; i have heard him when he has been a ship run down at sea, and when he has been an oil-factory in a state of conflagration; once, when i was foreman of a jury, i saw him poison his intimate friend, and another time he did the part of a pious bank director in a fashion that would have skinned the eyelids of exeter hall: he ain't bad as a desolate widow with nine children, of which the eldest is under eight years of age; but if ever i have to listen to him again, i should like to see him as a young lady of good connexions who has been seduced by an officer of the guards." in the days of his forensic triumphs henry brougham was remarkable for the mimetic power which enabled him to describe friend or foe by a few subtle turns of the voice. at a later period, long after he had left the bar, in compliance with a request that he would return thanks for the bridesmaids at a wedding breakfast, he observed, that "doubtless he had been selected for the task in consideration of his youth, beauty, and innocence." the laughter that followed this sally was of the sort which in poetic phraseology is called inextinguishable; and one of the wedding guests who heard the joke and the laughter, assures this writer that the storm of mirthful applause was chiefly due to the delicacy and sweetness of the intonations by which the speaker's facile voice, with its old and once familiar art, made the audience realize the charms of youth, beauty and innocence--charms which, so far as the lawyer's wrinkled visage was concerned, were conspicuous by their absence. eminent advocates have almost invariably possessed qualities that would have made them successful mimics on the stage. for his mastery of oratorical artifices alexander wedderburn was greatly indebted to sheridan, the lecturer on elocution, and to macklin, the actor, from both of whom he took lessons; and when he had dismissed his teachers and become a leader of the english bar he adhered to their rules, and daily practised before a looking-glass the facial tricks by which macklin taught him to simulate surprise or anger, indignation or triumph. erskine was a perfect master of dramatic effect, and much of his richly-deserved success was due to the theatrical artifices with which he played upon the passions of juries. at the conclusion of a long oration he was accustomed to feign utter physical prostration, so that the twelve gentlemen in the box, in their sympathy for his sufferings and their admiration for his devotion to the interests of his client, might be impelled by generous emotion to return a favorable verdict. thus when he defended hardy, hoarseness and fatigue so overpowered him towards the close of his speech, that during the last ten minutes he could not speak above a whisper, and in order that his whispers might be audible to the jury, the exhausted advocate advanced two steps nearer to their box, and then extended his pale face to their eager eyes. the effect of the artifice on the excited jury is said to have been great and enduring, although they were speedily enlightened as to the real nature of his apparent distress. no sooner had the advocate received the first plaudits of his theatre on the determination of his harangue, than the multitude outside the court, taking up the acclamations which were heard within the building, expressed their feelings with such deafening clamor, and with so many signs of riotous intention, that erskine was entreated to leave the court and soothe the passions of the mob with a few words of exhortation. in compliance with this suggestion he left the court, and forthwith addressed the dense out-door assembly in clear, ringing tones that were audible in ludgate hill, at one end of the old bailey, and to the billowy sea of human heads that surged round st. sepulchre's church at the other extremity of the dismal thoroughfare. at the subsequent trial of john horne tooke, sir john scott, unwilling that erskine should enjoy a monopoly of theatrical artifice, endeavored to create a diversion in favor of the government by a display of those lachrymose powers, which byron ridiculed in the following century. "i can endure anything but an attack on my good name," exclaimed the attorney general, in reply to a criticism directed against his mode of conducting the prosecution; "my good name is the little patrimony i have to leave to my children, and, with god's help, gentlemen of the jury, i will leave it to them unimpaired." as he uttered these words tears suffused the eyes which, at a later period of the lawyer's career, used to moisten the woolsack in the house of lords-- "because the catholics would not rise, in spite of his prayers and his prophecies." for a moment horne tooke, who persisted in regarding all the circumstances of his perilous position as farcical, smiled at the lawyer's outburst in silent amusement; but as soon as he saw a sympathetic brightness in the eyes of one of the jury, the dexterous demagogue with characteristic humor and effrontery accused sir john mitford, the solicitor general, of needless sympathy with the sentimental disturbance of his colleague. "do you know what sir john mitford is crying about?" the prisoner inquired of the jury. "he is thinking of the destitute condition of sir john scott's children, and the _little patrimony_ they are likely to divide among them." the jury and all present were not more tickled by the satire upon the attorney general than by the indignant surprise which enlivened the face of sir john mitford, who was not at all prone to tears, and had certainly manifested no pity for john scott's forlorn condition. chapter xxix. "the play's the thing." following the example set by the nobility in their castles and civic palaces, the inns of court set apart certain days of the year for feasting and revelry, and amongst the diversions with which the lawyers recreated themselves at these periods of rejoicing, the rude pre-shakespearian dramas took a prominent place. so far back as a.d. , the masters of the lincoln's inn bench restricted the number of annual revels to four--"one at the feast of all-hallown, another at the feast of st. erkenwald; the third at the feast of the purification of our lady; and the th at midsummer." the ceremonials of these holidays were various; but the brief and sometimes unintelligible notices of the chroniclers give us sufficiently vivid and minute pictures of the boisterous jollity that marked the proceedings. miracle plays and moralities, dancing and music, fantastic processions and mad pranks, spurred on the hours that were not devoted to heavy meals and deep potations. in the merriments of the different inns there was a pleasant diversity--with regard to the duration and details of the entertainments: and occasionally the members of the four societies acted with so little concert that their festivals, falling at exactly the same time, were productive of rivalry and disappointments. dugdale thinks that the christmas revels were not regularly kept in lincoln's inn during the reign of henry viii.; and draws attention to an order made by the benchers of that house on nov., h. viii., the record of which runs thus:--"it is agreed that if the two temples do kepe chrystemas, then the chrystemas to be kept here; and to know this, the steward of the house ys commanded to get knowledge, and to advertise my masters by the next day at night." but notwithstanding changes and novelties, the main features of a revel in an inn of court were always much the same. some member of the society conspicuous for rank or wit of style, or for a combination of these qualities, was elected king of the revel, and until the close of the long frolic he was despot and sole master of the position--so long as he did not disregard a few not vexatious conditions by which, the benchers limited his authority. he surrounded himself with a mock court, exacted homage from barristers and students, made proclamations to his loyal children, sat on a throne at daily banquets, and never appeared in public without a body-guard, and a numerous company of musicians, to protect his person and delight his ear. the wit and accomplishments of the younger lawyers were signally displayed in the dramatic interludes that usually enlivened these somewhat heavy and sluggish jollifications. not only did they write the pieces, and put them before the audience with cunning devices for the production of scenic effect, but they were their own actors. it was not long before their 'moralities' were seasoned with political sentiments and allusions to public affairs. for instance, when wolsey was in the fulness of his power, sergeant roo ventured to satirize the cardinal in a masque with which gray's inn entertained henry viii. and his courtiers. hall records that, "this plaie was so set furth with riche and costlie apparel; with strange diuises of maskes and morrishes, that it was highly praised of all menne saving the cardinall, whiche imagined that the plaie had been deuised of him, and in greate furie sent for the said maister roo, and toke from hym his coife, and sent him to the flete, and after he sent for the yoong gentlemen that plaied in the plaie, and them highly rebuked and threatened, and sent one of them, called thomas moyle, of kent, to the flete; but by means of friendes master roo and he wer deliuered at last." the author stoutly denied that he intended to satirize the cardinal; and the chronicler, believing the sergeant's assertions, observes, "this plaie sore displeased the cardinal, and yet it was never meant to him." that the presentation of plays was a usual feature of the festivals at gray's inn may be inferred from the passage where dugdale, in his notes on that society, says;--"in edw. vi. ( nov.), it was also ordered that henceforth there should be no comedies called _interludes_ in this house out of term time, but when the feast of the nativity of our lord is solemnly observed. and that when there shall be any such comedies, then all the society at that time in commons to bear the charge of the apparel." notwithstanding her anxiety for the maintenance of good discipline in the inns of court, queen elizabeth encouraged the societies to celebrate their feasts with costliness and liberal hospitality, and her taste for dramatic entertainments increased the splendor and frequency of theatrical diversions amongst the lawyers. christopher hatton's name is connected with the history of the english drama, by the acts which he contributed to 'the tragedie of tancred and gismunda, compiled by the gentlemen of the inner temple, and by them presented before her majestie;' and he was one of the chief actors in that ponderous and extravagant mummery with which the inner temple kept christmas in the fourth year of elizabeth's reign. the circumstances of that festival merit special notice. in the third year of elizabeth's reign the middle temple and the inner temple were at fierce war, the former society having laid claim to lyon's inn, which had been long regarded as a dependency of the inner temple. the two chief justices, sir robert catlyn and sir james dyer, were known to think well of the claimant's title, and the masters of the inner temple bench anticipated an adverse decision, when lord robert dudley (afterwards earl of leicester) came to their relief with an order from queen elizabeth enjoining the middle templars no longer to vex their neighbors in the matter. submission being the only course open to them, the lawyers of the middle temple desisted from their claim; and the masters of the inner temple bench expressed their great gratitude to lord robert dudley, "by ordering and enacting that no person or persons of their society that then were, or thereafter should be, should be retained of councell against him the said lord robert, or his heirs; and that the arms of the said lord robert should be set up and placed in some convenient place in their hall as a continual monument of his lordship's favor unto them." further honors were paid to this nobleman at the ensuing christmas, when the inner temple held a revel of unusual magnificence and made lord robert the ruler of the riot. whilst the holidays lasted the young lord's title and style were "pallaphilos, prince of sophie high constable marshal of the knights templars, and patron of the honorable order of pegasus." and he kept a stately court, having for his chief officers--mr. onslow (lord chancellor), anthony stapleton (lord treasurer), robert kelway (lord privy seal), john fuller (chief justice of the king's bench), william pole (chief justice of the common pleas), roger manwood (chief baron of the exchequer), mr. bashe (steward of the household), mr. copley (marshal of the household), mr. paten (chief butler), christopher hatton (master of the game), messieurs blaston, yorke, penston, jervise (masters of the revels), mr. parker (lieutenant of the tower), mr. kendall (carver), mr. martyn (ranger of the forests), and mr. stradling (sewer). besides these eighteen placemen, pallaphilos had many other mock officers, whose names are not recorded, and he was attended by a body-guard of fourscore members of the inn. from the pages of gerard leigh and dugdale, the reader can obtain a sufficiently minute account of the pompous ceremonials and heavy buffooneries of the season. he may learn some of the special services and contributions which prince pallaphilos required of his chief courtiers, and take note how mr. paten, as chief butler, had to provide seven dozen silver and gilt spoons, twelve dozen silver and gilt salt-cellars, twenty silver and gilt candlesticks, twenty fine large table-cloths of damask and diaper, twenty dozen white napkins, three dozen fair large towels, twenty dozen white cups and green pots, to say nothing of carving-knives, carving table, tureens, bread, beer, ale, and wine. the reader also may learn from those chroniclers how the company were placed according to degrees at different tables; how the banquets were served to the sound of drums and fifes; how the boar's head was brought in upon a silver dish; how the gentlemen in gowns, the trumpeters, and other musicians followed the boar's head in stately procession; and how, by a rule somewhat at variance with modern notions concerning old english hospitality, strangers of worth were expected to pay in cash for their entertainment, eightpence per head being the charge for dinner on the day of christmas eve, and twelve-pence being demanded from each stranger for his dinner on the following day. ladies were not excluded from all the festivities; though it may be presumed they did not share in all the riotous meals of the period. it is certain that they were invited, together with the young law-students from the inns of chancery, to see a play and a masque acted in the hall; that seats were provided for their special accommodation in the hall whilst the sports were going forward; and that at the close of the dramatic performances the gallant dames and pretty girls were entertained by pallaphilos in the library with a suitable banquet; whilst the mock lord chancellor, mr. onslow, presided at a feast in the hall, which with all possible speed had been converted from theatrical to more appropriate uses. but though the fun was rare and the array was splendid to idle folk of the sixteenth century, modern taste would deem such gaiety rude and wearisome, would call the ladies' banquet a disorderly scramble, and think the whole frolic scarce fit for schoolboys. and in many respects those revels of olden time were indecorous, noisy, comfortless affairs. there must have been a sad want of room and fresh air in the inner temple dining-hall, when all the members of the inn, the selected students from the subordinate inns of chancery, and half a hundred ladies (to say nothing of mr. gerard leigh and illustrious strangers), had crowded into the space set apart for the audience. at the dinners what wrangling and tumult must have arisen through squabbles for place, and the thousand mishaps that always attend an endeavor to entertain five hundred gentlemen at a dinner, in a room barely capacious enough for the proper accommodation of a hundred and fifty persons. unless this writer greatly errs, spoons and knives were in great request, and table linen was by no means 'fair and spotless' towards the close of the rout. superb, on that holyday, was the aspect of prince pallaphilos. wearing a complete suit of elaborately wrought and richly gilt armor, he bore above his helmet a cloud of curiously dyed feathers, and held a gilt pole-axe in his hand. by his side walked the lieutenant of the tower (mr. parker), clad in white armor, and like pallaphilos furnished with feathers and a pole-axe. on entering the hall the prince and his lieutenant of the tower were preceded by sixteen trumpeters (at full blare), four drummers (at full drum), and a company of fifers (at full whistle), and followed by four men in white armor, bearing halberds in their hands. thrice did this procession march round the fire that blazed in the centre of the hall; and when in the course of these three circuits the four halberdiers and the musicians had trodden upon everybody's toes (their own included), and when moreover they had blown themselves out of time and breath, silence was proclaimed; and prince pallaphilos, having laid aside his pole-axe and his naked sword and a few other trifles, took his seat at the urgent entreaty of the mock lord chancellor. but kit hatton's appearance and part in the proceedings were even more outrageously ridiculous. the future lord chancellor of england was then a very elegant and witty young fellow, proud of his quick humor and handsome face, but far prouder of his exquisitely proportioned legs. no sooner had prince pallaphilos taken his seat, at the lord chancellor's suggestion, than kit hatton (as master of the game) entered the hall, dressed in a complete suit of green velvet, and holding a green bow in his left hand. his quiver was supplied with green arrows, and round his neck was slung a hunting-horn. by kit's side, arrayed in exactly the same style, walked the ranger of the forests (mr. martyn); and having forced their way into the crowded chamber, the two young men blew three blasts of venery upon their horns, and then paced three times round the fire. after thus parading the hall they paused before the lord chancellor, to whom the master of game made three curtsies, and then on his knees proclaimed the desire of his heart to serve the mighty prince pallaphilos. having risen from his kneeling posture kit hatton blew his horn, and at the signal his huntsman entered the room, bringing with him a fox, a cat, and ten couples of hounds. forthwith the fox was released from the pole to which it was bound; and when the luckless creature had crept into a corner under one of the tables, the ten couples of hounds were sent in pursuit. it is a fact that english gentlemen in the sixteenth century thus amused themselves with a fox-hunt in a densely crowded dining-room. over tables and under tables, up the hall and down the hall, those score hounds went at full cry after a miserable fox, which they eventually ran into and killed in the cinder-pit, or as dugdale expresses it, "beneath the fire." that work achieved, the cat was turned off, and the hounds sent after her, with much blowing of horns, much cracking of whips, and deafening cries of excitement from the gownsmen, who tumbled over one another in their eagerness to be in at the death. chapter xxx. the river and the strand by torchlight. scarcely less out of place in the dining-hall than kit hatton's hounds, was the mule fairly mounted on which the prince pallaphilos made his appearance at the high table after supper, when he notified to his subjects in what manner they were to disport themselves till bedtime. thus also when the prince of purpoole kept his court at gray's inn, a.d. , the prince's champion rode into the dining-hall upon the back of a fiery charger which, like the rider, was clothed in a panoply of steel. in costliness and riotous excess the prince of purpoole's revel at gray's inn was not inferior to any similar festivity in the time of elizabeth. on the th of december, st. thomas's eve, the prince (one master henry holmes, a norfolk gentleman) took up his quarters in the great hall of the inn, and by the rd day of january the grandeur and comicality of his proceedings had created so much talk throughout the town that the lord treasurer burghley, the earls of cumberland, essex, shrewsbury and westmoreland, the lords buckhurst, windsor, sheffield, compton, and a magnificent array of knights and ladies visited gray's inn hall on that day and saw the masque which the revellers put upon the stage. after the masque there was a banquet, which was followed by a ball. on the following day the prince, attended by eighty gentlemen of gray's inn and the temple (each of the eighty wearing a plume on his head), dined in state with the lord mayor and aldermen of the city, at crosby place. the frolic continued for many days more; the royal purpoole on one occasion visiting blackwall with a splendid retinue, on another (twelfth night) receiving a gallant assembly of lords, ladies, and knights, at his court in gray's inn, and on a third (shrovetide) visiting the queen herself at greenwich, when her majesty warmly applauded the masque set before her by the actors who were members of the prince's court. so delighted was elizabeth with the entertainment, that she graciously allowed the masquers to kiss her right hand, and loudly extolled gray's inn "as an house she was much indebted to, for it did always study for some sports to present unto her;" whilst to the mock prince she showed her favor, by placing in his hand the jewel (set with seventeen diamonds and fourteen rubies) which he had won by valor and skill in the tournament which formed part of the shrovetide sports. numerous entries in the records of the inns testify to the importance assigned by the olden lawyers to their periodic feasts; and though in the fluctuations of public opinion with regard to the effects of dramatic amusements, certain benchers, or even all the benchers of a particular inn, may be found at times discountenancing the custom of presenting masques, the revels were usually diversified and heightened by stage plays. not only were interludes given at the high and grand holidays styled _solemn revels_, but also at the minor festivities termed post revels they were usually had recourse to for amusement. "besides those _solemn revels_, or measures aforesaid," says dugdale, concerning the old usages of the 'middle temple,' "they had wont to be entertained with post revels performed by the better sort of the young gentlemen of the society, with galliards, corrantoes, and other dances, or else with stage-plays; the first of these feasts being at the beginning, and the other at the latter end of christmas. but of late years these post revels have been disused, both here and in the other inns of court." besides producing and acting some of our best pro-shakespearian dramas, the elizabethan lawyers put upon the stage at least one of william shakespeare's plays. from the diary of a barrister (supposed to be john manningham, of the middle temple), it is learnt that the middle templar's acted shakespeare's 'twelfth night' at the readers' feast on candlemas day, - .[ ] in the following reign, the masques of the lawyers in no degree fell off with regard to splendor. seldom had the thames presented a more picturesque and exhilarating spectacle than it did on the evening of february , , when the gentlemen masquers of gray's inn and the temple, entered the king's royal barge at winchester house, at seven o'clock, and made the voyage to whitehall, attended by hundreds of barges and boats, each vessel being so brilliantly illuminated that the lights reflected upon the ripples of the river, seemed to be countless. as though the hum and huzzas of the vast multitude on the water were insufficient to announce the approach of the dazzling pageant, guns marked the progress of the revellers, and as they drew near the palace, all the attendant bands of musicians played the same stirring tune with uniform time. it is on record that the king received the amateur actors with an excess of condescension, and was delighted with the masque which master beaumont of the inner temple, and his friend, master fletcher, had written and dedicated "to the worthy sir francis bacon, his majesty's solicitor-general, and the grave and learned bench of the anciently-called houses of grayes inn and the inner temple, and the inner temple and grayes inn." the cost of this entertainment was defrayed by the members of the two inns--each reader paying £ , each ancient, £ _s._; each barrister, £ , and each student, _s._ the inner temple and gray's inn having thus testified their loyalty and dramatic taste, in the following year on shrove-monday night (feb. , ), lincoln's inn and the middle temple, with no less splendor and _éclat_, enacted at whitehall a masque written by george chapman. for this entertainment, inigo jones designed and perfected the theatrical decorations in a style worthy of an exhibition that formed part of the gaieties with which the marriage of the palsgrave with the princess elizabeth was celebrated. and though the masquers went to whitehall by land, their progress was not less pompous than the procession which had passed up the thames in the february of the preceding year. having mustered in chancery lane, at the official residence of the master of the rolls, the actors and their friends delighted the town with a gallant spectacle. mounted on richly-caparisoned and mettlesome horses, they rode from fleet street up the strand, and by charing cross to whitehall, through a tempest of enthusiasm. every house was illuminated, every window was crowded with faces, on every roof men stood in rows, from every balcony bright eyes looked down upon the gay scene, and from basement to garret, from kennel to roof-top throughout the long way, deafening cheers testified, whilst they increased the delight of the multitude. such a pageant would, even in these sober days, rouse london from her cold propriety. having thrown aside his academic robe, each masquer had donned a fantastic dress of silver cloth embroidered with gold lace, gold plate, and ostrich plumes. he wore across his breast a gold baldrick, round his neck a ruff of white feathers brightened with pearls and silver lace, and on his head a coronal of snowy plumes. before each mounted masquer rode a torch-bearer, whose right hand waved a scourge of flame, instead of a leathern thong. in a gorgeous chariot, preceded by a long train of heralds, were exhibited the dramatis personæ--honor, plutus, eunomia, phemeis, capriccio--arrayed in their appointed costumes; and it was rumored that the golden canopy of their coach had been bought for an enormous sum. two other triumphal cars conveyed the twelve chief musicians of the kingdom, and these masters of melody were guarded by torch-bearers, marching two deep before and behind, and on either side of the glittering carriages. preceding the musicians, rode a troop of ludicrous objects, who roused the derision of the mob, and made fat burghers laugh till tears ran down their cheeks. they were the mock masque, each resembling an ape, each wearing a fantastic dress that heightened the hideous absurdity of his monkey's visage, each riding upon an ass, or small pony, and each of them throwing shells upon the crowd by way of a largess. in the front of the mock masque, forming the vanguard of the entire spectacle, rode fifty gentlemen of the inns of court, reining high-bred horses, and followed by their running footmen, whose liveries added to the gorgeous magnificence of the display. besides the expenses which fell upon individuals taking part in the play, or procession, this entertainment cost the two inns £ _s._ _d._ about the same time gray's inn, at the instigation of attorney general sir francis bacon, performed 'the masque of flowers' before the lords and ladies of the court, in the banqueting-house, whitehall; and six years later thomas middleton's inner temple masque, or masque of heroes' was presented before a goodly company of grand ladies by the inner templars. [ ] the propensity of lawyers for the stage, lingered amongst barristers on circuit, to a comparatively recent date. 'old stagers' of the home and western circuits, can recall how the juniors of their briefless and bagless days used to entertain the natives of guildford and exeter with shakspearian performances. the northern circuit also was at one time famous for the histrionic ability of its bar, but toward the close of the last century, the dramatic recreations of its junior members were discountenanced by the grand court. chapter xxxi. anti-prynne. of all the masques mentioned in the records of the inns of court, the most magnificent and costly was the famous anti-prynne demonstration, by which the lawyers endeavored to show their contemptuous disapproval of a work that inveighed against the licentiousness of the stage, and preferred a charge of wanton levity against those who encouraged theatrical performances. whilst the 'histriomastix' rendered the author ridiculous to mere men of pleasure, it roused fierce animosities by the truth and fearless completeness of its assertions; but to no order of society was the famous attack on the stage more offensive than to the lawyers; and of lawyers the members of lincoln's inn were the most vehement in their displeasure. the actors writhed under the attack; the lawyers were literally furious with rage--for whilst rating them soundly for their love of theatrical amusements, prynne almost contrived to make it seem that his views were acceptable to the wisest and most reverend members of the legal profession. himself a barrister of lincoln's inn, he with equal craft and audacity complimented the benchers of that society on the firmness with which they had forbidden professional actors to take part in the periodic revels of the inn, and on their inclination to govern the society in accordance with puritanical principles. addressing his "much honored friends, the right worshipful masters of the bench of the honorable flourishing law society of lincoln's inne," the utter-barrister said: "for whereas other innes of court (i know not by what evil custom, and worse example) admit of common actors and interludes upon their two grand festivalls, to recreate themselves withall, notwithstanding the statutes of our kingdome (of which lawyers, of all others, should be most observant), have branded all professed stage-players for infamous rogues, and stage-playes for unlawful pastimes, especially on lord's-dayes and other solemn holidayes, on which these grand dayes ever fall; yet such hath been your pious tender care, not only of this societie's honor, but also of the young students' good (for the advancing of whose piety and studies you have of late erected a magnificent chapel, and since that a library), that as you have prohibited by late publicke orders, all disorderly bacchanalian grand-christmasses (more fit for pagans than christians; for the deboisest roarers than grave civill students, who should be patternes of sobriety unto others), together with all publicke dice-play in the hall (a most pernicious, infamous game; condemned in all ages, all places, not onely by councels, fathers, divines, civilians, canonists, politicians, and other christian writers; by divers pagan authors of all sorts, and by mahomet himselfe; but likewise by sundry heathen, yea, christian magistrates' edicts)." concerning the london theatres he observes that the "two old play houses" (_i.e._, the fortune and the red bull), the "new theatre" (_i.e._, whitefriars play-house), and two other established theatres, being found inadequate to the wants of the play-going public, a sixth theatre had recently been opened. "the multitude of our london play-haunters being so augmented now, that all the ancient divvel's chappels (for so the fathers style all play-houses) being five in number, are not sufficient to containe their troops, whence we see a sixth now added to them, whereas even in vitious nero his raigne there were but three standing theatres in pagan rome (though far more splendid than christian london), and those three too many." having thus enumerated some of the saddest features of his age, the author of the 'player's scourge' again commends the piety and decorum of the lincoln's inn benchers, saying, "so likewise in imitation of the ancient lacedæmonians and massilienses, or rather of primitive zealous christians, you have always from my first admission into your society, and long before, excluded all common players with their ungodly interludes, from all your solemn festivals." if the benchers of one inn winced under prynne's 'expressions of approval,' the students of all the inns of court were even more displeased with the author who, in a dedicatory letter "to the right christian, generous young gentlemen-students of the four innes of court, and especially those of lincolne's inne," urged them to "at last falsifie that ignominious censure which some english writers in their printed works have passed upon innes of court students, of whom they record:--that innes of court men were undone but for players, that they are their chiefest guests and imployment, and the sole business that makes them afternoon's men; that is one of the first things they learne as soon as they are admitted, to see stage-playes, and take smoke at a play-house, which they commonly make their studie; where they quickly learne to follow all fashions, to drinke all healths, to wear favours and good cloathes, to consort with ruffianly companions, to swear the biggest oaths, to quarrel easily, fight desperately, quarrel inordinately, to spend their patrimony ere it fall, to use gracefully some gestures of apish compliment, to talk irreligiously, to dally with a mistresse, and hunt after harlots, to prove altogether lawless in steed of lawyers, and to forget that little learning, grace, and vertue which they had before; so much that they grow at last past hopes of ever doing good, either to the church, their country, their owne or others' souls." the storm of indignation which followed the appearance of the 'histriomastix' was directed by the members of the four inns, who felt themselves bound by honor no less than by interest, to disavow all connexion with, or leaning towards, the unpopular author. on the suggestion of lincoln's inn, the four societies combined their forces, and at a cost of more than twenty thousand pounds, in addition to sums spent by individuals, entertained the court with that splendid masque which whitelock has described in his 'memoirs' with elaborate prolixity. the piece entitled 'the triumph of peace,' was written by shirley, and it was produced with a pomp and lavish expenditure that were without precedent. the organization and guidance of the undertaking were entrusted to a committee of eight barristers, two from each inn; and this select body comprised men who were alike remarkable for talents, accomplishments, and ambition, and some of whom were destined to play strangely diverse parts in the drama of their epoch. it comprised edward hyde, then in his twenty-sixth year; young bulstrode whitelock, who had not yet astonished the more decorous magnates of his country by wearing a falling-band at the oxford quarter sessions; edward herbert, the most unfortunate of cavalier lawyers; john selden, already a middle-aged man; john finch, born in the same year as selden, and already far advanced in his eager course to a not honorable notoriety. attorney general noy was also of the party, but his disastrous career was already near its close. the committee of management had their quarters at ely house, holborn; and from that historic palace the masquers started for whitehall on the eve of candlemas day, - . it was a superb procession. first marched twenty tall footmen, blazing in liveries of scarlet cloth trimmed with lace, each of them holding a baton in his right hand, and in his left a flaring torch that covered his face with light, and made the steel and silver of his sword-scabbard shine brilliantly. a company of the marshal's men marched next with firm and even steps, clearing the way for their master. a burst of deafening applause came from the multitude as the marshal rode through the gateway of ely house, and caracoled over the holborn way on the finest charger that the king's stables could furnish. a perfect horseman and the handsomest man then in town, mr. darrel of lincoln's inn, had been elected to the office of marshal in deference to his wealth, his noble aspect, his fine nature, and his perfect mastery of all manly sports. on either side of mr. darrel's horse marched a lacquey bearing a flambeau, and the marshal's page was in attendance with his master's cloak. an interval of some twenty paces, and then came the marshal's body-guard, composed of one hundred mounted gentlemen of the inns of court--twenty-five from each house; showing in their faces the signs of gentle birth and honorable nurture; and with strong hands reining mettlesome chargers that had been furnished for their use by the greatest nobles of the land. this flood of flashing chivalry was succeeded by an anti-masque of beggars and cripples, mounted on the lamest and most unsightly of rat-tailed srews and spavined ponies, and wearing dresses that threw derision on legal vestments and decorations. another anti-masque satirized the wild projects of crazy speculators and inventors; and as it moved along the spectators laughed aloud at the "fish-call, or looking-glass for fishes in the sea, very useful for fishermen to call all kinds of fish to their nets;" the newly-invented wind-mate for raising a breeze over becalmed seas, the "movable hydraulic" which should give sleep to patients suffering under fever. chariots and horsemen, torch-bearers and lacqueys, followed in order. "then came the first chariot of the grand masquers, which was not so large as those that went before, but most curiously framed, carved, and painted with exquisite art, and purposely for this service and occasion. the form of it was after that of the roman triumphant chariots. the seats in it were made of oval form in the back end of the chariot, so that there was no precedence in them, and the faces of all that sat in it might be seen together. the colors of the first chariot were silver and crimson, given by the lot to gray's inn: the chariot was drawn with four horses all abreast, and they were covered to their heels all over with cloth of tissue, of the colors of crimson and silver, huge plumes of white and red feathers on their heads; the coachman's cap and feather, his long coat, and his very whip and cushion of the same stuff and color. in this chariot sat the four grand masquers of gray's inn, their habits, doublets, trunk-hose, and caps of most rich cloth of tissue, and wrought as thick with silver spangles as they could be placed; large white stockings up to their trunk-hose, and rich sprigs in their cap, themselves proper and beautiful young gentlemen. on each side of the chariot were four footmen in liveries of the color of the chariot, carrying huge flamboys in their hands, which, with the torches, gave such a lustre to the paintings, spangles, and habits that hardly anything could be invented to appear more glorious." six musicians followed the state-chariot of gray's inn, playing as they went; and then came the triumphal cars of the middle templars, the inner templars, and the lincoln's inn men--each car being drawn by four horses and attended by torch-bearers, flambeau-bearers, and musicians. in shape these four cars were alike, but they differed in the color of their fittings. whilst gray's inn used scarlet and silver, the middle templars chose blue and silver decorations, and each of the other two houses adopted a distinctive color for the housings of their horses and the liveries of their servants. it is noteworthy that the inns (equal as to considerations of dignity) took their places in the pageant by lot; and that the four grand masquers of each inn were seated in their chariot on seats so constructed that none of the four took precedence of the others. the inns, in days when questions of precedence received much attention, were very particular in asserting their equality, whenever two or more of them acted in co-operation. to mark this equality, the masque written by beaumont and fletcher in was described "the masque of the inner temple and grayes inn; grayes inn and the inner temple:" and the dedication of the piece to francis bacon, reversing this transposition, mentions "the allied houses of grayes inn and the inner temple, and the inner temple and grayes inn," these changes being made to point the equal rank of the two fraternities. through the illuminated streets this pageant marched to the sound of trumpets and drums, cymbals and fifes, amidst the deafening acclamations of the delighted town; and when the lawyers reached whitehall, the king and queen were so delighted with the spectacle, that the procession was ordered to make the circuit of the tilt-yard for the gratification of their majesties, who would fain see the sight once again from the windows of their palace. is there need to speak of the manner in which the masque was acted, of the music and dances, of the properties and scenes, of the stately banquet after the play and the grand ball which began at a still later hour, of the king's urbanity and the graciousness of henrietta, who "did the honor to some of the masquers to dance with them herself, and to judge them as good dancers as she ever saw!" notwithstanding a few untoward broils and accidents, the entertainment passed off so satisfactorily that 'the triumph of peace' was acted for a second time in the presence of the king and queen, in the merchant taylors' hall. other diversions of the same kind followed with scarcely less _éclat_. at whitehall the king himself and some of the choicest nobles of the land turned actors, and performed a grand masque, on which occasion the templars were present as spectators in seats of honor. during the shrovetide rejoicings of , henrietta even condescended to witness the performance of davenant's 'triumphs of the prince d'amour,' in the hall of the middle temple. laying aside the garb of royalty, she went to the temple, attended by a party of lords and ladies, and fine gentlemen who, like herself, assumed for the evening dresses suitable to persons of private station. the marquis of hamilton, the countess of denbigh, the countess of holland, and lady elizabeth fielding were her companions; whilst the official attendants on her person were the earl of holland, lord goring, mr. percy, and mr. jermyn. led to her place by "mrs. basse, the law-woman," henrietta took a seat upon a scaffold fixed along the northern side of the hall, and amidst a crush of benchers' wives and daughters saw the play and heartily enjoyed it. says whitelock, at the conclusion of his account of the grand masque given by the four inns, "thus these dreams past, and these pomps vanished." scarcely had the frolic terminated when death laid a chill hand on the time-serving noy, who in the consequences of his dishonest counsels left a cruel legacy to the master and the country whom he alike betrayed. a few more years--and john finch, having lost the great seal, was an exile in a foreign land, destined to die in penury, without again setting foot on his native soil. the graceful herbert, whose smooth cheek had flushed with joy at henrietta's musical courtesies, became for a brief day the mock lord keeper of charles ii.'s mock court at paris, and then, dishonored and disowned by his capricious master, he languished in poverty and disease, until he found an obscure grave in the french capital. more fortunate than his early rival, edward hyde outlived charles stuart's days of adverse fortune, and rose to a grievous greatness; but like that early rival, he, too, died in exile in france. perhaps of all the managers of the grand masque the scholarly pedant, john selden, had the greatest share of earthly satisfaction. not the least fortunate of the party was the historian of "the pomp and glory, if not the vanity of the show," who having survived the commonwealth and witnessed the restoration, was permitted to retain his paternal estate, and in his last days could tell his numerous descendants how his old chum, edward hyde, had risen, fallen, and--passed to another world. chapter xxxii. an empty grate. with the revival of gaiety which attended and followed the restoration, revels and masques came once more into vogue at the inns of court, where, throughout the commonwealth, plays had been prohibited, and festivals had been either abolished or deprived of their ancient hilarity. the caterers of amusement for the new king were not slow to suggest that he should honor the lawyers with a visit; and in accordance with their counsel, his majesty took water on august , , and went in the royal barge from whitehall to the temple to dine at the reader's feast. heneage finch had been chosen autumn reader of that inn, and in accordance with ancient usage he demonstrated his ability to instruct young gentlemen in the principles of english law, by giving a series of costly banquets. from the days of the tudors to the rise of oliver cromwell, the reader's feasts had been amongst the most sumptuous and ostentatious entertainments of the town--the sergeant's feasts scarcely surpassing them in splendor, the inaugural dinners of lord mayors often lagging behind them in expense. but heneage finch's lavish hospitality outstripped the doings of all previous readers. his revel was protracted throughout six days, and on each of these days he received at his table the representative members of some high social order or learned body. beginning with a dinner to the nobility and privy councillors, he finished with a banquet to the king; and on the intervening days he entertained the civic authorities, the college of physicians, the civil lawyers, and the dignitaries of the church. the king's visit was attended with imposing ceremony, and wanted no circumstance that could have rendered the occasion more honorable to the host or to the society of which he was a member. all the highest officers of the court accompanied the monarch, and when he stepped from his barge at the temple stairs, he spoke with jovial urbanity to his entertainer and the lord chief justice of the common pleas, who received him with tokens of loyal deference and attachment. "on each side," says dugdale, "as his majesty passed, stood the reader's servants in scarlet cloaks and white tabba doublets; there being a way made through the wall into the temple gardens; and above them on each side the benchers, barristers, and other gentlemen of the society, all in their gowns and formalities, the loud music playing from the time of his landing till he entered the hall; where he was received with xx violins, which continued as long as his majesty stayed." fifty chosen gentlemen of the inn, wearing their academic gowns, placed dinner on the table, and waited on the feasters--no other servants being permitted to enter the hall during the progress of the banquet. on the dais at the top of the hall, under a canopy of state, the king and his brother james sat apart from men of lower degree, whilst the nobles of whitehall occupied one long table, under the presidency of the lord chancellor, and the chief personages of the inn dined at a corresponding long table, having the reader for their chairman. in the following january, charles ii. and the duke of york honored lincoln's inn with a visit, whilst the mock prince de la grange held his court within the walls of that society. nine years later--in the february of --king charles and his brother james again visited lincoln's inn, on which occasion they were entertained by sir francis goodericke, knt., the reader of the inn, who seems almost to have gone beyond heneage finch in sumptuous profusion of hospitality. of this royal visit a particular account is to be seen in the admittance book of the honorable society, from which it appears that the royal brothers were attended by the dukes of monmouth and richmond; the earls of manchester, bath, and anglesea; viscount halifax, the bishop of ely, lord newport, lord henry howard, and "divers others of great qualitie." the entertainment in most respects was a repetition of sir heneage finch's feast--the king, the duke of york, and prince rupert dining on the dais at the top of the hall, whilst the persons of inferior though high quality were regaled at two long tables, set down the hall; and the gentlemen of the inn condescending to act as menial servants. the reader himself, dropping on his knee when he performed the servile office, proffered the towel with which the king prepared himself for the repast; and barristers of ancient lineage and professional eminence contended for the honor of serving his majesty with surloin and cheesecake upon the knee, and hastened with the alacrity of well-trained lacqueys to do the bidding of "the lords att their table." having eaten and drunk to his lively satisfaction, charles called for the admittance book of the inn, and placed his name on the roll of members, thereby conferring on the society an honor for which no previous king of england had furnished a precedent. following their chief's example, the duke of york and prince rupert and other nobles forthwith joined the fraternity of lawyers; and hastily donning students' gowns, they mingled with the troop of gowned servitors, and humbly waited on their liege lord. in like manner, twenty-one years since (july , ) when queen victoria and her lamented consort visited lincoln's inn, on the opening of the new hall, they condescended to enter their names in the admission book of the inn, thereby making themselves students of the society. her majesty has not been called to the bar; but prince albert in due course became a barrister and bencher. repeating the action of charles ii.'s courtiers, the great duke of wellington and the bevy of great nobles present at the celebration became fellow-students with the queen; and on leaving the table the prince walked down the hall, wearing a student's stuff gown (by no means the most picturesque of academic robes), over his field-marshal's uniform. her majesty forbore to disarrange her toilet--which consisted of a blue bonnet with blue feathers, a dress of limerick lace, and a scarlet shawl, with a deep gold edging--by putting her arms through the sleeveless arm-holes of a bombazine frock. grateful to the lawyers for the cordiality with which they welcomed him to the country, william iii. accepted an invitation to the middle temple, and was entertained by that society with a banquet and a masque, of which notice has been taken in another chapter of this work; and in - peter the great was a guest at the christmas revels of the templars. on that occasion the czar enjoyed a favorable opportunity for gratifying his love of strong drink, and for witnessing the ease with which our ancestors drank wine by the magnum and punch by the gallon, when they were bent on enjoyment. in the greater refinement and increasing delicacy of the eighteenth century, the inns of court revels, which had for so many generations been conspicuous amongst the gaieties of the town, became less and less magnificent; and they altogether died out under the second of those georges who are thought by some persons to have corrupted public morals and lowered the tastes of society. in - , when lord chancellor talbot's elevation to the woolsack was celebrated by a revel in the inner temple hall, the dulness and disorder of the celebration convinced the lawyers that they had not acted wisely in attempting to revive usages that had fallen into desuetude because they were inconvenient to new arrangements or repugnant to modern taste. no attempt was made to prolong the festivity over a succession of days. it was a revel of one day; and no one wished to add another to the period of riot. at two o'clock on feb. , - , the new chancellor, the master of the revels, the benchers of the inns, and the guests (who were for the most part lawyers), sat down to dinner in the hall. the barristers and students had their ordinary fare, with the addition of a flask of claret to each mess; but a superior repast was served at the high table where fourteen students (of whom the chancellor's eldest son was one), served as waiters. whilst the banquet was in progress, musicians stationed in the gallery at the upper end of the hall filled the room with deafening noise, and ladies looked down upon the feasters from a large gallery which had been fitted up for their reception over the screen. after dinner, as soon as the hall could be cleared of dishes and decanters, the company were entertained with 'love for love,' and 'the devil to pay,' performed by professional actors who "all came from the haymarket in chairs, ready dressed, and (as it was said), refused any gratuity for their trouble, looking upon the honor of distinguishing themselves on this occasion as sufficient." the players having withdrawn, the judges, sergeants, benchers, and other dignitaries, danced 'round about the coal fire;' that is to say, they danced round about a stove in which there was not a single spark of fire. the congregation of many hundreds of persons, in a hall which had not comfortable room for half the number, rendered the air so oppressively hot that the master of the revels wisely resolved to lead his troop of revellers round an empty grate. the chronicler of this ridiculous mummery observes: "and all the time of the dance the ancient song, accompanied by music, was sung by one toby aston, dressed in a bar-gown, whose father had formerly been master of the plea office in the king's bench. when this was over, the ladies came down from the gallery, went into the parliament chamber, and stayed about a quarter of an hour, while the hall was being put in order. they then went into the hall and danced a few minuets. country dances began at ten, and at twelve a very fine cold collation was provided for the whole company, from which they returned to dancing, which they continued as long as they pleased, and the whole day's entertainment was generally thought to be very genteelly and liberally conducted. the prince of wales honored the performance with his company part of the time; he came into the music _incog._ about the middle of the play, and went away as soon as the farce of 'walking round the coal fire' was over." with this notable dance of lawyers round an empty grate, the old revels disappeared. in their grand days, equivalent to the gaudy days, or feast days, or audit days of the colleges at oxford and cambridge, the inns of court still retain the last vestiges of their ancient jollifications, but the uproarious riot of the obsolete festivities is but faintly echoed by the songs and laughter of the junior barristers and students who in these degenerate times gladden their hearts and loosen their tongues with an extra glass of wine after grand dinners, and then hasten back to chambers for tobacco and tea. on the discontinuance of the revels the inns of court lost their chief attractions for the courtly pleasure-seekers of the town, and many a day passed before another royal visit was paid to any one of the societies. in george iii.'s father stood amongst the musicians in the inner temple hall; and after the lapse of one century and eleven years the present queen accepted the hospitality of lincoln's inn. no record exists of a royal visit made to an inn of court between those events. only the other day, however, the prince of wales went eastwards and partook of a banquet in the hall of middle temple, of which society he is a barrister and a bencher. part vii. legal education. chapter xxxiii. inns of court and inns of chancery. schools for the study of the common law, existed within the bounds of the city of london, at the commencement of the thirteenth century. no sooner had a permanent home been assigned to the court of common pleas, than legal practitioners fixed themselves in the neighborhood of westminster, or within the walls of london. a legal society speedily grew up in the city; and some of the older and more learned professors of the common law, devoting a portion of their time and energies to the labors of instruction, opened academies for the reception of students. dugdale notices a tradition that in ancient times a law-school, called johnson's inn, stood in dowgate, that another existed in pewter lane, and that paternoster row contained a third; and it is generally thought that these three inns were amongst the academies which sprung up as soon as the common pleas obtained a permanent abode. the schools thus established in the opening years of the thirteenth century, were not allowed to flourish for any great length of time; for in the nineteenth year of his reign, henry iii. suppressed them by a mandate addressed to the mayor and sheriffs of the city. but though this king broke up the schools, the scholars persevered in their study; and if the king's mandate aimed at a complete discontinuance of legal instruction, his policy was signally defeated. successive writers have credited edward iii.'s reign with the establishment of inns of court; and it has been erroneously inferred that the study of the common law not only languished, but was altogether extinct during the period of nearly one hundred years that intervened between henry iii.'s dissolution of the city schools and edward iii.'s accession. abundant evidence, however, exists that this was not the case. edward i., in the twentieth year of his reign, ordered his judges of the common pleas to "provide and ordain, from every county, certain attorneys and lawyers" (in the original "atturnatus et _apprenticiis_") "of the best and most apt for their learning and skill, who might do service to his court and people; and those so chosen, and no other should follow his court, and transact affairs therein; the words of which order make it clear that the country contained a considerable body of persons who devoted themselves to the study and practice of the law." so also in the year-book, ed. iii., the words, "et puis une apprentise demand," show that lawyers holding legal degrees existed in the very first year of edward iii.'s reign; a fact which justifies the inference that in the previous reign england contained common law schools capable of granting the legal degree of apprentice. again dugdale remarks, "in ed. iii., in a _quod ei deforciat_ to an exception taken, it was answered by sir richard de willoughby (then a learned justice of the _common pleas_) and william skipwith, (afterwards also one of the justices of that court), that the same was no exception amongst the _apprentices in hostells or inns_." whence it is manifest that inns of court were institutions in full vigor at the time when they have been sometimes represented as originally established. but after their expulsion from the city, there is reason to think that the common lawyers made no attempt to reside in colleges within its boundaries. they preferred to establish themselves on spots where they could enjoy pure air and rural quietude, could surround themselves with trees and lawns, or refresh their eyes with the sight of the silver thames. in the earliest part of the fourteenth century, they took possession of a great palace that stood on the western outskirt of the town, and looked westwards upon green fields, whilst its eastern wall abutted on new street--a thoroughfare that was subsequently called chancellor's lane, and has for many years been known as chancery lane. this palace had been the residence of henry lacy, earl of lincoln, who conferred upon the building the name which it still bears. the earl died in , some seventeen years before edward iii.'s accession; and thynne, the antiquary, was of opinion that no considerable period intervened between henry lacy's death and the entry of the lawyers. in the same century, the lawyers took possession of the temple. the exact date of their entry is unknown; but chaucer's verse enables the student to fix, with sufficient preciseness, the period when the more noble apprentices of the law first occupied the temple as tenants of the knight's hospitallers of st. john of jerusalem, who obtained a grant of the place from edward iii.[ ] the absence of fuller particulars concerning the early history of the legal templars, is ordinarily and with good reason attributed to wat tyler's rebels, who destroyed the records of the fraternity by fire. from roof to basement, beginning with the tiles, and working downwards, the mob destroyed the principal houses of the college; and when they had burnt all the archives on which they could lay hands, they went off and expended their remaining fury on other buildings, of which the knights of st. john were proprietors. the same men who saw the lawyers take possession of the temple on the northern banks of the thames, and of the earl of lincoln's palace in new street, saw them also make a third grand settlement. the manor of portepoole, or purpoole, became the property of the grays of wilton, in the twenty-second year of edward i.; and on its green fields, lying north of holborn, a society of lawyers established a college which still retains the name of the ancient proprietors of the soil. concerning the exact date of its institution, the uncertainty is even greater than that which obscures the foundation of the temple and lincoln's inn; but antiquaries have agreed to assign the creation of gray's inn, as an hospicium for the entertainment of lawyers, to the time of edward iii. the date at which the temple lawyers split up into two separate societies, is also unknown; but assigning the division to some period posterior to wat tyler's insurrection, dugdale says, "but, notwithstanding, this spoil by the rebels, those students so increased here, that at length they divided themselves into two bodies; the one commonly known by the society of the inner temple, and the other of the middle temple, holding this mansion as tenants." but as both societies had a common origin in the migration of lawyers from thavies inn, holborn, in the time of edward iii., it is usual to speak of the two temples as instituted in that reign, and to regard all four inns of court as the work of the fourteenth century. the inns of chancery for many generations maintained towards the inns of court a position similar to that which eton school maintains towards king's at cambridge, or that which winchester school holds to new college at oxford. they were seminaries in which lads underwent preparation for the superior discipline and greater freedom of the four colleges. each inn of court had its own inns of chancery, yearly receiving from them the pupils who had qualified themselves for promotion to the status of inns-of-court men. in course of time, students after receiving the preliminary education in an inn of chancery were permitted to enter an inn of court on which their inn of chancery was not dependent; but at every inn of court higher admission fees were charged to students coming from inns of chancery over which it had no control, than to students who came from its own primary schools. if the reader bears in mind the difference in respect to age, learning, and privileges between our modern public schoolboys and university undergraduates, he will realize with sufficient nearness to truth the differences which existed between the inns of chancery students and the inns of court students in the fifteenth century; and in the students, utter-barristers, and benchers of the inns of court at the same period he may see three distinct orders of academic persons closely resembling the undergraduates, bachelors of arts, and masters of arts in our universities. in the 'de laudibus legum angliæ,'[ ] written in the latter part of the fifteenth century, sir john fortescue says--"but to the intent, most excellent prince, yee may conceive a forme and an image of this study, as i am able, i wil describe it unto you. for there be in it ten lesser houses or innes, and sometimes moe, which are called innes of the chauncerye. and to every one of them belongeth an hundred students at least, and to some of them a much greater number, though they be not ever all together in the same." in charles ii.'s time there were eight inns of chancery; and of them three were subsidiary to the inner temple--viz., clifford's inn, clement's inn, and lyon's inn. clifford's inn (originally the town residence of the barons clifford) was first inhabited by law-students in the eighteenth year of edward iii. clement's inn (taking its name from the adjacent st. clement's well) was certainly inhabited by law-students as early as the nineteenth year of edward iv. lyon's inn was an inn of chancery in the time of henry v. one alone (new inn) was attached to the middle temple. in the previous century, the middle temple had possessed another inn of chancery called strand inn; but in the third year of edward vi. this nursery was pulled down by the duke of somerset, who required the ground on which it stood for the site of somerset house. lincoln's inn had for dependent schools furnival's inn and thavies inn--the latter of which hostels was inhabited by law-students in edward iii.'s time. of furnival's inn (originally lord furnival's town mansion, and converted into a law-school in edward vi.'s reign) dugdale says: "after which time the principall and fellows of this inne have paid to the society of lincoln's inne the rent of iiil vis iiid as an yearly rent for the same, as may appear by the accompts of that house; and by speciall order there made, have had these following priviledges: first (viz. eliz.), that the utter-barristers of furnivall's inne, of a yeares continuance, and so certified and allowed by the benchers of lincoln's inne, shall pay no more than four marks apiece for their admittance into that society. next (viz. in eliz.) that every fellow of this inne, who hath been allowed an utter-barrister here, and that hath mooted here two vacations at the utter bar, shall pay no more for their admission into the society of lincoln's inne, than xiiis iiiid, though all utter-barristers of any other inne of chancery (excepting thavyes inne) should pay xxs, and that every inner-barrister of this house, who hath mooted here one vacation at the inner bar, should pay for his admission into this house but xxs, those of other houses (excepting thavyes inne) paying xxvis viiid." the subordinate seminaries of gray's inn, in dugdale's time, were staple inn and barnard's inn. originally the exchange of the london woolen merchants, staple inn was a law-school as early as henry v.'s time. it is probable that bernard's inn became an academy for law-students in the reign of henry vi. [ ] chaucer mentions the temple thus:-- "a manciple there was of the temple, of which all catours might take ensemple for to be wise in buying of vitaile; for whether he pay'd or took by taile, algate he wayted so in his ashate, that he was aye before in good estate. now is not that of god a full faire grace, that such a leude man's wit shall pace the wisdome of an heape of learned men? of masters had he more than thrice ten, that were of law expert and curious, of which there was a dozen in that house, worthy to been stewards of rent and land of any lord that is in england; to maken him live by his proper good in honour debtless, but if he were wood; or live as scarcely as him list desire, and able to helpen all a shire, in any case that might have fallen or hap, and yet the manciple set all her capp." [ ] the 'de laudibus' was written in latin; but for the convenience of readers not familiar with that classic tongue, the quotations from the treatise are given from robert mulcaster's english version. chapter xxxiv. lawyers and gentlemen. thus planted in the fourteenth century beyond the confines of the city, and within easy access of westminster hall, the inns of court and chancery formed an university, which soon became almost as powerful and famous as either oxford or cambridge. for generations they were spoken of collectively as the law-university, and though they were voluntary societies--in their nature akin to the club-houses of modern london--they adopted common rules of discipline, and an uniform system of instruction. students flocked to them in abundance; and whereas the students of oxford and cambridge were drawn from the plebeian ranks of society, the scholars of the law-university were almost invariably the sons of wealthy men and had usually sprung from gentle families. to be a law-student was to be a stripling of quality. the law university enjoyed the same patrician _prestige_ and _éclat_ that now belong to the more aristocratic houses of the old universities. noblemen sent their sons to it in order that they might acquire the style and learning and accomplishments of polite society. a proportion of the students were encouraged to devote themselves to the study of the law and to attend sedulously the sittings of judges in westminster hall; but the majority of well-descended boys who inhabited the inns of chancery were heirs to good estates, and were trained to become their wealth rather than to increase it--to perfect themselves in graceful arts, rather than to qualify themselves to hold briefs. the same was the case in the inns of court, which were so designated--not because they prepared young men to rise in courts of law, but because they taught them to shine in the palaces of kings. it is a mistake to suppose that the inns of court contain at the present time a larger proportion of idle members, who have no intention to practise at the bar, than they contained under the plantagenets and tudors. on the contrary, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the number of templars who merely played at being lawyers, or were lawyers only in name, was actually as well as relatively greater than the merely _nominal_ lawyers of the temple at the present time. for several generations, and for two centuries after sir john fortescue wrote the 'de laudibus,' the inns-of-court man was more busied in learning to sing than in learning to argue a law cause, more desirous to fence with a sword than to fence with logic. "notwithstanding," runs mulcaster's translation of the 'de laudibus,'[ ] "the same lawes are taught and learned, in a certaine place of publique or common studie, more convenient and apt for attayninge to the knowledge of them, than any other university. for theyr place of studie is situate nigh to the kinges courts, where the same lawes are pleaded and argued, and judgements by the same given by judges, men of gravitie, auncient in yeares, perfit and graduate in the same lawes. wherefore, euerie day in court, the students in those lawes resorte by great numbers into those courts wherein the same lawes are read and taught, as it were in common schooles. this place of studie is far betweene the place of the said courts and the cittie of london, which of all thinges necessarie is the plentifullest of all cities and townes of the realme. so that the said place of studie is not situate within the cittie, where the confluence of people might disturb the quietnes of the studentes, but somewhat severall in the suburbes of the same cittie, and nigher to the saide courts, that the studentes may dayelye at their pleasure have accesse and recourse thither without weariness." setting forth the condition and pursuits of law-students in his day, sir john fortesque continues; "for in these greater inns, there can no student bee mayntayned for lesse expenses by the yeare than twentye markes. and if hee have a servaunt to wait uppon him, as most of them have, then so much the greater will his charges bee. nowe, by reason of this charge, the children onely of noblemenne doo studye the lawes in those innes. for the poore and common sorte of the people are not able to bear so great charges for the exhibytion of theyr chyldren. and marchaunt menne can seldome finde in theyr heartes to hynder theyr merchaundise with so greate yearly expenses. and it thus falleth out that there is scant anye man founde within the realme skilfull and cunning in the lawes, except he be a gentleman borne, and come of noble stocke. wherefore they more than any other kinde of men have a speciall regarde to their nobility, and to the preservation of their honor and fame. and to speake upryghtlye, there is in these greater innes, yea, and in the lesser too, beside the studie of the lawes, as it were an university or schoole of all commendable qualities requisite for noble men. there they learn to sing, and to exercise themselves in all kinde of harmonye. there also they practice daunsing, and other noblemen's pastimes, as they use to do, which are brought up in the king's house. on the working dayes, the most of them apply themselves to the studye of the lawe, and on the holye dayes to the studye of holye scripture;[ ] and out of the tyme of divine service, to the reading of chronicles. for there indeede are vertues studied, and vices exiled. so that, for the endowment of vertue, and abandoning of vice, knights and barrons, with other states and noblemen of the realme, place their children in those innes, though they desire not to have them learned in the lawes, nor to lieue by the practice thereof, but onely uppon their father's allowance. scant at anye tyme is there heard among them any sedition, chyding, or grudging, and yet the offenders are punished with none other payne, but onely to bee amooved from the compayne of their fellowshippe. which punishment they doo more feare than other criminall offendours doo feare imprisonment and yrons: for hee that is once expelled from anye of those fellowshippes is never received to bee a felowe in any of the other fellowshippes. and so by this means there is continuall peace; and their demeanor is lyke the behaviour of such as are coupled together in perfect amytie." any person familiar with the inns of court at the present time will see how closely the law-colleges of victoria's london resemble in many important particulars the law-colleges of fortescue's period. after the fashion of four centuries since young men are still induced to enter them for the sake of honorable companionship, good society, and social prestige, rather than for the sake of legal education. after the remarks already made with regard to musical lawyers in a previous section of this work, it is needless to say that inns of court men are not remarkable for their application to vocal harmony; but the younger members are still remarkable for the zeal with which they endeavor to master the accomplishments which distinguish men of fashion and tone. if the nominal (sometimes they are called 'ornamental') barristers of the fifteenth century liked to read the holy scriptures, the young lawyers of the nineteenth century are no less disposed to read their bibles critically, and argue as to the merits of bishop colenso and his opponents. moreover, the discipline described by fortescue is still found sufficient to maintain order in the inns. writing more than a century after fortescue, sir john ferne, in his 'blazon of gentrie, the glory of generosity, and the lacy's nobility,' observes: "nobleness of blood, joyned with virtue, compteth the person as most meet to the enterprize of any public service; and for that cause it was not for nought that our antient governors in this land, did with a special foresight and wisdom provide, that none should be admitted into the houses of court, being seminaries sending forth men apt to the government of justice, except he were a gentleman of blood. and that this may seem a truth, i myself have seen a kalendar of all those which were together in the society of one of the same houses, about the last year of king henry the fifth, with the armes of their house and family marshalled by their names; and i assure you, the self same monument doth both approve them all to be gentlemen of perfect descents and also the number of them much less than now it is, being at that time in one house scarcely three score."[ ] this passage from an author who delighted to magnify the advantages of generous descent, has contributed to the very general and erroneous impression that until comparatively recent times the members of the english bar were necessarily drawn from the highest ranks of society; and several excellent writers on the antiquities of the law have laid aside their customary caution and strengthened ferne's words with inaccurate comment. thus pearce says of the author of the 'glory of generositie'--"he was one of the advocates for excluding from the inns of court all who were not 'a gentleman by blood,' according to the ancient rule mentioned by fortescue, which seems to have been disregarded in elizabeth's time." fortescue nowhere mentions any such rule, but attributes the aristocratic character of the law-colleges to the high cost of membership. far from implying that men of mean extraction were excluded by an express prohibition, his words justify the inference that no such rule existed in his time. though inns-of-court men were for many generations gentlemen by birth almost without a single exception, it yet remains to be proved that plebeian birth at any period disqualified persons for admission to the law-colleges. if such a restriction ever existed it had disappeared before the close of the fifteenth century--a period not favorable to the views of those who were most anxious to remove the barriers placed by feudal society between the gentle and the vulgar. sir john more (the father of the famous sir thomas) was a judge in the king's bench, although his parentage was obscure; and it is worthy of notice that he was a successful lawyer of fortescue's period. lord chancellor audley was not entitled to bear arms by birth, but was merely the son of a prosperous yeoman. the lowliness of his extraction cannot have been any serious impediment to him, for before the end of his thirty-sixth year he was a sergeant. in the following century the inns received a steadily increasing number of students, who either lacked generous lineage or were the offspring of shameful love. for instance, chief justice wray's birth was scandalous; and if lord ellesmere in his youth reflected with pride on the dignity of his father, sir richard egerton, he had reason to blush for his mother. ferne's lament over the loss of heraldric virtue and splendor, which the inns had sustained in his time, testifies to the presence of a considerable plebeian element amongst the members of the law-university. but that which was marked in the sixteenth was far more apparent in the seventeenth century. scroggs's enemies were wrong in stigmatizing him as a butcher's son, for the odious chief justice was born and bred a gentleman, and jeffreys could boast a decent extraction; but there is abundance of evidence that throughout the reigns of the stuarts the inns swarmed with low-born adventurers. the career of chief justice saunders, who, beginning as a "poor beggar boy," of unknown parentage, raised himself to the chiefship of the king's bench, shows how low an origin a judge might have in the seventeenth century. to mention the names of such men as parker, king, yorke, ryder, and the scotts, without placing beside them the names of such men as henley, harcourt, bathurst, talbot, murray, and erskine, would tend to create an erroneous impression that in the eighteenth century the bar ceased to comprise amongst its industrious members a large aristocratic element. the number of barristers, however, who in that period brought themselves by talent and honorable perseverance into the foremost rank of the legal profession in spite of humble birth, unquestionably shows that ambitious men from the obscure middle classes were more frequently than in any previous century found pushing their fortunes in westminster hall. lord macclesfield was the son of an attorney whose parents were of lowly origin, and whose worldly means were even lower than their ancestral condition. lord chancellor king's father was a grocer and salter who carried on a retail business at exeter; and in his youth the chancellor himself had acted as his father's apprentice--standing behind the counter and wearing the apron and sleeves of a grocer's servitor. philip yorke was the son of a country attorney who could boast neither wealth nor gentle descent. chief justice ryder was the son of a mercer whose shop stood in west smithfield, and grandson of a dissenting minister, who, though he bore the name, is not known to have inherited the blood of the yorkshire ryders. sir william blackstone was the fourth son of a silkman and citizen of london. lords stowell and eldon were the children of a provincial tradesman. the learned and good sir samuel romilly's father was peter romilly, jeweller, of frith street, soho. such were the origins of some of the men who won the prizes of the law in comparatively recent times. the present century has produced an even greater number of barristers who have achieved eminence, and are able to say with honest pride that they are the _first_ gentlemen mentioned in their pedigrees; and so thoroughly has the bar become an open profession, accessible to all persons[ ] who have the means of gentlemen, that no barrister at the present time would have the bad taste or foolish hardihood to express openly his regret that the members of a liberal profession should no longer pay a hurtful attention to illiberal distinctions. according to fortescue, the law-students belonging at the same time to the inns of court and chancery numbered _at least_ one thousand eight hundred in the fifteenth century; and it may be fairly inferred from his words that their number considerably exceeded two thousand. to each of the ten inns of chancery the author of the 'de laudibus' assigns "an hundred students at the least, and to some of them a much greater number;" and he says that the least populous of the four inns of court contained "two hundred students or thereabouts." at the present time the number of barristers--together with fellows of the college of advocates, and certificated special pleaders and conveyancers not at the bar--is shown by the law list for to be somewhat more than .[ ] even when it is borne in mind how much the legal business of the whole nation has necessarily increased with the growth of our commercial prosperity--it being at the same time remembered, upon the other hand, how many times the population of the country has doubled itself since the wars of the roses--few persons will be of opinion that the legal profession, either by the number of its practitioners or its command of employment, is a more conspicuous and prosperous power at the present time than it was in the fifteenth century. ferne was by no means the only gentleman of elizabethan london to deplore the rapid increase in the number of lawyers, and to regret the growing liberality which encouraged--or rather the national prosperity which enabled--men of inferior parentage to adopt the law as a profession. in his address on mr. clerke's elevation to the dignity of a sergeant, lord chancellor hatton, echoing the common complaint concerning the degradation of the law through the swarms of plebeian students and practitioners, observed--"let not the dignitie of the lawe be geven to men unmeete. and i do exhorte you all that are heare present not to call men to the barre or the benches that are so unmeete. i finde that there are now more at the barre in one house than there was in all the innes of court when i was a younge man." notwithstanding the chancellor's earnest statement of his personal recollection of the state of things when he was a young man, there is reason to think that he was quite in error in thinking that lawyers had increased so greatly in number. from a ms. in lord burleigh's collection, it appears that in the number of law-students, resident during term, was only --a smaller number than that which fortescue computed the entire population of the london law-students, at a time when civil war had cruelly diminished the number of men likely to join an aristocratic university. sir edward coke estimated the roll of elizabethan law-students at one thousand, half their number in fortescue's time. coke, however, confined his attention in this matter to the students of inns of court, and paid no attention to inns of chancery. either hatton greatly exaggerated the increase of the legal working profession; or in previous times the proportion of law-students who never became barristers greatly exceeded those who were ultimately called to the bar. something more than a hundred years later, the old cry against the low-born adventurers, who, to the injury of the public and the degradation of the law, were said to overwhelm counsellors and solicitors of superior tone and pedigree, was still frequently heard in the coteries of disappointed candidates for employment in westminster hall, and on the lips of men whose hopes of achieving social distinction were likely to be frustrated so long as plebeian learning and energy were permitted to have free action. in his 'history of hertfordshire' (published in ), sir henry chauncey, sergeant-at-law, exclaims: "but now these mechanicks, ambitious of rule and government, often educate their sons in these seminaries of law, whereby they overstock the profession, and so make it contemptible; whilst the gentry, not sensible of the mischief they draw upon themselves, but also upon the nation, prefer them in their business before their own children, whom they bereave of their employment, formerly designed for their support; qualifying their servants, by the profit of this profession, to purchase their estates, and by this means make them their lords and masters, whilst they lessen the trade of the kingdom, and cause a scarcity of husbandmen, workmen, artificers, and servants in the nation." that the inns of court became less and less aristocratic throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries there is no reason to doubt; but it may be questioned whether it was so overstocked with competent working members, as poor sir henry chauncey imagined it. describing the state of the inns some two generations later, blackstone computed the number of law-students at about a thousand, perhaps slightly more; and he observes that in his time the merely _nominal_ law-students were comparatively few. "wherefore," he says, "few gentlemen now resort to the inns of court, but such for whom the knowledge of practice is absolutely necessary; such, i mean, as are intended for the profession; the rest of our gentry, (not to say our nobility also) having usually retired to their estates, or visited foreign kingdoms, or entered upon public life, without any instruction in the laws of the land, and indeed with hardly any opportunity of gaining instruction, unless it can be afforded to them in the universities." the folly of those who lamented that men of plebeian rank were allowed to adopt the legal profession as a means of livelihood, was however exceeded by the folly of men of another sort, who endeavored to hide the humble extractions of eminent lawyers, under the ingenious falsehoods of fictitious pedigrees. in the last century, no sooner had a lawyer of humble birth risen to distinction, than he was pestered by fabricators of false genealogies, who implored him to accept their silly romances about his ancestry. in most cases, these ridiculous applicants hoped to receive money for their dishonest representations; but not seldom it happened that they were actuated by a sincere desire to protect the heraldic honor of the law from the aspersions of those who maintained that a man might fight his way to the woolsack, although his father had been a tender of swine. sometimes these imaginative chroniclers, not content with fabricating a genealogical chart for a _parvenu_ lord chancellor, insisted that he should permit them to write their lives in such a fashion, that their earlier experiences should seem to be in harmony with their later fortunes. lord macclesfield (the son of a poor and ill-descended country attorney), was traced by officious adulators to reginald le parker, who accompanied edward i., while prince of wales, to the holy land. in like manner a manufacturer of genealogies traced lord eldon to sir michael scott of balwearie. when one of this servile school of worshippers approached lord thurlow with an assurance that he was of kin with cromwell's secretary thurloe, the chancellor, with bluff honesty, responded, "sir, as mr. secretary thurloe was, like myself, a suffolk man, you have an excuse for your mistake. in the seventeenth century two thurlows, who were in no way related to each other, flourished in suffolk. one was cromwell's secretary thurloe, the other was thurlow, the suffolk carrier. i am descended from the carrier." notwithstanding lord thurlow's frequent and consistent disavowals of pretension to any heraldic pedigree, his collateral descendants are credited in the 'peerages' with a descent from an ancient family. [ ] this charming book was written during the author's exile, which began in . [ ] this passage is one of several passages in pre-reformation english literature which certify that the bible was much more widely and carefully read by lettered and studious layman, in times prior to the rupture between england and rome, than many persons are aware, and some violent writers like to acknowledge. [ ] pathetically deploring the change wrought by time, ferne also observes of the inns of court,--"pity to see the same places, through the malignity of the times, and the negligence of those which should have had care to the same, been altered quite from their first institution." [ ] it is not unusual now-a-days to see on the screened list of students about to be called to the bar the names of gentlemen who have caused themselves to be described in the quasi-public lists as the sons of tradesmen. some few years since a gentleman who has already made his name known amongst juniors, was thus 'screened'in the four halls as the son of a petty tradesman in an obscure quarter of london; and assuming that his conduct was due to self-respect and affectionate regard for his parent, it seemed to most observers that the young lawyer, in thus frankly stating his lowly origin, acted with spirit and dignity. it may be that years hence this highly-accomplished gentleman will, like lord tenterden and lord st. leonards (both of whom were the sons of honest but humble tradesmen), see his name placed upon the roll of england's hereditary noblesse. [ ] of this number about reside in or near london and maintain some apparent connexion with the inns of court. of the remainder, some reside in scotland, some in ireland, some in the english provinces, some in the colonies; whilst some of them, although their names are still on the law list, have ceased to regard themselves as members of the legal profession. chapter xxxv. law-french and law-latin. no circumstances of the norman conquest more forcibly illustrate the humiliation of the conquered people, than the measures by which the invaders imposed their language on the public courts of the country, and endeavored to make it permanently usurp the place of the mother-tongue of the despised multitude; and no fact more signally displays our conservative temper than the general reluctance of english society to relinquish the use of the french words and phrases which still tincture the language of parliament, and the procedures of westminster hall, recalling to our minds the insolent domination of a few powerful families who occupied our country by force, and ruled our forefathers with vigorous injustice. frenchmen by birth, education, sympathy, william's barons did their utmost to make england a new france: and for several generations the descendants of the successful invaders were no less eager to abolish every usage which could remind the vanquished race of their lost supremacy. french became the language of parliament and the council-chamber. it was spoken by the judges who dispensed justice in the name of a french king, and by the lawyers who followed the royal court in the train of the french-speaking judges. in the hunting-field and the lists no gentleman entitled to bear coat-armour deigned to utter a word of english: it was the same in fives' court and at the gambling-table. schoolmasters were ordered to teach their pupils to construe from latin into french, instead of into english; and young men of anglo-saxon extraction, bent on rising in the world by native talent and norman patronage, labored to acquire the language of the ruling class and forget the accents of their ancestors. the language and usages of modern england abound with traces of the french of this period. to every act that obtained the royal assent during last session of parliament, the queen said "la reyne le veult." every bill which is sent up from the commons to the lords, an officer of the lower house endorses with "soit bailé aux seigneurs;" and no bill is ever sent down from the lords to the commons until a corresponding officer of the upper house has written on its back, "soit bailé aux communes." in like manner our parochial usages, local sports, and domestic games continually remind us of the obstinate tenacity with which the anglo-saxon race has preserved, and still preserves, the vestiges of its ancient subjection to a foreign yoke. the crier of a country town, in any of england's fertile provinces, never proclaims the loss of a yeoman's sporting-dog, the auction of a bankrupt dealer's stock-in-trade, or the impounding of a strayed cow, until he has commanded, in norman-french, the attention of the sleepy rustics. the language of the stable and the kennel is rich in traces of norman influence; and in backgammon, as played by orthodox players, we have a suggestive memorial of those norman nobles, of whom fortescue, in the 'de laudibus' observes: "neither had they delyght to hunt, and to exercise other sportes and pastimes, as dyce-play and the hand-ball, but in their own proper tongue." in behalf of the norman _noblesse_ it should be borne in mind that their policy in this matter was less intentionally vexatious and insolent than it has appeared to superficial observers. in the great majority of causes the suitors were frenchmen; and it was just as reasonable that they should like to understand the arguments of their counsel and judges, as it is reasonable for suitors in the present day to require the proceedings in westminster hall to be clothed in the language most familiar to the majority of persons seeking justice in its courts. if the use of french pleadings was hard on the one anglo-saxon suitor who demanded justice in henry i.'s time, the use of english pleadings would have been equally annoying to the nine french gentlemen who appeared for the same purpose in the king's court. it was greatly to be desired that the two races should have one common language; and common sense ordained that the tongue of the one or the other race should be adopted as the national language. which side therefore was to be at the pains to learn a new tongue? should the conquerors labor to acquire anglo-saxon? or should the conquered be required to learn french? in these days the cultivated englishmen who hold india by military force, even as the norman invaders held england, by the right of might, settle a similar question by taking upon themselves the trouble of learning as much of the asiatic dialects as is necessary for purposes of business. but the norman barons were not cultivated; and for many generations ignorance was with them an affair of pride no less than of constitutional inclination. soon ambitious englishmen acquired the new language, in order to use it as an instrument for personal advancement. the saxon stripling who could keep accounts in norman fashion, and speak french as fluently as his mother tongue, might hope to sell his knowledge in a good market. as the steward of a norman baron he might negotiate between my lord and my lord's tenants, letting my lord know as much of his tenant's wishes, and revealing to the tenants as much of their lord's intentions as suited his purpose. uniting in his own person the powers of interpreter, arbitrator, and steward, he possessed enviable opportunities and facilities for acquiring wealth. not seldom, when he had grown rich, or whilst his fortunes were in the ascendant, he assumed a french name as well as a french accent; and having persuaded himself and his younger neighbors that he was a frenchman, he in some cases bequeathed to his children an ample estate and a norman pedigree. in certain causes in the law courts the agent (by whatever title known) who was a perfect master of the three languages (french, latin, and english) had greatly the advantage over an opposing agent who could speak only french and latin. from the conquest till the latter half of the fourteenth century the pleadings in courts of justice were in norman-french; but in the ed. iii., it was ordained by the king "that all plees, which be to be pleded in any of his courts, before any of his justices; or in his other places; or before any of his other ministers; or in the courts and places of any other lords within the realm, shall be pleded, shewed, and defended, answered, debated, and judged in the english tongue, and that they be entred and enrolled in latine. and that the laws and customs of the same realm, termes, and processes, be holden and kept as they be, and have been before this time; and that by the antient termes and forms of the declarations no man be prejudiced; so that the matter of the action be fully shewed in the demonstration and in the writ." long before this wise measure of reform was obtained by the urgent wishes of the nation, the french of the law courts had become so corrupt and unlike the language of the invaders, that it was scarcely more intelligible to educated natives of france than to most englishmen of the highest rank. a jargon compounded of french and latin, none save professional lawyers could translate it with readiness or accuracy; and whilst it unquestionably kept suitors in ignorance of their own affairs, there is reason to believe that it often perplexed the most skilful of those official interpreters who were never weary of extolling his lucidity and precision. but though english lawyers were thus expressly forbidden in to plead in law-french, they persisted in using the hybrid jargon for reports and treatises so late as george ii.'s reign; and for an equal length of time they seized every occasion to introduce scraps of law-french into their speeches at the bars of the different courts. it should be observed that these antiquarian advocates were enabled thus to display their useless erudition by the provisions of king edward's act, which, while it forbade french _pleadings_, specially ordained the retention of french terms. roger north's essay 'on the study of the laws' contains amusing testimony to the affection with which the lawyers of his day regarded their law-french, and also shows how largely it was used till the close of the seventeenth century by the orators of westminster hall. "here i must stay to observe," says the author, enthusiastically, "the necessity of a student's early application to learn the old law-french, for these books, and most others of considerable authority, are delivered in it. some may think that because the law-french is no better than the old norman corrupted, and now a deformed hotch-potch of the english and latin mixed together, it is not fit for a polite spark to foul himself with; but this nicety is so desperate a mistake, that lawyer and law-french are coincident; one will not stand without the other." so enamored was he of the grace and excellence of law-reporters' french, that he regarded it as a delightful study for a man of fashion, and maintained that no barrister would do justice to the law and the interests of his clients who did not season his sentences with norman verbiage. "the law," he held, "is scarcely expressible properly in english, and when it is done, it must be _françoise_, or very uncouth." edward iii.'s measure prohibitory of french pleadings had therefore comparatively little influence on the educational course of law-students. the published reports of trials, known by the name of year-books, were composed in french, until the series terminated in the time of henry viii.; and so late as george ii.'s reign, chief baron comyn preferred such words as 'chemin,' 'dismes,' and 'baron and feme,' to such words as 'highway,' 'tithes,' 'husband and wife.' more liberal than the majority of his legal brethren, even as his enlightenment with regard to public affairs exceeded that of ordinary politicians of his time, sir edward coke wrote his commentaries in english, but when he published them, he felt it right to soothe the alarm of lawyers by assuring them that his departure from ancient usage could have no disastrous consequences. "i cannot conjecture," he apologetically observes in his preface, "that the general communicating these laws in the english tongue can work any inconvenience." some of the primary text-books of legal lore had been rendered into english, and some most valuable treatises had been written and published in the mother tongue of the country; but in the seventeenth century no inns-of-court man could acquire an adequate acquaintance with the usages and rules of our courts and the decisions of past judges, until he was able to study the year-books and read littleton in the original. to acquire this singular language--a _dead_ tongue that cannot be said to have ever lived--was the first object of the law-student. he worked at it in his chamber, and with faltering and uncertain accents essayed to speak it at the periodic mootings in which he was required to take part before he could be called to the bar, and also after he had become an utter-barrister. in his 'autobiography,' sir simonds d'ewes makes mention in several places of his law-french exercises (_temp._ james i.), and in one place of his personal story he observes, "i had twice mooted in law-french before i was called to the bar, and several times after i was made an utter-barrister, in our open hall. thrice also before i was of the bar, i argued the reader's cases at the inns of chancery publicly, and six times afterwards. and then also, being an utter-barrister, i had twice argued our middle-temple reader's case at the cupboard, and sat nine times in our hall at the bench, and argued such cases in english as had before been argued by young gentlemen or utter-barristers in law-french bareheaded." amongst the excellent changes by which the more enlightened of the commonwealth lawyers sought to lessen the public clamor of law-reform was the resolution that all legal records should be kept, and all writs composed, in the language of the country. hitherto the law records had been kept in a latin that was quite as barbarous as the french used by the reporters; and the determination to abolish a custom which served only to obscure the operations of justice and to confound the illiterate was hailed by the more intelligent purchasers of law as a notable step in the right direction. but the reform was by no means acceptable to the majority of the bar, who did not hesitate to stigmatize the measure as a dangerous innovation--which would prove injurious to learned lawyers and peace-loving citizens, although it might possibly serve the purposes of ignorant counsel and litigious 'lay gents.'[ ]the legal literature of three generations following charles i.'s execution abounds with contemptuous allusions to the 'english times' of cromwell; the old-fashioned reporters, hugging their norman-french and looking with suspicion on popular intelligence, were vehement in expressing their contempt for the prevalent misuse of the mother tongue. "i have," observes styles, in the preface to his reports, "made these reports speak english; not that i believe that they will be thereby more generally useful, for i have always been and yet am of opinion, that that part of the common law which is in the english hath only occasioned the making of unquiet spirits contentiously knowing, and more apt to offend others than to defend themselves; but i have done it in obedience to authority, and to stop the mouths of such of this english age, who, though they be confessedly different in their minds and judgments, as the builders of babel were in their language, yet do think it vain, if not impious, to speak or understand more than their own mother tongue." in like manner, whitelock's uncle bulstrode, the celebrated reporter, says of the second part of his reports, "that he had manny years since perfected the words in french, in which language he had desired it might have seen the light, being most proper for it, and most convenient for the professors of the law." the restorers who raised charles ii. to his father's throne, lost no time in recalling latin to the records and writs; and so gladly did the reporters and the practising counsel avail themselves of the reaction in favor of discarded usages, that more law-french was written and talked in westminster hall during the time of the restored king, than had been penned and spoken throughout the first fifty years of the seventeenth century. the vexatious and indescribably absurd use of law-latin in records, writs, and written pleadings, was finally put an end to by statute george ii. c. ; but this bill, which discarded for legal processes a cumbrous and harsh language, that was alike unmusical and inexact, and would have been utterly unintelligible to a roman gentleman of the augustan period, did not become law without much opposition from some of the authorities of westminster hall. lord raymond, chief justice of the king's bench, spoke in accordance with opinions that had many supporters on the bench and at the bar, when he expressed his warm disapprobation of the proposed measure, and sarcastically observed "that if the bill paused, the law might likewise be translated into welsh, since many in wales understood not english." in the same spirit sir willian blackstone and more recent authorities have lamented the loss of law-latin. lord campbell, in the 'chancellors,' records that he "heard the late lord ellenborough from the bench regret the change, on the ground that it had had the tendency to make attorneys illiterate." the sneer by which lord raymond endeavored to cast discredit on the proposal to abolish law-latin, was recalled after the lapse of many years by sergeant heywood, who forthwith acted upon it as though it originated in serious thought. whilst acting as chief justice of the carmarthen circuit, the sergeant was presiding over a trial of murder, when it was discovered that neither the prisoner, nor any member of the jury, could understand a word of english; under these circumstances it was suggested that the evidence and the charge should be explained _verbatim_, to the prisoner and his twelve triers by an interpreter. to this reasonable petition that the testimony should be presented in a welsh dress, the judge replied that, "to accede to the request would be to repeal the act of parliament, which required that all proceedings in courts of justice should be in the english tongue, and that the case of a trial in wales, in which the prisoner and jury should not understand english, was a case not provided for, although the attention of the legislature had been called to it by that great judge lord raymond." the judge having thus decided, the inquiry proceeded--without the help of an interpreter--the counsel for the prosecution favoring the jury with an eloquent harangue, no single sentence of which was intelligible to them; a series of witnesses proving to english auditors, beyond reach of doubt, that the prisoner had deliberately murdered his wife; and finally the judge instructing the jury, in language which was as insignificant to their minds as the same quantity of obsolete law-french would have been, that it was their duty to return a verdict of 'guilty.' throwing themselves into the humor of the business, the welsh jurymen, although they were quite familiar with the facts of the case, acquitted the murderer, much to the encouragement of many wretched welsh husbands anxious for a termination of their matrimonial sufferings. [ ] in the seventeenth century, lawyers usually called their clients and the non-legal public 'lay gents.' chapter xxxvi. student life in old time. from statements made in previous chapters, it may be seen that in ancient times the law university was a far more conspicuous feature of the metropolis than it has been in more modern generations. in the fifteenth century the law students of the town numbered about two thousand; in elizabethan london their number fluctuated between one thousand and two thousand; towards the close of charles ii.'s reign they were probably much less than fifteen hundred; in the middle of the eighteenth century they do not seem to have much exceeded one thousand. thus at a time when the entire population of the capital was considerably less than the population of a third-rate provincial town of modern england, the inns of court and chancery contained more undergraduates than would be found on the books of the oxford colleges at the present time. henry viii.'s london looked to the university for mirth, news, trade. during vacations there was but little stir in the taverns and shops of fleet street; haberdashers and vintners sate idle; musicians starved; and the streets of the capital were comparatively empty when the students had withdrawn to spend their holidays in the country. as soon as the gentlemen of the robe returned to town all was brisk and merry again. as the town grew in extent and population, the social influence of the university gradually decreased; but in elizabethan london the _éclat_ of the inns was at its brightest, and during the reigns of elizabeth's two nearest successors london submitted to the inns-of-court men as arbiters of all matters pertaining to taste--copying their dress, slang, amusements, and vices. the same may be said, with less emphasis, of charles ii.'s london. under the 'merry monarch' theatrical managers were especially anxious to please the inns, for they knew that no play would succeed which the lawyers had resolved to damn--that no actor could achieve popularity if the gallants of the temple combined to laugh him down--that no company of performers could retain public favor when they had lost the countenance of law-colleges. something of this power the young lawyers retained beyond the middle of the last century. fielding and addison caught with nervous eagerness the critical gossip of the temple and chancery lane, just as congreve and wycherly, dryden and cowley had caught it in previous generations. fashionable tradesmen and caterers for the amusement of the public made their engagements and speculations with reference to the opening of term. new plays, new books, new toys were never offered for the first time to london purchasers when the lawyers were away. all that the 'season' is to modern london, the 'term' was to old london, from the accession of henry viii. to the death of george ii., and many of the existing commercial and fashionable arrangements of a london 'season' maybe traced to the old-world 'term.' in olden time the influence of the law-colleges was as great upon politics as upon fashion. sheltering members of every powerful family in the country they were centres of political agitation, and places for the secret discussion of public affairs. whatever plot was in course of incubation, the inns invariably harbored persons who were cognisant of the conspiracy. when faction decided on open rebellion or hidden treason, the agents of the malcontent leaders gathered together in the inns, where, so long as they did not rouse the suspicions of the authorities and maintained the bearing of studious men, they could hire assassins, plan risings, hold interviews with fellow-conspirators, and nurse their nefarious projects into achievement. at periods of danger therefore spies were set to watch the gates of the hostels, and mark who entered them. governments took great pains to ascertain the secret life of the collegians. a succession of royal directions for the discipline of the inns under the tudors and stuarts points to the jealousy and constant apprehensions with which the sovereigns of england long regarded those convenient lurking-places for restless spirits and dangerous adversaries. just as the student-quarter of paris is still watched by a vigilant police, so the inns of court were closely watched by the agents of wolsey and thomas cromwell, of burleigh and buckingham. during the troubles and contentions of elizabeth's reign lord burleigh was regularly informed concerning the life of the inns, the number of students in and out of town, the parentage and demeanor of new members, the gossip of the halls, and the rumors of the cloisters. in proportion as the political temper and action of the lawyers were deemed matters of high importance, their political indiscretions and misdemeanors were promptly and sometimes ferociously punished. an idle joke over a pot of wine sometimes cost a witty barrister his social rank and his ears. to promote a wholesome fear of authority in the colleges, government every now and then flogged a student at the cart's tail in holborn, or pilloried a sad apprentice of the law in chancery lane, or hung an ancient on a gibbet at the entrance of his inn. the anecdote-books abound with good stories that illustrate the political excitability of the inns in past times, and the energy with which ministers were wont to repress the first manifestations of insubordination. rushworth records the adventure of four young men of lincoln's inn who throw aside prudence and sobriety in a tavern hard by their inn, and drank to "the confusion of the archbishop of canterbury." the next day, full of penitence and head-ache, the offenders were brought before the council, and called to account for their scandalous conduct; when they would have fared ill had not the earl of dorset done them good service, and privately instructed them to say in their defence, that they had not drunk confusion to the archbishop but to the archbishop's _foes_. on this ingenious representation, the council supposed that the drawer--on whose information the proceedings were taken--had failed to catch the last word of the toast; and consequently the young gentlemen were dismissed with a 'light admonition,' much to their own surprise and the informer's chagrin. of the political explosiveness of the inns in charles ii.'s time narcissus luttrell gives the following illustration in his diary, under date june and , :--"the th was a project sett on foot in grayes inn for the carrying on an addresse for thankes to his majestie for his late declaration; and was moved that day in the hall by some at dinner, and being (as is usual) sent to the barre messe to be by them recommended to the bench, but was rejected both by bench and barr; but the other side seeing they could doe no good this way, they gott about forty together and went to the tavern, and there subscribed the said addresse in the name of the truelye loyall gentlemen of grayes inn. the chief sticklers for the said addition were sir william seroggs, jun., robert fairebeard, capt. stowe, capt. radcliffe, one yalden, with others, to the number of or thereabouts; many of them sharpers about town, with clerks not out of their time, and young men newly come from the university. and some of them went the th to windsor, and presented the said addresse to his majesty: who was pleasd to give them his thanks and confer (it is said) knighthood on the said mr. fairebeard; this proves a mistake since. the th was much such another addresse carried on in the middle temple, where several templars, meeting about one or two that afternoon in the hall for that purpose, they began to debate it, but they were opposed till the hall began to fill; and then the addressers called for mr. montague to take the chaire; on which a poll was demanded, but the addressers refused it, and carried mr. montague and sett him in the chaire, and the other part pulled him out, on which high words grew, and some blows were given; but the addressers seeing they could doe no good with it in the hall, adjourned to the divill tavern, and there signed the addresse; the other party kept in the hall, and fell to protesting against such illegall and arbitrary proceedings, subscribing their names to a greater number than the addressers were, and presented the same to the bench as a grievance." like the king's head tavern, which stood in chancery lane, the devil tavern, in fleet street, was a favorite house with the caroline lawyers. its proximity to the temple secured the special patronage of the templars, whereas the king's head was more frequented by lincoln's-inn men; and in the tavern-haunting days of the seventeenth century those two places of entertainment saw many a wild and dissolute scene. unlike chattelin, who endeavored to satisfy his guests with delicate repasts and light wines, the hosts of the devil and the king's head provided the more substantial fare of old england, and laid themselves out to please roysterers who liked pots of ale in the morning, and were wont to drink brandy by the pint as the clocks struck midnight. nando's, the house where thurlow in his student-period used to hold nightly disputations with all comers of suitable social rank, was an orderly place in comparison with these more venerable hostelries; and though the mitre, cock, and rainbow have witnessed a good deal of deep drinking, it may be questioned if they, or any other ancient taverns of the legal quarter, encouraged a more boisterous and reckless revelry than that which constituted the ordinary course of business at the king's head and the devil. in his notes for jan. - , mr. narcissus luttrell observes--"the th, at night, some young gentlemen of the temple went to the king's head tavern, chancery lane, committing strange outrages there, breaking windowes, &c., which the watch hearing of came to disperse them; but they sending for severall of the watermen with halberts that attend their comptroller of the revells, were engaged in a desperate riott, in which one of the watchmen was run into the body and lies very ill; but the watchmen secured one or two of the watermen." eleven years later the diarist records: "jan. . one batsill, a young gentleman of the temple, was committed to newgate for wounding a captain at the devil tavern in fleet street on saturday last." such ebullitions of manly spirit--ebullitions pleasant enough to the humorist, but occasionally productive of very disagreeable and embarrassing consequences--were not uncommon in the neighborhood of the inns of court whilst the christmas revels were in progress. a tempestuous, hot-blooded, irascible set were these gentlemen of the law-colleges, more zealous for their own honor than careful for the feelings of their neighbors. alternately warring with sharp tongues, sharp pens, and sharp swords they went on losing their tempers, friends, and lives in the most gallant and picturesque manner imaginable. here is a nice little row which occurred in the middle temple hall during the days of good queen bess! "the records of the society," says mr. foss, "preserve an account of the expulsion of a member, which is rendered peculiarly interesting in consequence of the eminence to which the delinquent afterwards attained as a statesman, a poet, and a lawyer. whilst the masters of the bench and other members of the society were sitting quietly at dinner on february , - , john davis came into the hall with his hat on his head, and attended by two persons armed with swords, and going up to the barrister's table, where richard martin was sitting, he pulled out from under his gown a cudgel 'quem vulgariter vocant a bastinado,' and struck him over the head repeatedly, and with so much violence that the bastinado was shivered into many pieces. then retiring to the bottom of the hall, he drew one of his attendants' swords and flourished it over his head, turning his face towards martin, and then turning away down the water steps of the temple, threw himself into a boat. for this outrageous act he was immediately disbarred and expelled the house, and deprived for ever of all authority to speak or consult in law. after nearly four years' retirement he petitioned the benchers for his restoration, which they accorded on october , , upon his making a public submission in the hall, and asking pardon of mr. martin, who at once generously forgave him." both the principals in this scandalous outbreak and subsequent reconciliation became honorably known in their profession--martin rising to be a recorder of london and a member of parliament; and davies acting as attorney general of ireland and speaker of the irish parliament, and achieving such a status in politics and law that he was appointed to the chief justiceship of england, an office, however, which sudden death prevented him from filling. nor must it be imagined that gay manners and lax morals were less general amongst the veterans than amongst the youngsters of the bar. judges and sergeants were quite as prone to levity and godless riot as students about to be called; and such was the freedom permitted by professional decorum that leading advocates habitually met their clients in taverns, and having talked themselves dry at the bars of westminster hall, drank themselves speechless at the bars of strand taverns--ere they reeled again into their chambers. the same habits of uproarious self-indulgence were in vogue with the benchers of the inns, and the doctors of doctors' commons. hale's austerity was the exceptional demeanor of a pious man protesting against the wickedness of an impious age. had it not been for the shortness of time that had elapsed since algernon sidney's trial and sentence, john evelyn would have seen no reason for censuring the loud hilarity and drunkenness of jeffreys and withings at mrs. castle's wedding. in some respects, however, the social atmosphere of the inns was far more wholesome in the days of elizabeth, and for the hundred years following her reign, than it is at present. sprung in most cases from legal families, the students who were educated to be working members of the bar lived much more under the observation of their older relations, and in closer intercourse with their mothers and sisters than they do at present. now-a-days young templars, fresh from the universities, would be uneasy and irritable under strict domestic control; and as men with beards and five-and-twenty years' knowledge of the world, they would resent any attempt to draw them within the lines of domestic control. but in elizabethan and also in stuart london, law-students were considerably younger than they are under victoria. moreover, the usage of the period trained young men to submit with cheerfulness to a parental discipline that would be deemed intolerable by our own youngsters. during the first terms of their eight, seven, or at least six years of pupilage, until they could secure quarters within college walls, students frequently lodged in the houses or chambers of near relations who were established in the immediate vicinity of the inns. a judge with a house in fleet street, an eminent counsel with a family mansion in holborn, or an office-holder with commodious chambers in chancery lane, usually numbered amongst the members of his family a son, or nephew, or cousin who was keeping terms for the bar. thus placed under the immediate superintendence of an elder whom he regarded with affection and pride, and surrounded by the wholesome interests of a refined domestic circle, the raw student was preserved from much folly and ill-doing into which he would have fallen had he been thrown entirely on his own resources for amusement. the pecuniary means of inns-of-court students have not varied much throughout the last twelve generations. in days when money was scarce and very precious they of course lived on a smaller number of coins than they require in these days when gold and silver are comparatively abundant and cheap; but it is reasonable to suppose that in every period the allowances, on which the less affluent of them subsisted, represent the amounts on which young men of their respective times were just able to maintain the figure and style of independent gentlemen. the costly pageants and feasts of the inns in old days must not be taken as indicative of the pecuniary resources of the common run of students; for the splendor of those entertainments was mainly due to the munificence of those more wealthy members who by a liberal and even profuse expenditure purchased a right to control the diversions of the colleges. fortescue, speaking of his own time, says: "there can no student bee mayntayned for lesse expenses by the yeare than twentye markes. and if hee haue a seruant to waite uppon him, as most of them haue, then so much the greater will his charges bee." hence it appears that during the most patrician period of the law university, when wealthy persons were accustomed to maintain ostentatious retinues of servants, a law-student often had no private personal attendant. an ordinance shows that in elizabethan london the inns-of-court men were waited upon by laundresses or bedmakers who served and took wages from several masters at the same time. it would be interesting to ascertain the exact time when the "laundress" was first introduced into the temple. she certainly flourished in the days of queen bess; and roger north's piquant description of his brother's laundress is applicable to many of her successors who are looking after their perquisites at the present date. "the housekeeper," says roger, "had been formerly his lordship's laundress at the temple, and knew well her master's brother so early as when he was at the writing-school. she _was a phthisical old woman, and could scarce crawl upstairs once a day_." this general employment of servants who were common to several masters would alone prove that the inns-of-court men in the seventeenth century felt it convenient to husband their resources, and exercise economy. throughout that century sixty pounds was deemed a sufficient income for a temple student; and though it was a scant allowance, some young fellows managed to push on with a still more modest revenue. simonds d'ewes had £ per annum during his student course, and £ a year on becoming an utter-barrister. "it pleased god also in mercy," he writes, "after this to ease me of that continual want or short stipend i had for about five years last past groaned under; for my father, immediately on my call to the bar, enlarged my former allowance with forty pounds more annually; so as, after this plentiful annuity of one hundred pounds was duly and quarterly paid me by him, i found myself easyd of so many cares and discontents as i may well account that the th day of june foregoing the first day of my outward happiness since the decease of my dearest mother." all things considered, a bachelor in james i.'s london with a clear income of £ per annum was on the whole as well off for his time as a young barrister of the present day would be with an annual allowance of £ or £ . francis north, when a student, was allowed only £ per annum; and as soon as he was called and began to earn a little money, his parsimonious father reduced the stipend by £ ; but, adds roger north, "to do right to his good father, he paid him that fifty pounds a year as long as he lived, saying he would not discourage industry by rewarding it, when successful, with less." george jeffreys, in his student-days, smarted under a still more galling penury, for he was allowed only £ a year, £ being for his clothes, and £ for the rest of his expenditure. in the following century the nominal incomes of law-students rose in proportion as the wealth of the country increased and the currency fell in value. in george ii.'s time a young templar expected his father to allow him £ a year, and on encouragement would spend twice that amount in the same time. henry fielding's allowance from general fielding was £ per annum; but as he said, with a laugh, he had too feeling and dutiful a nature to press an affectionate father for money which he was totally unable to pay. at the present time £ per annum is about the smallest sum on which a law-student can live with outward decency; and £ per annum the lowest amount on which a chamber barrister can live with suitable dignity and comfort. if he has to maintain the expenses of a distant circuit mr. briefless requires from £ to £ more. alas! how many of mr. briefless's meritorious and most ornamental kind are compelled to shift on far less ample means! how many of them periodically repeat the jest of poor a----, who made this brief and suggestive official return to the income tax commissioners--"i am totally dependent on my father, who allows me--nothing!" chapter xxxvii. readers and mootmen. romantic eulogists of the inns of court maintain that, as an instrument of education, the law-university was nearly perfect for many generations after its consolidation. that in modern time abuses have impaired its faculties and diminished its usefulness they admit. some of them are candid enough to allow that, as a school for the systematic study of law, it is under existing circumstances a deplorably deficient machine; but they unite in declaring that there _was_ a time when the system of the combined colleges was complete and thoroughly efficacious. the more cautious of these eulogists decline to state the exact limits of the period when the actual condition of the university merited their cordial approval, but they concur in pointing to the years between the accession of henry vii. and the death of james i., as comprising the brightest days of its academical vigor and renown. it is however worthy of observation that throughout the times when the legal learning and discipline of the colleges are described to have been admirable, the system and the students by no means won the approbation of those critical authorities who were best able to see their failings and merits. wolsey was so strongly impressed by the faulty education of the barristers who practised before him, and more especially by their total ignorance of the principles of jurisprudence, that he prepared a plan for a new university which should be established in london, and should impart a liberal and exact knowledge of law. had he lived to carry out his scheme it is most probable that the inns of court and chancery would have become subsidiary and subordinate establishments to the new foundation. in this matter, sympathizing with the more enlightened minds of his age, sir nicholas bacon was no less desirous than the great cardinal that a new law university should be planted in town, and he urged on henry viii. the propriety of devoting a certain portion of the confiscated church property to the foundation and endowment of such an institution. on paper the scheme of the old exercises and degrees looks very imposing, and those who delight in painting fancy pictures may infer from them that the scholastic order of the colleges was perfect. before a young man could be called to the bar, he had under ordinary circumstances to spend seven or eight years in arguing cases at the inns of chancery, in proving his knowledge of law and law-french at moots, in sharpening his wits at case-putting, in patient study of the year-books, and in watching the trials of westminster hall. after his call he was required to spend another period in study and academic exercise before he presumed to raise his voice at the bar; and in his progress to the highest rank of his profession he was expected to labor in educating the students of his house as assistant-reader, single-reader, double-reader. the gravest lawyers of every inn were bound to aid in the task of teaching the mysteries of the law to the rising generation. the old ordinances assumed that the law-student was thirsting for a knowledge of law, and that the veterans were no less eager to impart it. during term law was talked in hall at dinner and supper, and after these meals the collegians argued points. "the cases were put" after the earlier repast, and twice or thrice a week moots were "brought in" after the later meal. the students were also encouraged to assemble towards the close of each day and practise 'case-putting' in their gardens and in the cloisters of the temple or lincoln's inn. the 'great fire' of - having destroyed the temple cloisters, some of the benchers proposed to erect chambers on the ground, to and fro upon which law-students had for generations walked whilst they wrangled aloud; but the earl of nottingham, recalling the days when young heneage finch used to put cases with his contemporary students, strangled the proposal at its birth, and sir christopher wren subsequently built the cloisters which may be seen at the present day. but there is reason to fear that at a very early period in their history the inns of court began to pay more attention to certain outward forms of instruction than to instruction itself. the unbiassed inquirer is driven to suspect that 'case-putting' soon became an idle ceremony, and 'mooting' a mere pastime. gentlemen ate heartily in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; and it is not easy to believe that immediately after a twelve o'clock dinner benchers were in the best possible mood to teach, or students in the fittest condition for learning. it is credible that these post-prandial exercitations were often enlivened by sparkling quips and droll occurrences; but it is less easy to believe that they were characterised by severe thought and logical exactness. so also with the after-supper exercises. the six o'clock suppers of the lawyers were no light repasts, but hearty meals of meat and bread, washed down by '_green pots_' of ale and wine. when 'the horn' sounded for supper, the student was in most cases better able to see the truth of knotty points than when in compliance with etiquette he bowed to the benchers, and asked if it was their pleasure to hear a moot. it seems probable that long before 'case-puttings' and 'mootings' were altogether disused, the old benchers were wont to wink mischievously at each other when they prepared to teach the boys, and that sometimes they would turn away from the proceedings of a moot with an air of disdain or indifference. the inquirer is not induced to rate more highly the intellectual effort of such exercises because the teachers refreshed their exhausted powers with bread and beer as soon as the arguments were closed. when such men as coke and francis bacon were the readers, the students were entertained with lectures of surpassing excellence; but it was seldom that such readers could be found. it seems also that at an early period men became readers, not because they had any especial aptitude for offices of instruction, or because they had some especial fund of information--but simply because it was their turn to read. routine placed them in the pulpit for a certain number of weeks; and when they had done all that routine required of them, and had thereby qualified themselves for promotion to the rank of sergeant, they took their seats amongst the benchers and ancients with the resolution not to trouble themselves again about the intellectual progress of the boys. soon also the chief teacher of an inn of court became its chief feaster and principal entertainer; and in like manner his subordinates in office, such as assistant readers and readers elect, were required to put their hands into their pockets, and feed their pupils with venison and wine as well as with law and equity. it is amusing to observe how little dugdale has to say about the professional duties of readers--and how much about their hospitable functions and responsibilities. philip and mary ordered that no reader of the middle temple should give away more than fifteen bucks during his readings; but so greatly did the cost of readers' entertainments increase in the following century, that dugdale observes--"but the times are altered; there being few summer readers who, in half the time that heretofore a reading was wont to continue, spent so little as threescore bucks, besides red deer; some have spent fourscore, some an hundred." just as readers were required to spend more in hospitality, they were required to display less learning. sound lawyers avoided election to the readers' chairs, leaving them to be filled by rich men who could afford to feast the nobility and gentry, or at least by men who were willing to purchase social _éclat_ with a lavish outlay of money. under charles ii. the 'readings' were too often nothing better than scandalous exhibitions of mental incapacity: and having sunk into disrepute, they died out before the accession of james ii. the scandalous and beastly disorder of the grand day feasts at the middle temple, during francis north's tenure of the reader's office, was one of the causes that led to the discontinuance of reader's banquets at that house; and the other inns gladly followed the example of the middle temple in putting an end to a custom which had ceased to promote the dignity of the law. of this feast, and his brother's part in it, roger north says: "he (_i.e._ francis north) sent out the officers with white staves (for so the way was) and a long list to invite; but he went himself to wait upon the archbishop of canterbury, sheldon; for so also the ceremony required. the archbishop received him very honorably and would not part with him at the stairshead, as usually had been done; but, telling him he was no ordinary reader, went down, and did not part till he saw him past at his outward gate i cannot much commend the extravagance of the feasting used at these readings; and that of his lordship's was so terrible an example, that i think none hath ventured since to read publicly; but the exercise is turned into a revenue, and a composition is paid into the treasury of the society. therefore one may say, as was said of cleomenes, that, in this respect, his lordship was _ultimus herorum_, the last of the heroes. and the profusion of the best provisions, and wine, was to the worst of purposes--debauchery, disorder, tumult, and waste. i will give but one instance; upon the grand day, as it was called, a banquet was provided to be set upon the table, composed of pyramids, and smaller services in form. the first pyramid was at least four feet high, with stages one above another. the conveying this up to the table, through a crowd, that were in full purpose to overturn it, was no small work: but, with the friendly assistance of the gentlemen, it was set whole upon the table. but, after it was looked upon a little, all went, hand over hand, among the rout in the hall, and for the most part was trod under foot. the entertainment the nobility had out of this was, after they had tossed away the dishes, a view of the crowd in confusion, wallowing one over another, and contending for a dirty share of it." it would, however, be unfair to the ancient exercises of 'case-putting' and 'mooting' not to bear in mind that by habituating successful barristers to take personal interest in the professional capabilities of students, they helped to maintain a salutary intercourse betwixt the younger and older members of the profession. so long as 'moots' lasted, it was the fashion with eminent counsel to accost students in westminster hall, and gossip with them about legal matters. in charles ii.'s time, such eminent barristers as sir geoffrey palmer daily gave practical hints and valuable suggestions to students who courted their favor; find accurate legal scholars, such as old 'index waller,' would, under judicious treatment, exhibit their learning to boys ambitious of following in their steps. chief justice saunders, during the days of his pre-eminence at the bar, never walked through westminster hall without a train of lads at his heels. "i have seen him," says roger north, "for hours and half-hours together, before the court sat, stand at the bar, with an audience of students over against him, putting of cases, and debating so as suited their capacities, and encouraged their industry. and so in the temple, he seldom moved without a parcel of youths hanging about him, and he merry and jesting with them." long after 'moots' had fallen into disuse, their influence in this respect was visible in the readiness of wigged veterans to extend a kindly and useful patronage to students. even so late as the close of the last century, great black-letter lawyers used to accost students in westminster hall, and give them fair words, in a manner that would be misunderstood in the present day. sergeant hill--whose reputation for recondite legal erudition, resembled that of '_index_ waller,' or maynard, in the seventeenth century--once accosted john scott, as the latter, in his student days, was crossing westminster hall. "pray, young gentleman," said the black-letter lawyer, "do you think herbage and pannage rateable to the poor's rate?" "sir," answered the future lord eldon, with a courteous bow to the lawyer, whom he knew only by sight, "i cannot presume to give any opinion, inexperienced and unlearned as i am, to a person of your great knowledge, and high character in the profession." "upon my word," replied the sergeant, eyeing the young man with unaffected delight, "you are a pretty sensible young gentleman; i don't often meet with such. if i had asked mr. burgess, a young man upon our circuit, the question, he would have told me that i was an old fool. you are an extraordinary sensible young gentleman." the period when 'readings,' 'mooting,' and 'case-putting' fell into disuse or contempt, is known with sufficient accuracy. having noticed the decay of readings, sir john bramston writes, in charles ii.'s reign, "at this tyme readings are totally in all the inns of court layd aside; and to speak truth, with great reason, for it was a step at once to the dignity of a sergeant, but not soe now." marking the time when moots became farcical forms, roger north having stated that his brother francis, when a student, was "an attendant (as well as exerciser) at the ordinary moots in the middle temple and at new inn," goes on to say, "in those days, the moots were carefully performed, and it is hard to give a good reason (bad ones are prompt enough) why they are not so now." but it should be observed, that though for all practical purposes 'moots' and 'case-puttings' ceased in charles ii.'s time, they were not formally abolished. indeed, they lingered on throughout the eighteenth century, and to the present time--when vestiges of them may still be observed in the usages and discipline of the inns. before the writer of this page was called to the bar by the masters of the society of lincoln's inn, he, like all other students of his time, had to go through the form of putting a case on certain days in the hall after dinner. the ceremony appeared to him alike ludicrous and interesting. to put his case, he was conducted by the steward of the inn to the top of the senior bar table, when the steward placed an open ms. book before him, and said, "read that, sir;" whereupon this deponent read aloud something about "a femme sole," or some such thing, and was still reading the rest of the ms., kindly opened under his nose by the steward, when that worthy officer checked him suddenly, saying, "that will do, sir; you have _put_ your case--and can sign the book." the book duly signed, this deponent bowed to the assembled barristers, and walked out of the hall, smiling as he thought how, by an ingenious fiction, he was credited with having put an elaborate case to a college of profound jurists, with having argued it before an attentive audience, and with having borne away the laurels of triumph. recently this pleasant mockery of case-putting has been swept away. in roger north's 'discourse on the study of the laws,' and 'life of the lord keeper guildford,' the reader may see with clearness the course of an industrious law-student during the latter half of the seventeenth century, and it differs less from the ordinary career of an industrious temple-student in our time, than many recent writers on the subject think. under charles ii., james ii., and william iii. the law-student was compelled to muster the barbarous law-french; but the books which he was required to read were few in comparison with those of a modern inns-of-court man. roger north mentions between twenty and thirty authors, which the student should read in addition to year-books and more recent reports; and it is clear that the man who knew with any degree of familiarity such a body of legal literature was a very erudite lawyer two hundred years since. but the student was advised to read this small library again and again, "common-placing" the contents of its volumes, and also "common-placing" all new legal facts. the utility and convenience of common-place books were more apparent two centuries since, than in our time, when books of reference are always published with good tables of contents and alphabetical indexes. roger north held that no man could become a good lawyer who did not keep a common-place book. he instructs the student to buy for a common-place register "a good large paper book, as big as a church bible;" he instructs him how to classify the facts which should be entered in the work; and for a model of a lucid and thoroughly lawyer-like common-place book he refers "to lincoln's inn library, where the lord hale's common-place book is conserved, and that may be a pattern, _instar omnium_." chapter xxxviii. pupils in chambers. but the most important part of an industrious law-student's labors in olden time, was the work of watching the practice of westminster hall. in the seventeenth century, the constant succession of political trials made the king's bench court especially attractive to students who were more eager for gossip than advancement of learning; but it was always held that the student, who was desirous to learn the law rather than to catch exciting news or hear exciting speeches, ought to frequent the common pleas, in which court the common law was said to be at home. at the common pleas, a student might find a seat vacant in the students' benches so late as ten o'clock; but it was not unusual for every place devoted to the accommodation of students in the court of king's bench, to be occupied by six o'clock, a.m. by dawn, and even before the sun had begun to break, students bent on getting good seats at the hearing of an important cause would assemble, and patiently wait in court till the judges made their appearance. one prominent feature in the advocate's education must always be elocutionary practice. "talk; if you can, to the point, but anyhow talk," has been the motto of advocacy from time immemorial. heneage finch, who, like every member of his silver-tongued family, was an authority on matters pertaining to eloquence, is said to have advised a young student "to study all the morning and talk all the afternoon." sergeant maynard used to express his opinion of the importance of eloquence to a lawyer by calling law the "ars bablativa." roger north observes--"he whose trade is speaking must not, whatever comes out, fail to speak, for that is a fault in the main much worse than impertinence." and at a recent address to the students of the london university, lord brougham urged those of his auditors, who intended to adopt the profession of the bar, to habituate themselves to talk about everything. in past times law-students were proverbial for their talkativeness; and though the present writer has never seen any records of a carolinian law-debating society, it is matter of certainty that in the seventeenth century the young students and barristers formed themselves into coteries, or clubs, for the practice of elocution and for legal discussions. the continual debates on 'mootable days,' and the incessant wranglings of the temple cloisters, encouraged them to pay especial attention to such exercises. in charles ii.'s reign pool's company, was a coterie of students and young barristers, who used to meet periodically for congenial conversation and debate. "there is seldom a time," says roger north, speaking of this coterie, "but in every inn of court there is a studious, sober company that are select to each other, and keep company at meals and refreshments. such a company did mr. pool find out, whereof sergeant wild was one, and every one of them proved eminent, and most of them are now preferred in the law; and mr. pool, at the latter end of his life, took such a pride in his company that he affected to furnish his chambers with their pictures." amongst the benefits to be derived from such a club as that of which mr. pool was president, roger north mentions "aptness to speak;" adding: "for a man may be possessed of a book-case, and think he has it _ad unguem_ throughout, and when he offers at it shall find himself at a loss, and his words will not be right and proper, or perhaps too many, and his expressions confused: _when he has once talked his case over, and, his company have tossed it a little to and fro, then he shall utter it more readily, with fewer words and much more force_." these words make it clear that mr. pool's 'company' was a select 'law-debating society.' far smaller as to number of members, something more festive in its arrangements, but not less bent on furthering the professional progress of its members, it was, some two hundred years since, all that the 'hardwicke' and other similar associations are at the present.[ ] to such fraternities--of which the inns of court had several in the last century--murray and thurlow, law and erskine had recourse: and besides attending strictly professional clubs, it was usual for the students, of their respective times, to practise elocution at the coffee-houses and public spouting-rooms of the town. murray used to argue as well as 'drink champagne' with the wits; thurlow was the irrepressible talker of nando's; erskine used to carry his scarlet uniform from lincoln's inn hall, to the smoke-laden atmosphere of coachmakers' hall, at which memorable 'discussion forum' edward law is known to have spoken in the presence of a closely packed assembly of politicians, idlers upon town, shop-men, and drunkards. thither also horne tooke and dunning used to adjourn after dining with taffy kenyon at the chancery lane eating-house, where the three friends were wont to stay their hunger for sevenpence halfpenny each. "dunning and myself," horne tooke said boastfully, when he recalled these economical repasts, "were generous, for we gave the girl who waited on us a penny apiece; but kenyon, who always knew the value of money, rewarded her with a halfpenny, and sometimes with a _promise_." notwithstanding the recent revival of lectures and the institution of examinations, the actual course of the law-student has changed little since the author of the 'pleader's guide,' in , described the career of john surrebutter, esq., special pleader and barrister-at-law. the labors of 'pupils in chambers, are thus noticed by mr. surrebutter:-- "and, better to improve your taste, are by your parents' fondness plac'd amongst the blest, the chosen few (blest, if their happiness they knew), who for three hundred guineas paid to some great master of the trade, have at his rooms by _special_ favor his leave to use their best endeavor, by drawing pleas from nine till four, to earn him twice three hundred more; and after dinner may repair to 'foresaid rooms, and then and there have 'foresaid leave from five till ten, to draw th' aforesaid pleas again." continuing to describe his professional career, mr. surrebutter mentions certain facts which show that so late as the close of last century professional etiquette did not forbid special pleaders and barristers to curry favor with solicitors and solicitors' clerks by attentions which would now-a-days be deemed reprehensible. he says:-- "whoe'er has drawn a special plea has heard of old tom tewkesbury, deaf as a post, and thick as mustard, he aim'd at wit, and bawl'd and bluster'd and died a nisi prius leader-- that genius was my special pleader-- that great man's office i attended, by hawk and buzzard recommended attorneys both of wondrous skill, to pluck the goose and drive the quill. three years i sat his smoky room in, pens, paper, ink, and pounce consuming; the fourth, when epsom day begun, joyful i hailed th' auspicious sun, bade tewkesbury and clerk adieu; (purification, eighty-two) of both i wash'd my hands; and though with nothing for my cash to show, but precedents so scrawl'd and blurr'd, i scarce could read a single word, nor in my books of common-place one feature, of the law could trace, save buzzard's nose and visage thin, and hawk's deficiency of chin, which i while lolling at my ease was wont to draw instead of pleas. my chambers i equipt complete, made friends, hired books, and gave to eat; if haply to regale my friends on, my mother sent a haunch of ven'son, i most respectfully entreated the choicest company to eat it; _to wit_, old buzzard, hawk, and crow; _item_, tom thornback, shark, and co. attorneys all as keen and staunch as e'er devoured a client's haunch. and did i not their clerks invite to taste said ven'son hash'd at night? for well i knew that hopeful fry my rising merit would descry, the same litigious course pursue, and when to fish of prey they grew, by love of food and contest led, would haunt the spot where once they fed. thus having with due circumspection formed my professional connexion, my desks with precedents i strew'd, turned critic, danc'd, or penn'd an ode, suited the _ton_, became a free and easy man of gallantry; but if while capering at my glass, or toying with a favorite lass, i heard the aforesaid hawk a-coming, or buzzard on the staircase humming, at once the fair angelic maid into my coal-hole i convey'd; at once with serious look profound, mine eyes commencing with the ground, i seem'd like one estranged to sleep, 'and fixed in cogitation deep,' sat motionless, and in my hand i held my 'doctrina placitandi,' and though i never read a page in't, thanks to that shrewd, well-judging agent, my sister's husband, mr. shark, soon got six pupils and a clerk. five pupils were my stint, the other i took to compliment his mother." having fleeced pupils, and worked as a special pleader for a time, mr. surrebutter is called to the bar; after which ceremony his action towards 'the inferior branch' of the profession is not more dignified than it was whilst he practised as a special pleader. it appears that in mr. surrebutter's time (_circa_ ) it was usual for a student to spend three whole years in the same pleader's chambers, paying three hundred guineas for the course of study. not many years passed before students saw it was not to their advantage to spend so long a period with the same instructor, and by the end of the century the industrious student who could command the fees wherewith to pay for such special tuition, usually spent a year or two in a pleader's chambers, and another year or two in the chambers of an equity draughtsman, or conveyancer. lord campbell, at the opening of the present century, spent three years in the chambers of the eminent special pleader, mr. tidd, of whose learning and generosity the biographer of the chancellors makes cordial and grateful acknowledgment. finding that campbell could not afford to pay a second hundred guineas for a second year's instruction, tidd not only offered him the run of his chambers without payment, but made the young scotchman take back the £ which he had paid for the first twelve months. in his later years lord campbell delighted to trace his legal pedigree to the great pleader and 'pupillizer' of the last century, tom warren. the chart ran thus: "tom warren had for pupil sergeant runnington, who instructed in the mysteries of special pleading the learned tidd, who was the teacher of john campbell." with honest pride and pleasant vanity the literary chancellor maintained that he had given the genealogical tree another generation of forensic honor, as solicitor general dundas and vaughan williams, of the common pleas bench, were his pupils. though campbell speaks of _tom warren_ as "the greater founder of the special pleading race," and maintains that "the voluntary discipline of the special pleader's office" was unknown before the middle of the last century, it is certain that the voluntary discipline of a legal instructor's office or chambers was an affair of frequent occurrence long before warren's rise. roger north, in his 'discourse on the study of the laws,' makes no allusion to any such voluntary discipline as an ordinary feature of a law-student's career; but in his 'life of lord keeper guildford' he expressly informs us that he was a pupil in his brother's chambers. "his lordship," writes the biographer, "having taken that advanced post, and designing to benefit a relation (the honorable roger north), who was a student in the law, and kept him company, caused his clerk to put into his hands all his draughts, such as he himself had corrected, and after which conveyances had been engrossed, that, by a perusal of them, he might get some light into the formal skill of conveyancing. and that young gentleman instantly went to work, and first numbered the draughts, and then made an index of all the clauses, referring to that number and folio; so that, in this strict perusal and digestion of the various matters, he acquired, not only a formal style, but also apt precedents, and a competent notion of instruments of all kinds. and to this great condescension was owing that little progress he made, which afterwards served to prepare some matters for his lordship's own perusal and settlement." here then is a case of a pupil in a barrister's chambers in charles ii.'s reign; and it is a case that suffers nothing from the fact that the teacher took no fee. in like manner, john trevor (subsequently master of the rolls and speaker of the commons) about the same time was "bred a sort of clerk in old arthur trevor's chamber, an eminent and worthy professor of the law in the inner temple." on being asked what might be the name of the boy with such a hideous squint who sate at a clerk's desk in the outer room, arthur trevor answered, "a kinsman of mine that i have allowed to sit here, to learn the knavish part of the law." it must be observed that john trevor was not a clerk, but merely a "sort of a clerk" in his kinsman's chamber. in the latter half of the seventeenth century, and in the earlier half of the eighteenth century, students who wished to learn the practice of the law usually entered the offices of attorneys in large practice. at that period, the division between the two branches of the profession was much less wide than it subsequently became; and no rule or maxim of professional etiquette forbade inns-of-court men to act as the subordinates of attorneys and solicitors. thus philip yorke (lord hardwicke) in queen anne's reign acted as clerk in the office of mr. salkeld, an attorney residing in brook street, holborn, whilst he kept his terms at the temple; and nearly fifty years later, ned thurlow (lord thurlow), on leaving cambridge, and taking up his residence in the temple, became a pupil in the office of mr. chapman, a solicitor, whose place of business was in lincoln's inn. there is no doubt that it was customary for young men destined the bar thus to work in attorneys' offices; and they continued to do so without any sense of humiliation or thought of condescension, until the special pleaders superseded the attorneys as instructors. [ ] the mention of 'the hardwicke' brings a droll story to the writer's mind. some few years since the members of that learned fraternity assembled at their customary plate of meeting--a large room in anderton's hotel, fleet street--to discuss a knotty point of law about anent uses. the master of young men was strong; and amongst them--conspicuous for his advanced years, jovial visage, red nose, and air of perplexity--sate an old gentleman who was evidently a stranger to every lawyer present. who was he? who brought him? was there any one in the room who knew him? such were the whispers that floated about, concerning the portly old man, arrayed in blue coat and drab breeches and gaiters, who took his snuff in silence, and watched the proceedings with evident surprise and dissatisfaction. after listening to three speeches this antique, jolly stranger rose, and with much embarrassment addressed the chair. "mr. president," he said--"excuse me; but may i ask,--is this 'the convivial rabbits?'" a roar of laughter followed this enquiry from a 'convivial rabbit,' who having mistaken the evening of the week, had wandered into the room in which his convivial fellow-clubsters had held a meeting on the previous evening. on receiving the president's assurance that the learned members of a law-debating society were not 'convivial rabbits,' the elderly stranger buttoned his blue coat and beat a speedy retreat. part viii. mirth. chapter xxxix. wit of lawyers. no lawyer has given better witticisms to the jest-books than sir thomas more. like all legal wits, he enjoyed a pun, as sir thomas manners, the mushroom earl of rutland discovered, when he winced under the cutting reproof of his insolence, conveyed in the translation of 'honores mutant mores'--_honors change manners_. but though he would condescend to play with words as a child plays with shells on a sea-beach, he could at will command the laughter of his readers without having recourse to mere verbal antics. he delighted in what may be termed humorous mystification. entering bruges at a time when his leaving had gained european notoriety, he was met by the challenge of a noisy fellow who proclaimed himself ready to dispute with the whole world--or any other man--"in omni scibili et de quolibet ente." accepting the invitation, and entering the lists in the presence of all the scholastic magnates of bruges, more gravely inquired, "an averia carucæ capta in vetitonamio sint irreplegibilia?" not versed in the principles and terminology of the common law of england, the challenger could only stammer and blush--whilst more's eye twinkled maliciously, and his auditors were convulsed with laughter. much of his humor was of the sort that is ordinarily called _quiet_ humor, because its effect does not pass off in shouts of merriment. of this kind of pleasantry he gave the lieutenant of the tower a specimen, when he said, with as much courtesy as irony, "assure yourself i do not dislike my cheer; but whenever i do, then spare not to thrust me out of your doors!" of the same sort were the pleasantries with which, on the morning of his execution, he with fine consideration for others strove to divert attention from the cruelty of his doom. "i see no danger," he observed, with a smile, to his friend sir thomas pope, shaking his water-bottle as he spoke, "but that this man may live longer if it please the king." finding in the craziness of the scaffold a good pretext for leaning in friendly fashion on his gaoler's arm, he extended his hand to sir william kingston, saying, "master lieutenant, i pray you see me safe up; for my coming down let me shift for myself." even to the headsman he gave a gentle pleasantry and a smile from the block itself, as he put aside his beard so that the keen blade should not touch it. "wait, my good friend, till i have removed my beard," he said, turning his eyes upwards to the official, "for it has never offended his highness." his wit was not less ready than brilliant, and on one occasion its readiness saved him from a sudden and horrible death. sitting on the roof of his high gate-house at chelsea, he was enjoying the beauties of the thames and the sunny richness of the landscape, when his solitude was broken by the unlooked-for arrival of a wandering maniac. wearing the horn and badge of a bedlamite, the unfortunate creature showed the signs of his malady in his equipment as well as his countenance. having cast his eye downwards from the parapet to the foot of the tower, he conceived a mad desire to hurl the chancellor from the flat roof. "leap, tom! leap!" screamed the athletic fellow, laying a firm hand on more's shoulder. fixing his attention with a steady look, more said, coolly, "let us first throw my little dog down, and see what sport that will be." in a trice the dog was thrown into the air. "good!" said more, feigning delight at the experiment: "now run down, fetch the dog, and we'll throw him off again." obeying the command, the dangerous intruder left more free to secure himself by a bar, and to summon assistance with his voice. for a good end this wise and mirth-loving lawyer would play the part of a practical joker; and it is recorded that by a jest of the practical sort he gave a wholesome lesson to an old civic magistrate, who, at the sessions of the old bailey, was continually telling the victims of cut-purses that they had only themselves to thank for their losses--that purses would never be cut if their wearers took proper care to retain them in their possession. these orations always terminated with, "i never lose _my_ purse; cut-purses never take _my_ purse; no, i'faith, because i take proper care of it." to teach his worship wisdom, and cure him of his self-sufficiency, more engaged a cut-purse to relieve the magistrate of his money-bag whilst he sat upon the bench. a story is recorded of another old bailey judge who became the victim of a thief under very ridiculous circumstances. whilst he was presiding at the trial of a thief in the old bailey, sir john sylvester, recorder of london, said incidentally that he had left his watch at home. the trial ended in an acquittal, the prisoner had no sooner gained his liberty than he hastened to the recorder's house, and sent in word to lady sylvester that he was a constable and had been sent from the old bailey to fetch her husband's watch. when the recorder returned home and found he had lost his watch, it is to be feared that lady sylvester lost her usual equanimity. _apropos_ of these stories lord campbell tells--how, at the opening period of his professional career, soon after the publication of his 'nisi prius reports,' he on circuit successfully defended a prisoner charged with a criminal offence; and how, whilst the success of his advocacy was still quickening his pulses, he discovered that his late client, with whom he held a confidential conversation, had contrived to relieve him of his pocket-book, full of bank-notes. as soon as the presiding judge, lord chief baron macdonald, heard of the mishap of the reporting barrister, he exclaimed, "what! does mr. campbell think that no one is entitled to _take notes_ in court except himself?" by the urbane placidity which marked the utterance of his happiest speeches, sir nicholas bacon often recalled to his hearers the courteous easiness of more's _repartees_. keeping his own pace in society, as well as in the court of chancery, neither satire nor importunity could ruffle or confuse him. when elizabeth, looking disdainfully at his modest country mansion, told him that the place was too small, he answered with the flattery of gratitude, "not so, madam, your highness has made me too great for my house." leicester having suddenly asked him his opinion of two aspirants for court favor, he responded on the spur of the moment, "by my troth, my lord, the one is a grave councillor: the other is a proper young man, and so he will be as long as he lives." to the queen, who pressed him for his sentiments respecting the effect of monopolies--a delicate question for a subject to speak his mind upon--he answered, with conciliatory lightness, "madam, will you have me speak the truth? _licentiâ_ omnes deteriores sumus." in court he used to say, "let us stay a little, that we may have done the sooner." but notwithstanding his deliberation and the stutter that hindered his utterances, he could be quicker than the quickest, and sharper than the most acrid, as the loquacious barrister discovered who was suddenly checked in a course of pert talkativeness by this tart remark from the stammering lord keeper: "there is a difference between you and me,--for me it is a pain to s-speak, for you a pain to hold your tongue." that the familiar story of his fatal attack of cold is altogether true one cannot well believe, for it seems highly improbable that the lord keeper, in his seventieth year, would have sat down to be shaved near an open window in the month of february. but though the anecdote may not be historically exact, it may be accepted as a faithful portraiture of his more stately and severely courteous humor. "why did you suffer me to sleep thus exposed?" asked the lord keeper, waking in a fit of shivering from slumber into which his servant had allowed him to drop, as he sat to be shaved in a place where there was a sharp current of air. "sir, i durst not disturb you," answered the punctilious valet, with a lowly obeisance. having eyed him for a few seconds, sir nicholas rose and said, "by your civility i lose my life." whereupon the lord keeper retired to the bed from which he never rose. amongst elizabethan judges who aimed at sprightliness on the bench, hatton merits a place; but there is reason to think that the idlers, who crowded his court to admire the foppishness of his judicial costume, did not get one really good _mot_ from his lips to every ten bright sayings that came from the clever barristers practising before him. one of the best things attributed to him is a pun. in a case concerning the limits of certain land, the counsel on one side having remarked with explanatory emphasis, "we lie on this side, my lord;" and the counsel on the other side having interposed with equal vehemence, "we lie on this side, my lord,"--the lord chancellor leaned backwards, and dryly observed, "if you lie on both sides, whom am i to believe?" in elizabethan england the pun was as great a power in the jocularity of the law-courts as it is at present; the few surviving witticisms that are supposed to exemplify egerton's lighter mood on the bench, being for the most part feeble attempts at punning. for instance, when he was asked, during his tenure of the mastership of the rolls, to _commit_ a cause, _i.e._, to refer it to a master in chancery, he used to answer, "what has the cause done that it should be committed?" it is also recorded of him that, when he was asked for his signature to a petition of which he disapproved, he would tear it in pieces with both hands, saying, "you want my hand to this? you shall have it; aye, and both my hands, too." of egerton's student days a story is extant, which has merits, independent of its truth or want of truth. the hostess of a smithfield tavern had received a sum of money from three graziers, in trust for them, and on engagement to restore it to them on their joint demand. soon after this transfer, one of the co-depositors, fraudulently representing himself to be acting as the agent of the other two, induced the old lady to give him possession of the whole of the money--and thereupon absconded. forthwith the other two depositors brought an action against the landlady, and were on the point of gaining a decision in their favor, when young egerton, who had been taking notes of the trial, rose as _amicus curiæ_, and argued, "this money, by the contract, was to be returned to _three_, but _two_ only sue;--where is the _third_? let him appear with the others; till then the money cannot be demanded from her." nonsuit for the plaintiffs--for the young student a hum of commendation. many of the pungent sayings current in westminster hall at the present time, and attributed to eminent advocates who either are still upon the forensic stage, or have recently withdrawn from it, were common jests amongst the lawyers of the seventeenth century. what law-student now eating dinners at the temple has not heard the story of sergeant wilkins, who, on drinking a pot of stout in the middle of the day, explained that, as he was about to appear in court, he thought it right to fuddle his brain down to the intellectual standard of a british jury. this merry thought, two hundred and fifty years since, was currently attributed to sir john millicent, of cambridgeshire, of whom it is recorded--"being asked how he did conforme himselfe to the grave justices his brothers, when they met, 'why, in faithe,' sayes he, 'i have no way but to drinke myself downe to the capacitie of the bench.'" another witticism, currently attributed to various recent celebrities, but usually fathered upon richard brinsley sheridan--on whose reputation have been heaped the brilliant _mots_ of many a speaker whom he never heard, and the indiscretions of many a sinner whom he never knew--is certainly as old as shaftesbury's bright and unprincipled career. when charles ii. exclaimed, "shaftesbury, you are the most profligate man in my dominions," the reckless chancellor answered, "of a subject, sir, i believe i am." it is likely enough that shaftesbury merely repeated the witticism of a previous courtier; but it is certain that sheridan was not the first to strike out the pun. in this place let a contradiction be given to a baseless story, which exalts sir william follett's reputation for intellectual readiness and argumentative ability. the story runs, that early in the january of , whilst george stephenson, dean buckland, and sir william follett were sir robert peel's guests at drayton manor, dean buckland vanquished the engineer in a discussion on a geological question. the next morning, george stephenson was walking in the gardens of drayton manor before breakfast, when sir william follett accosted him, and sitting down in an arbor asked for the facts of the argument. having quickly 'picked up the case,' the lawyer joined sir robert peel's guests at breakfast, and amused them by leading the dean back to the dispute of the previous day, and overthrowing his fallacies by a skilful use of the same arguments which the self-taught engineer had employed with such ill effect. "what do you say, mr. stephenson?" asked sir robert peel, enjoying the dean's discomfiture. "why," returned george stephenson, "i only say this, that of all the powers above and under earth, there seems to me no power so great as the gift of the gab." this is the story. but there are facts which contradict it. the only visit paid by george stephenson to drayton manor was made in the december of , not the january of . the guests (invited for dec. , ), were lord talbot, lord aylesford, the bishop of lichfield, dr. buckland, dr. lyon playfair, professor owen, george stephenson, mr. smith of deanston, and professor wheatstone. sir william follett was not of the party, and did not set foot within drayton manor during george stephenson's visit there. of this, professor wheatstone (who furnished the present writer with these particulars), is certain. moreover, it is not to be believed that sir william follett, an overworked invalid (who died in the june of of the pulmonary disease under which he had suffered for years), would sit in an arbor before breakfast on a winter's morning to hold debate with a companion on any subject. the story is a revival of an anecdote first told long before george stephenson was born. in lists of legal _facetiæ_ the habit of punning is not more noticeable than the prevalent unamiability of the jests. advocates are intellectual gladiators, using their tongues as soldiers of fortune use their swords; and when they speak, it is to vanquish an adversary. antagonism is an unavoidable condition of their existence; and this incessant warfare gives a merciless asperity to their language, even when it does not infuse their hearts with bitterness. duty enjoins the barrister to leave no word unsaid that can help his client, and encourages him to perplex by satire, baffle by ridicule, or silence by sarcasm, all who may oppose him with statements that cannot be disproved, or arguments that cannot be upset by reason. that which duty bids him do, practice enables him to do with terrible precision and completeness; and in many a case the caustic tone, assumed at the outset as a professional weapon, becomes habitual, and, without the speaker's knowledge, gives more pain within his home than in westminster hall. some of the well-known witticisms attributed to great lawyers are so brutally personal and malignant, that no man possessing any respect for human nature can read them without endeavoring to regard them as mere biographic fabrications. it is recorded of charles yorke that, after his election to serve as member for the university of cambridge, he, in accordance with etiquette, made a round of calls on members of senate, giving them personal thanks for their votes; and that on coming to the presence of a supporter--an old 'fellow' known as the ugliest man in cambridge--he addressed him thus, after smiling 'an aside' to a knot of bystanders--"sir, i have reason to be thankful to my friends in general; but i confess myself under particular obligation to you for the very _remarkable countenance_ you have shown me on this occasion." there is no doubt that charles yorke could make himself unendurably offensive; it is just credible that without a thought of their double meaning he uttered the words attributed to him; but it is not to be believed that he--an english gentleman--thus intentionally insulted a man who had rendered him a service. a story far less offensive than the preceding anecdote, but in one point similar to it, is told of judge fortescue-aland (subsequently lord fortescue), and a counsel. sir john fortescue-aland was disfigured by a nose which was purple, and hideously misshapen by morbid growth. having checked a ready counsel with the needlessly harsh observation, "brother, brother, you are handling the case in a very lame manner," the angry advocate gave vent to his annoyance by saying, with a perfect appearance of _sang-froid_, "pardon me, my lord; have patience with me, and i will do my best to make the case as plain as--as--the nose on your lordship's face." in this case the personality was uttered in hot blood, by a man who deemed himself to be striking the enemy of his professional reputation. if they were not supported by incontrovertible testimony, the admirers of the great sir edward coke would reject as spurious many of the overbearing rejoinders which escaped his lips in courts of justice. his tone in his memorable altercation with bacon at the bar of the court of exchequer speaks ill for the courtesy of english advocates in elizabeth's reign; and to any student who can appreciate the dignified formality and punctilious politeness that characterized english gentlemen in the old time, it is matter of perplexity how a man of coke's learning, capacity, and standing, could have marked his contempt for 'cowells interpreter,' by designating the author in open court dr. cowheel. scarcely in better taste were the coarse personalities with which, as attorney general, he deluged garnet the jesuit, whom he described as "a doctor of jesuits; that is, a doctor of six d's--as dissimulation, deposing of princes, disposing of kingdoms, daunting and deterring of subjects, and destruction." in comparatively recent times few judges surpassed thurlow in overbearing insolence to the bar. to a few favorites, such as john scott and kenyon, he could be consistently indulgent, although even to them his patronage was often disagreeably contemptuous; but to those who provoked his displeasure by a perfectly independent and fearless bearing he was a malignant persecutor. for instance, in his animosity to richard pepper arden (lord alvanley), he often forgot his duty as a judge and his manners as a gentleman. john scott, on one occasion, rising in the court of chancery to address the court after arden, who was his leader in the cause, and had made an unusually able speech, lord thurlow had the indecency to say, "mr. scott, i am glad to find that you are engaged in the cause, for i now stand some chance of knowing something about the matter." to the chancellor's habitual incivility and insolence it is allowed that arden always responded with dignity and self-command, humiliating his powerful and ungenerous adversary by invariable good-breeding. once, through inadvertence, he showed disrespect to the surly chancellor, and then he instantly gave utterance to a cordial apology, which thurlow was not generous enough to accept with appropriate courtesy. in the excitement of professional altercation with counsel respecting the ages of certain persons concerned in a suit, he committed the indecorum of saying aloud, "i'll lay you a bottle of wine." ever on the alert to catch his enemy tripping, thurlow's eye brightened as his ear caught the careless words; and in another instant he assumed a look of indignant disgust. but before the irate judge could speak, arden exclaimed, "my lord, i beg your lordship's pardon; i really forgot where i was." had thurlow bowed a grave acceptance of the apology, arden would have suffered somewhat from the misadventure; but unable to keep his abusive tongue quiet, the 'great bear' growled out, in allusion to the offender's welsh judgeship, "you thought you were in your own court, i presume." more laughable, but not more courteous, was the same chancellor's speech to a solicitor who had made a series of statements in a vain endeavor to convince his lordship of a certain person's death. "really, my lord," at last the solicitor exclaimed, goaded into a fury by thurlow's repeated ejaculations of "that's no proof of the man's death;" "really, my lord, it is very hard, and it is not right that you won't believe me. i saw the man dead in his coffin. my lord, i tell you he was my client, and he is dead." "no wonder," retorted thurlow, with a grunt and a sneer, "_since he was your client_. why did you not tell me that sooner? it would kill me to have such a fellow as you for my attorney." that this great lawyer could thus address a respectable gentleman is less astonishing when it is remembered, that he once horrified a party of aristocratic visitors at a country-house by replying to a lady who pressed him to take some grapes, "grapes, madam, grapes! did not i say a minute ago that i had the _gripes_!" once this ungentle lawyer was fairly worsted in a verbal conflict by an irish pavier. on crossing the threshold of his ormond street house one morning, the chancellor was incensed at seeing a load of paving-stones placed before his door. singling out the tallest of a score of irish workmen who were repairing the thoroughfare, he poured upon him one of those torrents of curses with which his most insolent speeches were usually preluded, and then told the man to move the stones away instantly. "where shall i take them to, your honor?" the pavier inquired. from the chancellor another volley of blasphemous abuse, ending with, "you lousy scoundrel, take them to hell!--do you hear me?" "have a care, your honor," answered the workman, with quiet drollery, "don't you think now that if i took 'em to the other place your honor would be less likely to fall over them?" thurlow's incivility to the solicitor reminds us of the cruel answer given by another great lawyer to a country attorney, who, through fussy anxiety for a client's interests, committed a grave breach of professional etiquette. let this attorney be called mr. smith, and let it be known that mr. smith, having come up to london from a secluded district of a remote country, was present at a consultation of counsellors learned in the law upon his client's cause. at this interview, the leading counsel in the cause, the attorney general of the time, was present and delivered his final opinion with characteristic clearness and precision. the consultation over, the country attorney retreated to the hummums hotel, covent garden, and, instead of sleeping over the statements made at the conference, passed a wretched and wakeful night, harassed by distressing fears, and agitated by a conviction that the attorney general had overlooked the most important point of the case. early next day, mr. smith, without appointment, was at the great counsellor's chambers, and by vehement importunity, as well as a liberal donation to the clerk, succeeded in forcing his way to the advocate's presence. "well, mis-ter smith," observed the attorney general to his visitor, turning away from one of his devilling juniors, who chanced to be closeted with him at the moment of the intrusion, "what may you want to say? be quick, for i am pressed for time." notwithstanding the urgency of his engagements, he spoke with a slowness which, no less than the suspicious rattle of his voice, indicated the fervor of displeasure. "sir causticus witherett, i trust you will excuse my troubling you; but, sir, after our yesterday's interview, i went to my hotel, the hummums, in covent garden, and have spent the evening and all night turning over my client's case in my mind, and the more i turn the matter over in my mind, the more reason i see to fear that you have not given one point due consideration." a pause, during which sir causticus steadily eyed his visitor, who began to feel strangely embarrassed under the searching scrutiny: and then--"state the point, mis-ter smith, but be brief." having heard the point stated, sir causticus witherett inquired, "is that all you wish to say?" "all, sir--all," replied mr. smith; adding nervously, "and i trust you will excuse me for troubling you about the matter; but, sir, i could not sleep a wink last night; all through the night i was turning this matter over in my mind." a glimpse of silence. sir causticus rose and standing over his victim made his final speech--"mis-ter smith, if you take my advice, given with sincere commiseration for your state, you will without delay return to the tranquil village in which you habitually reside. in the quietude of your accustomed scenes you will have leisure to _turn this matter over in what you are pleased to call your mind_. and i am willing to hope that _your mind_ will recover its usual serenity. mr. smith, i wish you a very good morning." legal biography abounds with ghastly stories that illustrate the insensibility with which the hanging judges in past generations used to don the black cap jauntily, and smile at the wretched beings whom they sentenced to death. perhaps of all such anecdotes the most thoroughly sickening is that which describes the conduct of jeffreys, when, as recorder of london, he passed sentence of death on his old and familiar friend, richard langhorn, the catholic barrister--one of the victims of the popish plot phrensy. it is recorded that jeffreys, not content with consigning his friend to a traitor's doom, malignantly reminded him of their former intercourse, and with devilish ridicule admonished him to prepare his soul for the next world. the authority which gives us this story adds, that by thus insulting a wretched gentleman and personal associate, jeffreys, instead of rousing the disgust of his auditors, elicited their enthusiastic applause. in a note to a passage in one of the waverley novels, scott tells a story of an old scotch judge, who, as an enthusiastic chess-player, was much mortified by the success of an ancient friend, who invariably beat him when they tried their powers at the beloved game. after a time the humiliated chess-player had his day of triumph. his conqueror happened to commit murder, and it became the judge's not altogether painful duty to pass upon him the sentence of the law. having in due form and with suitable solemnity commended his soul to the divine mercy, he, after a brief pause, assumed his ordinary colloquial tone of voice, and nodding humorously to his old friend, observed--"and noo, jammie, i think ye'll alloo that i hae checkmated you for ance." of all the bloodthirsty wearers of the ermine, no one, since the opening of the eighteenth century, has fared worse than sir francis page--the virulence of whose tongue and the cruelty of whose nature were marks for successive satirists. in one of his imitations of horace, pope says-- "slanderer, poison dread from delia's rage, hard words or hanging, if your judge be page." in the same spirit the poet penned the lines of the 'dunciad'-- "mortality, by her false guardians drawn, chicane in furs, and casuistry in lawn, gasps, as they straighten at each end the cord, and dies, when dulness gives her----the sword." powerless to feign insensibility to the blow, sir francis openly fitted this _black_ cap to his dishonored head by sending his clerk to expostulate with the poet. the ill-chosen ambassador performed his mission by showing that, in sir francis's opinion, the whole passage would be sheer nonsense, unless 'page' were inserted in the vacant place. johnson and savage took vengeance on the judge for the judicial misconduct which branded the latter poet a murderer; and fielding, in 'tom jones,' illustrating by a current story the offensive levity of the judge's demeanor at capital trials, makes him thus retort on a horse-stealer: "ay! thou art a lucky fellow; i have traveled the circuit these forty years, and never found a horse in my life; but i'll tell thee what, friend, thou wast more lucky than thou didst know of; for thou didst not only find a horse, but a halter too, i promise thee." this scandal to his professional order was permitted to insult the humane sentiments of the nation for a long period. born in , he died in , whilst he was still occupying a judicial place; and it is said of him, that in his last year he pointed the ignominious story of his existence by a speech that soon ran the round of the courts. in answer to an inquiry for his health, the octogenarian judge observed, "my dear sir--you see how it fares with me; i just manage to keep _hanging on, hanging on_." this story is ordinarily told as though the old man did not see the unfavorable significance of his words; but it is probable that, he uttered them wittingly and with, a sneer--in the cynicism and shamelessness of old age. a man of finer stuff and of various merits, but still famous as a 'hanging judge,' was sir francis buller, who also made himself odious to the gentler sex by maintaining that husbands might flog their wives, if the chastisement were administered with a stick not thicker than the operator's thumb. but the severity to criminals, which gave him a place amongst hanging judges, was not a consequence of natural cruelty. inability to devise a satisfactory system of secondary punishments, and a genuine conviction that ninety-nine out of every hundred culprits were incorrigible, caused him to maintain that the gallows-tree was the most efficacious as well as the cheapest instrument that could be invented for protecting society against malefactors. another of his stern _dicta_ was, that previous good character was a reason for increasing rather than a reason for lessening a culprit's punishment; "for," he argued, "the longer a prisoner has enjoyed the good opinion of the world, the less are the excuses for his misdeeds, and the more injurious is his conduct to public morality." in contrast to these odious stories of hanging judges are some anecdotes of great men, who abhorred the atrocities of our penal system, long before the worst of them were swept away by reform. lord mansfield has never been credited with lively sensibilities, but his humanity was so shocked by the bare thought of killing a man for committing a trifling theft, that he on one occasion ordered a jury to find that a stolen trinket was of less value than forty shillings--in order that the thief might escape the capital sentence. the prosecutor, a dealer in jewelry, was so mortified by the judge's leniency, that he exclaimed, "what, my lord, my golden trinket not worth forty shillings? why, the fashion alone cost me twice the money!" removing his glance from the vindictive tradesman, lord mansfield turned towards the jury, and said, with solemn gravity, "as we stand in need of god's mercy, gentlemen, let us not hang a man for fashion's sake." tenderness of heart was even less notable in kenyon than in murray; but lord mansfield's successor was at least on one occasion stirred by apathetic consequence of the bloody law against persons found guilty of trivial theft. on the home circuit, having passed sentence of death on a poor woman who had stolen property to the value of forty shillings in a dwelling-house, lord kenyon saw the prisoner drop lifeless in the dock, just as he ceased to speak. instantly the chief justice sprang to his feet, and screamed in a shrill tone, "i don't mean to hang you--do you hear!--don't you hear?--good----will nobody tell her that i don't mean to hang her?" one of the humorous aspects of a repulsive subject is seen in the curiosity and fastidiousness of prisoners on trial for capital offences with regard to the professional _status_ of the judges who try them. a sheep-stealer of the old bloody days liked that sentence should be passed upon him by a chief justice; and in our own time murderers awaiting execution, sometimes grumble at the unfairness of their trials, because they have been tried by judges of inferior degree. lord campbell mentions the case of a sergeant, who, whilst acting as chief justice abbott's deputy, on the oxford circuit, was reminded that he was 'merely a temporary' by the prisoner in the dock. being asked in the usual way if he had aught to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him, the prisoner answered--"_yes; i have been tried before a journeyman judge._" chapter xl. humorous stories. alike commendable for its subtlety and inoffensive humor was the pleasantry with which young philip yorke (afterwards lord hardwicke), answered sir lyttleton powys's banter on the western circuit. an amiable and upright, but far from brilliant judge, sir lyttleton had a few pet phrases---amongst them, "i humbly conceive," and "look, do you see"--which he sprinkled over his judgments and colloquial talk with ridiculous profuseness. surprised at yorke's sudden rise into lucrative practice, this most gentlemanlike worthy was pleased to account for the unusual success by maintaining that young mr. yorke must have written a law-book, which had brought him early into favor with the inferior branch of the profession. "mr. yorke," said the venerable justice, whilst the barristers were sitting over their wine at a 'judges' dinner,' "i cannot well account for your having so much business, considering how short a time you have been at the bar: i humbly conceive you must have published something; for look you, do you see, there is scarcely a cause in court but you are employed in it on one side or the other. i should therefore be glad to know, mr. yorke, do you see, whether this be the case." playfully denying that he possessed any celebrity as a writer on legal matters, yorke, with an assumption of candor, admitted that he had some thoughts of lightening the labors of law-students by turning coke upon littleton into verse. indeed, he confessed that he had already begun the work of versification. not seeing the nature of the reply, sir lyttleton powys treated the droll fancy as a serious project, and insisted that the author should give a specimen of the style of his contemplated work. whereupon the young barrister--not pausing to remind a company of lawyers of the words of the original. "tenant in fee simple is he which hath lands or tenements to hold to him and his heirs for ever"--recited the lines-- "he that holdeth his lands in fee need neither to quake nor quiver, _i humbly conceive: for look, do you see_ they are his and his heirs' forever." the mimicry of voice being not less perfect than the verbal imitation, yorke's hearers were convulsed with laughter, but so unconscious was sir lyttleton of the ridicule which he had incurred, that on subsequently encountering yorke in london, he asked how "that translation of coke upon littleton was getting on." sir lyttleton died in , and exactly ten years afterwards appeared the first edition of 'the reports of sir edward coke, knt., in verse'--a work which its author may have been inspired to undertake by philip yorke's proposal to versify 'coke on littleton.' had yorke's project been carried out, lawyers would have a large supply of that comic but sound literature of which sir james burrow's reports contain a specimen in the following poetical version of chief justice pratt's memorable decision with regard to a woman of english birth, who was the widow of a foreigner: "a woman having settlement married a man with none, the question was, he being dead, if what she had was gone. "quoth sir john pratt, 'the settlement suspended did remain, living the husband; but him dead it doth revive again.' (_chorus of puisne judges._) "living the husband; but him dead it doth revive again." chief justice pratt's decision on this point having been reversed by his successor, chief justice ryder's judgment was thus reported: "a woman having a settlement, married a man with none, he flies and leaves her destitute; what then is to be done? "quoth ryder, the chief justice, 'in spite of sir john pratt, you'll send her to the parish in which she was a brat. "'_suspension of a settlement_ is not to be maintained; that which she had by birth subsists until another's gained.' (_chorus of puisne judges._) "that which she had by birth subsists until another's gained." in the early months of his married life, whilst playing the part of an oxford don, lord eldon was required to decide in an important action brought by two undergraduates against the cook of university college. the plaintiffs declared that the cook had "sent to their rooms an apple-pie _that could not be eaten_." the defendant pleaded that he had a remarkably fine fillet of veal in the kitchen. having set aside this plea on grounds obvious to the legal mind, and not otherwise then manifest to unlearned laymen, mr. john scott ordered the apple-pie to be brought in court; but the messenger, dispatched to do the judge's bidding, returned with the astounding intelligence that during the progress of the litigation a party of undergraduates had actually devoured the pie--fruit and crust. nothing but the pan was left. judgment: "the charge here is, that the cook has sent up an apple-pie that cannot be eaten. now that cannot be said to have been uneatable which has been eaten; and as this apple-pie has been eaten, it was eatable. let the cook be absolved." but of all the judicial decisions on record, none was delivered with more comical effect than lord loughborough's decision not to hear a cause brought on a wager about a point in the game of 'hazard.' a constant frequenter of brookes's and white's, lord loughborough was well known by men of fashion to be fairly versed in the mysteries of gambling, though no evidence has ever been found in support of the charge that he was an habitual dicer. that he ever lost much by play is improbable; but the scandal-mongers of westminster had some plausible reasons for laughing at the virtuous indignation of the spotless alexander wedderburn, who, whilst sitting at _nisi prius_, exclaimed, "do not swear the jury in this case, but let it be struck out of the paper. i will not try it. the administration of justice is insulted by the proposal that i should try it. to my astonishment i find that the action is brought on a wager as to the mode of playing an illegal, disreputable, and mischievous game called 'hazard;' whether, allowing seven to be the main, and eleven to be a nick to seven, there are more ways than six of nicking seven on the dice? courts of justice are constituted to try rights and redress injuries, not to solve the problems of the gamesters. the gentlemen of the jury and i may have heard of 'hazard' as a mode of dicing by which sharpers live, and young men of family and fortune are ruined; but what do any of us know of 'seven being the main,' or 'eleven being the nick to seven?' do we come here to be instructed in this lore, and are the unusual crowds (drawn hither, i suppose, by the novelty of the expected entertainment) to take a lesson with us in these unholy mysteries, which they are to practice in the evening in the low gaming-houses in st. james street, pithily called by a name which should inspire a salutary terror of entering them? again, i say, let the cause be struck out of the paper. move the court, if you please, that it may be restored, and if my brethren think that i do wrong in the course that i now take, i hope that one of them will officiate for me here, and save me from the degradation of trying 'whether there be more than six ways of nicking seven on the dice, allowing seven to be the main and eleven to be a nick to seven'--a question, after all, admitting of no doubt, and capable of mathematical demonstration." with equal fervor lord kenyon inveighed against the pernicious usage of gambling, urging that the hells of st. james's should, be indicted as common nuisances. the 'legal monk,' as lord carlisle stigmatized him for his violent denunciations of an amusement countenanced by women of the highest fashion, even went so far as to exclaim--"if any such prosecutions are fairly brought before me, and the guilty parties are convicted, whatever may be their rank or station in the country, though they may be the first ladies in the land, they shall certainly exhibit themselves in the pillory." the same considerations, which decided lord loughborough not to try an action brought by a wager concerning chicken-hazard, made lord ellenborough decline to hear a cause where the plaintiff sought to recover money wagered on a cock-fight. "there is likewise," said lord ellenborough, "another principle on which i think an action on such wagers cannot be maintained. they tend to the degradation of courts of justice. it is impossible to be engaged in ludicrous inquiries of this sort consistently with that dignity which it is essential to the public welfare that a court of justice should always preserve. i will not try the plaintiff's right to recover the four guineas, which might involve questions on the weight of the cocks and the construction of their steel spurs." it has already been remarked that in all ages the wits of westminster hall have delighted in puns; and it may be here added, with the exception of some twenty happy verbal freaks, the puns of lawyers have not been remarkable for their excellence. l'estrange records that when a stone was hurled by a convict from the dock at charles i.'s chief justice richardson, and passed just over the head of the judge, who happened to be sitting at ease and lolling on his elbow, the learned man smiled, and observed to those who congratulated him on his escape, "you see now, if i had been an _upright judge_ i had been slaine." under george iii. joseph jekyll[ ] was at the same time the brightest wit and most shameless punster of westminster hall; and such pride did he take in his reputation as a punster, that after the fashion of the wits of an earlier period he was often at considerable pains to give a pun a well-wrought epigrammatic setting. bored with the long-winded speech of a prosy sergeant, he wrote on a slip of paper, which was in due course passed along the barristers' benches in the court where he was sitting-- "the sergeants are a grateful race, their dress and language show it; their purple garments come from _tyre_, their arguments go to it." when garrow, by a more skilful than successful cross-examination, was endeavoring to lure a witness (an unmarried lady of advanced years) into an acknowledgment that payment of certain money in dispute had been tendered, jekyll threw him this couplet-- "garrow, forbear; that tough old jade will never prove a _tender maid_." so also, when lord eldon and sir arthur pigott each made a stand in court for his favorite pronunciation of the word 'lien;' lord eldon calling the word _lion_ and sir arthur maintaining that it was to be pronounced like _lean_, jekyll, with an allusion to the parsimonious arrangements of the chancellor's kitchen, perpetrated the _jeu d'esprit_-- "sir arthur, sir arthur, why what do you mean by saying the chancellor's _lion_ is _lean_? d'ye think that his kitchen's so bad as all that, that nothing within it can ever get fat?" by this difference concerning the pronunciation of a word the present writer is reminded of an amicable contest that occurred in westminster hall between lord campbell and a q.c. who is still in the front rank of court-advocates. in an action brought to recover for damages done to a carriage, the learned counsel repeatedly called, the vehicle in question a broug-ham, pronouncing both syllables of the word _brougham_. whereupon, lord campbell with considerable pomposity observed, "_broom_ is the more usual pronunciation; a carriage of the kind you mean is generally and not incorrectly called a _broom_--that pronunciation is open to no grave objection, and it has the great advantage of saving the time consumed by uttering an extra syllable." half an hour later in the same trial lord campbell, alluding to a decision given in a similar action, said, "in that case the carriage which had sustained injury was an _omnibus_----" "pardon me, my lord," interposed the queen's counsel, with such promptitude that his lordship was startled into silence, "a carriage of the kind, to which you draw attention is usually termed 'bus;' that pronunciation is open to no grave objection, and it has the great advantage of saving the time consumed by uttering two extra syllables." the interruption was followed by a roar of laughter, in which lord campbell joined more heartily than any one else. one of jekyll's happy sayings was spoken at exeter, when he defended several needlemen who were charged with raising a riot for the purpose of forcing the master-tailors to give higher wages. whilst jekyll was examining a witness as to the number of tailors present at the alleged riot, lord eldon--then chief justice of the common pleas--reminded him that three persons can make that which the law regards as a riot; whereupon the witty advocate answered, "yes, my lord, hale and hawkins lay down the law as your lordship states it, and i rely on their authority; for if there must be three men to make a riot, the rioters being _tailors_, there must be nine times three present, and unless the prosecutor make out that there were twenty-seven joining in this breach of the peace, my clients are entitled to an acquittal." on lord eldon enquiring whether he relied on common-law or statute-law, the counsel for the defence answered firmly, "my lord, i rely on a well-known maxim, as old as magna charta, _nine tailors make a man_." finding themselves unable to reward a lawyer for so excellent a jest with an adverse verdict, the jury acquitted the prisoners. towards the close of his career eldon made a still better jest than this of jekyll's concerning tailors. in , when lyndhurst was occupying the woolsack for the first time, and eldon was longing to recover the seals, the latter presented a petition from the tailors' company at glasgow against catholic belief. "what!" asked lord lyndhurst from the woolsack, in a low voice, "do the _tailors_ trouble themselves about such _measures_?" whereto, with unaccustomed quickness, the old tory of the tories retorted, "no wonder; you can't suppose that _tailors_ like _turncoats_." as specimens of a kind of pleasantry becoming more scarce every year, some of sir george rose's court witticisms are excellent. when mr. beams, the reporter, defended himself against the _friction_ of passing barristers by a wooden bar, the flimsiness of which was pointed out to sir george (then mr. rose), the wit answered-- "yes--the partition is certainly thin-- yet thick enough, truly, the beams within." the same originator of happy sayings pointed to eldon's characteristic weakness in the lines-- "mr. leach made a speech, pithy, clear, and strong; mr. hart, on the other part, was prosy, dull, and long; mr. parker made that darker which was dark enough without; mr. bell spoke so well, that the chancellor said--'i doubt.'" far from being offended by this allusion to his notorious mental infirmity, lord eldon, shortly after the verses had floated into circulation, concluded one of his decisions by saying, with a significant smile, "and here _the chancellor does not doubt_." not less remarkable for precipitancy than eldon for procrastination, sir john leach, vice-chancellor, was said to have done more mischief by excessive haste in a single term than eldon in his whole life wrought through extreme caution. the holders of this opinion delighted to repeat the poor and not perspicuous lines-- "in equity's high court there are two sad extremes, 'tis clear; excessive slowness strikes us there, excessive quickness here. "their source, 'twixt good and evil, brings a difficulty nice; the first from eldon's _virtue_, springs, the latter from his _vice_." it is needless to remark that this attempt to gloss the chancellor's shortcomings is an illustration of the readiness with which censors apologize for the misdeeds of eminently fortunate offenders. whilst eldon's procrastination and leach's haste were thus put in contrast, an epigram also placed the chancellor's frailty in comparison with the tedious prolixity of the master of the rolls-- "to cause delay in lincoln's inn two diff'rent methods tend: his lordship's judgments ne'er begin, his honors never end." a mirth-loving judge, justice powell, could be as thoroughly humorous in private life as he was fearless and just upon the bench. swift describes him as a surpassingly merry old gentleman, laughing heartily at all comic things, and his own droll stories more than aught else. in court he could not always refrain from jocularity. for instance, when he tried jane wenham for witch-craft, and she assured him that she could fly, his eye twinkled as he answered, "well, then you may; there is no law against flying." when fowler, bishop of gloucester--a thorough believer in what is now-a-days called spiritualism--was persecuting his acquaintance with silly stories about ghosts, powell gave him a telling reproof for his credulity by describing a horrible apparition which was represented as having disturbed the narrator's rest on the previous night. at the hour of midnight, as the clocks were striking twelve, the judge was roused from his first slumber by a hideous sound. starting up, he saw at the foot of his uncompanioned bed a figure--dark, gloomy, terrible, holding before its grim and repulsive visage a lamp that shed an uncertain light. "may heaven have mercy on us!" tremulously ejaculated the bishop at this point of the story. the judge continued his story: "be calm, my lord bishop; be calm. the awful part of this mysterious interview has still to be told. nerving myself to fashion the words of inquiry, i addressed the nocturnal visitor thus--'strange being, why hast thou come at this still hour to perturb a sinful mortal?' you understand, my lord, i said this in hollow tones--in what i may almost term a sepulchral voice." "ay--ay," responded the bishop, with intense excitement; "go on--i implore you to go on. what did _it_ answer?" "it answered in a voice not greatly different from the voice of a human creature--'please, sir, _i am the watchman on beat, and your street-door is open_.'" readers will remember the use which barham has made of this story in the ingoldsby legends. as a justice of the king's bench, powell had in chief justice holt an associate who could not only appreciate the wit of others, but could himself say smart things. when lacy, the fanatic, forced his way into holt's house in bedford row, the chief justice was equal to the occasion. "i come to you," said lacy, "a prophet from the lord god, who has sent me to thee and would have thee grant a _nolle prosequi_ for john atkins, his servant, whom thou hast sent to prison." whereto the judge answered, with proper emphasis, "thou art a false prophet and a lying knave. if the lord god had sent thee, it would have been to the attorney general, for the lord god knows that it belongeth not to the chief justice, to grant a _nolle prosequi_; but i, as chief justice, can grant a warrant to commit thee to john atkins's company." whereupon the false prophet, sharing the fate of many a true one, was forthwith clapped in prison. now that so much has been said of thurlow's brutal sarcasms, justice demands for his memory an acknowledgment that he possessed a vein of genuine humor that could make itself felt without wounding. in his undergraduate days at cambridge he is said to have worried the tutors of caius with a series of disorderly pranks and impudent _escapades_, but on one occasion he unquestionably displayed at the university the quick wit that in after life rescued him from many an embarrassing position. "sir," observed a tutor, giving the unruly undergraduate a look of disapproval, "i never come to the window without seeing you idling in the court." "sir," replied young thurlow, imitating the don's tone, "i never come into the court without seeing you idling at the window." years later, when he had become a great man, and john scott was paying him assiduous court, thurlow said, in ridicule of the mechanical awkwardness of many successful equity draughtsmen, "jack scott, don't you think we could invent a machine to draw bills and answers in chancery?" having laughed at the suggestion when it was made, scott put away the droll thought in his memory; and when he had risen to be attorney general reminded lord thurlow of it under rather awkward circumstances. macnamara, the conveyancer, being concerned as one of the principals in a chancery suit, lord thurlow advised him to submit the answer to the bill filed against him to the attorney general. in due course the answer came under scott's notice, when he found it so wretchedly drawn, that he advised macnamara to have another answer drawn by some one who understood pleading. on the same day he was engaged at the bar of the house of lords, when lord thurlow came to him, and said, "so i understand you don't think my friend mac's answer will do?" "do!" scott replied, contemptuously. "my lord, it won't do at all! it must have been drawn by that wooden machine which you once told me might be invented to draw bills and answers." "that's very unlucky," answered thurlow, "and impudent too, if you had known--_that i drew the answer myself_." lord lyndhurst used to maintain that it was one of the chief duties of a judge to render it disagreeable to counsel to talk nonsense. jeffreys in his milder moments no doubt salved his conscience with the same doctrine, when he recalled how, after elating him with a compliment, he struck down the rising junior with "lord, sir! you must be cackling too. we told you, mr. bradbury, your objection was very ingenious; that must not make you troublesome: you cannot lay an egg, but you must be cackling over it." doubtless, also, he felt it one of the chief duties of a judge to restrain attorneys from talking nonsense when--on hearing that the solicitor from whom he received his first brief had boastfully remarked, in allusion to past services, "my lord chancellor! i _made_ him!"--he exclaimed, "well, then, i'll lay my maker by the heels," and forthwith committed his former client and patron to the fleet prison. if this bully of the bench actually, as he is said to have done, interrupted the venerable maynard by saying, "you have lost your knowledge of law; your memory, i tell you, is failing through old age," how must every hearer of the speech have exulted when maynard quietly answered, "yes, sir george, i have forgotten more law than you ever learned; but allow me to say, i have not forgotten much." on the other hand it should be remembered that maynard was a man eminently qualified to sow violent animosities, and that he was a perpetual thorn in the flesh of the political barristers, whose principles he abhorred. a subtle and tricky man, he was constantly misleading judges by citing fictitious authorities, and then smiling at their professional ignorance when they had swallowed his audacious fabrications. moreover, the manner of his speech was sometimes as offensive as its substance was dishonest. strafford spoke a bitter criticism not only with regard to maynard and glyn, but with regard to the prevailing tone of the bar, when, describing the conduct of the advocates who managed his prosecution, he said: "glynne and maynard used me _like advocates_, but palmer and whitelock _like gentlemen_; and yet the latter left out nothing against me that was material to be urged against me." as a devonshire man maynard is one of the many cases which may be cited against the smart saying of sergeant davy, who used to observe: "the further i journey toward the west, the more convinced i am that the wise men come from the east." but shrewd, observant, liberal though he was in most respects, he was on one matter so far behind the spirit of the age that, blinded and ruled by an unwise sentiment, he gave his parliamentary support to an abortive measure "to prevent further building in london and the neighborhood." in support of this measure he observed, "this building is the ruin of the gentry and ruin of religion, as leaving many good people without churches to go to. this enlarging of london makes it filled with lacqueys and pages. in st. giles's parish scarce the fifth part come to church, and we shall have no religion at last." whilst justice has suffered something in respect of dignity from the overbearing temper of judges to counsel, from collisions of the bench with the bar, and from the mutual hostility of rival advocates, she has at times sustained even greater injury from the jealousies and altercations of judges. too often wearers of the ermine, sitting on the same bench, nominally for the purpose of assisting each other, have roused the laughter of the bar, and the indignation of suitors, by their petty squabbles. "it now comes to my turn," an irish judge observed, when it devolved on him to support the decision of one or the other of two learned coadjutors, who had stated with more fervor than courtesy altogether irreconcilable opinions--"it now comes to my turn to declare my view of the case, and fortunately i can be brief. i agree with my brother a, from the irresistible force of my brother b's arguments." extravagant as this case may appear, the king's bench of westminster hall, under mansfield and kenyon, witnessed several not less scandalous and comical differences. taking thorough pleasure in his work, lord mansfield was not less industrious than impartial in the discharge of his judicial functions; so long as there was anything for him to learn with regard to a cause, he not only sought for it with pains but with a manifest pleasure similar to that delight in judicial work which caused the french advocate, cottu, to say of mr. justice bayley: "il s'amuse à juger:" but notwithstanding these good qualities, he was often culpably deficient in respect for the opinions of his subordinate coadjutors. at times a vain desire to impress on the minds of spectators that his intellect was the paramount power of the bench; at other times a personal dislike to one of his _puisnes_ caused him to derogate from the dignity of his court, in cases where he was especially careful to protect the interests of suitors. with silence more disdainful than any words could have been, he used to turn away from mr. justice willes, at the moment when the latter expected his chief to ask his opinion; and on such occasions the indignant _puisne_ seldom had the prudence and nerve to conceal his mortification. "i have not been consulted, and i will be heard!" he once shrieked forth in a paroxysm of rage caused by mansfield's contemptuous treatment; and forty years afterwards jeremy bentham, who was a witness of the insult and its effect, observed: "at this distance of time--five-and-thirty or forty years--the feminine scream issuing out of his manly frame still tingles in my ears." mansfield's overbearing demeanor to his _puisnes_ was reproduced with less dignity by his successor; but buller, the judge who wore ermine whilst he was still in his thirty-third year, and who confessed that his "idea of heaven was to sit at nisi prius all day, and to play whist all night," seized the first opportunity to give taffy kenyon a lesson in good manners by stating, with impressive self-possession and convincing logic, the reasons which induced him to think the judgment delivered by his chief to be altogether bad in law and argument. [ ] one of jekyll's best displays of brilliant impudence was perpetrated on a welsh judge, who was alike notorious for his greed of office and his want of personal cleanliness. "my dear sir," jekyll observed in his most amiable manner to this most unamiable personage, "you have asked the minister for almost everything else, why _don't_ you ask him for a piece of soap and a nail-brush?" chapter xli. wits in 'silk' and punsters in 'ermine.' whilst lord camden held the chiefship of the common pleas, he was walking with his friend lord dacre on the outskirts of an essex village, when they passed the parish stocks. "i wonder," said the chief justice, "whether a man in the stocks endures a punishment that is physically painful? i am inclined to think that, apart from the sense of humiliation and other mental anguish, the prisoner suffers nothing, unless the populace express their satisfaction at his fate by pelting him with brick-bats." "suppose you settle your doubts by putting your feet into the holes," rejoined lord dacre, carelessly. in a trice the chief justice was sitting on the ground with his feet some fifteen inches above the level of his seat, and his ankles encircled by hard wood. "now, dacre!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically, "fasten the bolts, and leave me for ten minutes." like a courteous host lord dacre complied with the whim of his guest, and having placed it beyond his power to liberate himself bade him 'farewell' for ten minutes. intending to saunter along the lane and return at the expiration of the stated period, lord dacre moved away, and falling into one of his customary fits of reverie, soon forgot all about the stocks, his friend's freak, and his friend. in the meantime the chief justice went through every torture of an agonizing punishment--acute shootings along the confined limbs, aching in the feet, angry pulsations under the toes, violent cramps in the muscles and thighs, gnawing pain at the point where his person came in immediate contact with the cold ground, pins-and-needles everywhere. amongst the various forms of his physical discomfort, faintness, fever, giddiness, and raging thirst may be mentioned. he implored a peasant to liberate him, and the fellow answered with a shout of derision; he hailed a passing clergyman, and explained that he was not a culprit, but lord camden, chief justice of the common pleas, and one of lord dacre's guests. "ah!" observed the man of cloth, not so much answering the wretched culprit as passing judgment on his case, "mad with liquor. yes, drunkenness is sadly on the increase; 'tis droll, though, for a drunkard in the stocks to imagine himself a chief justice!" and on he passed. a farmer's wife jogged by on her pillion, and hearing the wretched man exclaim that he should die of thirst, the good creature gave him a juicy apple, and hoped that his punishment would prove for the good of his soul. not ten minutes, but ten hours did the chief justice sit in the stocks, and when at length he was carried into lord dacre's house, he was in no humor to laugh at his own miserable plight. not long afterwards he presided at a trial in which a workman brought an action against a magistrate who had wrongfully placed him in the stocks. the counsel for the defence happening to laugh at the statement of the plaintiff, who maintained that he had suffered intense pain during his confinement, lord camden leaned forwards and inquired in a whisper, "brother were you ever in the stocks?" "never, my lord," answered the advocate, with a look of lively astonishment "i have been," was the whispered reply; "and let me assure you that the agony inflicted by the stocks is--_awful_!" of a different sort, but scarcely less intense, was the pain endured by lord mansfield whenever a barrister pronounced a latin word with a false quantity. "my lords," said the scotch advocate, crosby, at the bar of the house of lords, "i have the honor to appear before your lordships as counsel for the curators." "ugh!" groaned the westminster oxford law-lord, softening his reproof by an allusion to his scotch nationality, "curators, mr. crosby, curators: i wish _our_ countrymen would pay a little more attention to prosody." "my lord," replied mr. crosby, with delightful readiness and composure, "i can assure you that _our_ countrymen are very proud of your lordship as the greatest senator and orator of the present age." the barrister who made baron alderson shudder under his robes by applying for a 'nolle prosequi,' was not equally quick at self-defence, when that judge interposed, "stop, sir--consider that this is the last day of term, and don't make things unnecessarily long." it was baron alderson who, in reply to the juryman's confession that he was deaf in one ear, observed, "then leave the box before the trial begins; for it is necessary that jurymen should _hear both sides_." amongst legal wits, lord ellenborough enjoys a high place; and though in dealing out satire upon barristers and witnesses, and even on his judicial coadjutors, he was often needlessly severe, he seldom perpetrated a jest the force of which lay solely in its cruelty. perhaps the most harsh and reprehensible outburst of satiric humor recorded of him is the crushing speech by which he ruined a young man for life. "the _unfortunate_ client for whom it is my privilege to appear," said a young barrister, making his first essay in westminster hall--"the unfortunate client, my lord, for whom i appear--hem! hem!--i say, my lord, my _unfortunate client_----" leaning forwards, and speaking in a soft, cooing voice, that was all the more derisive, because it was so gentle, lord ellenborough said, "you may go on, sir--so far the court is with you." one would have liked his lordship better had he sacrificed his jest to humanity, and acted as long afterwards that true gentleman, mr. justice talfourd, acted, who, seeing a young barrister overpowered with nervousness, gave him time to recover himself by saying, in the kindest possible manner, "excuse me for interrupting you--but for a minute i am not at liberty to pay you attention." whereupon the judge took up his pen and wrote a short note to a friend. before the note was finished, the young barrister had completely recovered his self-possession, and by an admirable speech secured a verdict for his client. a highly nervous man, he might on that day have been broken for life, like ellenborough's victim, by mockery; but fortunate in appearing before a judge whose witty tongue knew not how to fashion unkind words, he triumphed over his temporary weakness, and has since achieved well deserved success in his profession. talfourd might have made a jest for the thoughtless to laugh at; but he preferred to do an act, on which those who loved him like to think. when preston, the great conveyancer, gravely informed the judges of the king's bench that "an estate in fee simple was the highest estate known to the law of england," lord ellenborough checked the great chancery lawyer, and said with politest irony, "stay, stay, mr. preston, let me take that down. an estate" (the judge writing as he spoke) "in fee simple is--the highest estate--known to--the law of england. thank you, mr. preston! the court, sir, is much indebted to you for the information." having inflicted on the court an unspeakably dreary oration, preston, towards the close of the day, asked when it would be their lordship's pleasure to hear the remainder of his argument; whereupon lord ellenborough uttered a sigh of resignation, and answered, 'we are bound to hear you, and we will endeavor to give you our undivided attention on friday next; but as for _pleasure_, that, sir, has been long out of the question.' probably mistelling an old story, and taking to himself the merit of lord ellenborough's reply to preston, sir vicary gibbs (chief of the common pleas) used to tell his friends that sergeant vaughan--the sergeant who, on being subsequently raised to the bench through the influence of his elder brother, sir henry halford, the court physician, was humorously described by the wits of westminster hall as a judge _by prescription_--once observed in a grandiose address to the judges of the common pleas, "for though our law takes cognizance of divers different estates, i may be permitted to say, without reserve or qualification of any kind, that the highest estate known to the law of england is an estate in fee simple." whereupon sir vicary, according to his own account, interrupted the sergeant with an air of incredulity and astonishment. "what is your proposition, brother vaughan? perhaps i did not hear you rightly!" flustered by the interruption, which completely effected its object, the sergeant explained, "my lord, i mean to contend that an estate in fee simple is _one of the highest estates_ known to the law of england, that is, my lord, that it may be under certain circumstances--and sometimes is so." notwithstanding his high reputation for wit, lord ellenborough would deign to use the oldest jests. thus of mr. caldecott, who over and over again, with dull verbosity, had said that certain limestone quarries, like lead and copper mines, "were not rateable, because the limestone could only be reached by boring, which was matter of science," he gravely inquired, "would you, mr. caldecott, have us believe that every kind of _boring_ is matter of science?" with finer humor he nipped in the bud one of randle jackson's flowery harangues. "my lords," said the orator, with nervous intonation, "in the book of nature it is written----" "be kind enough, mr. jackson," interposed lord ellenborough, "to mention the page from which you are about to quote." this calls to mind the ridicule which, at an earlier period of his career, he cast on sheridan for saying at the trial of warren hastings, "the treasures in the zenana of the begum are offerings laid by the hand of piety on the altar of a saint." to this not too rhetorical statement, edward law, as leading counsel for warren hastings, replied by asking, "how the lady was to be considered a saint, and how the camels were to be laid upon the altar?" with greater pungency, sheridan defended himself by saying, "this is the first time in my life that i ever heard of special pleading on a metaphor, or a bill of indictment against a trope; but such is the turn of the learned gentleman's mind, that when he attempts to be humorous no jest can be found, and when serious no fact is visible."[ ] to the last law delighted to point the absurdities of orators who in aiming at the sublime only achieved the ridiculous. "my lords," said mr. gaselee, arguing that mourning coaches at a funeral were not liable to post-horse duty, "it never could have been the intention of a christian legislature to aggravate the grief which mourners endure whilst following to the grave the remains of their dearest relatives, by compelling them at the same time to pay the horse-duty." had mr. gaselee been a humorist, lord ellenborough would have laughed; but as the advocate was well known to have no turn for raillery, the chief justice gravely observed, "mr. gaselee, you incur danger by sailing in high sentimental latitudes." to the surgeon in the witness-box who said, "i employ myself as a surgeon," lord ellenborough retorted, "but does anybody else employ you as a surgeon?" the demand to be examined _on affirmation_ being preferred by a quaker witness, whose dress was so much like the costume of an ordinary _conformist_ that the officer of the court had begun to administer the usual oath, lord ellenborough inquired of the 'friend,' "do you really mean to impose upon the court by appearing here in the disguise of a reasonable being?" very pungent was his ejaculation at a cabinet dinner when he heard that lord kenyon was about to close his penurious old age by dying. "die!--why should he die?--what would he get by that?" interposed lord ellenborough, adding to the pile of jests by which men have endeavored to keep a grim, unpleasant subject out of sight--a pile to which the latest _mot_ was added the other day by lord palmerston, who during his last attack of gout exclaimed playfully. "_die_, my dear doctor! that's the _last_ thing i think of doing." having jested about kenyon's parsimony, as the old man lay _in extremis_, ellenborough placed another joke of the same kind upon his coffin. hearing that through the blunder of an illiterate undertaker the motto on kenyon's hatchment in lincoln's inn fields had been painted '_mors janua vita_,' instead of 'mors janua vitæ,' he exclaimed, "bless you, there's no mistake; kenyon's will directed that it should be 'vita,' so that his estate might be saved the expense of _a diphthong._" capital also was his reply when erskine urged him to accept the great seal. "how can you," he asked, in a tone of solemn entreaty, "wish me to accept the office of chancellor, when you know, erskine, that i am as ignorant of its duties as you are yourself?" at the time of uttering these words, ellenborough was well aware that if he declined them erskine would take the seals. some of his puns were very poor. for instance, his exclamation, "cite to me the decisions of the judges of the land: not the judgments of the chief justice of ely, who is fit only to _rule_ a copybook." one of the best 'legal' puns on record is unanimously attributed by the gossipers of westminster hall to lord chelmsford. as sir frederick thesiger he was engaged in the conduct of a cause, and objected to the irregularity of a learned sergeant who in examining his witnesses repeatedly put leading questions. "i have a right," maintained the sergeant, doggedly, "to _deal_ with my witnesses as i please." "to that i offer no objection," retorted sir frederick; "you may _deal_ as you like, but you shan't _lead_." of the same brilliant conversationalist mr. grantley berkeley has recorded a good story in 'my life and recollections.' walking down st. james's street, lord chelmsford was accosted by a stranger, who exclaimed "mr. birch i believe?" "if you believe that, sir, you'll believe anything," replied the ex-chancellor, as he passed on. when thelwall, instead of regarding his advocate with grateful silence, insisted on interrupting him with vexatious remarks and impertinent criticisms, erskine neither threw up his brief nor lost his temper, but retorted with an innocent flash of merriment. to a slip of paper on which the prisoner had written, "i'll be hanged if i don't plead my own cause," he contented himself with returning answer, "you'll be hanged if you do." his _mots_ were often excellent, but it was the tone and joyous animation of the speaker that gave them their charm. it is said that in his later years, when his habitual loquaciousness occasionally sank into garrulity, he used to repeat his jests with imprudent frequency, shamelessly giving his companions the same pun with each course of a long dinner. there is a story that after his retirement from public life he used morning after morning to waylay visitors on their road through the garden to his house, and, pointing to his horticultural attire and the spade in his hand assure them that he was 'enjoying his otium cum _digging a tatie_.' indeed the tradition lives that before his fall from the woolsack, pert juniors used to lay bets as to the number of times he could fire off a favorite old pun in the course of a sitting in the court of chancery, and that wily leaders habitually strove to catch his favor by giving him opportunities for facetious interruptions during their arguments. if such traditions be truthful, it is no matter for surprise that erskine's court-jokes have come down to us with so many variations. for instance, it is recorded with much circumstantiality that on circuit, accosting a junior who had lost his portmanteau from the back of a post-chaise, he said, with mock gravity, "young gentlemen, henceforth imitate the elephant, the wisest of animals, who always _carries his trunk before him_;" and on equally good authority it is stated that when polito, the keeper of the exeter 'change menagerie, met with a similar accident and brought an action for damages against the proprietor of the coach from the hind-boot of which his property had disappeared, erskine, speaking for the defence, told the jury that they would not be justified in giving a verdict favorable to the man, who, though he actually possessed an elephant, had neglected to imitate its prudent example and carry his trunk before him. as a _littérateur_ erskine met with meagre success; but some of his squibs and epigrams are greatly above the ordinary level of '_vers de société_.' for instance this is his:-- "de quodam rege. "i may not do right, though i ne'er can do wrong; i never can die, though i can not live long; my jowl it is purple, my hand it is fat-- come, riddle my riddle. what is it? _what? what?_" the liveliest illustrations of erskine's proverbial egotism are the squibs of political caricaturists; and from their humorous exaggerations it is difficult to make a correct estimate of the lengths of absurdity to which his intellectual vanity and self-consciousness sometimes carried him. from what is known of his disposition it seems probable that the sarcasms aimed by public writers at his infirmity inclined him to justify their attacks rather than to disprove them by his subsequent demeanor, and that some of his most extravagant outbursts of self-assertion were designed in a spirit of bravado and reckless good-nature to increase the laughter which satirists had raised against him. however this may be, his conduct drew upon him blows that would have ruffled the composure of any less self-complacent or less amiable man. the tory prints habitually spoke of him as counsellor ego whilst he was at the bar; and when it was known that he had accepted the seals, the opposition journals announced that he would enter the house as "baron ego, of eye, in the county of suffolk." another of his nicknames was _lord clackmannan_; and cobbett published the following notice of an harangue made by the fluent advocate in the house of commons:--"mr. erskine delivered a most animated speech in the house of commons on the causes and consequences of the late war, which lasted thirteen hours, eighteen minutes, and a second, by mr. john nichol's stop-watch. mr. erskine closed his speech with a dignified climax: 'i was born free, and, by g-d, i'll remain so!'--[a loud cry of '_hear! hear_' in the gallery, in which were citizens tallien and barrère.] on monday three weeks we shall have the extreme satisfaction of laying before the public a brief analysis of the above speech, our letter-founder having entered into an engagement to furnish a fresh font of i's."[ ] from the days of wriothesley, who may be regarded as the most conspicuous and unquestionable instance of judicial incompetency in the annals of english lawyers, the multitudes have always delighted in stories that illustrate the ignorance and incapacity of men who are presumed to possess, by right of their office, an extraordinary share of knowledge and wisdom. what law-student does not rub his hands as he reads of lord st. john's trouble during term whilst he held the seals, and of the impatience with which he looked forward to the long vacation, when he would not be required to look wise and speak authoritatively about matters concerning which he was totally ignorant. delicious are the stories of francis bacon's clerical successor, who endeavored to get up a _quantum suff_. of chancery law by falling on his knees and asking enlightenment of heaven. gloomily comical are the anecdotes of chief justice fleming, whose most famous and disastrous blunder was his judgment in bates's case. great fun may be gathered from the tales that exemplify the ignorance of law which characterized the military, and also the non-military laymen, who helped to take care of the seals during the civil troubles of the seventeenth century. capital is roger north's picture of bob wright's ludicrous shiftlessness whenever the influence of his powerful relations brought the loquacious, handsome, plausible fellow a piece of business. "he was a comely fellow," says roger north, speaking of the chief justice wright's earlier days, "airy and flourishing both in his habits and way of living; and his relation wren (being a powerful man in those parts) set him in credit with the country; but withal, he was so poor a lawyer that he used to bring such cases as came to him to his friend mr. north, and he wrote the opinion on the paper, and the lawyer copied it, and signed under the case as if it had been his own. it ran so low with him that when mr. north was at london he sent up his cases to him, and had opinions returned by the post; and, in the meantime he put off his clients on pretence of taking the matter into serious consideration." perhaps some readers of this page can point to juniors of the present date whose professional incapacity closely resembles the incompetence of this gay young barrister of charles ii.'s time. laughter again rises at the thought of lord chancellor bathurst and the judicial perplexities and blunders which caused sir charles williams to class him with those who "were cursed and stigmatized by power, and rais'd to be expos'd." much more than an average or altogether desirable amount of amiability has fallen to the reader who can refrain from a malicious smile, when he is informed by reliable history that lord loughborough (no mean lawyer or inefficient judge), gave utterance to so much bad law, as chairman of quarter sessions in canny yorkshire, that when on appeal his decisions were reversed with many polite expressions of _sincere_ regret by the king's bench, all westminster hall laughed in concert at the mistakes of the sagacious chief of the common pleas. but no lawyer, brilliant or dull, has been more widely ridiculed for incompetence than erskine. sir causticus witherett, being asked some years since why a certain chancellor, unjustly accused of intellectual dimness by his political adversaries and by the uninformed public, preferred his seat amongst the barons to his official place on the woolsack, is said to have replied: "the lord chancellor usually takes his seat amongst the peers whenever he can do so with propriety, because he is a highly nervous man, and when he is on the woolsack, he is apt to be frightened at finding himself all alone--_in the dark_." as soon as erskine was mentioned as a likely person to be lord chancellor, rumors began to circulate concerning his total unfitness for the office; and no sooner had he mounted the woolsack than the wits declared him to be alone and in the dark. lord ellenborough's sarcasm was widely repeated, and gave the cue to the advocate's detractors, who had little difficulty in persuading the public that any intelligent law-clerk would make as good a chancellor as thomas erskine. with less discretion than good-humor, erskine gave countenance to the representations of his enemies by ridiculing his own unfitness for the office. during the interval between his appointment and his first appearance as judge in the court of chancery, he made a jocose pretence of 'reading up' for his new duties: and whimsically exaggerating his deficiencies, he represented himself as studying books with which raw students have some degree of familiarity. caught with 'cruise's digest' of the laws relating to real property, open in his hand, he observed to the visitor who had interrupted his studies, "you see, i am taking a little from my _cruise_ daily, without any prospect of coming to the end of it." in the autumn of two gentlemen of the united states having differed in opinion concerning his incompetence in the court of chancery--the one of them maintaining that the greater number of his decrees had been reversed, and the other maintaining that so many of his decisions had not endured reversal--the dispute gave rise to a bet of three dozen of port. with comical bad taste one of the parties to the bet--the one who believed that the chancellor's judgments had been thus frequently upset--wrote to erskine for information on the point. instead of giving the answer which his correspondent desired, erskine informed him in the following terms that he had lost his wine:-- "upper berkley street, nov. , . "sir:--i certainly was appointed chancellor under the administration in which mr. fox was secretary of state, in , and could have been chancellor under no administration in which he had not a post; nor would have accepted without him any office whatsoever. i believe the administration was said, by all the _blockheads_, to be made up of all the _talents_ in the country. "but you have certainly lost your bet on the subject of my decrees. none of them were appealed against, except one, upon a branch of mr. thellusson's will--but it was affirmed without a dissentient voice, on the motion of lord eldon, then and now lord chancellor. if you think i was no lawyer, you may continue to think so. it is plain you are no lawyer yourself; but i wish every man to retain his opinion, though at the cost of three dozen of port. "your humble servant, "erskine. "to save you from spending your money on bets which you are sure to lose, remember that no man can be a great advocate who is no lawyer. the thing is impossible." of the many good stories current about chiefs of the law who are still alive, the present writer, for obvious reasons, abstains from taking notice; but one humorous anecdote concerning a lively judge may with propriety be inserted in these pages, since it fell from his own lips when he was making a speech from the chair at a public dinner. between sixty-five and seventy years from the present time, when sir frederick pollock was a boy at st. paul's school, he drew upon himself the displeasure of dr. roberts, the somewhat irascible head-master of the school, who frankly told sir frederick's father, "sir, you'll live to see that boy of yours hanged." years afterwards, when the boy of whom this dismal prophecy was made had distinguished himself at cambridge and the bar, dr. roberts, meeting sir frederick's mother in society, overwhelmed her with congratulations upon her son's success, and fortunately oblivious of his former misunderstanding with his pupil, concluded his polite speeches by saying--"ah! madam, i always said he'd fill an _elevated_ situation." told by the venerable judge at a recent dinner of 'old paulines,' this story was not less effective than the best of those post-prandial sallies with which william st. julien arabin--the assistant judge of old bailey notoriety--used to convulse his auditors something more than thirty years since. in the 'arabiniana' it is recorded how this judge, in sentencing an unfortunate woman to a long term of transportation, concluded his address with--"you must go out of the country. you have disgraced _even_ your own sex." let this chapter close with a lawyer's testimony to the moral qualities of his brethren. in the garden of clement's inn may still be seen the statue of a negro, supporting a sun-dial, upon which a legal wit inscribed the following lines:-- "in vain, poor sable son of woe, thou seek'st the tender tear; from thee in vain with pangs they flow, for mercy dwells not here. from cannibals thou fled'st in vain; lawyers less quarter give; the _first_ won't eat you till you're _slain_, the _last_ will do't _alive_." unfortunately these lines have been obliterated. [ ] robert dallas--one of edward law's coadjutors in the defence of hastings--gave another 'manager' a more telling blow. indignant with burke for his implacable animosity to hastings, dallas (subsequently chief justice of the common pleas) wrote the stinging lines-- "oft have we wondered that on irish ground no poisonous reptile has e'er yet been found; reveal'd the secret stands of nature's work--she saved her venom to produce her burke." [ ] in the 'anti-jacobin,' canning, in the mock report of an imaginary speech, represented erskine as addressing the 'whig club' thus:--"for his part he should only say that, having been, as he had been, both a soldier and a sailor, if it had been his fortune to have stood in either of these relations to the directory--as _a_ man and a major-general he should not have scrupled to direct his artillery against the national representatives:--as a naval officer he would undoubtedly have undertaken for the removal of the exiled deputies; admitting the exigency, under all its relations, as it appeared to him to exist, and the then circumstances of the times with all their bearings and dependencies, branching out into an infinity of collateral considerations and involving in each a variety of objects, political, physical, and moral; and these, again, under their distinct and separate heads, ramifying into endless subdivisions, which it was foreign to his purpose to consider, mr. erskine concluded by recapitulating, in a strain of agonizing and impressive eloquence, the several more prominent heads of his speech; he had been a soldier and a sailor, and had a son at winchester school--he had been called by special retainers, during the summer, into many different and distant parts of the country--traveling chiefly in post-chaises. he felt himself called upon to declare that his poor faculties were at the service of his country--of the free and enlightened part of it at least. he stood there as a man--he stood in the eye, indeed, in the hand of god--to whom (in the presence of the company and the waiters), he solemnly appealed. he was of noble, perhaps royal, blood--he had a house at hampsted--was convinced of the necessity of a thorough and radical reform. his pamphlets had gone through thirty editions, skipping alternately the odd and even numbers. he loved the constitution, to which he would cling and grapple--and he was clothed with the infirmities of man's nature." chapter xlii. witnesses. in the days when mr. davenport hill, the recorder of birmingham, made a professional reputation for himself in the committee-rooms of the houses of parliament, he had many a sharp tussle with one of those venal witnesses who, during the period of excitement that terminated in the disastrous railway panic, were ready to give scientific evidence on engineering questions, with less regard to truth than to the interests of the persons who paid for their evidence. having by mendacious evidence gravely injured a cause in which mr. hill was interested as counsel, and mr. tite, the eminent architect, and present member for bath, was concerned as a projector, this witness was struck with apoplexy and died--before he could complete the mischief which he had so adroitly begun. under the circumstances, his sudden withdrawal from the world was not an occasion for universal regret. "well, hill, have you heard the news?" inquired mr. tite of the barrister, whom he encountered in middle temple lane on the morning after the engineer's death. "have you heard that ---- died yesterday of apoplexy?" "i can't say," was the rejoinder, "that i shall shed many tears for his loss. he was an arrant scoundrel." "come, come," replied the architect, charitably, "you have always been too hard on that man. he was by no means so bad a fellow as you would make him out. i do verily believe that in the whole course of his life that man never told a lie--_out of the witness-box_." strange to say, this comical testimony to character was quite justified by the fact. this man, who lied in public as a matter of business, was punctiliously honorable in private life. of the simplest method of tampering with witnesses an instance is found in a case which occurred while sir edward coke was chief justice of the king's bench. loitering about westminster hall, one of the parties in an action stumbled upon the witness whose temporary withdrawal from the ways of men he was most anxious to effect. with a perfect perception of the proper use of hospitality, he accosted this witness (a staring, open-mouthed countryman), with suitable professions of friendliness, and carrying him into an adjacent tavern, set him down before a bottle of wine. as soon as the sack had begun to quicken his guest's circulation, the crafty fellow hastened into court with the intelligence that the witness, whom he had left drinking in a room not two hundred yards distant, was in a fit and lying at death's door. the court being asked to wait, the impudent rascal protested that to wait would be useless; and the chief justice, taking his view of the case, proceeded to give judgment without hearing the most important evidence in the cause. in badgering a witness with noisy derision, no barrister of charles ii.'s time could surpass george jeffreys; but on more than one occasion that gentleman, in his most overbearing moments, met with his master in the witness whom he meant to brow-beat. "you fellow in the leathern doublet," he is said to have exclaimed to a countryman whom he was about to cross-examine, "pray, what are you paid for swearing?" "god bless you, sir, and make you an honest man," answered the farmer, looking the barrister full in the face, and speaking with a voice of hearty good-humor; "if you had no more for lying than i have for swearing, you would wear a leather doublet as well as i." sometimes erskine's treatment of witnesses was very jocular, and sometimes very unfair; but his jocoseness was usually so distinct from mere flippant derisiveness, and his unfairness was redeemed by such delicacy of wit and courtesy of manner, that his most malicious _jeux d'esprit_ seldom raised the anger of the witnesses at whom they were aimed. a religious enthusiast objecting to be sworn in the usual manner, but stating that though he would not "kiss the book," he would "hold up his hand" and swear, erskine asked him to give his reason for preferring so eccentric a way to the ordinary mode of giving testimony. "it is written in the book of revelations," answered the man, "that the angel standing on the sea _held up his hand_." "but that does not apply to your case," urged the advocate; "for in the first place, you are no angel; secondly, you cannot tell how the angel would have sworn if he had stood on dry ground, as you do." not shaken by this reply, which cannot be called unfair, and which, notwithstanding its jocoseness, was exactly the answer which the gravest divine would have made to such scruples, the witness persisted in his position; and on being permitted to give evidence in his own peculiar way, he had enough influence with the jury to induce them to give a verdict adverse to erskine's wishes. less fair but more successful was erskine's treatment of the commercial traveller, who appeared in the witness box dressed in the height of fashion, and wearing a starched white necktie folded with the 'brummel fold.' in an instant reading the character of the man, on whom he had never before set eyes, and knowing how necessary it was to put him in a state of extreme agitation and confusion, before touching on the facts concerning which he had come to give evidence, erskine rose, surveyed the coxcomb, and said, with an air of careless amusement, "you were born and bred in manchester, _i perceive_." greatly astonished at this opening remark, the man answered, nervously, that he was "a manchester man--born and bred in manchester." "exactly," observed erskine, in a conversational tone, and as though he were imparting information to a personal friend--"exactly so; i knew it from the absurd tie of your neckcloth." the roars of laughter which followed this rejoinder so completely effected the speaker's purpose that the confounded bagman could not tell his right hand from his left. equally effective was erskine's sharp question, put quickly to the witness, who, in an action for payment of a tailor's bill, swore that a certain dress-coat was badly made--one of the sleeves being longer than the other. "you will," said erskine, slowly, having risen to cross-examine, "swear--that one of the sleeves was--longer--than the other?" _witness._ "i do swear it." _erskine_, quickly, and with a flash of indignation, "then, sir, i am to understand that you positively deny that one of the sleeves was _shorter_ than the other?" startled into a self-contradiction by the suddenness and impetuosity of this thrust, the witness said, "i do deny it." _erskine_, raising his voice as the tumultuous laughter died away, "thank you, sir; i don't want to trouble you with another question." one of erskine's smartest puns referred to a question of evidence. "a case," he observed, in a speech made during his latter years, "being laid before me by my veteran friend, the duke of queensbury--better known as 'old q'--as to whether he could sue a tradesman for breach of contract about the painting of his house; and the evidence being totally insufficient to support the case, i wrote thus: 'i am of opinion that this action will not _lie_ unless the witnesses _do_.'" it is worthy of notice that this witticism was but a revival (with a modification) of a pun attributed to lord chancellor hatton in bacon's 'apophthegmes.' in this country many years have elapsed since duels have taken place betwixt gentlemen of the long robe, or between barristers and witnesses in consequence of words uttered in the heat of forensic strife; but in the last century, and in the opening years of the present, it was no very rare occurrence for a barrister to be called upon for 'satisfaction' by a person whom he had insulted in the course of his professional duty. during george ii.'s reign, young robert henley so mercilessly badgered one zephaniah reeve, whom he had occasion to cross-examine in a trial at bristol, that the infuriated witness--quaker and peace-loving merchant though he was--sent his persecutor a challenge immediately upon leaving court. rather than incur the ridicule of 'going out with a quaker,' and the sin of shooting at a man whom he had actually treated with unjustifiable freedom, henley retreated from an embarrassing position by making a handsome apology; and years afterwards, when he had risen to the woolsack, he entertained his old acquaintance, zephaniah reeve, at a fashionable dinner-party, when he assembled guests were greatly amused by the lord chancellor's account of the commencement of his acquaintance with his quaker friend. between thirty and forty years later thurlow was 'called out' by the duke of hamilton's agent, mr. andrew stewart, whom he had grievously offended by his conduct of the great douglas case. on jan. , - , thurlow and his adversary met in hyde park. on his way to the appointed place, the barrister stopped at a tavern near hyde park corner, and "ate an enormous breakfast," after which preparation for business, he hastened to the field of action. accounts agree in saying that he behaved well upon the ground. long after the bloodless _rencontre_, the scotch agent, not a little proud of his 'affair' with a future lord chancellor, said, "mr. thurlow advanced and stood up to me like an elephant." but the elephant and the mouse parted without hurting each other; the encounter being thus faithfully described in the 'scots' magazine:' "on sunday morning, january , the parties met with swords and pistols, in hyde park, one of them having for his second his brother, colonel s----, and the other having for his mr. l----, member for a city in kent. having discharged pistols, at ten yards' distance, without effect, they drew their swords, but the seconds interposed, and put an end to the affair." one of the best 'northern circuit stories' pinned upon lord eldon relates to a challenge which an indignant suitor is said to have sent to law and john scott. in a trial at york that arose from a horse-race, it was stated in evidence that one of the conditions of the race required that "each horse should be ridden by a gentleman." the race having been run, the holders refused to pay the stakes to the winner on the ground that he was not a gentleman; whereupon the equestrian whose gentility was thus called in question brought an action for the money. after a very humorous inquiry, which terminated in a verdict for the defendants, the plaintiff _was said_ to have challenged the defendants' counsel. messrs. scott and law, for maintaining that he was no gentleman; to which invitation, it also averred, reply was made that the challengees "could not think of fighting one who had been found _no gentleman_ by the solemn verdict of twelve of his countrymen." inquiry, however, has deprived this delicious story of much of its piquancy. eldon had no part in the offence; and law, who was the sole utterer of the obnoxious words, received no invitation to fight. "no message was sent," says a writer, supposed to be lord brougham, in the 'law magazine,' "and no attempt was made to provoke a breach of the peace. it is very possible lord eldon may have said, and lord ellenborough too, that they were not bound to treat one in such a predicament as a gentleman, and hence the story has arisen in the lady's mind. the fact was as well known on the northern circuit as the answer of a witness to a question, whether the party had a right by his circumstances to keep a pack of fox-hounds; 'no more right than i to keep a pack of archbishops.'" curran is said to have received a call, before he left his bed one morning, from a gentleman whom he had cross-examined with needless cruelty and unjustifiable insolence on the previous day. "sir!" said this irate man, presenting himself in curran's bedroom, and rousing the barrister from slumber to a consciousness that he was in a very awkward position, "i am the gintleman whom you insulted yesterday in his majesty's court of justice, in the presence of the whole county, and i am here to thrash you soundly!" thus speaking, the herculean intruder waved a horsewhip over the recumbent lawyer. "you don't mean to strike a man when he is lying down?" inquired curran. "no, bedad; i'll just wait till you've got out of bed and then i'll give it to you sharp and fast." curran's eye twinkled mischievously as he rejoined: "if that's the case, by ---- i'll lie here all day." so tickled was the visitor with this humorous announcement, that he dropped his horsewhip, and dismissing anger with a hearty roar of laughter, asked the counsellor to shake hands with him. in the december of , pepys was present at a trial in guildhall concerning the fraud of a merchant-adventurer, who having insured his vessel for £ when, together with her cargo, she was worth no more than £ , had endeavored to wreck her off the french coast. from pepys's record it appears that this was a novel piece of rascality at that time, and consequently created lively sensation in general society, as well as in legal and commercial coteries. "all the great counsel in the kingdom" were employed in the cause; and though maritime causes then, as now, usually involved much hard swearing, the case was notable for the prodigious amount of perjury which it elicited. for the most part the witnesses were sailors, who, besides swearing with stolid indifference to truth, caused much amusement by the incoherence of their statements and by their free use of nautical expressions, which were quite unintelligible to chief justice (sir robert) hyde. "it was," says pepys, "pleasant to see what mad sort of testimonys the seamen did give, and could not be got to speak in order; and then their terms such as the judge could not understand, and to hear how sillily the counsel and judge would speak as to the terms necessary in the matter, would make one laugh; and above all a frenchman, that was forced to speak in french, and took an english oath he did not understand, and had an interpreter sworn to tell us what he said, which was the best testimony of all." a century later lord mansfield was presiding at a trial consequent upon a collision of two ships at sea, when a common sailor, whilst giving testimony, said, "at the time i was standing abaft the binnacle;" whereupon his lordship, with a proper desire to master the facts of the case, observed, "stay, stay a minute, witness: you say that at the time in question you were _standing abaft the binnacle_; now tell me, where is abaft the binnacle?" this was too much for the gravity of 'the salt,' who immediately before climbing into the witness-box had taken a copious draught of neat rum. removing his eyes from the bench, and turning round upon the crowded court with an expression of intense amusement, he exclaimed at the top of his voice, "he's a pretty fellow for a judge! bless my jolly old eyes!--[the reader may substitute a familiar form of 'imprecation on eye-sight']--you have got a pretty sort of a land-lubber for a judge! he wants me to tell him where _abaft the binnacle is_!" not less amused than the witness, lord mansfield rejoined, "well, my friend, you must fit me for my office by telling me where _abaft the binnacle_ is; you've already shown me the meaning of _half seas over_." with less good-humor the same chief justice revenged himself on dr. brocklesby, who, whilst standing in the witness-box of the court of king's bench, incurred the chief justice's displeasure by referring to their private intercourse. some accounts say that the medical witness merely nodded to the chief justice, as he might have done with propriety had they been taking seats at a convivial table; other accounts, with less appearance of probability, maintain that in a voice audible to the bar, he reminded the chief justice of certain jolly hours which they had spent together during the previous evening. anyhow, lord mansfield was hurt, and showed his resentment in his 'summing-up' by thus addressing the jury: "the next witness is one _r_ocklesby, or _b_rocklesby--_b_rocklesby or _r_ocklesby, i am not sure which; and first, _he swears that he is a physician_." on one occasion lord mansfield covered his retreat from an untenable position with a sparkling pleasantry. an old witness named _elm_ having given his evidence with remarkable clearness, although he was more than eighty years of age, lord mansfield examined him as to his habitual mode of living, and found that he had throughout life been an early riser and a singularly temperate man. "ay," observed the chief justice, in a tone of approval, "i have always found that without temperance and early habits, longevity is never attained." the next witness, the _elder_ brother of this model of temperance, was then called, and he almost surpassed his brother as an intelligent and clear-headed utterer of evidence. "i suppose," observed lord mansfield, "that you also are an early riser." "no, my lord," answered the veteran, stoutly; "i like my bed at all hours, and special-_lie_ i like it of a morning." "ah; but, like your brother, you are a very temperate man?" quickly asked the judge, looking out anxiously for the safety of the more important part of his theory. "my lord," responded this ancient elm, disdaining to plead guilty to a charge of habitual sobriety, "i am a very old man, and my memory is as clear as a bell, but i can't remember the night when i've gone to bed without being more or less drunk." lord mansfield was silent. "ah, my lord," mr. dunning exclaimed, "this old man's case supports a theory upheld by many persons, that habitual intemperance is favorable to longevity." "no, no," replied the chief justice, with a smile, "this old man and his brother merely teach us what every carpenter knows--that elm, whether it be wet or dry, is a very tough wood." another version of this excellent story makes lord mansfield inquire of the elder elm, "then how do you account for your prolonged tenure of existence?" to which question elm is made to respond, more like a lawyer than a simple witness, "i account for it by the terms of the original lease." few stories relating to witnesses are more laughable than that which describes the arithmetical process by which mr. baron perrot arrived at the value of certain conflicting evidence. "gentlemen of the jury," this judge is reported to have said, in summing up the evidence in a trial where the witnesses had sworn with noble tenacity of purpose, "there are fifteen witnesses who swear that the watercourse used to flow in a ditch on the north side of the hedge. on the other hand, gentlemen, there are nine witnesses who swear that the watercourse used to flow on the south side of the hedge. now, gentlemen, if you subtract nine from fifteen, there remain six witnesses wholly uncontradicted; and i recommend you to give your verdict for the party who called those six witnesses." whichever of the half-dozen ways in which it is told be accepted as the right one, the following story exemplifies the difficulty which occasionally arises in courts of justice, when witnesses use provincial terms with which the judge is not familiar. mr. william russell, in past days deputy-surveyor of 'canny newcastle,' and a genuine northumbrian in dialect, brogue, and shrewdness, was giving his evidence at an important trial in the newcastle court-house, when he said--"as i was going along the quay, i saw a hubbleshew coming out of a chare-foot." not aware that on tyne-side the word 'hubbleshew' meant 'a concourse of riotous persons;' that the narrow alleys or lanes of newcastle 'old town' were called by their inhabitants 'chares;' and that the lower end of each alley, where it opened upon quay-side, was termed a 'chare-foot;' the judge, seeing only one part of the puzzle, inquired the meaning of the word 'hubbleshew.' "a crowd of disorderly persons," answered the deputy-surveyor. "and you mean to say," inquired the judge of assize, with a voice and look of surprise, "that you saw a crowd of people come out of a chair-foot?" "i do, my lord," responded the witness. "gentlemen of the jury," said his lordship, turning to the 'twelve good men' in the box, "it must be needless for me to inform you--_that this witness is insane_!" the report of a trial which occurred at newcastle assizes towards the close of the last century gives the following succession of questions and answers:--_barrister._--"what is your name?" _witness._--"adam, sir--adam thompson." _barrister._--"where do you live?" _witness._--"in paradise." _barrister_ (with facetious tone).--"and pray, mr. adam, how long have you dwelt in paradise?" _witness._--"ever since the flood." paradise is the name of a village in the immediate vicinity of newcastle; and 'the flood' referred to by the witness was the inundation (memorable in local annals) of the tyne, which in the year swept away the old tyne bridge. chapter xliii. circuiteers. exposed to some of the discomforts, if not all the dangers,[ ] of travel; required to ride over black and cheerless tracts of moor and heath: now belated in marshy districts, and now exchanging shots with gentlemen of the road; sleeping, as luck favored them, in way-side taverns, country mansions, or the superior hotels of provincial towns--the circuiteers of olden time found their advantage in cultivating social hilarity and establishing an etiquette that encouraged good-fellowship in their itinerant societies. at an early date they are found varying the monotony of cross-country rides with racing-matches and drinking bouts, cock-fights and fox-hunting; and enlivening assize towns and country houses with balls and plays, frolic and song. a prodigious amount of feasting was perpetrated on an ordinary circuit-round of the seventeenth century; and at circuit-messes, judges' dinners, and sheriffs' banquets, saucy juniors were allowed a license of speech to staid leaders and grave dignitaries that was altogether exceptional to the prevailing tone of manners. in the days when chief justice hyde, clarendon's cousin, used to ride the norfolk circuit, old sergeant earl was the leader, or, to use the slang of the period, 'cock of the round'. a keen, close-fisted, tough practitioner, this sergeant used to ride from town to town, chuckling over the knowledge that he was earning more and spending less than any other member of the circuit. one biscuit was all the refreshment which he permitted himself on the road from cambridge to norwich; although he consented to dismount at the end of every ten miles to stretch his limbs. sidling up to sergeant earl, as there was no greater man for him to toady, francis north offered himself as the old man's travelling companion from the university to the manufacturing town; and when earl with a grim smile accepted the courteous suggestion, the young man congratulated himself. on the following morning, however, he had reason to question his good fortune when the sergeant's clerk brought him a cake, and remarked, significantly, "put it in your pocket, sir; you'll want it; for my master won't draw bit till he comes to norwich." it was a hard day's work; but young frank north was rewarded for his civility to the sergeant, who condescended to instruct his apt pupil in the tricks and chicaneries of their profession. "sir," inquired north at the close of the excursion, emboldened by the rich man's affability, "by what system do you keep your accounts, which must be very complex, as you have lands, securities, and great comings-in of all kinds?" "accounts! boy," answered the grey-headed curmudgeon; "i get as much as i can, and i spend as little as i can; that's how i keep my accounts." when north had raised himself to the chiefship of the common pleas he chose the western circuit, "not for the common cause, it being a long circuit, and beneficial for the officers and servants, but because he knew the gentlemen to be loyal and conformable, and that he should have fair quarter amongst them;" and so much favor did he win amongst the loyal and conformable gentry that old bishop mew--the prelate of winchester, popularly known as bishop _patch_, because he always wore a patch of black court-plaster over the scar of a wound which he received on one of his cheeks, whilst fighting as a trooper for charles i.--used to term him the "deliciæ occidentis, or darling of the west." on one occasion this darling of the west was placed in a ludicrous position by the alacrity with which he accepted an invitation from "a busy fanatic," a devonshire gentleman, of good family, and estate, named duke. this "busy fanatic" invited the judges on circuit and their officers to dine and sleep at his mansion on their way to exeter, and subsequently scandalized his guests--all of them of course zealous defenders of the established church--by reading family-prayers before supper. "the gentleman," says the historian, "had not the manners to engage the parish minister to come and officiate with any part of the evening service before supper: but he himself got behind the table in his hall, and read a chapter, and then a long-winded prayer, after the presbyterian way." very displeased were the chief justice and the other judge of assize; and their dissatisfaction was not diminished on the following day when on entering exeter a rumor met them, that "the judges had been at a conventicle, and the grand jury intended to present them and all their retinue for it." not many years elapsed before this darling of the west was replaced, by another chief justice who asserted the power of constituted authorities with an energy that roused more fear than gratitude in the breasts of local magistrates. that grim, ghastly, hideous progress, which jeffreys made in the plenitude of civil and military power through the western counties, was not without its comic interludes; and of its less repulsive scenes none was more laughable than that which occurred in bristol courthouse when the terrible chief justice upbraided the bristol magistrates for taking part in a slave-trade of the most odious sort. the mode in which the authorities of the western port carried on their iniquitous traffic deserves commemoration, for no student can understand the history of any period until he has acquainted himself with its prevailing morality. at a time when by the wealth of her merchants and the political influence of her inhabitants bristol was the second city of england, her mayor and aldermen used daily to sit in judgment on young men and growing boys, who were brought before them and charged with trivial offences. some of the prisoners had actually broken the law: but in a large proportion of the cases the accusations were totally fictitious--the arrests having been made in accordance with the directions of the magistrates, on charges which the magistrates themselves knew to be utterly without foundation. every morning the bristol tolsey or court-house saw a crowd of those wretched captives--clerks out of employment, unruly apprentices, street boys without parents, and occasionally children of honest birth, ay, of patrician lineage, whose prompt removal from their native land was desired by brutal fathers or vindictive guardians; and every morning a mockery of judicial investigation was perpetrated in the name of justice. standing in a crowd the prisoners were informed of the offences charged against them; huddled together in the dock, like cattle in a pen, they caught stray sentences from the lips of the perjured rascals who had seized them in the public ways; and whilst they thus in a frenzy of surprise and fear listened to the statements of counsel for the prosecution, and to the fabrications of lying witnesses, agents of the court whispered to them that if they wished to save their lives they must instantly confess their guilt, and implore the justices to transport them to the plantations. ignorant, alarmed, and powerless, the miserable victims invariably acted on this perfidious counsel; and forthwith the magistrates ordered their shipment to the west indies, where they were sold as slaves--the money paid for them by west india planters in due course finding its way into the pockets of the bristol justices. it is asserted that the wealthier aldermen, through caution, or those few grains of conscience which are often found in the breasts of consummate rogues, forbore to share in the gains of this abominable traffic; but it cannot be gainsaid that the least guilty magistrates winked at the atrocious conduct of their brother-justices. vowing vengeance on the bristol kidnappers jeffreys entered their court-house, and opened proceedings by crying aloud that "he had brought a broom to sweep them with." the mayor of bristol was in those days no common mayor; in assize commissions his name was placed before the names of judges of assize; and even beyond the limits of his jurisdiction he was a man of mark and influence. great therefore was this dignitary's astonishment when jeffreys ordered him--clothed as he was in official scarlet and furs--to stand in the dock. for a few seconds the local potentate demurred; but when the chief justice poured upon him a cataract of blasphemy, and vowed to hang him instantly over the entrance to the tolsey unless he complied immediately, the humiliated chief magistrate of the ancient borough took his place at the felon's bar, and received such a rating as no thief, murderer or rebel had ever heard from george jeffrey's abusive mouth. unfortunately the affair ended with the storm. until the arrival of william of orange the guilty magistrates were kept in fear of criminal prosecution; but the matter was hushed up and covered with amnesty by the new government; so that "the fright only, which was no small one, was all the punishment which these judicial kidnappers underwent; and the gains," says roger north, "acquired by so wicked a trade, rested peacefully in their pockets." it should be remembered that the kidnapping justices whom the odious jeffreys so indignantly denounced were tolerated and courted by their respectable and prosperous neighbors; and some of the worst charges, by which the judge's fame has been rendered odious to posterity, depend upon the evidence of men who, if they were not kidnappers themselves, saw nothing peculiarly atrocious in the conduct of magistrates who systematically sold their fellow-countrymen into a most barbarous slavery. amongst old circuit stories of questionable truthfulness there is a singular anecdote recorded by the biographers of chief justice hale, who, whilst riding the western circuit, tried a half-starved lad on a charges of burglary. the prisoner had been shipwrecked upon the cornish coast, and on his way through an inhospitable district had endured the pangs of extreme hunger. in his distress, the famished wanderer broke the window of a baker's shop and stole a loaf of bread. under the circumstances, hale directed the jury to acquit the prisoner: but, less merciful than the judge, the gentlemen of the box returned a verdict of 'guilty'--a verdict which the chief justice stoutly refused to act upon. after much resistance, the jurymen were starved into submission; and the youth was set at liberty. several years elapsed; and chief justice hale was riding the northern circuit, when he was received with such costly and excessive pomp by the sheriff of a northern county, that he expostulated with his entertainer on the lavish profuseness of his conduct. "my lord," answered the sheriff, with emotion, "don't blame me for showing my gratitude to the judge who saved my life when i was an outcast. had it not been for you, i should have been hanged in cornwall for stealing a loaf, instead of living to be the richest landowner of my native county." a sketch of circuit-life in the middle of the last century may be found in 'a northern circuit, described in a letter to a friend: a poetical essay. by a gentleman of the middle temple. .'--a piece of doggrel that will meet with greater mercy from the antiquary than the poetical critic. in seeking to avoid the customary exactions of their office, the sheriffs of the present generation were only following in the steps of sheriffs who, more than a century past, exerted themselves to reduce the expenses of shrievalties, and whose economical reforms were defended by reference to the conduct of sheriffs under the last of the tudors.--in the days of elizabeth, the sheriffs demanded and obtained relief from an obligation to supply judges on circuit, with food and lodging; under victoria they have recently exclaimed against the custom which required them to furnish guards of javelin-bearers for the protection of her majesty's representatives; when george ii. was king, they grumbled against lighter burdens--for instance, the cost of white kid-gloves and payments to bell-ringers. the sheriff is still required by custom to present the judges with white gloves whenever an assize has been held without a single capital conviction; but in past times, on every _maiden_ assize, he was expected to give gloves not only to the judges, but to the entire body of circuiteers--barristers as well as officers of court.[ ] wishing to keep his official expenditure down to the lowest possible sum, a certain sheriff for cumberland--called in 'a northern circuit,' sir frigid gripus knapper--directed his under-sheriff not to give white gloves on the occasion of a maiden assize at carlisle, and also through the mouth of his subordinate, declined to pay the officers of the circuit certain customary fees. to put the innovator to shame, sir william gascoigne, the judge before whom the case was laid, observed in open court, "though i can compel an immediate payment, it being a demand of right, and not a mere gift, yet i will set him an example by gifts which i might refuse, but will not, because they are customary," and forthwith addressing the steward, added--"call the sheriff's coachman, his pages, and musicians, singing-boys, and vergers, and give them the accustomed gifts as soon as the sheriff comes." from this direction, readers may see that under the old system of presents a judge was compelled to give away with his left hand much of that which he accepted with his right. it appears that sir william gascoigne's conduct had the desired effect; for as soon as the sheriff made his appearance, he repudiated the parsimonious conduct of the under-sheriff--though it is not credible that the subordinate acted without the direction or concurrence of his superior. "i think it," observed the sheriff, in reference to the sum of the customary payments, "as much for the honor of my office, and the country in general, as it is justice to those to whom it is payable; and if any sheriff has been of a different opinion it shall never bias me." from the days when alexander wedderburn, in his new silk gown, to the scandal of all sticklers for professional etiquette, made a daring but futile attempt to seize the lead of the circuit which seventeen years later he rode as judge, 'the northern' had maintained the _prestige_ of being the most important of the english circuits. its palmiest and most famous days belong to the times of norton and wallace, jack lee and john scott, edward law and robert graham; but still amongst the wise white heads of the upper house may be seen at times the mobile features of an aged peer who, as mr. henry brougham, surpassed in eloquence and intellectual brilliance the brightest and most celebrated of his precursors on the great northern round. but of all the great men whose names illustrate the annals of the circuit, lord eldon is the person most frequently remembered in connexion with the jovial ways of circuiteers in the old time. in his later years the port-loving earl delighted to recall the times when as attorney general of the circuit grand court he used to prosecute offenders 'against the peace of our lord the junior,' devise practical jokes for the diversion of the bar, and over bowls of punch at york, lancaster, or kirkby lonsdale, argue perplexing questions about the morals of advocacy. just as john campbell, thirty years later, used to recount with glee how in the mock courts of the oxford circuit he used to officiate as crier, "holding a fire-shovel in his hand as the emblem of his office;" so did old lord eldon warm with mirth over recollections of his circuit revelries and escapades. many of his stories were apocryphal, some of them unquestionably spurious; but the least truthful of them contained an element of pleasant reality. of course jemmy boswell, a decent lawyer, though better biographer, was neither duped by the sham brief, nor induced to apply in court for the writ of 'quare adhaesit pavimento;' but it is quite credible that on the morning after his removal in a condition of vinous prostration from the lancaster flagstones, his jocose friends concocted the brief, sent it to him with a bad guinea, and proclaimed the success of their device. when the chimney-sweeper's boy met his death by falling from a high gallery to the floor of the court-house at the york assizes, whilst sir thomas davenport was speaking, it was john scott who--arguing that the orator's dullness had sent the boy to sleep, and so caused his fatal fall--prosecuted sir thomas for murder in the high court, alleging in the indictment that the death was produced by a "certain blunt instrument of _no value_, called a _long speech_." the records of the northern circuit abound with testimony to the hearty zeal with which the future chancellor took part in the proceedings of the grand court--paying fines and imposing them with equal readiness, now upholding with mock gravity the high and majestic character of the presiding judge, and at another time inveighing against the levity and indecorum of a learned brother who had maintained in conversation that "no man would be such a----fool as to go to a lawyer for advice who knew how to get on without it." the monstrous offender against religion and propriety who gave utterance to this execrable sentiment was pepper arden (subsequently master of the rolls and lord alvanley), and his punishment is thus recorded in the archives of the circuit:--"in this he was considered as doubly culpable, in the first place as having offended, against the laws of almighty god by his profane cursing; for which, however, he made a very sufficient atonement by paying a bottle of claret; and secondly, as having made use of an expression which, if it should become a prevailing opinion, might have the most alarming consequences to the profession, and was therefore deservedly considered in a far more hideous light. for the last offence he was fin'd bottles. pd." one of the most ridiculous circumstances over which the northern circuit men of the last generation delighted to laugh occurred at newcastle, when baron graham--the poor lawyer, but a singularly amiable and placid man, of whom jeckyll observed, "no one but his sempstress could ruffle him"--rode the circuit, and was immortalized as 'my lord 'size,' in mr. john shield's capital song-- "the jailor, for trial had brought up a thief, whose looks seemed a passport for botany bay; the lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief, around the green table were seated so gay; grave jurors and witnesses waiting a call; attorneys and clients, more angry than wise; with strangers and town-people, throng'd the guildhall, all watching and gaping to see my lord 'size. "oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears, still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, when tidings arriv'd, which dissolv'd them in tears, that my lord at the dead-house was then lying drown'd. straight left _tête-a-tête_ were the jailor and thief; the horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies; ev'n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief, set off helter-skelter to view my lord 'size. "and now the sandhill with the sad tidings rings, and the tubs of the taties are left to take care; fishwomen desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, and each to the dead-house now runs like a hare; the glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news, and off they ran, smoking like hot mutton pies; whilst castle garth tailors, like wild kangaroos, came tail-on-end jumping to see my lord 'size. "the dead-house they reach'd, where his lordship they found, pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath, the coroner and jury were seated around, most gravely enquiring the cause of his death. no haste did they seem in, their task to complete, aware that from hurry mistakes often rise; or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat of thus sitting in judgment upon my lord 'size. "now the mansion house butler, thus gravely deposed:-- 'my lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge and when (as i thought) he had got it compos'd, he went down the stairs and examined the barge; first the stem he surveyed, then inspected the stern, then handled the tiller, and looked mighty wise; but he made a false step when about to return, and souse in the river straight tumbled lord 'size.' "'now his narrative ended, the butler retir'd, whilst betty watt, muttering half drunk through her teeth, declar'd 'in her breast great consarn it inspir'd, that my lord should sae cullishly come by his death;' next a keelman was called on, bold airchy by name, who the book as he kissed showed the whites of his eyes, then he cut an odd caper attention to claim, and this evidence gave them respecting lord 'size;-- "aw was settin' the keel, wi' dick slavers an' matt, an' the mansion house stairs we were just alongside, when we a' three see'd somethin', but didn't ken what, that was splashin' and labberin', aboot i' the tide. 'it's a fluiker,' ki dick; 'no,' ki matt, 'its owre big, it luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise;' kiv aw--for aw'd getten a gliff o' the wig-- 'ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's lord 'size. "'sae aw huik'd him, an' haul'd him suin into the keel, an' o' top o' the huddock aw rowl'd him aboot; an' his belly aw rubb'd, an' aw skelp'd his back weel, but the water he'd druck'n it wadn't run oot; so aw brought him ashore here, an' doctor's, in vain, furst this way, then that, to recover him tries; for ye see there he's lyin' as deed as a stane, an' that's a' aw can tell ye aboot my lord 'size.' "now the jury for close consultation retir'd: some '_death accidental_' were willing to find; 'god's visitation' most eager requir'd; and some were for 'fell in the river' inclin'd; but ere on their verdict they all were agreed, my lord gave a groan, and wide opened his eyes; then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed, and back to the mansion house carried lord 'size." amongst memorable northern circuit worthies was george wood, the celebrated special pleader, in whose chambers law, erskine, abbott and a mob of eminent lawyers acquired a knowledge of their profession. it is on record that whilst he and mr. holroyde were posting the northern round, they were accosted on a lonely heath by a well-mounted horseman, who reining in his steed asked the barrister "what o'clock it was?" favorably impressed by the stranger's appearance and tone of voice, wood pulled out his valuable gold repeater, when the highwayman presenting a pistol, and putting it on the cock, said coolly, "_as you have_ a watch, be kind enough to give it me, so that i may not have occasion to trouble you again about the time." to demur was impossible; the lawyer, therefore, who had met his disaster by _going to the country_, meekly submitted to circumstances and surrendered the watch. for the loss of an excellent gold repeater he cared little, but he winced under the banter of his professional brethren, who long after the occurrence used to smile with malicious significance as they accosted him with--"what's the time, wood?" another of the memorable northern circuiteers was john hullock, who, like george wood, became a baron of the exchequer, and of whom the following story is told on good authority. in an important cause tried upon the northern circuit, he was instructed by the attorney who retained him as leader on one side not to produce a certain deed unless circumstances made him think that without its production his client would lose the suit. on perusing the deed entrusted to him with this remarkable injunction, hullock saw that it established his client's case, and wishing to dispatch the business with all possible promptitude, he produced the parchment before its exhibition was demanded by necessity. examination instantly detected the spurious character of the deed, which had been fabricated by the attorney. of course the presiding judge (sir john bayley) ordered the deed to be impounded; but before the order was carried out, mr. hullock obtained permission to inspect it again. restored to his hands, the deed was forthwith replaced in his bag. "you must surrender that deed instantly," exclaimed the judge, seeing hullock's intention to keep it. "my lord," returned the barrister, warmly, "no power on earth shall induce me to surrender it. i have incautiously put the life of a fellow-creature in peril; and though i acted to the best of my discretion, i should never be happy again were a fatal result to ensue." at a loss to decide on the proper course of action, mr. justice bayley retired from court to consult with his learned brother. on his lordship's reappearance in court, mr. hullock--who had also left the court for a brief period--told him that during his absence the forged deed had been destroyed. the attorney escaped; the barrister became a judge. [ ] lord eldon, when he was handsome jack scott of the northern circuit, was about to make a short cut over the sands from ulverstone to lancaster at the of the tide, when he was restrained from acting on his rash resolve by the representations of an hotel keeper. "danger, danger," asked scott, impatiently--"have you ever _lost_ anybody there?" mine host answered slowly, "nae, sir, nae body has been _lost_ on the sands, _the puir bodies have been found at low water_." [ ] with regard to the customary gifts of white gloves mr. foss says:--"gloves were presented to the judges on some occasions: viz., when a man, convicted for murder, or manslaughter, came and pleaded the king's pardon; and, till the act of & william and mary c. , which rendered personal appearance unnecessary, an outlawry could not be reversed, unless the defendant came into court, and with a present of gloves to the judges implored their favor to reverse it. the custom of giving the judge a pair of white gloves upon a maiden assize has continued till the present time." an interesting chapter might be written on the ancient ceremonies and usages obsolete and extant, of our courts of law. here are a few of the practices which such a chapter would properly notice:--the custom, still maintained, which forbids the lord chancellor to utter any word or make any sign, when on lord mayor's day the lord mayor of london enters the court of chancery, and by the mouth of the recorder prays his lordship to honor the guildhall banquet with his presence; the custom--extant so late as lord brougham's chancellorship--which required the holder of the seals, at the installation of a new master of chancery, to install the new master by placing a cap or hat on his head; the custom which in charles ii.'s time, on motion days at the chancellor's, compelled all barristers making motions to contribute to his lordship's 'poor's box'--barristers within the bar paying two shillings, and outer barristers one shilling--the contents of which box were periodically given to magistrates, for distribution amongst the deserving poor of london; the custom which required a newly-created judge to present his colleagues with biscuits and wine; the barbarous custom which compelled prisoners to plead their defence, standing in fetters, a custom enforced by chief justice pratt at the trial of the jacobite against christopher layer, although at the of trial of cranburne for complicity in the 'assassination plot,' holt had enunciated the merciful maxim, "when the prisoners are tried they should stand at ease;" the custom which--in days when forty persons died of gaol fever caught at the memorable black sessions (may, ) at the old bailey, when captain clark was tried for killing captain innes in a duel--strewed rue, fennel, and other herbs on the ledge of the dock, in the faith that the odor of the herbage would act as a barrier to the poisonous exhalations from prisoners sick of gaol distemper, and would protect the assembly in the body of the court from the contagion of the disease. chapter xliv. lawyers and saints. notwithstanding the close connexion which in old times existed between the church and the law, popular sentiment holds to the opinion that the ways of lawyers are far removed from the ways of holiness, and that the difficulties encountered by wealthy travellers on the road to heaven are far greater with rich lawyers than with any other class of rich men. an old proverb teaches that wearers of the long robe never reach paradise _per saltum_, but 'by slow degrees;' and an irreverent ballad supports the vulgar belief that the only attorney to be found on the celestial rolls gained admittance to the blissful abode more by artifice than desert. the ribald broadside runs in the following style:--- "professions will abuse each other; the priests won't call the lawyer brother; while _salkeld_ still beknaves the parson, and says he cants to keep the farce on. yet will i readily suppose they are not truly bitter foes, but only have their pleasant jokes, and banter, just like other folks. and thus, for so they quiz the law, once on a time th' attorney flaw, a man to tell you, as the fact is, of vast chicane, of course of practice; (but what profession can we trace where none will not the corps disgrace? seduced, perhaps, by roguish client, who tempt him to become more pliant), a notice had to quit the world, and from his desk at once was hurled. observe, i pray, the plain narration: 'twas in a hot and long vacation, when time he had but no assistance. tho' great from courts of law the distance, to reach the court of truth and justice (where i confess my only trust is); though here below the special pleader shows talents worthy of a leader, yet his own fame he must support, be sometimes witty with the court or word the passion of a jury by tender strains, or full of fury; misleads them all, tho' twelve apostles, while with the new law the judge he jostles, and makes them all give up their powers to speeches of at least three hours-- but we have left our little man, and wandered from our purpos'd plan: 'tis said (without ill-natured leaven) "if ever lawyers get to heaven, it surely is by slow degrees" (perhaps 'tis slow they take their fees). the case, then, now i fairly state: flaw reached at last to heaven's high gate; quite short he rapped, none did it neater; the gate was opened by st. peter, who looked astonished when he saw, all black, the little man of law; but charity was peter's guide. for having once himself denied his master, he would not o'erpass the penitent of any class; yet never having heard there entered a lawyer, nay, nor ever ventured within the realms of peace and love, he told him mildly to remove, and would have closed the gate of day, had not old flaw, in suppliant way, demurring to so hard a fate, begg'd but a look, tho' through the gate. st. peter, rather off his guard, unwilling to be thought too hard, opens the gate to let him peep in. what did the lawyer? did he creep in? or dash at once to take possession? oh no, he knew his own profession: he took his hat off with respect, and would no gentle means neglect; but finding it was all in vain for him admittance to obtain, thought it were best, let come what will, to gain an entry by his skill. so while st. peter stood aside, to let the door be opened wide, he skimmed his hat with all his strength within the gate to no small length. st. peter stared; the lawyer asked him "only to fetch his hat," and passed him; but when he reached the jack he'd thrown, oh, then was all the lawyer shown; he clapt it on, and arms akembo (as if he had been the gallant bembo), cry'd out--'what think you of my plan? eject me, peter, if you can.'" the celestial courts having devised no process of ejectment that could be employed in this unlooked-for emergency, st. peter hastily withdrew to take counsel's opinion; and during his absence mr. flaw firmly established himself in the realms of bliss, where he remains to this day the black sheep of the saintly family. but though a flippant humorist in these later times could deride the lawyer as a character who had better not force his way into heaven, since he would not find a single personal acquaintance amongst its inhabitants, in more remote days lawyers achieved the honors of canonization, and our forefathers sought their saintly intercession with devout fervor. our calendars still regard the th of july as a sacred day, in memory of the holy swithin, who was tutor to king ethelwulf and king alfred, and chancellor of england, and who certainly deserved his elevation to the fellowship of saints, even had his title to the honor rested solely on a remarkable act which he performed in the exercise of his judicial functions. a familiar set of nursery rhymes sets forth the utter inability of all the king's horses and men to reform the shattered humpty-dumpty, when his rotund highness had fallen from a wall; but when a wretched market-woman, whose entire basketful of new-laid eggs had been wilfully smashed by an enemy, sought in her trouble the aid of chancery, the holy chancellor swithin miraculously restored each broken shell to perfect shape, each yolk to soundness. saith william of malmesbury, recounting this marvellous achievement--"statimque porrecto crucis signo, fracturam omnium ovorum consolidat." like chancellor swithin before him, and like chancellor wolsey in a later time, chancellor becket was a royal tutor;[ ] and like swithin, who still remains the pluvious saint of humid england, and unlike wolsey, who just missed the glory of canonization, becket became a widely venerated saint. but less kind to st. thomas of canterbury than to st. swithin, the reformation degraded becket from the saintly rank by the decision which terminated the ridiculous legal proceedings instituted by henry viii. against the holy reputation of st. thomas. after the saint's counsel had replied to the attorney-general, who, of course, conducted the cause for the crown, the court declared that "thomas, sometime archbishop of canterbury, had been guilty of contumacy, treason and rebellion; that his bones should be publicly burnt, to admonish the living of their duty by the punishment of the dead; and that the offerings made at his shrine should be forfeited to the crown." after the conclusion of the suit for the saint's degradation--a suit which was an extravagant parody of the process for establishing at rome a holy man's title to the honors of canonization--proclamation was made that "forasmuch as it now clearly appeared that thomas becket had been killed in a riot excited by his own obstinacy and intemperate language, and had been afterwards canonized by the bishop of rome as the champion of his usurped authority, the king's majesty thought it expedient to declare to his loving subjects that he was no saint, but rather a rebel and traitor to his prince, and therefore strictly charged and commanded that he should not be esteemed or called a saint; that all images and pictures of him should be destroyed, the festivals in his honor be abolished, and his name and remembrance be erased out of all books, under pain of his majesty's indignation and imprisonment at his grace's pleasure." but neither st. swithin nor st. thomas of canterbury, lawyers though they were, deigned to take the legal profession under especial protection, and to mediate with particular officiousness between the long robe and st. peter. the peculiar saint of the profession was st. evona, concerning whom carr, in his 'remarks of the government of the severall parts of germanie, denmark, &c.,' has the following passage: and now because i am speaking of petty-foggers, give me leave to tell you a story i mett with when i lived in rome. goeing with a romane to see some antiquityes, he showed me a chapell dedicated to st. evona, a lawyer of brittanie, who, he said, came to rome to entreat the pope to give the lawyers of brittanie a patron, to which the pope replied, that he knew of no saint but what was disposed to other professions. at which evona was very sad, and earnestly begd of the pope to think of one for him. at last the pope proposed to st. evona that he should go round the church of st. john de latera blindfold, and after he had said so many ave marias, that the first saint he laid hold of should be his patron, which the good old lawyer willingly undertook, and at the end of his ave maryes he stopt at st. michael's altar, where he layed hold of the divell, under st. michael's feet, and cry'd out, this is our saint, let him be our patron. so being unblindfolded, and seeing what a patron he had chosen, he went to his lodgings so dejected, that a few moneths after he died, and coming to heaven's gates knockt hard. whereupon st. peter asked who it was that knockt so bouldly. he replied that he was st. evona the advocate. away, away, said st. peter, here is but one advocate in heaven; here is no room for you lawyers. o but, said st. evona, i am that honest lawyer who never tooke fees on both sides, or pleaded in a bad cause, nor did i ever set my naibours together by the ears, or lived by the sins of the people. well, then, said st. peter, come in. this newes coming down to rome, a witty poet wrote on st. evona's tomb these words:-- 'st. evona un briton, advocat non larron. hallelujah.' this story put me in mind of ben jonson goeing throw a church in surrey, seeing poore people weeping over a grave, asked one of the women why they wept. oh, said shee, we have lost our pretious lawyer, justice randall; he kept us all in peace, and always was so good as to keep us from goeing to law; the best man ever lived. well, said ben jonson, i will send you an epitaph to write upon his tomb, which was-- 'god works wonders now and then, here lies a lawyer an honest man.' an important vestige of the close relations which formerly existed between the law and the church is still found in the ecclesiastical patronage of the lord chancellor; and many are the good stories told of interviews that took place between our more recent chancellors and clergymen suing for preferment. "who sent you, sir?" thurlow asked savagely of a country curate, who had boldly forced his way into the chancellor's library in great ormond street, in the hope of winning the presentation to a vacant living. "in whose _name_ do you come, that you venture to pester me about your private affairs? i say, sir--what great lords sent you to bother me in my house?" "my lord," answered the applicant, with a happy combination of dignity and humor, "no great man supports my entreaty; but i may say with honesty, that i come to you in the name of the lord of hosts." pleased by the spirit and wit of the reply, thurlow exclaimed, "the lord of hosts! the lord of hosts! you are the first parson that ever applied to me in that lord's name; and though his title can't be found in the peerage, by ---- you shall have the living." on another occasion the same chancellor was less benign, but not less just to a clerical applicant. sustained by queen charlotte's personal favor and intercession with thurlow, the clergyman in question felt so sure of obtaining the valuable living which was the object of his ambition, that he regarded his interview with the chancellor as a purely formal affair. "i have, sir," observed lord thurlow, "received a letter from the curate of the parish to which it is my intention to prefer you, and on inquiry i find him to be a very worthy man. the father of a large family, and a priest who has labored zealously in the parish for many years, he has written to me--not asking for the living, but modestly entreating me to ask the new rector to retain him as curate. now, sir, you would oblige me by promising me to employ the poor man in that capacity." "my lord," replied queen charlotte's pastor, "it would give me great pleasure to oblige your lordship in this matter, but unfortunately i have arranged to take a personal friend for my curate." his eyes flashing angrily, thurlow answered, "sir, i cannot force you to take this worthy man for your curate, but i can make him the rector; and by ---- he shall have the living, and be in a position to offer you the curacy." of lord loughborough a reliable biographer records a pleasant and singular story. having pronounced a decision in the house of lords, which deprived an excellent clergyman of a considerable estate and reduced him to actual indigence, the chancellor, before quitting the woolsack, addressed the unfortunate suitor thus:--"as a judge i have decided against you, whose virtues are not unknown to me; and in acknowledgment of those virtues i beg you to accept from me a presentation to a living now vacant, and worth £ per annum." capital also are the best of many anecdotes concerning eldon and his ecclesiastical patronage. dating the letter from no. , charlotte street, pimlico, the chancellor's eldest son sent his father the following anonymous epistle:-- "hear, generous lawyer! hear my prayer, nor let my freedom make, you stare, in hailing you jack scott! tho' now upon the woolsack placed, with wealth, with power, with title graced, _once_ nearer was our lot. "say by what name the hapless bard may best attract your kind regard-- plain jack?--sir john?--or eldon? give from your ample store of giving, a starving priest some little living-- the world will cry out 'well done.' "in vain, without a patron's aid, i've prayed and preached, and preached and prayed-- _applauded_ but _ill-fed_. such vain _éclat_ let others share; alas, i cannot feed on air-- i ask not _praise_, but _bread_." satisfactorily hoaxed by the rhymer, the chancellor went to pimlico in search of the clerical poetaster, and found him not. prettier and less comic is the story of miss bridge's morning call upon lord eldon. the chancellor was sitting in his study over a table of papers when a young and lovely girl--slightly rustic in her attire, slightly embarrassed by the novelty of her position, but thoroughly in command of her wits--entered the room, and walked up to the lawyer's chair. "my dear," said the chancellor, rising and bowing with old-world courtesy, "who _are_ you?" "lord eldon," answered the blushing maiden, "i am bessie bridge of weobly, the daughter of the vicar of weobly, and papa has sent me to remind you of a promise which you made him when i was a little baby, and you were a guest in his house on the occasion of your first election as member of parliament for weobly." "a promise, my dear young lady?" interposed the chancellor, trying to recall how he had pledged himself. "yea, lord eldon, a promise. you were standing over my cradle when papa said to you, 'mr. scott, promise me that if ever you are lord chancellor, when my little girl is a poor clergyman's wife, you will give her husband a living;' and you answered, 'mr. bridge, my promise is not worth half-a-crown, but i give it to you, wishing it were worth more.'" enthusiastically the chancellor exclaimed, "you are quite right. i admit the obligation. i remember all about it;" and, then, after a pause, archly surveying the damsel, whose graces were the reverse of matronly, he added, "but surely the time for keeping my promise has not yet arrived? you cannot be any one's wife at present?" for a few seconds bessie hesitated for an answer, and then, with a blush and a ripple of silver laughter she replied, "no, but i do so wish to be _somebody's_ wife. i am engaged to a young clergyman; and there's a living in herefordshire near my old home that has recently fallen vacant, and if you'll give it to alfred, why then, lord eldon, we shall marry before the end of the year." is there need to say that the chancellor forthwith summoned his secretary, that the secretary forthwith made out the presentation to bessie's lover, and that having given the chancellor a kiss of gratitude, bessie made good speed back to herefordshire, hugging the precious document the whole way home? a bad but eager sportsman, lord eldon used to blaze away at his partridges and pheasants with such uniform want of success that lord stowell had truth as well as humor on his side when he observed, "my brother has done much execution this shooting season; with his gun he has _killed a great deal of time_." having ineffectually discharged two barrels at a covey of partridges, the chancellor was slowly walking to the gate of one of his encome turnip-fields when a stranger of clerical garb and aspect hailed him from a distance, asking, "where is lord eldon?" not anxious to declare himself to the witness of his ludicrously bad shot, the chancellor answered evasively, and with scant courtesy, "not far off." displeased with the tone of this curt reply, the clergyman rejoined, "i wish you'd use your tongue to better purpose than you do your gun, and tell me civily where i can find the chancellor." "well," responded the sportsman, when he had slowly approached his questioner, "here you see the chancellor--i am lord eldon." it was an untoward introduction to the chancellor for the strange clergyman who had traveled from the north of lancashire to ask for the presentation to a vacant living. partly out of humorous compassion for the applicant who had offered rudeness, if not insult to the person whom he was most anxious to propitiate; partly because on inquiry he ascertained the respectability of the applicant; and partly because he wished to seal by kindness the lips of a man who could report on the authority of his own eyes that the best lawyer was also the worst shot in all england, eldon gave the petitioner the desired preferment. "but now," the old chancellor used to add in conclusion, whenever he told the story, "see the ingratitude of mankind. it was not long before a large present of game reached me, with a letter from my new-made rector, purporting that he had sent it to me, because _from what he had seen of my shooting he_ supposed i must be badly off for game. think of turning upon me in this way, and wounding me in my tenderest point." amongst eldon's humorous answers to applications for preferment should be remembered his letter to dr. fisher of the charterhouse: on one side of a sheet of paper, "dear fisher, i cannot, to-day, give you the preferment for which you ask.--i remain your sincere friend, eldon.--_turn over_;" and on the other side, "i gave it to you yesterday." this note reminds us of erskine's reply to sir john sinclair's solicitation for a subscription to the testimonial which sir john invited the nation to present to himself. on the one side of a sheet of paper it ran, "my dear sir john, i am certain there are few in this kingdom who set a higher value on your services than myself, and i have the honor to subscribe," and on the other side it concluded, "myself your obedient faithful servant, erskine." [ ] swithin was tutor to ethelwulf and alfred. becket was tutor to henry ii.'s eldest son. wolsey--who took delight in discharging scholastic functions from the days when he birched schoolboys at magdalen college, oxford, till the time when in the plenitude of his grandeur he framed regulations for dean colet's school of st. paul's and wrote an introduction to a latin grammar for the use of children--acted as educational director to the princess mary, and superintended the studies of henry viii.'s natural son, the earl of richmond. amongst pedagogue-chancellors, by license of fancy, may be included the earl of clarendon, whose enemies used to charge him with 'playing the schoolmaster to his king,' and in their desire to bring him into disfavor at court used to announce his approach to charles ii. by saying, "here comes your schoolmaster." part ix. at home: in court: and in society. chapter xlv. lawyers at their own tables. a long list, indeed, might be made of abstemious lawyers; but their temperance is almost invariably mentioned by biographers as matter for regret and apology, and is even made an occasion for reproach in cases where it has not been palliated by habits of munificent hospitality. in the catalogue of chancellor warham's virtues and laudable usages, erasmus takes care to mention that the primate was accustomed to entertain his friends, to the number of two hundred at a time: and when the man of letters notices the archbishop's moderation with respect to wines and dishes--a moderation that caused his grace to eschew suppers, and never to sit more than an hour at dinner--he does not omit to observe that though the great man "made it a rule to abstain entirely from supper, yet if his friends were assembled at that meal he would sit down along with them and promote their conviviality." splendid in all things, wolsey astounded envious nobles by the magnificence of his banquets, and the lavish expenses of his kitchens, wherein his master-cooks wore raiment of richest materials--the _chef_ of his private kitchen daily arraying himself in a damask-satin or velvet, and wearing on his neck a chain of gold. of a far other kind were the tastes of wolsey's successor, who, in the warmest sunshine of his power, preferred a quiet dinner with erasmus to the pompous display of state banquets, and who wore a gleeful light in his countenance when, after his fall, he called his children and grandchildren about him, and said: "i have been brought up at oxford, at an inn of chancery, at lincoln's inn, and in the king's court--from the lowest degree to the highest, and yet have i in yearly revenues at this present, little left me above a hundred pounds by the year; so that now, if we wish to live together, you must be content to be contributaries together. but my counsel is that we fall not to the lowest fare first; we will not, therefore, descend to oxford fare, nor to the fare of new inn, but we will begin with lincoln's inn diet, where many right worshipful men of great account and good years do live full well; which if we find ourselves the first year not able to maintain, then will we in the next year come down to oxford fare, where many great, learned, and ancient fathers and doctors are continually conversant; which if our purses stretch not to maintain neither, then may we after, with bag and wallet, go a-begging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity and at every man's door to sing a _salve regina_, whereby we shall keep company and be merry together." students recalling the social life of england should bear in mind the hours kept by our ancestors in the fourteenth and two following centuries. under the plantagenets noblemen used to sup at five p.m., and dine somewhere about the breakfast hour of mayfair in a modern london season. gradually hours became later; but under the tudors the ordinary dinner hour for gentlepeople was somewhere about eleven a.m., and their usual time for supping was between five p.m. and six p.m., tradesmen, merchants and farmers dining and supping at later hours than their social superiors. "with us," says hall the chronicler, "the nobility, gentry, and students, do ordinarily go to dinner at eleven before noon, and to supper at five, or between five and six, at afternoon. the merchants dine and sup seldom before twelve at noon and six at night. the husbandmen also dine at high noon as they call it, and sup at seven or eight; but out of term in our universities the scholars dine at ten." thus whilst the idlers of society made haste to eat and drink, the workers postponed the pleasures of the table until they had made a good morning's work. in the days of morning dinners and afternoon suppers, the law-courts used to be at the height of their daily business at an hour when templars of the present generation have seldom risen from bed. chancellors were accustomed to commence their daily sittings in westminster at seven a.m. in summer, and at eight a.m. in winter months. lord keeper williams, who endeavored to atone for want of law by extraordinarily assiduous attention to the duties of his office, used indeed to open his winter sittings by candlelight between six and seven o'clock. many were the costly banquets of which successive chancellors invited the nobility, the judges, and the bar, to partake at old york house; but of all the holders of the great seal who exercised pompous hospitality in that picturesque palace, francis bacon was the most liberal, gracious, and delightful entertainer. where is the student of english history who has not often endeavored to imagine the scene when ben jonson sat amongst the honored guests of "england's high chancellor, the destin'd heir, in his soft cradle, to his father's chair," and little prescient of the coming storm, spoke of his host as one "whose even thread the fates spin round and full, out of their choicest and their whitest wool." even at the present day lawyers have reason to be grateful to bacon for the promptitude with which, on taking possession of the marble chair, he revived the ancient usages of earlier holders of the seal, and set an example of courteous hospitality to the bar, which no subsequent chancellor has been able to disregard without loss of respect and _prestige_. though a short attack of gout qualified the new pleasure of his elevation--an attack attributed by the sufferer to his removal "from a field air to a thames air," _i.e._, from gray's inn to the south side of the strand--lord keeper bacon lost no time in summoning the judges and most eminent barristers to his table; and though the gravity of his indisposition, or the dignity of his office, forbade him to join in the feast, he sat and spoke pleasantly with them when the dishes had been removed. "yesterday," he wrote to buckingham, "which was my weary day, i bid all the judges to dinner, which was not used to be, and entertained them in a private withdrawing chamber with the learned counsel. when the feast was past i came amongst them and sat me down at the end of the table, and prayed them to think i was one of them, and but a foreman." nor let us, whilst recalling bacon's bounteous hospitalities, fail in justice to his great rival, sir edward coke---who, though he usually held himself aloof from frivolous amusements, and cared but little for expensive repasts, would with a liberal hand place lordly dishes before lordly guests; and of whom it is recorded in the 'apophthegmes,' that when any great visitor dropped in upon him for pot-luck without notice he was wont to say, "sir, since you sent me no notice of your coming, you must dine with me; but if i had known of it in due time i would have dined with you." from such great men as lord nottingham and lord guildford, who successively kept high state in queen street, lincoln's inn fields, to fat _puisnes_ occupying snug houses in close proximity to the inns of court, and lower downwards to leaders of the bar and juniors sleeping as well as working in chambers, the restoration lawyers were conspicuous promoters of the hilarity which was one of the most prominent and least offensive characteristics of charles ii.'s london. lord nottingham's sumptuous hospitalities were the more creditable, because he voluntarily relinquished his claim to £ per annum, which the royal bounty had assigned him as a fund to be expended in official entertainments. similar praise cannot be awarded to lord guildford; but justice compels the admission that, notwithstanding his love of money, he maintained the _prestige_ of his place, so far as a hospitable table and profuse domestic expenditure could support it. contrasting strongly with the lawyers of this period, who copied in miniature the impressive state of clarendon's princely establishments, were the jovial, catch-singing, three-bottle lawyers--who preferred drunkenness to pomp; an oaken table, surrounded by jolly fellows, to ante-rooms crowded with obsequious courtiers; a hunting song with a brave chorus to the less stormy diversion of polite conversation. of these free-living lawyers, george jeffreys was a conspicuous leader. not averse to display, and not incapable of shining in refined society, this notorious man loved good cheer and jolly companions beyond all other sources of excitement; and during his tenure of the seals, he was never more happy than when he was presiding over a company of sharp-witted men-about-town whom he had invited to indulge in wild talk and choice wine at his mansion that overlooked the lawns, the water, and the trees of st. james's park. on such occasions his lordship's most valued boon companion was mountfort, the comedian, whom he had taken from the stage and made a permanent officer of the duke street household. whether the actor was required to discharge any graver functions in the chancellor's establishment is unknown; but we have sir john reresby's testimony that the clever mimic and brilliant libertine was employed to amuse his lordship's guests by ridiculing the personal and mental peculiarities of the judges and most eminent barristers. "i dined," records sir john, "with the lord chancellor, where the lord mayor of london was a guest, and some other gentlemen. his lordship having, according to custom, drunk deep at dinner, called for one mountfort, a gentleman of his, who had been a comedian, an excellent mimic; and to divert the company, as he was pleased to term it, he made him plead before him in a feigned cause, during which he aped the judges, and all the great lawyers of the age, in tone of voice and in action and gesture of body, to the very great ridicule, not only of the lawyers, but of the law itself, which to me did not seem altogether prudent in a man in his lofty station in the law; diverting it certainly was, but prudent in the lord chancellor i shall never think it." the fun of mountfort's imitations was often heightened by the presence of the persons whom they held up to derision--some of whom would see and express natural displeasure at the affront; whilst others, quite unconscious of their own peculiarities, joined loudly in the laughter that was directed against themselves. as pet buffoon of the tories about town, mountfort was followed, at a considerable distance of time, by estcourt--an actor who united wit and fine humor with irresistible powers of mimicry; and who contrived to acquire the respect and affectionate regard of many of those famous whigs whom it was alike his pleasure and his business to render ridiculous. in the _spectator_ steele paid him a tribute of cordial admiration; and cibber, noticing the marvellous fidelity of his imitations, has recorded, "this man was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy counsellor, ever moved or spoke before him, but he could carry their voice, look, mien, and motion instantly into another company. i have heard him make long harangues, and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated, that he was the very _alter ipse_, scarce to be distinguished from the original." with the exception of kenyon and eldon, and one or two less conspicuous instances of judicial penuriousness, the judges of the georgian period were hospitable entertainers. chief justice lee, who died in , gained credit for an adequate knowledge of law by the sumptuousness and frequency of the dinners with which he regaled his brothers of the bench and learned counsellors. chief justice mansfield's habitual temperance and comparative indifference to the pleasures of the table did not cause him to be neglectful of hospitable duties. notwithstanding the cold formality of lord hardwicke's entertainments, and the charges of niggardliness preferred against lady hardwicke's domestic system by opposition satirists, philip yorke used to entertain the chiefs of his profession with pomp, if not with affability. thurlow entertained a somewhat too limited circle of friends with english fare and a superabundance of choice port in great ormond street. throughout his public career, alexander wedderburn was a lavish and delightful host, amply atoning in the opinion of frivolous society for his political falsity by the excellence and number of his grand dinners. on entering the place of solicitor-general, he spent £ on a service of plate; and as lord loughborough he gratified the bar and dazzled the fashionable world by hospitality alike sumptuous and brilliant. several of the georgian lawyers had strong predilections for particular dishes or articles of diet. thurlow was very fanciful about his fruit; and in his later years he would give way to ludicrous irritability, if inferior grapes or faulty peaches were placed before him. at brighton, in his declining years, the ex-chancellor's indignation at a dish of defective wall-fruit was so lively that--to the inexpressible astonishment of horne tooke and other guests--he caused the whole of a very fine dessert to be thrown out of the window upon the marine parade. baron graham's weakness was for oysters, eaten as a preparatory whet to the appetite before dinner; and it is recorded of him that on a certain occasion, when he had been indulging in this favorite pre-prandial exercise, he observed with pleasant humor--"oysters taken before dinner are said to sharpen the appetite; but i have just consumed half-a-barrel of fine natives--and speaking honestly, i am bound to say that i don't feel quite as hungry as when i began." thomas manners button's peculiar _penchant_ was for salads; and in a moment of impulsive kindness he gave lady morgan the recipe for his favorite salad--a compound of rare merit and mysterious properties. bitterly did the old lawyer repent his unwise munificence when he read 'o'donnell.' warmly displeased with the political sentiments of the novel, he ordered it to be burnt in the servants' hall, and exclaimed, peevishly, to lady manners, "i wish i had not given her the secret of my salad." in no culinary product did lord ellenborough find greater delight than lobster-sauce; and he gave expression to his high regard for that soothing and delicate compound when he decided that persons engaged in lobster-fishery were exempt from legal liability to impressment. "then is not," inquired his lordship, with solemn pathos, "the lobster-fishery a fishery, and a most important fishery, of this kingdom, though carried on in shallow water? the framers of the law well knew that the produce of the deep sea, without the produce of the shallow water, would be of comparatively small value, and intended that turbot, when placed upon our tables, should be flanked by good lobster-sauce." eldon's singular passion for fried 'liver and bacon' was amongst his most notorious and least pleasant peculiarities. even the prince regent condescended to humor this remarkable taste by ordering a dish of liver and bacon to be placed on the table when the chancellor dined with him at brighton. sir john leach, master of the rolls, was however less ready to pander to a depraved appetite. lord eldon said, "it will give me great pleasure to dine with you, and since you are good enough to ask me to order a dish that shall test your new _chef's_ powers--i wish you'd tell your frenchman to fry some liver and bacon for me." "are you laughing at me or my cook?" asked sir john leach, stiffly, thinking that the chancellor was bent on ridiculing his luxurious mode of living. "at neither," answered eldon, with equal simplicity and truth; "i was only ordering the dish which i enjoy beyond all other dishes." although eldon's penuriousness was grossly exaggerated by his detractors, it cannot be questioned that either through indolence, or love of money, or some other kind of selfishness, he was very neglectful of his hospitable duties to the bench and the bar. "verily he is working off the arrears of the lord chancellor," said romilly, when sir thomas plummer, the master of the rolls, gave a succession of dinners to the bar; and such a remark would not have escaped the lips of the decorous and amiable romilly had not circumstances fully justified it. still it is unquestionable that eldon's cabinet dinners were suitably expensive; and that he never grudged his choicest port to the old attorneys and subordinate placemen who were his obsequious companions towards the close of his career. for the charges of sordid parsimony so frequently preferred against kenyon it is to be feared there were better grounds. under the steadily strengthening spell of avarice he ceased to invite even old friends to his table; and it was rumored that in course of time his domestic servants complained with reason that they were required to consume the same fare as their master deemed sufficient for himself. "in lord kenyon's house," a wit exclaimed, "all the year through it is lent in the kitchen, and passion week in the parlor." another caustic quidnunc remarked, "in his lordship's kitchen the fire is dull, but the spits are always bright;" whereupon jekyll interposed with an assumption of testiness, "spits! in the name of common sense i order you not to talk about _his_ spits, for nothing turns upon them." very different was the temper of erskine, who spent money faster than kenyon saved it, and who died in indigence after holding the great seal of england, and making for many years a finer income at the bar than any of his contemporaries not enjoying crown patronage. many are the bright pictures preserved to us of his hospitality to politicians and lawyers, wits, and people of fashion; but none of the scenes is more characteristic than the dinner described by sir samuel romilly, when that good man met at erskine's hampstead villa the chiefs of the opposition and mr. pinkney, the american minister. "among the light, trifling topics of conversation after dinner," says sir samuel romilly, "it may be worth while to mention one, as it strongly characterizes lord erskine. he has always expressed and felt a strong sympathy with animals. he has talked for years of a bill he was to bring into parliament to prevent cruelty towards them. he has always had some favorite animals to whom he has been much attached, and of whom all his acquaintance have a number of anecdotes to relate; a favorite dog which he used to bring, when he was at the bar, to all his consultations; another favorite dog, which, at the time when he was lord chancellor, he himself rescued in the street from some boys who were about to kill it under the pretence of its being mad; a favorite goose, which followed him wherever he walked about his grounds; a favorite macaw, and other dumb favorites without number. he told us now that he had got two favorite leeches. he had been blooded by them last autumn when he had been taken dangerously ill at portsmouth; they had saved his life, and he had brought them with him to town, had ever since kept them in a glass, had himself every day given them fresh water, and had formed a friendship for them. he said he was sure they both knew him and were grateful to him. he had given them different names, 'home' and 'cline' (the names of two celebrated surgeons), their dispositions being quite different. after a good deal of conversation about them, he went himself, brought them out of his library, and placed them in their glass upon the table. it is impossible, however, without the vivacity, the tones, the details, and the gestures of lord erskine, to give an adequate idea of this singular scene." amongst the listeners to erskine, whilst he spoke eloquently and with fervor of the virtues of his two leeches, were the duke of norfolk, lord grenville, lord grey, lord holland, lord ellenborough, lord lauderdale, lord henry petty, and thomas grenville. chapter xlvi. wine. from the time when francis bacon attributed a sharp attack of gout to his removal from gray's inn fields to the river side, to a time not many years distant when sir herbert jenner fust[ ] used to be brought into his court in doctors' commons and placed in the judicial seat by two liveried porters, lawyers were not remarkable for abstinence from the pleasures to which our ancestors were indebted for the joint-fixing, picturesque gout that has already become an affair of the past. throughout the long period that lies between charles ii.'s restoration and george iii.'s death, an english judge without a symptom of gout was so exceptional a character that people talked of him as an interesting social curiosity. the merry monarch made clarendon's bedroom his council-chamber when the chancellor was confined to his couch by _podagra_. lord nottingham was so disabled by gout, and what the old physicians were pleased to call a 'perversity of the humors,' that his duties in the house of lords were often discharged by francis north, then chief justice of the common pleas; and though he persevered in attending to the business of his court, a man of less resolution would have altogether succumbed to the agony of his disease and the burden of his infirmities. "i have known him," says roger north, "sit to hear petitions in great pain, and say that his servants had let him out, though he was fitter for his chamber." prudence saved lord guildford from excessive intemperance; but he lived with a freedom that would be remarkable in the present age. chief justice saunders was a confirmed sot, taking nips of brandy with his breakfast, and seldom appearing in public "without a pot of ale at his nose or near him." sir robert wright was notoriously addicted to wine; and george jeffreys drank, as he swore, like a trooper. "my lord," said king charles, in a significant tone, when he gave jeffreys the _blood-stone_ ring, "as it is a hot summer, and you are going the circuit, i desire you will not drink too much." amongst the reeling judges of the restoration, however, there moved one venerable lawyer, who, in an age when moralists hesitated to call drunkenness a vice, was remarkable for sobriety. in his youth, whilst he was indulging with natural ardor in youthful pleasures, chief justice hale was so struck with horror at seeing an intimate friend drop senseless, and apparently lifeless, at a student's drinking-bout, that he made a sudden but enduring resolution to conquer his ebrious propensities, and withdraw himself from the dangerous allurements of ungodly company. falling upon his knees he prayed the almighty to rescue his friend from the jaws of death, and also to strengthen him to keep his newly-formed resolution. he rose an altered man. but in an age when the barbarous usage of toast-drinking was in full force, he felt that he could not be an habitually sober man if he mingled in society, and obeyed a rule which required the man of delicate and excitable nerves to drink as much, bumper for bumper, as the man whose sluggish system could receive a quart of spirits at a sitting and yet scarcely experience a change of sensation. at that time it was customary with prudent men to protect themselves against a pernicious and tyrannous custom, by taking a vow to abstain from toast-drinking, or even from drinking wine at all, for a certain stated period. readers do not need to be reminded how often young pepys was under a vow not to drink; and the device by which the jovial admiralty clerk strengthened an infirm will and defended himself against temptation was frequently employed by right-minded young men of his date. in some cases, instead of _vowing_ not to drink, they _bound_ themselves not to drink within a certain period; two persons, that is to say, agreeing that they would abstain from wine and spirits for a certain period, and each _binding_ himself in case he broke the compact to pay over a certain sum of money to his partner in the bond. young hale saw that to effect a complete reformation of his life it was needful for him to abjure the practice of drinking healths. he therefore vowed _never again_ to drink a health; and he kept his vow. never again did he brim his bumper and drain it at the command of a toast-master, although his abstinence exposed him to much annoyance; and in his old age he thus urged his grandchildren to follow his example--"i will not have you begin or pledge any health, for it is become one of the greatest artifices of drinking, and occasions of quarrelling in the kingdom. if you pledge one health you oblige yourself to pledge another, and a third, and so onwards; and if you pledge as many as will be drunk, you must be debauched and drunk. if they will needs know the reason of your refusal, it is a fair answer, 'that your grandfather that brought you up, from whom, under god, you have the estate you enjoy or expect, left this in command with you, that you should never begin or pledge a health.'" jeffrey's _protégé_, john trevor, liked good wine himself, but emulated the virtuous hale in the pains which he took to place the treacherous drink beyond the reach of others--whenever they showed a desire to drink it at his expense. after his expulsion from the house of commons, sir john trevor was sitting alone over a choice bottle of claret, when his needy kinsman, roderic lloyd, was announced. "you rascal," exclaimed the master of the rolls, springing to his feet, and attacking his footman with furious language, "you have brought my cousin, roderic lloyd, esquire, prothonotary of north wales, marshal to baron price, up my back stairs. you scoundrel, hear ye, i order you to take him this instant down my _back stairs_, and bring him up my _front stairs_." sir john made such a point of showing his visitor this mark of respect, that the young barrister was forced to descend and enter the room by the state staircase; but he saw no reason to think himself honored by his cousin's punctilious courtesy, when on entering the room a second time he looked in vain for the claret bottle. on another occasion sir john trevor's official residence afforded shelter to the same poor relation when the latter was in great mental trouble. "roderic," saith the chronicler, "was returning rather elevated from his club one night, and ran against the pump in chancery lane. conceiving somebody had struck him, he drew and made a lunge at the pump. the sword entered the spout, and the pump, being crazy, fell down. roderic concluded he had killed his man, left, his sword in the pump, and retreated to his old friend's house at the rolls. there he was concealed by the servants for the night. in the morning his honor, having heard the story, came himself to deliver him from his consternation and confinement in the coal-hole." amongst the eighteenth century lawyers there was considerable difference of taste and opinion on questions relating to the use and abuse of wine. though he never, or very seldom, exceeded the limits of sobriety, somers enjoyed a bottle in congenial society; and though wine never betrayed him into reckless hilarity, it gave gentleness and comity to his habitually severe countenance and solemn deportment--if reliance may be placed on swift's couplet-- "by force of wine even scarborough is brave, hall grows more pert, and somers not so grave." a familiar quotation that alludes to murray's early intercourse with the wits warrants an inference that in opening manhood he preferred champagne to every other wine; but as lord mansfield he steadily adhered to claret, though fashion had taken into favor the fuller wine stigmatized as poison by john home's famous epigram-- "bold and erect the caledonian stood; old was his mutton, and his claret good. 'let him drink port,' an english statesman cried: he drunk the poison and his spirit died." unlike his father, who never sinned against moderation in his cups, charles yorke was a deep drinker as well as a gourmand. hardwicke's successor, lord northington, was the first of a line of port-wine-drinking judges that may at the present time be fairly said to have come to an end--although a few reverend fathers of the law yet remain, who drink with relish the methuen drink when age has deprived it of body and strength. until robert henley held the seals, chancellors continued to hold after-dinner sittings in the court of chancery on certain days of the week throughout term. hardwicke, throughout his long official career, sat on the evenings of wednesdays and fridays hearing causes, while men of pleasure were fuddling themselves with fruity vintages. lord northington, however, prevailed on george iii. to let him discontinue these evening attendances in court. "but why," asked the monarch, "do you wish for a change?" "sir," the chancellor answered, with delightful frankness, "i want the change in order that i may finish my bottle of port at my ease; and your majesty, in your parental care for the happiness of your subjects, will, i trust, think this a sufficient reason." of course the king's laughter ended in a favorable answer to the petition for reform, and from that time the chancellor's evening sittings were discontinued. but ere he died, the jovial chancellor paid the penalty which port exacts from all her fervent worshippers, and he suffered the acutest pangs of gout. it is recorded that as he limped from the woolsack to the bar of the house of lords, he once muttered to a young peer, who watched his distress with evident sympathy--"ah, my young friend, if i had known that these legs would one day carry a chancellor, i would have taken better care of them when i was at your age." unto this had come the handsome legs of young counsellor henley, who, in his dancing days, stepped minuets to the enthusiastic admiration of the _belles_ of bath. some light is thrown on the manners of lawyers in the eighteenth century by an order made by the authorities of barnard's inn, who, in november, , named two quarts as the allowance of wine to be given to each mess of four men by two gentlemen on going through the ceremony of 'initiation.' of course, this amount of wine was an 'extra' allowance, in addition to the ale and sherry assigned to members by the regular dietary of the house. even sheridan, who boasted that he could drink any _given_ quantity of wine, would have thought twice before he drank so large a given quantity, in addition to a liberal allowance of stimulant. anyhow, the quantity was fixed--a fact that would have elicited an expression of approval from chief baron thompson, who, loving port wine wisely, though too well, expressed at the same time his concurrence with the words, and his dissent from the opinion of a barrister, who observed--"i hold, my lord, that after a good dinner a certain quantity of wine does no harm." with a smile, the chief baron rejoined--"true, sir; it is the _uncertain_ quantity that does the mischief." the most temperate of the eighteenth-century chancellors was lord camden, who required no more generous beverage than sound malt liquor, as he candidly declared, in a letter to the duke of grafton, wherein he says--"i am, thank god, remarkably well, but your grace must not seduce me into my former intemperance. a plain dish and a draught of porter (which last is indispensable), are the very extent of my luxury." for porter, edward thurlow, in his student days, had high respect and keen relish; but in his mature years, as well as still older age, full-bodied port was his favorite drink, and under its influence were seen to the best advantage those colloquial powers which caused samuel johnson to exclaim--"depend upon it, sir, it is when you come close to a man in conversation that you discover what his real abilities are; to make a speech in a public assembly is a knack. now, i honor thurlow, sir; thurlow is a fine fellow: he fairly puts his mind to yours." of thurlow, when he had mounted the woolsack, johnson also observed--"i would prepare myself for no man in england but lord thurlow. when i am to meet him, i would wish to know a day before." from the many stories told of thurlow and ebriosity, one may be here taken and brought under the reader's notice--not because it has wit or humor to recommend it, but because it presents the chancellor in company with another port-loving lawyer, william pitt, from whose fame, by-the-by, lord stanhope has recently removed the old disfiguring imputations of sottishness. "returning," says sir nathaniel wraxall, a poor authority, but piquant gossip-monger, "by way of frolic, very late at night, on horseback, to wimbledon, from addiscombe, the seat of mr. jenkinson, near croydon, where the party had dined, lord thurlow, the chancellor, pitt, and dundas, found the turnpike gate, situate between tooting and streatham, thrown open. being elevated above their usual prudence, and having no servant near them, they passed through the gate at a brisk pace, without stopping to pay the toll, regardless of the remonstrances and threats of the turnpike man, who running after them, and believing them to belong to some highwaymen who had recently committed some depredation on that road, discharged the contents of his blunderbuss at their backs. happily he did no injury." throughout their long lives the brothers scott were steady, and, according to the rules of the present day, inordinate drinkers of port wine. as a young barrister, john scott could carry more port with decorum than any other man of his inn; and in the days when he is generally supposed to have lived on sprats and table-beer, he seldom passed twenty-four hours without a bottle of his favorite wine. prudence, however, made him careful to avoid intoxication, and when he found that a friendship often betrayed him into what he thought excessive drinking, he withdrew from the dangerous connexion. "i see your friend bowes very often," he wrote in may, , a time when mr. bowes was his most valuable client; "but i dare not dine with him above once in three months, as there is no getting away before midnight; and, indeed, one is sure to be in a condition in which no man would wish to be in the streets at any other season." of the quantities imbibed at these three-monthly dinners, an estimate may be formed from the following story. bringing from oxford to london that fine sense of the merits of port wine which characterized the thorough oxonion of a century since, william scott made it for some years a rule to dine with his brother john on the first day of term at a tavern hard by the temple; and on these occasions the brothers used to make away with bottle after bottle not less to the astonishment than the approval of the waiters who served them. before the decay of his faculties, lord stowell was recalling these terminal dinners to his son-in-law, lord sidmouth, when the latter observed, "you drank some wine together, i dare say?" lord stowell, modestly, "yes, we drank some wine." son-in-law, inquisitively, "two bottles?" lord stowell, quickly putting away the imputation of such abstemiousness, "more than that." son-in-law, smiling, "what, three bottles?" lord stowell, "more." son-in-law, opening his eyes with astonishment, "by jove, sir, you don't mean to say that you took four bottles?" lord stowell, beginning to feel ashamed of himself, "more; i mean to say we had more. now don't ask any more questions." whilst lord stowell, smarting under the domestic misery of which his foolish marriage with the dowager marchioness of sligo was fruitful, sought comfort and forgetfulness in the cellar of the middle temple, lord eldon drained magnums of newcastle port at his own table. populous with wealthy merchants, and surrounded by an opulent aristocracy, newcastle had used the advantages given her by a large export trade with portugal to draw to her cellars such superb port wine as could be found in no other town in the united kingdom; and to the last the tory chancellor used to get his port from the canny capital of northumbria. just three weeks before his death, the veteran lawyer, sitting in his easy-chair and recalling his early triumphs, preluded an account of the great leading case, "akroyd _v._ smithson," by saying to his listener, "come, farrer, help yourself to a glass of newcastle port, and help me to a little." but though he asked for a little, the old earl, according to his wont, drank much before he was raised from his chair and led to his sleeping-room. it is on record, and is moreover supported by unexceptionable evidence, that in his extreme old age, whilst he was completely laid upon the shelf, and almost down to the day of his death, which occurred in his eighty-seventh year, lord eldon never drank less than three pints of port daily with or after his dinner. of eminent lawyers who were steady port-wine drinkers, baron platt--the amiable and popular judge who died in , aged seventy-two years--may be regarded as one of the last. of him it is recorded that in early manhood he was so completely prostrated by severe illness that beholders judged him to be actually dead. standing over his silent body shortly before the arrival of the undertaker, two of his friends concurred in giving utterance to the sentiment: "ah, poor dear fellow, we shall never drink a glass of wine with him again;" when, to their momentary alarm and subsequent delight, the dead man interposed with a faint assumption of jocularity, "but you will though, and a good many too, i hope." when the undertaker called he was sent away a genuinely sorrowful man; and the young lawyer, who was 'not dead yet,' lived to old age and good purpose. [ ] in old sir herbert's later days it was a mere pleasantry, or bold figure of speech to say that his court had risen, for he used to be lifted from his chair and carried bodily from the chamber of justice by two brawny footmen. of course, as soon as the judge was about to be elevated by his bearers, the bar rose; and also as a matter of course the bar continued to stand until the strong porters had conveyed their weighty and venerable burden along the platform behind one of the rows of advocates and out of sight. as the _trio_ worked their laborious way along the platform, there seemed to be some danger that they might blunder and fall through one of the windows into the space behind the court; and at a time when sir herbert and dr. ---- were at open variance, that waspish advocate had on one occasion the bad taste to keep his seat at the rising of the court, and with characteristic malevolence of expression to say to the footmen, "mind, my men, and take care of that judge of yours--or, by jove, you'll pitch him out of the window." it is needless to say that this brutal speech did not raise the speaker in the opinion of the hearers. chapter xlvii. law and literature. at the present time, when three out of every five journalists attached to our chief london newspapers are inns-of-court men; when many of our able and successful advocates are known to ply their pens in organs of periodical literature as regularly as they raise their voices in courts of justice; and when the young templar, who has borne away the first honors of his university, deems himself the object of a compliment on receiving an invitation to contribute to the columns of a leading review or daily journal--it is difficult to believe that strong men are still amongst us who can remember the days when it was the fashion of the bar to disdain law-students who were suspected of 'writing for hire' and barristers who 'reported for the papers.' throughout the opening years of the present century, and even much later, it was almost universally held on the circuits and in westminster hall, that inns-of-court men lowered the dignity of their order by following those literary avocations by which some of the brightest ornaments of the law supported themselves at the outset of their professional careers. notwithstanding this prejudice, a few wearers of the long robe, daring by nature, or rendered bold by necessity, persisted in 'maintaining a connexion with the press, whilst they sought briefs on the circuit, or waited for clients in their chambers. such men as sergeant spankie and lord campbell, as master stephen and mr. justice talfourd, were reporters for the press whilst they kept terms; and no sooner had henry brougham's eloquence charmed the public, than it was whispered that for years his pen, no less ready than his tongue, had found constant employment in organs of political intelligence. but though such men were known to exist, they were regarded as the 'black sheep' of the bar by a great majority of their profession. it is not improbable that this prejudice against gownsmen on the press was palliated by circumstances that no longer exist. when political writers were very generally regarded as dangerous members of society, and when conductors of respectable newspapers were harassed with vexatious prosecutions and heavy punishments for acts of trivial inadvertence, or for purely imaginary offences, the average journalist was in many respects inferior to the average journalist working under the present more favorable circumstances. men of culture, honest purpose, and fine feeling were slow to enrol themselves members of a despised and proscribed fraternity; and in the dearth of educated gentlemen ready to accept literary employment, the task of writing for the public papers too frequently devolved upon very unscrupulous persons, who rendered their calling as odious as themselves. a shackled and persecuted press is always a licentious and venal press; and before legislation endowed english journalism with a certain measure of freedom and security, it was seldom manly and was often corrupt. it is therefore probable that our grandfathers had some show of reason for their dislike of contributors to anonymous literature. at the bar men of unquestionable amiability and enlightenment were often the loudest to express this aversion for their scribbling brethren. it was said that the scribblers were seldom gentlemen in temper; and that they never hesitated to puff themselves in their papers. these considerations so far influenced mr. justice lawrence that, though he was a model of judicial suavity to all other members of the bar, he could never bring himself to be barely civil to advocates known to be 'upon the press.' at lincoln's inn this strong feeling against journalists found vent in a resolution, framed in reference to a particular person, which would have shut out journalists from the society. it had long been understood that no student could be called to the bar _whilst_ he was acting as a reporter in the gallery of either house; but the new decision of the benchers would have destroyed the ancient connexion of the legal profession and literary calling. strange to say this illiberal measure was the work of two benchers who, notwithstanding their patrician descent and associations, were vehement asserters of liberal principles. mr. clifford--'o.p.' clifford--was its proposer and erskine was its seconder. fortunately the person who was the immediate object of its provisions petitioned the house of commons upon the subject, and the consequent debate in the lower house decided the benchers to withdraw from their false position; and since their silent retreat no attempt has been made by any of the four honorable societies to affix an undeserved stigma on the followers of a serviceable art. upon the whole the literary calling gained much from the discreditable action of lincoln's inn; for the speech in which sheridan covered with derision this attempt to brand parliamentary reporters as unfit to associate with members of the bar, and the address in which mr. stephen, with manly reference to his own early experiences, warmly censured the conduct of the society of which he was himself a member, caused many persons to form a new and juster estimate of the working members of the london press. having alluded to dr. johnson and edmund burke, who had both acted as parliamentary reporters, sheridan stated that no less than twenty-three graduates of universities were then engaged as reporters of the proceedings of the house. the close connexion which for centuries has existed between men of law and men of letters is illustrated on the one hand by a long succession of eminent lawyers who have added to the lustre of professional honors the no less bright distinctions of literary achievements or friendships, and on the other hand by the long line of able writers who either enrolled themselves amongst the students of the law, or resided in the inns of court, or cherished with assiduous care the friendly regard of famous judges. indeed, since the days of chancellor de bury, who wrote the 'philobiblon,' there have been few chancellors to whom literature is not in some way indebted; and the few keepers of the seal who neither cared for letters nor cultivated the society of students, are amongst the judges whose names most englishmen would gladly erase from the history of their country. jeffreys and macclesfield represent the unlettered chancellors; more and bacon the lettered. fortescue's 'de laudibus' is a book for every reader. to chancellor warham, erasmus--a scholar not given to distribute praise carelessly--dedicated his 'st. jerom,' with cordial eulogy. wolsey was a patron of letters. more may be said to have revived, if he did not create, the literary taste of his contemporaries, and to have transplanted the novel to english soil. equally diligent as a writer and a collector of books, gardyner spent his happiest moments at his desk, or over the folios of the magnificent library which was destroyed by wyat's insurgents. christopher hatton was a dramatic author. to one person who can describe with any approach to accuracy edward hyde's conduct in the court of chancery, there are twenty who have studied clarendon's 'rebellion.' at the present date hale's books are better known than his judgments, though his conduct towards the witches of bury st. edmunds conferred an unenviable fame on his judicial career. by timely assistance rendered to burnet, lord nottingham did something to atone for his brutality towards milton, whom, at an earlier period of his career, he had declared worthy of a felon's death, for having been cromwell's latin secretary. lord keeper north wrote upon 'music;' and to his brother roger literature is indebted for the best biographies composed by any writer of his period. in his boyhood somers was a poet; in his maturer years the friend of poets. the friend of prior and gay, arbuthnot and pope, lord chancellor harcourt, wrote verses of more than ordinary merit, and alike in periods of official triumph and in times of retirement valued the friendship of men of wit above the many successes of his public career. lord chancellor king, author of 'constitution and discipline of the primitive church,' was john locke's dutiful nephew and favorite companion. king's immediate successor was extolled by pope in the lines, o teach us, talbot! thou'rt unspoil'd by wealth, that secret rare, between the extremes to move, of mad good-nature and of mean self-love. who is it copies talbot's better part, to ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart? but talbot's fairest eulogy was penned by his son's tutor, alexander thomson--a poet who had no reason to feel gratitude to talbot's official successor. ere he thoroughly resolved to devote himself to law, the cold and formal hardwicke had cherished a feeble ambition for literary distinction; and under its influence he wrote a paper that appeared in the _spectator_. blackstone's entrance at the temple occasioned his metrical 'farewell' to his muse. in his undergraduate days at cambridge lord chancellor charles yorke was a chief contributor to the 'athenian letters,' and it would have been well for him had he in after-life given to letters a portion of the time which he sacrificed to ambition. thurlow's churlishness and overbearing temper are at this date trifling matters in comparison with his friendship for cowper and samuel johnson, and his kindly aid to george crabbe. even more than for the wisdom of his judgments mansfield is remembered for his intimacy with 'the wits,' and his close friendship with that chief of them all, who exclaimed, "how sweet an ovid, murray, was our boast," and in honor of that "sweet ovid" penned the lines, "graced as thou art, with all the power of words, so known, so honored in the house of lords"-- verses deliciously ridiculed by the parodist who wrote, "persuasion tips his tongue whene'er he talks: and he has chambers in the king's bench walks." as an atonement for many defects, alexander wedderburn had one virtue--an honest respect for letters that made him in opening manhood seek the friendship of hume, at a later date solicit a pension for dr. johnson, and after his elevation to the woolsack overwhelm gibbon with hospitable civilities. eldon was an oxford essayist in his young, the compiler of 'the anecdote book' in his old days; and though he cannot be commended for literary tastes, or sympathy with men of letters, he was one of the many great lawyers who found pleasure in the conversation of samuel johnson. unlike his brother, lord stowell clung fast to his literary friendships, as 'dr. scott of the commons' priding himself more on his membership in the literary club than on his standing in the prerogative court; and as lord stowell evincing cordial respect for the successors of reynolds and malone, even when love of money had taken firm hold of his enfeebled mind. archdeacon paley's london residence was in edward law's house in bloomsbury square. in erskine literary ambition was so strong that, not content with the fame brought to him by excellent _vers de société_, he took pen in hand when he resigned the seals, and--more to the delight of his enemies than the satisfaction of his friends--wrote a novel, which neither became, nor deserved to be, permanently successful. with similar zeal and greater ability the literary reputation of the bar has been maintained by lord denman, who was an industrious _littérateur_ whilst he was working his way up at the bar; by sir john taylor coleridge, whose services to the _quarterly review_ are an affair of literary history; by sir thomas noon talfourd, who, having reported in the gallery, lived to lake part in the debates of the house of commons, and who, from the date of his first engagement on the _times_ till the sad morning when "god's finger touched him," while he sat upon the bench, never altogether relinquished those literary pursuits, in which he earned well-merited honor; by lord macaulay, whose connexion with the legal profession is almost lost sight of in the brilliance of his literary renown; by lord campbell, who dreamt of living to wear an ss collar in westminster hall whilst he was merely john campbell the reporter; by lord brougham, who, having instructed our grandfathers with his pen, still remains upon the stage, giving their grandsons wise lessons with his tongue; and by lord romilly, whose services to english literature have won for him the gratitude of scholars. of each generation of writers between the accession of elizabeth and the present time, several of the most conspicuous names are either found on the rolls of the inns, or are closely associated in the minds of students with the life of the law-colleges. shakspeare's plays abound with testimony that he was no stranger in the legal inns, and the rich vein of legal lore and diction that runs through his writings has induced more judicious critics than lord campbell to conjecture that he may at some early time of his career have directed his mind to the study, if not the practice, of the law. amongst elizabethan writers who belonged to inns may be mentioned--george ferrars, william lambarde, sir henry spelman, and that luckless pamphleteer john stubbs, all of whom were members of lincoln's inn; thomas sackville, francis beaumont the younger, and john ferne, of the inner temple; walter raleigh, of the middle temple; francis bacon, philip sidney, george gascoyne, and francis davison, of gray's inn. sir john denham, the poet, became a lincoln's-inn student in ; and francis quarles was a member of the same learned society. john selden entered the inner temple in the second year of james i., where in due course he numbered, amongst his literary contemporaries,--william browne, croke, oulde, thomas gardiner, dynne, edward heywood, john morgan, augustus cæsar, thomas heygate, thomas may, dramatist and translator of lucan's 'pharsalia,' william rough and rymer were members of gray's inn. sir john david and sir simonds d'ewes belonged to the middle temple. massinger's dearest friends lived in the inner temple, of which society george keate, the dramatist, and butler's staunch supporter william longueville, were members. milton passed the most jocund hours of his life in gray's inn, in which college cleveland and the author of 'hudibras' held the meetings of their club. wycherley and congreve, aubrey and narcissus luttrell were inns-of-court men. in later periods we find thomas edwards, the critic; murphy, the dramatic writer; james mackintosh, francis hargrave, bentham, curran, canning, at lincoln's inn. the poet cowper was a barrister of the temple. amongst other templars of the eighteenth century, with whose names the literature of their time is inseparably associated, were henry fielding, henry brooke, oliver goldsmith, and edmund burke. samuel johnson resided both in gray's inn and the temple, and his friend boswell was an advocate of respectable ability as well as the best biographer on the roll of english writers. the foregoing are but a few taken from hundreds of names that illustrate the close union of law and literature in past times. to lengthen the list would but weary the reader; and no pains would make a perfect muster roll of all the literary lawyers and _legal littérateurs_ who either are still upon the stage, or have only lately passed away. in their youth four well-known living novelists--mr. william harrison ainsworth, mr. shirley brooks, mr. charles dickens, and mr. benjamin disraeli--passed some time in solicitors' offices. mr. john oxenford was articled to an attorney. mr. theodore martin resembles the authors of 'the rejected addresses' in being a successful practitioner in the inferior branch of the law. mr. charles henry cooper was a successful solicitor. on turning over the leaves to that useful book, 'men of the time,' the reader finds mention made of the following men of letters and law--sir archibald alison, mr. thomas chisholm anstey, mr. william edmonstone aytoun, mr. philip james bailey, mr. j.n. ball, mr. sergeant peter burke, sir j.b. burke, mr. john hill burton, mr. hans busk, mr. isaac butt, mr. george wingrove cooke, sir e.s. creasy, dr. dasent, mr. john thaddeus delane, mr. w. hepworth dixon, mr. commissioner fonblanque, mr. william forsyth, q.c., mr. edward foss, mr. william carew hazlitt, mr. thomas hughes, mr. leone levi, mr. lawrence oliphant, mr. charles reade, mr. w. stigant, mr. tom taylor, mr. mccullagh torrens, mr. m.f. tupper, dr. travers, mr. samuel warren, and mr. charles weld. some of the gentlemen in this list are not merely nominal barristers, but are practitioners with an abundance of business. amongst those to whom the editor of 'men of the time' draws attention as 'lawyers,' and who either are still rendering or have rendered good service to literature, occur the names of sir william a'beckett, mr. w. adams, dr. anster, sir joseph arnould, sir george bowyer, sir john coleridge, mr. e. w. cox, mr. wilson gray, mr. justice haliburton, mr. thomas lewin, mr. thomas e. may, mr. j.g. phillimore, mr. james fitz james stephen, mr. vernon harcourt, mr. james whiteside. some of the distinguished men mentioned in this survey have already passed to another world since the publication of the last edition of 'men of the time;' but their recorded connexion with literature as well as law no less serves to illustrate an important feature of our social life. it is almost needless to remark that the names of many of our ablest anonymous writers do not appear in 'men of the time.' henry cooper*** credit transcribed from the [ ] w. & h. s. warr edition by david price, ccx @pglaf.org {a slight sketch of my father, when over , taken in court by mr. joseph geldart of norwich: p .jpg} w. & h. s. warr , high holborn a sketch of the life of the late henry cooper, barrister-at-law, of the norfolk circuit; as also, of his father, by his son, william cooper, esq., b.a., oxon., _of lincoln's inn_, _barrister at law_; author of the dramas of "the student of jena," "mokanna," "zopyrus," &c. "meminisse juvat." london: printed and published by w. & h. s. warr, , high holborn. dedication. to mr. sergeant storks. dear mr. sergeant, to you i dedicate this sketch of the life of my late brother, henry cooper; and, for three good reasons--the first, because, you were associated with my brother on circuit, knew him well, and were one of those, who being often opposed to him in court, were best able to appreciate his talents, eloquence, and the general powers of his mind;--my second, because, when young, i have listened often to your eloquence, and been made merry by your wit and humour;--my third, because, you have known all my family, and by one and all are much respected;--and my dear mr. sergeant, with kind regards to yourself, and best wishes to you and yours, believe me, yours very truly, william cooper. , hare court, temple, _december_, . preface. kind reader, in attempting the life of my late brother, who, after struggling for years at the bar in almost obscurity, had, on a sudden, his brilliancy noticed and his great talents acknowledged, and no sooner had he reached that eminence in his profession, when all was made easy before him, than unpitying clolho stept up, and cut his thread of life; i must ask your indulgence, for the reasons you will see, as you proceed in this my life of him, as also, from the very scanty materials i have been able to collect for it. how the first idea of this suggested itself to my mind, i will tell you; a few days ago, i was about to re-publish some dramas, written by me in earlier years, and thinking one of them would scarcely make a volume by itself, the _thought struck me_, on looking over my treasures, and finding some verses of my brother henry in his own hand writing, amidst many youthful rhymes of my own and of my family, _that_ i would string them together, and so swell the work alluded to. to do this i thought it necessary to affix a short heading to each, to particularize the writer, and for this purpose wrote, to head my brother's, a short biographical sketch of him, consisting of about thirty lines, and quitting my house, left it on my way to chambers at my printers, returned home, the labours of the day over,--went to bed, but not to sleep, thought of my late brother, of that i had written of him, pondered over the past anecdotes of his life, that had been often told me, recalled his image to my memory, and amidst airy visions of the past, of my father, earlier days, and of youthful pleasures mixed with pain, fell asleep--but--with a determination. to carry it out,--on the morrow i began this sketch. you must judge how i have performed my self-imposed task, and wishing it may amuse you, and encourage young aspirants who shall chance to read it, not to give way under difficulties, but strenuously to persevere, seeing how much may be achieved by diligence and a determination not to yield, remembering ever the good advice and the useful maxim delivered of old:-- "tu ne cede malis sed contra audacior ito--" "possunt quia posse videntur." i am, yours faithfully, w. cooper. life of henry cooper. the subject of the present memoir, henry cooper, was born at a house in bethel street, in the city of norwich, now well-known as the late residence of alderman hawkes, and where resided for many years his father, charles, now better known as old counsellor cooper, a remarkable man, who, like the late william cobbett, though of humble origin, possessed one of those minds that will and must, as they have ever done from the time of deioces of ecbatana (recorded by herodotus) till now, elevate the possessor and compel the homage, whilst exciting the no small envy of inferior intellects. what education he received was at a small school kept by the rev. john bruckner (a lutheran divine), who died in , and was buried at guist, in norfolk, where french, latin, and the common rudiments of an english education were taught; and where, too, the late william taylor,--perhaps one of the most extraordinary men norwich ever produced, the early and intimate friend of southey, and who was the first, according to lockhart's life of scott, to give that great writer a taste for poetry by his (taylor's) spirited and inimitable translation of burger's well known ballad beginning,-- "at break of day from frightful dreams up started eleanor," was his fellow pupil, and who has told me what a gentle, industrious, and amiable boy he remembered my father (truly, in this instance, the child was father of the man); there he acquired, no doubt, some knowledge, but it was far more to his own self-instruction that he was indebted for the large and varied knowledge he possessed, for, as his brother samuel (his only and younger brother,--he had a sister but she died young) informed my mother that such was his early thirst for knowledge, that he not only repudiated all play, and the sports of boyhood, taught himself greek, and greedily devoured the contents of every book that came within his reach, but would, with the pocket-money given him, purchase candles, and when the family had retired to rest, light one, and sit and read till the dawn of day, when he would creep into bed, and sleep till the hour of call, when he would rise to resume anew his mental exercise. so years past by, and the young and sickly looking boy grew into the youth, when his father, a man of strong intellect, with a great deal of sound common sense, perceiving the bent of his son's mind,--and being a man who had retired early in life from business with a small property, on which he lived in a house at heigham (a hamlet within the city),--at once placed his son charles with one of the most respectable attornies, in large business in norwich, as an articled clerk to the law, where he very soon, by his persevering industry, his assiduity, and the great acuteness shown in every matter entrusted to his care and management, so conciliated the good opinion of his master, who discovered progressively, the evident marks of superior abilities [here, too, he indulged to an excess his insatiable thirst for reading, that he would sit up the greater part of the night for this purpose, to the neglect and injury of his health], that at the termination of his engagement, his conduct was so acceptable, and his services so manifest, and his influence, too, among the clients, was found to be so extensive, that on his obtaining his certificate to practise as an attorney, his principal was glad to offer him a share in the business, and receive him as a partner; the reputation he had already acquired became wide spread, and quickly raised the firm in the estimation of the public, and clients flocked to it, and all would see, if they could, and consult with mr. cooper on their affairs. some years thus passed, when, from some cause or other, a dissolution took place in the partnership, and when, probably from the advice of friends stimulated by his wife's ambition (a miss yarrington, a woman as i have been given to understand, of masculine mind, vast energy, and indomitable spirit, whom her son henry has been often said by those who knew her, to have resembled in more than features, for in face he resembled his mother), he was induced to enter himself at lincoln's inn, which he accordingly did in the year , and is thus entered: "charles cooper, of the city of norwich, eldest son of charles cooper of the same place, merchant, admitted nd of april, ." prior to this, a remarkable incident occurred in his life: he undertook the conduct of a cause of great intricacy and importance for a pauper, a labouring blacksmith. an extensive and valuable landed property, well-known as oby hall, with its extensive demesnes, had been for a long time in abeyance; the property was estimated at that period, at not less than , pounds; on failure of male issue, the descendants on the female side put in their claim, among whom the blacksmith stood foremost; he came, consulted with my father on his claim, who became after a time, convinced of the solidity of his title; and after examining it with indefatigable assiduity, he at length, after much entreaty, undertook to carry his cause through every court, were it necessary, upon certain conditions; the conditions were, that if my father succeeded in gaining the cause, in consideration of taking upon himself all the risk, expenses, and labour, he should enjoy the estate; whilst the claimant, having no relations but the most distant, if any, was to receive an annuity for life of pounds. after almost insurmountable difficulties, great expense, and consumption of time and labour, the long anticipated time arrived when the trial was to decide the question of such grave moment to the parties concerned: lord erskine came down to norwich specially retained for the claimant (the origin, i believe of his after intimacy with henry), the case came on for trial,--was fought on both sides with all the ability and ingenuity such a cause demanded (i forget the name of the opposing counsel), the claimant's title was confirmed, and the estate gained. the claimant lived but a little more than a year or two after to receive his annuity, to him absolute wealth; and he died, i have heard, expressing to the last, his gratitude to (as he styled my father) his protector. unfortunately, coming into the possession of the estate, my father must turn farmer, and like him, i have before compared him to, and i have often thought since reading the works of cobbett, that there was a similarity in their thoughts on many subjects; he soon began to farm at a fearful loss (for to be a gainful farmer, so farmers hold, or rather they did then, a man should properly be trained to it from his youth), he was forced to trust to others to do what he should himself have done, and being still occupied in his professional pursuits at norwich, his visits to the hall and the estate were but occasional, and the eye of the master was but too often absent; his family, however, resided there, consisting of his wife and his four children, charles, henry, harriet, and alfred, and there his affections were centred, so that it cannot be wondered at, that with a divided duty, and the course pursued, ere many years, but i am forestalling, the estate soon became involved, and eventually he was compelled to part with it at a loss, or rather with no gain, for at the time of its sale, which happened at a period during the long war, land fell all of a sudden greatly in value, and the seller was glad to experience the truth of the old saying-- "when house and land and all are spent, then learning is most excellent." this sale, however, did not occur till some years after the death of his first wife, and when he had married his second, a miss rose white, my mother, and by whom he had several children, seven only living to maturity, all of whom, i being the eldest, having survived him. his first family, with the exception of his daughter, who died a few years ago, having all died previous to the decease of their father. after having pursued his studies with his accustomed assiduity, in chambers he had taken in stone buildings, and eaten his terms, he was called to the bar on the th of june, in the year . (for these several dates i am indebted to the kindness of mr. doyle, the greatly respected steward of lincoln's inn.) when, having resided a few terms in london, he hastily left the metropolis--the true and only sphere for the full development of extensive legal knowledge and great abilities, such as his,--to reside and practise as a provincial barrister in his native city; where, from his previous reputation, not only as a lawyer well versed in common law, with great knowledge in the practical parts of it, but as a most skilful conveyancer, and great real property lawyer, with a deep knowledge of all its intricacies and moot points, he, at once, obtained considerable practice, and a fine income, which, i believe, by present provincial counsel would be regarded rather as a fiction than reality. he was, moreover, a fluent speaker, with diction pure, and most grammatical. i ought, here, perhaps, to mention what will seem strange to the present generation, that i have often heard my father say, that the first book he began to study law from was "wood's institutes," a book that "the commentaries of blackstone," rendering the study of the law far more intelligible and easy to the student, has long completely superseded. in norwich he continued to reside up to his death, where he was ever applied to by every attorney, without exception, far and near, if any very difficult point of law arose; and, till within some few years prior to his death, which happened on the st of july, , when age as, is usual, though it kindly spared the vigour of his intellect, yet brought with it its physical weakness and ailments, he was employed as leading counsel in many important causes, where legal knowledge and acumen was required; and, in the courts, from the high reputation he had acquired, he ever commanded the ear of the judges, and the respect of his brethren at the bar. he had the joy, too, to live to see his son henry rising fast to eminence in the same profession, though the after pang and anguish to sorrow for his death; and he grieved for him in heart, though not his youngest, as did jacob at the imagined loss of his favourite, and, in my opinion, never did he quite get over it; he not only loved, but was proud of him. the latter years of him, whose life i have thus briefly sketched, were past at his small country residence, situated at lakenham, where his second wife, who survived him, my mother, now seventy-four, still resides, a hamlet of and situate two miles from norwich, where he spent the chief of his time, of that he could spare from the city where he practised, till up to the last twelve months of his life, when in his eighty-fourth year he expired, worn out with past exertion and years, and was, as chief coroner and magistrate of the close and its precincts, under the jurisdiction of the dean and chapter, buried within the cloisters of the cathedral. by his family, from his sweetness of disposition, kindness of heart, and amiability of temper, he was tenderly beloved and regretted, and still whenever recalled to memory in the quietude of the chamber the eye will ever be moistened by a tear, and the heart kindle at the recollection; and by many others he was and will be yet greatly missed; the poor and struggling literary man he would encourage not only with praise, but with his purse, and, that, the poor and needy had ever open to them, and his advice besides gratuitously, whenever required (and this might be confirmed by hundreds still living "in the once ancient city," as a certain wise alderman of yore styled it), and to their affairs he would give as much attention as to the richest client; his private memoranda alone, after death, told his good deeds, for he strictly adhered to the beautiful doctrine laid down by the great teacher, "but when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,"--"_quando ullum invenies parem_?" of his first family, charles, the eldest son, was intended for the bar, and was entered at lincoln's inn, but from the natural sensitiveness of his disposition he never kept his terms, and soon gave up all thoughts of the profession; he lingered at home, a westminster scholar, a man of extensive reading, and of great intelligence [as i have been informed, for i was much too young fully to appreciate him], till after many years, on henry's quitting bermudas, he became the secretary to sir james cockburn, in which employment he continued some years, and only returned when sir james ceased to be the governor. he then became a kind of superior clerk in the marine office then held in spring gardens, and subsequently died at the age of about forty-five or forty-eight of consumption, a complaint of the mother's family. alfred went into the army as an ensign, was at the battle of waterloo, was wounded there, was ordered and went subsequently to india with his regiment, the th foot, where, years after, just as he had obtained a sick leave to return home, he was shot at dinapoor, whilst reposing on his sofa, thinking probably, or dreaming of home and its affections, by a drunken sepoy, mistaking him (in his mad excitement) for his servant, who had just previously refused him drink; the occurrence caused, necessarily, great excitement and much conversation at the time, the man was caught and hanged--a satisfaction to justice, but a wretched consolation to his family, by whom, as the youngest, and amiable as he was gentle, he was most fondly loved. his father and sister, i believe, were never made acquainted with the true cause of his death. a letter of henry's relating, though indistinctly, for evident reasons, to the sad occurrence, will be placed before the reader. harriet, as i have said, the only sister (who married a dr. leath, a physician in the army, who resides still at bayswater) died not very long ago, leaving no issue. having given a sketch, which i think and hope will have interested the reader of him, from whom he sprung, whose life i am about to delineate. i will now proceed to depict the life of the son, with the simple remark that i have undertaken a task of no slight difficulty (and much such an one as that of the poor jews, who, under their hard taskmasters in egypt, were set to make bricks without straw), with very slight materials to describe the life of one who died when i was sixteen, and whom i loved from his unvaried kindness to me, of the life of one who, had he lived, would have had a far abler biographer. henry, in early life, took a propensity to and entered the navy, and was a midshipman in the battle of the nile, but soon after, disliking the service, quitted the profession. his education, when he returned from sea, was, through indulgence, neglected: and he passed most of his time at oby hall, in norfolk, the then residence of his father, and distant about eight miles from yarmouth, in shooting, fishing, and driving a tandem-cart about the country, built of unusual height; and an anecdote is related of him, that, after driving it awhile, he went to mr. clements, the builder at norwich, and said, "well, clements, you have built a machine to surprise all the world, and i am come to surprise you by paying you for it." and to show his early quick perception, ready reply, wilfulness, and precocity, i must here relate two well-attested anecdotes: the first, when quite a child, and at his lessons in the nursery, on his mother's running up to dispel the noise and disturbance he was making, she exclaimed in anger, after in some measure correcting him, "why, sir, if you go on in this manner you'll turn the house out of the windows," the young gentleman, looking roguishly at his mother, responded, "how can i do that, ma, for the house is bigger than the windows?" this of course dissipated all anger, and brought a smile to the mother's face; silence, however, was restored and study resumed. the other, when he was about eleven or twelve years of age, a poor soldier, who had been kind to him, assisting him in his fishing, boating, &c., and who was at that time cleaning harness for my brother in the stable, was arrested by an escort of soldiers, who suddenly came to apprehend and convey him, for some alleged offence, to the head quarters at yarmouth; without saying a word or leaving a message behind him, young henry started off with his friend and the soldiers, telling the captive, "never to care, for he would be his advocate." he was, after some time had elapsed, missed; search was made for him in every direction till night came on, but no traces of his whereabouts could be discovered, and, with fearful anxiety, as i have heard my father often say, all, at last, worn out and weary with the fruitless search, retired to bed, but not to rest; care brooded over their pillows and dispelled sleep. morning, at last, came, but with it no tidings of henry; and, when alarm had reached its height, in ran the servant lad, in breathless haste, exclaiming, "master henry is found," and soon after he was seen, being borne in triumph on a soldier's back, with others following, coming up the lawn. all were delighted to see the lost one safe, and, to delight was added astonishment, on a soldier putting into his father's hand a letter, which was quickly opened and read, and which came from the commanding officer. i regret that letter is lost; it spoke, i have often heard my father and mother relate, in the highest terms of the youngster, and warmly congratulating the former on the possession of such a son, so noble in bearing, so bold, and so talented; adding, that he had pleaded the soldier's case so well, that he had, so young an advocate as he was, obtained the acquittal of his client. as he grew up in years he was the pride and terror of the little farmers of the neighbourhood,--the first from his ready wit, playful, and genial disposition, which he ever retained; the latter from the practical jokes he was constantly in the habit of playing on them, many of which are remembered and spoken of at, and around oby, up to the present day: and he had the love of all, for, if they wanted game, or any kindness done them, they had only to ask and have. but midst this he read, and he lacked not mental food to feed on, as his father possessed a large and well-stocked library. henry's reading, however, was necessarily desultory and discursive, but such the retention of his memory, that he forgot nothing he had once conned; as an instance of this i must relate an anecdote, often told of him by mr. jay, an attorney at norwich, still living, and who was an excellent client, and a great admirer of my brother, that soon after large business flowed in upon him, and he went into court with a bag full of briefs; to his mr. jay's utter astonishment, after a case had been called on, in which he was the attorney, and the several witnesses had been called, examined, and the cause gained, my brother, who had led it, turned round, and said, "there jay, i have won your cause, but i will be hanged if i know where your brief is; i read it, but somehow lost it." he, of course, used blank paper for his notes. his perception, too, was so acute, his imagination so vivid, and his memory so retentive, that he could at once, and readily apply the knowledge so widely gleaned to the subject under discussion, that they who were ignorant of his previous mental instruction, would have imagined that he had, in earlier years, been the lean and diligent student, who had wasted the midnight oil in meditation and deep research. after an interval of years, he became a member of lincoln's inn, when in due course of time he was proposed by the late mr. justice, then james allan parke, esquire, and called to the bar, may th, . soon after his call, he accompanied sir james cockburn, who had been just appointed governor of the bermudas, as his secretary, and after a short period, on his arrival there, was made attorney general, the duties of which office he for some years performed to the entire satisfaction of the governor. his letters thence, i have understood, contained beautiful and vivid descriptions of "that happy island where huge lemons grow" [he was an admirer of scenery and nature], and that the wit, graphic portraitures of the men in office on the island, the general chit chat, scandle and fun, intermixed with politics, occasional rhymes, &c., put the reader [since dead] of a few of them, in mind of the letters of lord byron. after his return home, he took chambers in fig tree or elm court, in the temple, read and awaited clients, and went the norfolk circuit; but, alas! few profitable knocks came to his door, and the circuit yielded rather expense than profit; but on he went struggling and struggling, till at last his talents were acknowledged; and the four years preceding his death, he was an eminent leader, and engaged in almost every cause throughout his circuit, and rapidly gaining a reputation in london from "the very eloquent, bold, and honest style of his defence," for mary ann carlile, who was prosecuted, by what was then styled the constitutional association, for publishing a libel upon the government, and the constitution of this country. the trial ended after a brilliant speech of the defendant's counsel, full of argument, eloquence, and ability, in the dismissal of the jury, after being locked up all night; the counsel for the prosecution, the late mr. baron gurney, consenting to their discharge. the report of the trial, and henry cooper's speech in full, was printed and published by the notorious richard carlile, who then kept a shop in fleet street. at the early age of forty my brother died, and he was then looked on by the profession, as a man, who, had he lived, must have achieved the highest honours in it. he was an ardent admirer of, and some of his friends were pleased to say, a close imitator of the oratory of lord erskine, with whom, till he died, he was on terms of the greatest intimacy. in fact he was writing his life for publication, by the express desire of erskine himself, when death staid the pen. alas! but a few pages of it were written, and those in the rough, i will, however, lay them, ere i have done, before the reader. henry, the last four years of his going circuit, and when his abilities were acknowledged, was sometimes opposed to his father, to the no small pleasure and amusement of the norwich people, who as greatly respected the legal ability of the one, as they admired the eloquence of the other; and it was often a source of half suppressed laughter in that portion of the court set aside for the public to hear "my learned friend" banded from one to the other by the two athlete--father and son--the one as powerful from his tact, energy, and fervid eloquence, as the other from his legal knowledge and great acumen, and who was often the victor, for that knowledge, deep and extensive gave the father a superiority on those points of a case, in which law and fact were intermingled, and which were apt from henry's comparative previous little business and short practice as a leader to escape his attention, or when patent rendered him less capable effectually to grapple with the legal and knotty difficulty, for he had never had the advantage of a pleader's chambers; nor let it be thought in those days that there were no giants to contend with--sergeants blosset, frere, and storks, messrs. plumptre, eagle, robinson, prime, and others of note, with biggs andrews, now q.c., and george raymond, author of the "elliston papers," as juniors were on the circuit, all of whom have long since been dead, with the exception of mr. sergeant storks and the four last named. and here i cannot do better than insert a paragraph signed j. s., which appeared in the _times_, i think in or about the years or ; i copy from the paragraph cut out from the paper, and at the time pasted in an album, to which the date was omitted to be attached. the paragraph was headed, "the late henry cooper:"-- "to most of our legal readers, we feel convinced, that this week's sketch of the late henry cooper, the friend companion and intended biographer of the late lord erskine, will prove highly acceptable. the unexpected and melancholy event which deprived the bar of one of its most promising ornaments, and cast a shade over the gay and talented circle in which he moved, must be fresh within the memory of our readers. as yet no memoir, no frail tribute to stamp even a fleeting remembrance of his learning, professional fame, or liberal principles has appeared, and while worthless rank and heartlessness have been perpetuated by marble and the prostituted energies of literature, genius, talent, and honor, have been left to the obscurity of the grave; not one of those who shared his gay and mirthful hours, who listened enraptured to his eloquence and flashes of wit, which as hamlet says 'were won't to set the table in a roar,' have endeavoured by giving to the world his literary labours, or even a sketch of his life, to preserve his memory from oblivion. henry cooper was the son of an eminent counsellor of norwich, a gentleman of powerful mind, whose legal knowledge has rendered him one of the first consulting men of the day. even at his present advanced age of near eighty, he may be seen early of a morning taking his accustomed walk, or if the weather be too severe for exercise, found in his library surrounded by his books and papers. raised by his own perseverance, and in a great measure self-educated, it is not to be wondered at if from such a father, the subject of our sketch, acquired those habits of perseverance and industry which enabled him by system to attain knowledge and fame in his profession. upon being called to the bar his convivial powers and talent for conversation introduced him to erskine, who found so much pleasure in his society, that they became not mere friends, but inseparable companions, and plunged together in the gay round of pleasure, which the world too temptingly presents to men whose minds enable them to watch its interests and guide the machine by which society is regulated. to all who knew him, and the thoughtless life he led, it was a matter of surprise how and when he found time to attend to the numerous cases of his clients, for his field of action soon became extended; yet we will venture to pronounce and feel confident of being borne out by those who knew him, that in no one instance did the cause of the party he advocated suffer. in the court he appeared as well acquainted with the words of his brief, as if it had been for months the object of his most serious attention; not a thread or a link of evidence escaped him, and so persuasive was his manner, so argumentive his style of language, that the jury frequently received the impressions he wished to convey, and their feelings generally, if not their judgment, went in favour of his client. he used, on some occasions, to plead in the norfolk courts, and we have frequently seen him opposed to his father as a special pleader. the old gentlemen, strong in the possession of his youthful intellect, which time even to the present hour has failed to rob him of, was perhaps less assailable by his pleasing manner and florid speech than any of his brothers of the bar, and his ejaculations not always of the most complimentary nature, were sometimes loud and frequent. we have seen the son on such occasions always the first to smile at his father's petulance, and the last to express any sense of the impropriety of the interruption. we have seen the old gentleman, in the midst of his son's argument, write to the opposing counsel suggesting authorities and giving references and precedents against him, all with the most perfect good humour on both sides; and the greatest triumph he could boast was to defeat his son upon a point of law: on such occasions he would put his hands behind his back, and moving round with a chuckle, exclaim, "something to learn yet, harry!" the father's delight and pride in his superior legal knowledge over his son, became at last a standing joke with the barristers of the court. the death of lord erskine blighted henry cooper's hopes to a seat in parliament, where his eloquence and sarcasm would have made him powerful as an ally, and feared as an antagonist; liberal in his opinions to the present exclusive system of the church, he was a decided enemy, and a thorough reformer in the state. his services at a crisis like the present, would have been of incalculable benefit to his country. from the period of the loss of his friend, till his own untimely end, he devoted himself more than he had ever before, to literary pursuits and the labours of his profession. a life of lord erskine was nearly arranged for the press at the time of his decease, and it is to be regretted that as yet his labours have not been given, imperfect as they are, to the world; no one could have had better opportunities or have been better calculated for the task; alike the counsellor in his difficulties, the companion of his mirthful hours, the springs of action, the feelings of his breast, must have appeared unveiled before him; death, however, prevented the completion of his task and removed him too early from the world his talents ornamented." i had forgotten to say, that on his return from bermudas he became and continued very intimate with the cockburn family, and often prophesied the future success of the late attorney general, now chief justice of the court of common pleas, then young alexander cockburn; and often has my brother said to me, then about sixteen, when speaking of the above family, "rely upon it, billy, young alexander, if he enter the profession, will do great things in it; he is a remarkably clever, energetic, and talented young man." henry had much of the restlessness and irritability, the usual accompaniments of a high order of talent, with great earnestness in diction and action. ere i proceed further; the reader will, perhaps, be pleased with a likeness of the man. i should say, in height, he was about five-feet eleven-inches; of spare and sinewy frame, with an elastic tread, that those who knew him, and seeing him in the distance, might truly say, as ulysses of diomede in shakspeare's play of "troilus and cressida," "'tis he, i ken the manner of his gait; that spirit of his in aspiration lifts him from the earth." and often have i heard the late mr. alderson (the father of the present judge), who travelled with my father, circuit and sessions as a provincial barrister, more than thirty years, and who was resident at norwich, say,--"that henry always put him more in mind of a spirit, that a man of flesh and blood;" his eye dark, like that of edmund kean's, the great actor, showed every emotion of the soul, now fiery with anger, now glazed with thought, and anon, melting into softness; his head small, and finely rounded, and covered with thick clustering curls of black crispy hair, was such as sculptors have ever loved to give the youthful antinous; his forehead retreating was characteristic, as lavater says, "of genius;" his nose was slightly arched in the centre and slightly fleshy near the nostrils; his face oval, with a well defined chin and a mouth plain, but full of energy and expression, and similar to sterne's, the contour, of whose face i always thought my brother's much resembled. i have thus given, to please the lover of physiognomy, "a shadow portrait," not "a myall's photograph," which i hope will not only satisfy the physiognomist, but which i think they, who but even slightly remember henry cooper, have but to place before the tablet of their memory and view the shade cast from it with their "mind's eye" to at once recall and recognize the original. i have thus sketched his likeness, as i regret to say, thus only can he be now known, or viewed by those who were unacquainted with him living, as no portrait of him is extant, he dying young, and for years previous struggling to succeed in a profession where the "battle is not always to the strong," though in the long run the best man often succeeds, as with few exceptions, perhaps, the long race, barring accidents, is usually won by the best horse. he left no writings behind him save a few letters, beautifully expressed, but mostly relating to family matters, and, therefore, uninteresting to the general reader, with the exception of five or six preserved by my mother, which i will give the reader ere i have ended this biographical sketch; and the few friends with whom he corresponded, and to whom, occasionally, he showed, and gave the productions of his pen, though they considered him a man of considerable talent, set such small value on his effusions, that, however, pleased at the time they might have been with them they were put aside forgotten and most probably destroyed, and what he himself chanced to write and was pleased with for the instant, was, from the natural carelessness of his disposition, hastily cast aside, and, no doubt, often burnt with the waste paper of his chambers; so that every endeavour i have made to possess even a shred of these scraps, has been futile. all i have been able to gather are the few letters alluded to, with a few poetical lines which will be given to the reader; and, as we often judge of character from trifles, he must, from the slight sketch i have given, and the small crumbs i have been able to collect, form a judgment of him i have endeavoured to describe. he had all but reached the height of his profession, when he was taken away, no doubt for a wise purpose, to the deep and lasting regret of those who not only fondly loved him, but who had begun to take, and no wonder, a warm pride in the object of their affections. he died on september th, , having been attacked some days previous by a severe attack of diarrhoea, which, by some fatal mischance, was mistaken by the surgeons who attended him, for brain fever; he was, consequently, bled, and drastic medicines were administered, which must have hastened if they did not cause his death, which happened at the house of a friend of his, by the name of hill, at chelsea, where he was buried, but his body was afterwards removed by his sister and deposited where it now lies, near his father's in the cloisters of norwich cathedral. i will now lay before the reader the few letters i possess. by the letters of an ingenuous writer, it is said, you can gain a clearer insight into his character, disposition, and mental powers, than by long association or familiar discourse; these letters have been kindly given me by my mother, with whom henry constantly corresponded, and whom he always treated with marked respect and affection, which was fully reciprocated. they were addressed to her at norwich, where she with my father resided, and the first bears date, _london_, _rd_ _nov._ . "my dear madam, "and it came to pass that when they emptied their sacks, lo! ev'ry man's money was in the mouth of his sack." i have had the same measure from you which joseph's liberality heaped on his brethren; and if you will but believe that my proposal to you, to be allowed to be a purchaser of half the preserved raspberry, was not a covert mode of begging it as a gift; i thank you without any regret, and am very much obliged to you. i thank you, too, very much for the pheasant which flew into the window of the mail coach, and startled me in st. stephen's street. george, who is a good lad, had put on his best legs, and soon overtaking the mail, threw it in '_sans ceremonie_.' it was a pleasant disturbance from no very pleasant reverie, which my mind set out on the moment the coach set out from the inn; and which would, but for this agreeable interruption, have lasted me at least as long as the first stage. for the rest of the good things which you gave me while i was in norwich, and sent me laden away with, i must thank you _en masse_; for to thank you one by one for them, would force me to write a long letter, which i have not the least intention in the world of doing. i was outside the mail, and for a long way the only passenger. we learned at newmarket, that the coachman, who drove the coach, which was overturned the preceding night, lay very much hurt. his viscera are bruised, and his only chance of life is in cool veins well emptied by the lancet. 'tis right that he on whose care the safety of others depends should be most prominently exposed to the danger of ill conduct or neglect; i wish heartily that this liability could be transferred from those who sit on the coach box, to those who sit in the cabinet and hold the reins of the hard driven state! we should then have had more peace and less taxes. ask mr. samuel cooper [a great liberal and brother of my father] if we should not? at chesterford your friend, mr. smith, the representative for norwich, took the mail; and after a nap, talked very unrestrainedly with me on the present state of france, on buonaparte, the criminal law, and the wisdom of the justices at sessions. i was determined--like horace's whetstone, which can sharpen other things, though blunt itself, to put an edge on him--to say something deep and decisive on some of the subjects, but i got nothing from him but working-day talk. perhaps (like the character with the greek name in the _rambler_, who tells his guest, showing him his fine things, that they were only brought into service when persons of consequence visited him) he disdained to pull out his best to me, yet i rather judge that he is only clever to the party at norwich; and as oberon, though but six inches high, is yet tall for a fairy, he is a great apollo to the blue and whites [the colours of the liberal party at norwich]. for corroboration of any opinion of theirs, i should always, like the recorder of london, think it right to ask the cook. there's my letter, a type of the miracle of the creation and the lie to the great epicurean maxim, that 'nothing can be made out of nothing;' for as one of those, that, as the song runs, 'none can love like,' would exclaim, 'by jasus, i had not a word to say, and yet i have spoke three whole pages!' my duty to my father, and if you please, my best regards to mrs. watson [my mother's sister], on condition she has no more hysterics; and that is, as she pleases, more than perhaps she is aware of. she is not naturally melancholy, and may soon accustom her mind to like hope better than remembrance. my best love to harriet [his sister], i should, as i promised her, have written to her if i had not written to you, but one letter will serve both; pray assure her how grateful i am to her for all her anxious care and attention to me; i will not even allow that charles [his eldest brother, who was then the secretary to sir james cockburn at bermudas] loves her more than i, or esteems her more, or will be more glad (as i told him in my letter) than i was to see that she was better in health than she had been for years; 'twill make him happy indeed, for the possibility of losing her is alarming to him, and if she were to die, he would be most inconsolable; yet his grief would not be more than mine, nor would he be more ready to exclaim,-- 'i, nunc; et, numina non posse nega' which, as you are a lady, i translate for you, 'go now and say, that angels cannot die.' but you must not read this to her, for she will absurdly say 'tis flattery, as if i could have any motive to flatter her. my love to will [meaning myself]. he is so much improved as to be an engaging boy, and i begin to like him very much. i am, dear madam, yours very faithfully, henry cooper. p.s.--if mr. boardman [an old friend of his] should call, pray remember me most particularly to him. he has long behaved to me with the affection of a brother. he has even, in no few instances, preferred my interests to his own. i am most deeply obliged to him, and i like to tell people of it." the next letter bears date,-- _london_, _st_ _dec._ . to the same,-- "i send you the only coin i have, my very warm thanks for one of the finest and best turkeys that entered the metropolis to be devoured in celebration and honour of christmas. a christian of the utmost degree of faith, that is as great as you ladies place in physicians, who devoured with a devout and religious pique, could not have eaten more or with more pleasure than i, though i sat down with no other zeal than an hungry appetite, and little better than a mere heathen stomach. when i reflected that you good people at norwich were rioting on just such a dinner (upon my honour), i could not help blushing for your preposterous consciences, that, could expect to enjoy so much pleasure in this world, and be saved in the next too. 'tis well for me that no one offered to bet with me, that the pheasants did not come from you; but, i pray, do not think of returning me the thanks, which i paid for them. they are all due, and a vast sum more on the old account, though you, like a liberal creditor, may have no idea of urging the payment of the balance against me, and i beg they may be carried to it. i had almost forgotten to add alfred's thanks to mine for the turkey [he was the youngest brother, who was an ensign in the th foot, and had been wounded in the recent battle]. he was here in time, and made a dinner that contrasts rather vividly with his first meal after the battle of waterloo, on a slice of old cow that they shot with their muskets, and tore to pieces, without giving themselves a moment's pause to reflect whether the bramin's might not be the true religion. but i must not anticipate any part of his narrative to you, and harriet, as to another dido and anna, of all he has seen, done, and suffered, throughout which he has been, like the french poets (grissets) famous parrot, _quite as unfortunate_ as aeneas, and a great deal more pious. in other respects, indeed, you'll not find him like that bird; he'll not give you his adventures with the gratuitous loquacity of poor poll. in this he'd rather resemble the bullfinch; you must give out the tune to him, and chirrup with questions to him before he will pipe his strain to you; and when i consider the vast difficulty which the natural taciturnity of you ladies places you under of asking questions, i feel for your curiosity in its tight stays excessively. on this occasion, perhaps, where the motive is so strong, you will break through your native restraint; and, therefore, i advise you to have your interrogatories ready by the th of january, , when alfred, who means to accompany me, will be in norwich. i am very grateful to you for your benevolent wishes of prosperity and happiness to me, but they fall on a heart dead to expectation. i have been so long in obscurity, that hope has quite left off visiting me; the best years of my life are gone; and what is my condition? depressed spirits, and ill health; and the way as far as i can see before me, no better, nay worse than the lengths behind. what right have i to hope? the ring and the lamp of the arabian tales must cease to be fiction, before i can have any chance of good fortune. but i do not call for pity. if i have not learned to be skilful in parrying and eluding the blows of adversity, from experience, i am at heart somewhat hardened by long subjection, and habituation to them; and, if i have not the soothing of hope, i am not altogether without the consolation of philosophy. the happy must substract from his happiness the frequent reflection, which comes like a cloud over him, that death will snatch him from all his blessings. the wretched finds relief in the certainty that death will end his misery; therefore, that state is not very enviable, nor this intolerable. both will soon, very soon be past, and small, indeed, is the difference between past pleasure and past pain. be assured, madam, that i, in return, as warmly wish you prosperity and happiness; i wish not only that the approaching, but many succeeding years, may have both hands full of plenty and delight for you; and i trust that it is not so unreasonable in you to believe, that future events may give a character of prophecy to my present wishes, as it would be in me to expect the fulfilment of yours. pray, have the goodness to tell my father, that the vol. of pickering, from priestleys, is procured, and that the copy of the manuel libraire, at longman's is still to be sold at four guineas. pray, make my thanks to him for letting me know the day of the sessions at norwich; i shall be present to help to do the nothing there. i suppose he knows that the corporation of yarmouth have elected mr. w--- , to the stewardship. i hear him say 'how stupid of them to elect that fellow.' i beg his pardon; it shewed exquisite judgment; and yet, after all, there was somewhat of a felicity in it. they thought it would be deserting propriety to have a man in the lower office of steward of higher understanding than their recorder. now, under all the fleecy cloud of wigs that lowers in the court of king's bench, they could not have found a second rate head to a---s, but that of w--- d, and nothing but 'a lucky hit of nature' that mended her design when she was determined to make as thick a skull as she had ever yet turned out of her hands, could have given existence even to this instance of inferiority. he says he was quite ignorant of their intention of the honour that has been done him. if this be not affectation, i can imagine nothing with which to compare or illustrate his surprise, except that which must have come over the onion, when it discovered that the egyptians had made a god of it. i am wrong: surprise is the effect of perception and he has none; his is like the genuine night, that admits no ray, and in his very stupidity he is involved from the least glimmering of consciousness of it. pray, lessen the anxiety of harriet, which an unmerited affection for me betrays her into, by telling her that i am getting better, and excuse the want of turn to the conclusion of my letter in the want of paper; and allow me abruptly to assure you that, i am, dear madam, yours most faithfully, henry cooper." the following letter, the reader must think very piquant and graphic, and it will, probably, tend to throw a new light upon his preconceived opinions and estimation of a certain great man. he must remember, too, whilst reading it, that admiral sir george cockburn had the command of the ship which conveyed napoleon and his suite to st. helena. this letter is dated, _london_, _oct._ . to the same,-- "i am very much obliged to you for your excellent and most welcome present [it is below the dignity of the epopee to say goose and sausages] which reached me on sunday, and the note which you were so kind as to send with it, i can only repay you in this the old paper of unproductive thanks, but the sincerity of them will be held in some estimation by the mind actuated by the kindness that has excited them, and, therefore, flimsy as they are, i venture to beg your acceptance of them. i have nothing new, madam, to send you for your entertainment from this great city. that the regent is going to divorce the princess of wales, and excite the hope of the husbands and the fear of the wives--that under such an example, all the legal restraints to repudiation will be removed, and the practice become wide, and quite fashionable; you have, of course, heard long ago from the newspapers, they are eternally depriving us by anticipation of the power of writing agreeable and interesting letters to the ladies in the country. sir james cockburn arrived in town last saturday from bermudas. he is quite well, and neither seems nor believes himself an hour older for having been three years at bermudas, since he was last in england. i have been much with him and his brother, the admiral, lately. i have not (for your sex has not all the curiosity, though all of a peculiar kind) omitted to ply him with questions about buonaparte. he is now admirably qualified to be emperor in that country of which i have read, where they elect the fattest man in the state to the empire. his legs are as bulky as my body, the ribs in proportion; and since this girth is all attained in little more than five-feet five-inches of length, he is not what miss cruso or miss godfrey [the head milliners of norwich at the time] would call a very genteel figure. he eats with voraciousness of the most luxurious dishes; he has, in cockburn's opinion, a very mean assemblage of features with something fearfully black and vicious about the brows and eyes. his manners are coarse and repulsive. did you ever in a litter yard come suddenly on a lady in the straw that starts up on her fore legs and, dropping fourteen infant pigs from her teats, salutes you with a fierce jumble of barking, grunting, and hissing? in exactly such a sound is this amiable man represented to me to have always replied to every address of bertrand, mouthoulon, and the others, who are his fools and followers to st. helena. sometimes he neglected all restraint on his nature, and gave the same ferocious and inarticulate answers to the english officers. he played chess so badly, that bertrand and mouthoulon, who had too much discretion to excel their patron, had, at times, great difficulty to lose the game to him; after trying for many nights he could not attain the rudiments of whist, and went back to vingt-un; but this is the man who has been described to us all as all- intellect. the newspapers, too, said i remember, that at whist he left all instruction behind him, and soon played so well, that he had won very large sums of the admiral by his superior play, even while he was only a tyro. i can tell you no more now; but the admiral has had the goodness to lend me a journal of his conversation with buonaparte on the passage out, and when i have the pleasure of seeing you in the sessions week, i will give you some extracts from my memory. i am, i believe, a little better, but the disorder in the upper part of my stomach still continues and oppresses me. it is now inveterate, the complaint commenced last march, a twelvemonth past. if i cannot rid myself of it, it will kill me in time. my best duty to my father, love to william and 'aliis,' i am, dear madam, yours very faithfully, henry cooper. p.s.--i write in a great hurry for i am making up my parcel for bermudas. i should not write to you at all, but i do not like so long to delay my due thanks to your kindness." this letter is dated, , _lamb's buildings_, _th_ _january_, . to the same,-- i am scarcely warm in my place in london before i have to thank you for your present to me; you hardly give me time, in the short intervals of these marks of your kindness to me, to frame my thanks to you for each. i have exhausted all my common-place forms and am forced to rack my invention (so very often have you come forward with these welcome claims on me) to give anything like a turn to the expression in which to convey my thanks. mr. pope (in those rhymes for the nursery which he has entitled the universal prayer) calls enjoyment obedience: now if enjoyment be thankfulness, too, then never was a being more completely thanked than yourself; for the ducks were devoured with the most devout gust and appetite; they were the most superb fowls that ever suffered martyrdom of their lives to delight the palate and appease the hunger of the lords of the creation. you should have sent them to some imitator of the dutch school, who could have painted them before he ate them; the hare, too, is as good as it can be, and you are agreeably thanked for it by an equal portion of enjoyment. i must beg you to excuse a very short, dull, and hasty letter, from me. if i were not impatient at the thought of letting any longer time elapse without expressing my lively sense of your frequent mark of kind consideration of me, i should not write at all to day. i have something to do at my chambers, and in ten minutes i must run down to westminster hall; and whilst i am thus engaged, i am as much disqualified for writing, by a dark fit of low spirits, as prevented by want of leisure. i resist as much as i can these attacks of the night-mare by day, but i cannot wholly succeed against them; my circumstances may possibly change, and, if not, such gloominess is unreasonable; if fortune is never weary of persecuting me, i shall at last be past the sense of her persecutions. in the meantime, whatever is the colour of my life, i shall, if i can, continue to hope the future cannot be the worse, and the present will be the more tolerable for it. i shall, therefore, cling to her while i live, and to apply a beautiful thought of tibullus-- 'dying, clasp her with my failing hand.' in endeavouring to recollect me of the many fine things that have been said of hope to crown my declaration of attachment to that first place of our lives, i remember cowley has observed 'that it is as much destroyed by the possession of its object as by exclusion from it.' this is very ingenious and very true, and though not to the purpose for which i was seeking it yet will very well serve another. i wish my dear madam, very sincerely, that the former mode of destruction may speedily befall all your present hopes, and that in future you will be surrounded by so many blessings as will leave you no room for the exercise of any hope but their continuance, my duty to my father, and my love to william, i trust that he improves in latin; pray tell him that i was vexed not to find him so good a scholar in that language as i expected; when i next see him i hope my expectations will be exceeded. i am, my dear madam, yours very truly, henry cooper." the following letter i have previously made reference to. it is written, evidently, in despondency, and heartfelt sorrow, under the shock of the frightful calamity. it relates to the disastrous death of poor alfred, his youngest brother. it is dated from, and bears date , _elm court_, _temple_, _th_ _june_, . to the same,-- i received your letter yesterday, but i was so ill (that important as the occasion is) i could not answer it. to-day, nothing less than the urgency of the subject could prevail upon me to make the smallest exertion, for i am scarcely able to drag one limb up to the other. i have a violent catarrh, the glands of my throat are further inflamed and ulcerated, and i am burning with fever. with regard to divulging to harriet the disastrous event, for which, when once known to her, she can never be consoled; i am in a very unfit state to give advice. i am as i have always been of opinion, that it should be concealed from her as long as it can. it is a more generous cause of grief than the loss of a lover; and as harriet's mind is built, i think more likely to shock and destroy her. you state only one reason for breaking the secrecy which has hitherto been observed--that it appears strange, the event public, that you are not in mourning for it. i cannot but think that if any good can reasonably be expected from withholding the knowledge of this dreadful incident, it would be wrong and trifling to forego it, for the senseless custom of putting yourself in black for a few months. i have no crape about me. if any one were to ask the cause of my disregard of a paltry decorum, i should either turn on my heel from him, or explain to him that i did not put on the mockery of sorrow, lest it should get to my sister's ear; that i was in outward mourning, and she had to be discovering for whom. it is, surely, easy for you to say that you do not put on black for the same reason, to all who may enquire, or to all those to whom you wish to appear decorous. [he then writes on family matters, but, after a few lines, again recurs to the painful subject of his letter.] it is known to several with whom i am acquainted in london; but, it is easy, as harriet restricts herself to a very narrow intercourse, to keep it still from her knowledge, till she has recovered strength of body to contend anew with severe and heavy affliction. how much i have suffered from the intelligence i shall not attempt to describe to you. i had but little interest in life before; it is now heavy and sickening to me. i feel as if i never should smile again; every circumstance of aggravation attends it. to perish on the verge of the shore, when he was just about to embark, after six years in the climate, when we thought the danger past. with letters from him full of felicitation of himself, and rapture at the hope of soon meeting us again, and when we were expecting him every moment in our embrace, to be struck cold to the heart with the news that we should never see him again. i owe little to man--i shall soon owe nothing to any other being. i hate the cant of the doctrine of providence 'your brother may be snatched by a merciful power from impending evil.' bah! why not the merciful being continue life to my brother, and destroy the impending evil? well, i shall soon be as he is, and though there is no consolation in that feeling, it is some assuagement of grief, because sorrow will then be at an end. my duty to my father. i write in great pain. i am, dear madam, yours very truly, henry cooper." the following makes the last of the letters i possess, and is written six months previous to his death; and in answer to a letter, of my mother to him, respecting the appointment of a paid chairman, and he, a barrister of some standing, to preside at quarter sessions, and to have besides (if my recollection be correct) some civil power. this was then in the contemplation of the ministry; and as the poet says "coming events cast their shadows before" evidently the shadow of the present county courts. the letter is dated from and bears date, , hare court, temple. th march, . to the same,-- "i did not return to town till sunday morning, when i found your letter at my chambers. i hope you will accept, as a sufficient excuse, the extreme fatigue and languor which i felt all yesterday for not answering it immediately. i lament exceedingly, that my father should not have been early enough in his application to the lieutenant of the county, in whose gift, by the frame of the bill, the appointment is placed, and in whose hand, i fear, by the act itself it will remain. i cannot conjecture to whom it has been promised by col. wodehouse. to alderson is not at all probable, from the part he has taken against the wodehouse's, who are the most bigoted and relentless tories in existence. to preston [another provincial barrister in norwich, and the late jermy, who was shot by rush], ought not to be probable, because he is not competent either in law or common sense to fill the office; and the favour to him would be an injury to the public. my father has every claim to it, and i think that it would have been no more than what was due from col. wodehouse, both to the county and my father, to offer it to him before he promised it to another. i wish you might be right in your surmise, that the patronage will be placed in another quarter; but, of that there is the faintest chance, i should advise you to press my father to exert himself to procure the appointment, as it will be an office of the most agreeable kind, affording considerable profit at very little trouble. i, myself, know not a soul in the world who could influence any one of the present government: and any enquiries or attempt by me would have, in all probability, an adverse operation. i am of no importance whatever to any party, but my opinions, humble and insignificant as they are, have been noticed and recorded; and i am down in the black book for persecution, rather than in the red for favour. of little note and importance as i am, such is the consciousness, in their own infirmity, in those who rule us, that the very lowest who have denounced their system, are objects of their hatred, for they are the objects of their fear; and those who have put them to the pain of apprehension, are marks for their revenge. i should think that the best course that my father could take would be to apply to mr. john harvey, to induce his brother, onley harvey, esq. (a brother barrister of my father too), to ask it of the home department; if he asked it (supposing the gift to be there), i think, without doubt it would be given. [the rest of the letter relates to family matters, and concludes my love to william. he attributes too much honour to me by looking to me with any admiration.] my duty to my father. i am, dear madam, yours very truly, henry cooper." my task is all but accomplished. i have but now to lay before the reader the promised verses; those on buonaparte are characteristic of the writer, who, with his high intellectual powers, possessed to the last, a noble and independent spirit, which despised even the appearance of servility. i shall then add the notices that appeared in the _morning chronicle_, and _gentleman's magazine_, soon after his decease, which clearly show that he, whose death they record, was no common person; as, also, the high estimation he was held in by the profession, to which he was an honour; and by the public who admired him for his eloquence, and prized him for his independence of character. in the sketches i have given of the two lives, which were, of necessity intermingled,--it is true, i have given but a rough outline of each, and my hope is they will portray the lineaments and character as effectually as a more lengthened biography; as i have seen, and often the character of a friend's face better given in a few mere outlines, than in the finished likeness. in looking at a small duodecimo edition i possess of plutarch's lives, i perceive that the lives of his greatest heroes and statesmen, are comprised within a hundred pages, and yet how clearly does he portray their lives to the reader. he gives a few anecdotes of their youth, a few salient points of their character in manhood, and then concludes with their actions and their deaths; and leaves the rest to the imagination and "the mind's eye;" and who, after, reading them, does not see clearly before him the man whose life has been so ably delineated? i mean not, by this, to compare myself for an instant, with that great writer; but, having, as i said before, such slender materials to deal with, i have, as far as i was able, and after re-perusing the writer referred to, done my best, with my small abilities to follow his example, and pursue his arrangement; i can only hope i may have in part succeeded. after the notices referred to, i shall end by laying before the reader the verses written on my brother, after his death, by my mother and mr. wing; and in the appendix i shall refer the reader to the life of erskine before alluded to; as, also, to the trial of mary ann carlile, which will show, and clearly, the style of the eloquence of her advocate on the occasion, combined as it is with powerful argument, and that clearness and lucid order which were his forte. and now, reader, to use the words of cicero, in concluding one of his epistles to a friend, "vale et valeas." "in bonampartem." he ne'er shall be extoll'd by me, whom wealth and fortune raise to power; but he, alone who will be free from sordid shame, or live no more. let him with wreaths of song be crown'd, who life, deflower'd of glory, spurn'd, and breaking from his kindred round, to carthage and to death return'd. with him, who when his righteous hand, in vain the splendid blow had given, the tyrant, only chang'd, disdain'd the light of unregarded heaven. and cato--thou, who tyranny all earth besides enslaved, withstood; and failing to high liberty, pour'd fierce libation of thy blood. oh, godlike men! you leave no praise for him who to the king could bend, to add a few unhonor'd days to life, at latest--soon to end. nor him self-raised to gallia's throne, who, rushing with his martial hordes, cast europe's ancient sceptres down, and made his slaves her sov'reign lords. for his was not the heart that dar'd when with the battle all was lost, plunge in the whirlpool of the war, and share the slaughter of his host; nor his, the indignant soul with brave and roman arm, his life to shed; but still he sought by flight to save his outlaw'd and unlaurell'd head. with face to earth his vet'rans' lay in ruins all who bore his name; his mighty empire past away, and blasted, as a chief, his fame. yet--yet--(so let him live) content the sentence of his foes he bore, like a vile felon to be sent an exile to a wretched shore. from the portuguese. where silver hairs no reverence meet, where to the weary stranger's feet to cross the threshold 'tis denied. and at the genial board, her place no kerchief'd matron takes to grace her savage husband's haughty side; where niger hides, or on the shore of dark and stormy labrador. o castres,--i with thee would rove, and, blest, thus wand'ring, if my mind could leave her galling bonds behind; the bonds of an unworthy love. not like a gambian slave that fled (of the pale creole's lash in dread) from rio, strives in fearful haste the mountain's woody side to gain; but with him drags the clinking chain, lock'd at his waist or ancle fast. the woes of the rivers. "to each his suff'rings." heaps of dead trojans were scamander's bane, dead dogs, dead cats, and dung-boats shame the seine, ten thousand shores and jakes the thames defile, and gradual mud is working woe to nile; yet harder duddon's fate, her hapless stream of fifty strains by wordsworth is the theme. * * * * * the following _jeu d'esprit_ was written on a certain nobleman, who, leaving the whig party, of which up to that time he had been a strong adherent, and for the sake, it was supposed, of gaining the regent's favour, not only voted, but took a strong part against the queen. to lord l---. what caused you l---, to rush in, through thick and thin, to give your queen a splashing for this your party, to the devil gave you, and yet the rav'nous tories will not have you. so in that country (where with hopes you fool your second infancy, you yet shall rule) a sect of devotees there is who tell ye the way to heaven is through a fish's belly; and in the surges, on a certain day, they give themselves to rav'nous sharks a prey. among the rest, an ancient beldame went,-- weak, wither'd, wrinkled, tawny, tough, and bent (your very self in breeches she would be, put on her petticoats, and you were she); she waded in the water to her haunches, hoping the sharks would pass her through their paunches; but out of fifty, not a shark would have her, tho' she implored them, as a special favour; they came and smelt, and did not like her savour, she threw their stomachs into such commotion, they would not even bear her in the ocean. but down they pushed her--roll'd her o'er and o'er, and shovel'd with their snouts again to shore; alike your fate: to be by sharks abhorr'd was her's, and your's by minister's old _lord_. * * * * * in the _chronicle_ of september th, , appeared the following notice of my brother's death, headed:--"death of henry cooper.--we regret to have to announce the death of a gentleman warmly beloved by all who knew him, mr. henry cooper the barrister. he died on sunday the th, at the cottage of his friend, mr. hill, of chelsea, after a short illness which brought on an inflammation in his bowels that proved fatal; he was interred on friday last. "mr. cooper had overcome the difficulties of his profession, and was rising fast into eminence. he was already leader on the norfolk circuit, and with his readiness, his powerful memory, and his forcible and fluent delivery, the most distinguished success was universally anticipated for him: his vein of pleasantry was particularly rich, as an instance we may refer to a case on the very last circuit in which a hairdresser of newmarket was one of the parties, and which he made irresistibly amusing. we appeal confidently to those of our readers who have attentively considered the signs of the times, if there was not much distrust of the bar about the period when mr. henry cooper came into notice, and if he did not by his exertions contribute greatly to remove it. "he had been sometime employed procuring materials for a life of lord erskine, with whom he was particularly intimate, which he had undertaken to write; we suspect he had not made much progress in the work when death erminated all his labour." the next notice of his death is taken from the _gentleman's magazine_, from july to december, ; vol. , part .--"on the th of september, , at chelsea, henry cooper, barrister-at-law, in the vigour of life and with every prospect of reaching the highest honors in his profession. the death of this rising barrister has been recorded in page [as above]. he died of inflammation of the bowels, at the house of his friend, mr. hill, at chelsea. his age was about thirty-eight or thirty- nine, and he had been about twelve years at the bar. he was the son of a counsel of eminence residing at norwich. he went to sea with lord nelson, and was present at the battle of the nile, but he early quitted the naval profession for that of the law, though he retained much of the frankness and gaiety of manner which distinguish seamen, and the activity and strength of frame which a seaman's habits create. he was afterwards attorney general of the bermudas, at the time when one of the cockburn's was governor. on the appointment of the late mr. serjeant blossett to the chief justiceship of bengal, mr. cooper, who was then rapidly rising on his circuit (the norfolk) became one of the leaders; and at the two last assizes, was in every cause. "he possessed great activity and versatility of mind; no one, according to the testimony of those who saw most of him, combined with a fluent and powerful eloquence, a better judgment and nicer skill in conducting a cause. but his best and highest forensic quality, and that which, combined with his talents, make the loss a national one, was his great moral and professional courage, his unshaken attachment to what he considered a good cause. no consideration ever warped him from his duty. he was proof not merely against those speculations on the best probable means of personal advancement which many men reject as well as he did, but against that desire of standing well with the judges, of getting the ear of the judge, of obtaining the sympathy of men of professional standing, which it requires much more firmness to resist; there was no one on whom a defendant exposed to the enmity of government, or to the judges, or to any prejudices, could rely with greater certainty; that he would not be compromised or betrayed by his advocate. in a word, there was no man less of a sycophant. he had a confidence that he could make himself a name by his own merits, and he would have it. "but the fair guerdon when we hope to find, comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears and slits the thin spun life." the following verses, soon after my brother's death, headed, "on the death of henry cooper, esq.," appeared in the provincial papers; they were composed by my mother, and had not only the tacit consent of all, but the universal praise, and that openly expressed, for their spirit and truthfulness which all felt, for all then knew and admired him they mourned. the pride of the circuit is gone, the eloquent tongue is at rest; the spirit so active is flown, and still lies the quick heaving breast. the mind so gigantic and strong, is vanish'd like vapour or breath; and the fire that shone in his eye, is quenched by the cold hand of death. yet a balm to his friends shall arise, that so soon he acquired a name; for he dropp'd like a star from the skies, untarnished in lustre or fame. the following verses also, on the death of my brother, appeared in the provincial papers, and were written by frederic wing, esq., attorney-at- law, residing at bury st. edmunds, suffolk, and headed, "on the death of the late henry cooper." "ye friends of talent, genius, hither come, and bend with fond regret o'er cooper's tomb; closed are those lips, and pow'rless that tongue, on whose swift accents you've delighted hung. cold is that heart,--unthinking now, the brain, but late the seat of thought's mysterious train, for by the stern, relentless hand of death, is stopt the inspiring, animating breath: and he whose powers of rhetoric all could charm, fail'd to arrest the tyrant's conquering arm. cooper,--farewell!-- transient, yet splendid, was thy short career, unfading laurels twine thy early bier. to mourn thy exit, how can we refrain, for seldom shall we see thy like again! who, to deep learning, and the soundest sense, join'd the rare gift of matchless eloquence. thy wit most keen, thy penetration clear, thy satire poignant, made corruption fear. and such thy knowledge of the human heart, so prompt to see, and to unmask each art. oppression shrunk abash'd, while innocence call'd thee her champion--her sure defence. once more, farewell, long shall thy name be dear, and oft shall independence drop a tear of grateful memory o'er departed worth, and selfish, wish thee back again to earth. to abide the important issue of that cause, fix'd not by mortal, but celestial laws, thou'rt summon'd hence, may'st thou not plead in vain, but from our heavenly judge acceptance gain, and sure admittance to those courts on high, where term and time are lost in blest eternity. appendix. the life of lord erskine. as commenced by my brother thomas erskine, the only advocate, and, almost, the only orator, whose speeches are likely to survive the interest of the occasion that gave them birth in a country, where forensic litigation abounds, and political institutions render the study and exercise of eloquence important and necessary, was born on the in --- the year , at ---, in scotland; he was the third son of the earl of buchan, by ---. this family is ancient, and connects, with its pedigree, the sovereigns, both of scotland and england, related to the former. the marriage of the daughter of james the first with the palatine, mixed his line with the descendants, and, consequently, united him with the family that now reigns in england. he thus brought with him to the profession of the bar, the advantage of all the prejudice in favour of illustrious descents, and found easier way yielded to his powerful talents by the diminution of envy which attended it. of his very early years, i am unable to supply the public with any information, and i regret it,--not that any very important lesson of utility can be derived from the anecdotes of childhood, but they are amusing, and amusing without harm; and i agree with dr. west that he has a very imperfect knowledge of human nature who is not convinced, that in a state of refined society, it is impossible to amuse innocently. all that i have been able to learn distinctly, is, that the most playful vivacity, and the same good humour, which ever after accompanied him even in the keenest rivalry of the bar, displayed itself in his words and actions, and made him the delight of all, but those who morose and splenetic, from their own disgust of existence, conceive offence at others for that enjoyment of the present, which can only subsist upon ignorance, and the hope of the future that must be disappointed. to this vivacity, he, perhaps, owed as much as to those endowments, which are deemed more solid qualifications for the bar. it imparted itself to his eye, his mouth, his tone, and his action, and held his hearers engaged, when his periods were such as pronounced by an ordinary speaker, would not have preserved the audience from that listnessness, which is instantly seen and felt by the speaker, and soon adds embarrassment and confusion to feebleness. in private society, to the last months of his existence, it gave him rather the air of a youth inexperienced in the realities of life, and entering it under the ardour of hope, than of a man who had almost reached the limits of human existence, in the exercise of a profession, which lays the human breast naked to inspection. it was said of pope, from his primitive habits of reflection and gravity, that he was never young; and, on the contrary, it may be said with equal justice, from the playfulness and vivacity of erskine, that he was never old. at the age of he entered the navy as a midshipman, and served in the ---, commanded by captain ---, in america. while in this station he was employed in making a survey under one of the lieutenants of the ship, off the coast of florida. he had some acquaintance with geometry; and, as he tells us himself in his "armata," always retained a fondness for that science. whether this fondness grew in acquiring the knowledge of navigation, indispensable to his profession, or subsequently at the university in which it forms so much the greater part of education, i am ignorant; but that he was versed to a degree both in geometry and astronomy, is evident, from the work i have named, and some pieces of his poetry, which i have had access to. the cause that led him to leave the navy and enter the army is unknown; it is most likely to have been disgust and impatience of the subordination, which in our fleets is rigid in the extreme, and never softened by that alternation of social intercourse, at a common table at which in the army, all the officers of the regiment meet daily, and from which they rise with a feeling, not only that insulting and overbearing command upon duty would be a violation of an implied pledge of kindness, but injury to themselves, as diminishing in the gloom that would spread over their next meeting, the common stock of enjoyment. the condition of our naval service is, in some respects, improved since erskine was a member of it; but then all knowledge beyond that of the conduct of a ship, was deemed unnecessary, impertinent, and even adverse to the attainment of nautical skill. the intercourse of the officers even on the shore, was confined almost entirely to one another, for not to speak of the uncouthness of their habits, which made them as incapable of mingling in society on land, as the beings of their element on which their avocation lay, are of living in the air, their language was technical to a degree that rendered it to all, except themselves, almost unintelligible. with such persons for companions, and to use terence's expression, quotidian and tedious sameness of a life at sea, we need look no further for erskine's desire to change his profession. when we consider the great capacity which he possessed for observation, and his extraordinary power of combining the knowledge that he so acquired, the period which he gave to the naval service must have been, to a spirit so active, a period of painful constraints. i remember that in a conversation upon lord erskine, with mr. capel loft, after enumerating the many great causes in which the great advocate had been engaged, he exclaimed, "what an infinite multitude of ideas must have passed through that man's mind." the remark is not an empty one; i doubt whether there ever was a man who exercised the faculty of reasoning more, who drew a greater number of distinct conclusions, or whose materials of thought were more the collection and property of his own observation. cicero, in his speech for archias, appeals to the judges whether he could possibly supply the demands upon him for daily exertions of eloquence, unless he assidiously refreshed his mind with studies, in which he was assisted by archias and other rhetoricians, and that he read copiously is manifested in all his works. the accomplished academician, the able balancer of the different schools of philosophy and morals, and the studied rhetor is obtruded upon us. he was, in every sense of the term, learned; erskine, on the contrary, cannot be discovered by any of his speeches, or writings, to have read much, and most probably had read very little. he was in no sense of the word learned. he has, indeed by acuteness of observation, vigour of combination, and the ready power of deduction that he possessed, been able to produce and leave behind him what will become the learning of others, but he was not learned himself. his qualities, from his earliest years were quickness and acuteness, unchecked and insatiable curiosity, retentive memory, and busy reflection; his mind was never still. in the coffee-room he conversed and indulged in humour with all round him. however important or heavy the causes which were to occupy him in court, they never oppressed his mind with a load of anxiety; his was not like ordinary minds under great affairs, so absorbed that he could perceive nothing round him; his, till the hour of solemn exertion arrived, was disengaged and indulged in pleasantry; after the toil of the day, the passion of eloquence and the intensity of technical argument, he was full of spirits and waggery at dinner and in the evening. and light as his topics sometimes were, his thoughts were always distinct, and his expressions full; you never from him heard any imperfect thoughts expressed, that (like tadpoles, before they are complete, must go through other processes of animation) required the exertion of your own conceptions to attain their sense and spirit. the activity of his mind was like that of the swallow, which either in sport or pursuit is upon the wing for ever. with this character it may readily be believed that young erskine received his discharge with feelings like those that attend the cessation of a long and painful disease from a state which called for no exercise of his great talents, and, neither yielded scope for the communication of his own attainments nor opportunity to increase them from the communications of others. he became an ensign of the royals and married not long after. he was sent with his corps to the mediterranean, and stationed either with his regiment or a detachment of his regiment, at minorca; there, under the influence of an ardent feeling of religion, which he owed to the anxious inculcations of his mother, from whom he received the rudiments of education, he is said in the absence of the chaplain, to have composed more than one sermon, and to have delivered them to the assembled officers and privates of his regiment. it never occurred to me to ask him whether there was truth in this report; but he has frequently talked to me of anecdotes which were circulated of him, some of which he confirmed while he contradicted others, and never spoke of this as unfounded; from my knowledge of his character it is highly probable, and i believe it is true. about three years ago he was at tunbridge wells with mr. coutts, and while there, pointed out to a friend of mine a building, and said, "there, when it was a public room, i preached a sermon of my own composition to the company;" this was for a wager. he returned to england in -- with his regiment, the father of three children. the anxiety of his mother, whose affections and care for her family rendered her most estimable, and have endeared her memory to her descendants, was excited by thomas, who had nothing but his pay for the support of his wife and his children, likely soon to become more numerous. her prudence suggested to her another profession for him by the gains of which he might avoid the destitution which she saw hanging over his head. with this design, she sent for mr. adam, the barrister (now the commissioner of the scotch jury courts), that she might receive the assistance of his experience and advice. on his arrival she said, "my son tom has been thoughtless enough to marry a woman without fortune, and she has brought him a family which he cannot support himself, nor i for him,--what is to be done? and i have been thinking that he must sell his commission, go to the bar, and be lord chancellor." it is interesting to reflect, that while this excellent woman was endeavouring to conceal the bitterness of an affectionate mother's anguish for her son's imprudence, she was unconsciously pronouncing a prophecy. nor will it be less to see how trifling an event would have prevented its accomplishment; mr. adam told her that there were a great many steps from the entrance of the profession and the very high rank which she purposed, many of which he should be happy to congratulate her son on attaining. the conference proceeded, the obstacles to success at the bar were weighed against the certainty of domestic calamities if he remained in his present profession, and they parted, both of opinion, that in the direction of the bar, thomas erskine was most likely to leave behind his present embarrassment and reach prosperity. it remained, however, to procure the consent of her son; that was not easy: he had no predilection for the bar, and was attached to the army, and his regiment, to the officers of which his sprightly and amiable manners had endeared him, and in which he was soliciting promotion and expecting it. at last, however, his conditional consent was drawn from him. he agreed to let his mother dispose of him as she wished, if he should be unsuccessful in his application for the vacant captaincy in the royals. this was far from satisfying his mother, but he was peremptory, and she could not induce him to more positive terms; thus, if erskine could have gained the rank of captain in the royals, the destination of which was, then, an american colony, by which he might have gained the privilege of being scalped by the savages, or perishing in the swamps or forests of north america, the country would never have known that splendid eloquence, which is its boast and its pride; tooke, thelwall, hardy, and the rest of those unfortunate men who were held so long under the terror of death, would probably have been hanged, and the country oppressed by a gloomy precedent of constructive treason, under which no man who has raised himself in opposition to a corrupt and sinister government could have been safe; one is inclined to shudder, like a man whom a shot has missed only by the breadth of a hair, in contemplating how near so much danger was incurred, and so much benefit lost. but it is not on the magnitude, but continuity of the chain, that great results depend; on examining the past, we shall find that as small a link struck out at one point or other of succession, would have disappointed the most important events of history. happily for erskine and his country, his claims from the merit of his services were eluded, and though he was more urgent in his applications, since the alternative was to be the bar, he was refused promotion. there was a singular coincidence in the fortune of the late lord chatham and erskine: the former was sent into parliament and driven into violent opposition to sir robert walpole, because that minister had deprived him of a company of horse, and dismissed him the service, an act of which the minister had reason to repent. he was like the emblem of envy with the recoiled dart in his own bosom; except charles i., who stopped hampden and cromwell from embarking upon the thames to follow liberty into the wilderness of america, no man had ever so much reason to curse himself for his own acts. in the same manner a slight of erskine's claims to promotion sent him to display an eloquence that had never yet been heard at the english bar. his fame as an advocate, drew the notice of the whig party on him; he was enlisted in their ranks and added an importance to the opposition, which not unfrequently increased the embarrassment of the minister. while he was held in suspense by those who had the disposal of commissions, he was quartered at maidstone, and entering the court during the assizes there, was placed in his military uniform upon the bench, beside the great lord mansfield, to whom he was distantly related, and who at intervals of business, conversed with him on the proposed change of arms for the gown. this was another of the accidents which, by minds of a certain frame would be regarded as an omen. after relating this anecdote, he added, "only four years from that time, i was at the place in the lead of that very circuit." all his hopes of promotion at an end, the commission so unequal to the demands for subsistance upon it, was disposed of, and he was at once entered a student of the law society of lincoln's inn, and a commoner at --- college, cambridge * * * * * a few days before he was called to the bar, a friend came and invited him to accompany him to dine at the villa of a wine merchant, a few miles from london. the allurements were a good dinner, and wine not to be procured but by a dealer, who could cull his own stock from thousands of pipes, and they were not to be resisted by a young man fond of pleasure, to whom such luxuries must come gratuitously, if they come at all. economy, which was important to erskine, was not quite beneath the regard of his friend, and after many proposals of several modes of conveyance, which were all rejected, either for their expense, or their humbleness, they agreed to walk; i have heard playful exertions of the mind or body attributed to what was denominated an excessive flow of animal spirits, a phrase that sounds significantly in the ear, but gives no information to the understanding. those who use it, mean, i suppose, to express that when the body has received more nutriment than is necessary to promote its growth, or maintain it the redundancy is thrown off in almost involuntary exertions of the limbs or of mind. if this physiology be just, erskine had an extraordinary surplus of supply,--that regular discharge like the back water of a mill, and it found vent in various gambols and effusions of humour on the way to the wine merchant's. while erskine, buoyed by high health and ardent hope, scarcely felt the ground that he trod, the sight of a ditch by the side of the road, tempted him to exercise his agility. the impulse, and obedience to the impulse, were the same. he made the attempt, but the ditch was too wide for his spring, and he leaped a little short of the opposite bank. his dress above was splashed with foul water, and his legs booted in mud. nothing was to be done on his part but to return, and his companion with a kindness that does him honour, would have returned with him, but this, erskine was too generous to allow; and while his friend continued his journey to the wine merchant's house and sumptuous dinner, erskine solitary and in pain (for he had severely sprained his leg) returned to town; on reaching his lodgings mrs. erskine proposed a change of dress, and urged him yet to go to dinner at the wine merchant's. he objected his lameness from the sprain, which she answered by proposing a coach and the expense, which he hinted, was not to be weighed against the benefit he might derive from the friends which his manners and spirits were likely to make him in the mixed and numerous company he would meet there. this was a consideration so important to a young man on the verge of the bar, that erskine's disinclination was overcome by these reasonings of his wife. a coach was procured, and he again set out, but he did not arrive till dinner was half over, and found himself placed by this accident by the side of captain bailey, of greenwich hospital. with the modesty which is always united with true genius, lord erskine always spoke of this event as the greatest instance of good fortune which ever befel him. but for this, he said to me, "i might have waited years for an opportunity to show that i had any talent for the bar; and when it occurred i should not have pleaded with such effect, depressed and mortified as i might have been by long expectation, and its attendant evils, instead of seizing it with all the energy and confidence of youth elated with hope." i record this to show how little he was actuated by arrogance or presumption; i by no means assent to his opinion, on the contrary, i think he would have waited a very short time for occasion to exert his prominent talents. he slipt from high ground into the profession. his rank would have drawn notice upon him, and he had friends full of eagerness, and not altogether without power. no more is the partiality which, it is said, was manifestly shown him by lord mansfield, to be deemed a main cause of his success. on the contrary i am so little inclined to attribute such an effect to it, that i believe even the hostility of the bench could not have kept erskine from rising. his mind was not of the ordinary mould,--he was excited by obstacles. such was his temperament, that the damp slight of discouragement which would have quenched common spirits, by the ardour of his mind would have been converted into fuel, and have increased the splendour with which he burst forth at once at the english bar. how was the delay of opportunity, or the frown of the judge to suppress the eloquence whose first essay excelled, both in matter and delivery, the latest efforts of the most experienced speakers in our courts? when he rose dunning, bearcroft, wallace and others, were in the height of their reputation as speakers in westminster hall. they were even eloquent, according to the judgment of the day gazed at as the luminaries of the profession; but, brilliant as they were, they were combust in the splendour of erskine, on his first appearance as an orator. this considered, it is in vain to pretend, that, but for favourable conjunctions which have happened to him and not to others, the prosperous and devious career on which he immediately entered, could have been prevented or even long delayed.--[alas, no more!] bridge street banditti, _v._ the press. report of the trial of mary-anne carlile, for publishing a new year's address to the reformers of great britain; written by richard carlile; at the instance of the constitutional association: before mr. justice best, and a special jury, at the _court of king's bench_, _guildhall_, _london_, _july_ , . with the noble and effectual speech of mr. cooper, in defence, at large. london: printed and published by r. carlile, , fleet street. . dedication. to henry cooper, esq., barrister at law; for the noble stand and more noble attitude which he took on this trial--for the very eloquent, very bold, and very honest style of his defence--and, above all, for the manly resistance which he made to, and the contempt which he showed for, the menacing frowns of those persons who conducted, advocated, and supported this prosecution: and to those honest jurymen who resisted their fellows in the attempt to throw the defendant into the hands of her enemies, and the enemies of their country; and who, by their honesty and independence, have given a death blow to those corrupt, wicked, and malignant _would-be_-censors of the press, calling themselves a constitutional association; this report of the proceedings is gratefully dedicated by, and the sincere and heartfelt thanks is hereby offered to them, of mary-anne and richard carlile. report, &c., &c. this was an indictment at the prosecution of "the constitutional association," and their first attempt to obtain a verdict. the defendant pleaded not guilty. the following are the names of the jurors:-- special. john stracey, of smithfield bars, merchant, philip jacob, of the crescent, cripplegate, ditto, james byrne, of dyer's court, ditto, charles wright, of the old jury, ditto, (foreman) henry houghton, of king's arms yard, ditto, john webb, of coleman-street, ditto. talesmen. joseph blackburn, russia mat dealer, john davis, painter, john williams, cheesemonger, bryan mills, packer, michael williams, agent, frederick bennet, smith. mr. justice best, at the request of the defendant, enquired if either of the jurors was a member of the constitutional association. the answer was in the negative. mr. tindall opened the pleadings. mr. gurney appeared to conduct the prosecution, and mr. cooper was for the defendant. mr. gurney.--may it please your lordship; gentlemen of the jury; my friend, mr. tindall, has told you the nature of this action, and it is now my duty to lay this case before you. the indictment has been found by a grand jury, upon the prosecution of the constitutional association; and it charges the defendant, mary ann carlile, with publishing a libel upon the government and the constitution of this country; and, gentlemen, after a not very limited experience in these cases, i will say, that a more criminal and atrocious libel never met my observation. it purports to be written by richard carlile; it is dated from dorchester gaol, and it has been published by the defendant, the sister of that man who is now suffering imprisonment for his own criminal conduct. it is entitled, "a new year's address to the reformers of great britain;" and, among other objectionable passages not charged as libelous, it contains the following; "as far as the barrack system will admit"-- mr. justice best.--i do not think that you are entitled to read that passage, mr. gurney. mr. cooper.--i think not, my lord; i was just rising to interrupt mr. gurney. mr. gurney.--i have no objection, my lord, to abstain from reading the passage to which i was about to call your attention. i shall read the passage which is charged as libelous, and if the learned counsel for the defendant can find throughout a single passage to qualify its malignity, do you, gentleman, give the defendant the benefit of it. the passage is this:--"to talk about the british constitution, is, in my opinion, a sure proof of dishonesty; britain has no constitution. if we speak of the spanish constitution, we have something tangible; there is a substance and meaning as well as sound. in britain there is nothing constituted but corruption in the system of government; our very laws are corrupt and partial, both in themselves and in their administration; in fact, corruption as notorious as the sun at noon-day, is an avowed part of our system, and is denominated the necessary oil for the wheels of the government; it is a most pernicious oil to the interests of the people." and in another passage the following words were contained:--"reform will be obtained when the existing authorities have no longer the power to withhold it, and not before. we shall gain it as early without petitioning as with it, and i would again put forward my opinion, that something more than a petitioning attitude is necessary. at this moment i would not say a word about insurrection, but i would strongly recommend union, activity, and co-operation. be ready and steady to meet any concurrent circumstances." now, gentleman, these are the passages charged as libelous, and i defy even the ingenuity of my learned friend to show that they are not most odious libels. what! are the people of this free and independent country to be told that they have no constitution? it is an assertion, the malignity of which is only equalled by its falsehood. we have a free and glorious constitution. it has descended to us from our brave and free ancestors, and i trust that we, too, shall have virtue and magnanimity enough to transmit it unimpaired to our posterity. we have laws, too, equal in their administration. we have a constitution where no lowness of birth--no meanness of origin--operate as an obstacle to preferment; in which the chief situations are open to competition, and for which the only qualifications are integrity and information. our laws are here stigmatized as partial and corrupt. if they were not impartial, this man would never have dared to vilify them. the very accusation proves that the charge is false; for if it were true, this libeler must have suddenly suffered for this assertion. it is because that they are administered in a spirit of mercy unknown to the laws of any other country--it is because they are administered in tenderness, that this man has had the power to promulgate his vile and odious falsehood. he thought it meet and right, and most becoming too, to tell the world that this was not the precise time for insurrection. he plainly indicates, that he has no objection to it; but he would not say a word about it at present, the time was not come; but he tells his fellow reformers to be "ready and steady to meet any concurrent circumstances." gentlemen, it would be an idle and impertinent waste of time to make any further observations upon the pernicious tendency of this libel. but what is the defence which is to be set up by my learned friend? are we to be told that the prosecution of this libel is an invasion of the liberty of the press? i will not yield to my learned friend, nor to any man in existence, in a just regard for the freedom of the press. but who, i would ask, is invading its liberty? he who brings to justice the offenders, or he who under the sacred form of liberty promulgates such language as i have just read to you? i do not think that on this subject you can entertain a doubt. i feel the most perfect confidence in committing this case to your good sense. if you believe that the defendant is guilty of publishing this libel with the intention charged, you will pronounce your verdict of guilty. if, on the other hand, you think that the passages which i have read to you contain nothing libelous, or that the defendant is not the publisher, i shall sincerely rejoice in your conscientious acquittal. _james rignall_ deposed, that he had purchased the pamphlet in question of the defendant, at her shop in fleet street, on friday evening, the th of march. there were several other copies lying about on the counter. cross-examined by mr. cooper.--who are you?--i am an agent to the society for the suppression of vice. but you are also employed by these constitutional people, as they call themselves?--only in this one instance. were you employed to purchase the pamphlet in question?--i purchased that and others. you were employed by the constitutional society to purchase them?--yes, i was. who sent you?--mr. murray. the attorney?--yes. and he directed you to purchase this pamphlet, eh?--he did not particularize any. did he state his object in the purchase?--no. what wages are you to have?--i have no wages. then you perform this agreeable duty gratuitously?--no, i do not say that. then how are you paid?--i made a charge for my time. perhaps you belong to the society?--no, indeed i do not (with vehemence). well, i do not wonder that you should be anxious to separate yourself from the society (a laugh amongst the auditory). mr. gurney.--i desire that no such remarks may be made. mr. cooper.--what have you had for this particular job?--i have made a charge for several other little things i did (a laugh). mr. gurney (to the spectators),--i shall certainly move his lordship to take notice of some particular persons that i see misconducting themselves. cross-examination resumed.--what other jobs did you for the association?--i did several jobs; that i will not deny. how much have you had for these little jobs?--i declare upon my oath, i cannot state particularly how much i had for these little jobs. i made a charge. i don't recollect exactly what my charge was. come, come, the round sum?--i can tell you pretty nearly the round sum, if that will satisfy you. i think it was above seven pounds and under seven guineas. i was sent on other business beside this. i wish to know what that other business was?--is it necessary to answer that question? i think it necessary.--then i will take the sense of the court upon it. i have no objection to answer that or any other question, if my lord thinks i ought. mr. justice best (smiling).--it tends to nothing; but it is as well to answer it. then i purchased come other different things for the association, but it was not in consequence of any general or particular orders i received: i went to purchase these publications which i myself thought libels; i cannot state exactly now what they were. then you did that, i suppose, without any hope of reward?--i don't state without any hope of reward; i expected to be paid for my time. oh, then, it was not altogether out of virtue and patriotic feeling?--those were two of my motives, most certainly, but not the only ones (general laughing). has this been the usual way of getting your living?--it has for a year and a half past; i have had no other feasible occupation during that time. i suppose you received a considerable sum in the course of this honourable employment?--i have told you the sum total was about pounds. mr. justice best.--do you think that material, mr. cooper? mr. cooper.--i do think it material, to show the sort of agents that this honourable society employs. (to witness.) and what did you do before you suppressed vice and libels?--i got my living honourably as an officer in his majesty's customs. and are you still an honourable officer, &c.?--no; i have lost my situation. retired upon a pension?--no. how old are you?--fifty-four. no pension, eh?--none. re-examined by mr. gurney.--i have been in the employment of the society for the suppression of vice for a year and a half; i have been paid by them for my services. in this instance, and in several others, i have made some purchases for the constitutional association. _horatio orton_ was then called. a general murmur ran through the court, which was crowded to excess; and all persons most deferentially gave the witness way. examined by mr. gurney.--i was a witness before the grand jury. on the th of march i purchased another copy of the pamphlet in question from mary anne carlile; i had it from her own hand. cross-examined by mr. cooper.--how came you to purchase this on the th of march?--i was directed by mr. murray, the solicitor, to purchase it. this is the gentleman? (pointing to mr. murray, in court)--yes. he is the honorary secretary to the association, and the disinterested attorney for this prosecution?--yes, i was sent by him for the express purpose of purchasing this pamphlet; i should not have gone if i had not been directed by him. what is your situation in the society?--my situation to the association is as clerk. clerk to mr. murray?--no; i am not in mr. murray's office. in the society's office, separate from the attorney's office?--yes. in what situation were you before?--i used to assist my brother in his correspondence with country newspapers. not for the town papers?--no, for himself; he takes the reports of the house of lords' proceedings, and transmits them to the editors of the country papers; i used to assist him in the copying, and he paid me for my trouble. what is your salary in your present honourable situation?--it is not fixed. it depends upon your exertions?--yes. then you work at present by the piece?--no, i do not; the committee have not yet come to a determination about my salary; i have not made any demand for salary; i have not proposed any sum; i mean to swear that; not any sum has been proposed to me; i don't say that i would work for the society gratuitously; if i want five or ten pounds i know where to go for it; not of the association; i can have it of my brother; i expect to receive something of the association. in your modesty, what may be the extent of your expectations? mr. gurney submitted that this was not a proper mode of cross-examination. mr. cooper.--i think it is, and i shall persist in it until i am told by my lord that it is irregular. mr. justice best.--i don't think any part of the cross-examination is approaching to anything like regularity. mr. cooper.--if your lordship says i am not to be allowed the same latitude which is allowed to counsel on other occasions, i shall not persevere. mr. justice best.--i have no objection to your taking your own course, but i think this course of examination ought to have been stopped long ago. i think every fair and reasonable indulgence ought to be allowed to counsel in such a case, but if this was a mere civil case i should have stopped you long ago. mr. cooper.--then i shall proceed in my own way, with your lordship's permission. (to witness.) is this the first job you have been employed in?--i don't recollect any other of this kind. are you sure you have been employed upon no other job of this kind?--i cannot bring to my recollection whether i have not been employed on any other. i may have been, but i am not aware of any. do you know a man named king?--yes, perfectly. do you recollect doing a job in which he was concerned?--i don't recollect doing a job of this kind against king. i might if i saw the paper before me with my mark upon it. there are so many of them that i cannot recollect any in particular. have you not made an affidavit in the job against king?--yes; but that is since this. i cannot recollect whether i have done any other jobs. i have been in the employment of the association about six months. i commenced on the th of january. since the th of march, i don't recollect how many jobs i have been engaged in; they are so numerous i can't recollect. the orders which mr. murray gave me, were to go and purchase the reformers' address at the defendant's shop. i had not any general directions to buy at this or that shop--not from mr. murray. i had from other persons, general directions to make purchase of works; one of those persons was mr. sharpe. he is the honorary assistant secretary?--yes. (all the preceding questions excited considerable sensations amongst the audience, and produced a chorus of humourous tittering). mr. justice best.--the effect of these questions, mr. cooper, you must feel. you cannot wish, i am sure, to excite the sort of response which comes from below the bar. you must see that it is done on purpose. you cannot wish, i am sure, to produce that effect. mr. cooper.--my lord, i am the last man in the world to do any thing inconsistent with the gravity and decorum of a court of justice. i disclaim any such intention; and i must disdain the insinuation of mr. gurney, that i have taken up this cause for the purpose of adding to the public odium in which the honourable association is held. mr. gurney said his learned friend, mr. cooper, was mistaken; he had never insinuated anything of the kind. mr. justice best.--i am sure no gentlemen at the bar would wish to produce the effect which all the questions put by you have had below the bar. mr. cooper said he could not control the feelings of the auditory. he was only anxious to do his duty to the best of his humble ability, and nothing should deter him from discharging that duty freely and undauntedly. cross-examination resumed.--what is the office of the honorary assistant secretary?--it is to do every thing at the office. to superintend the business of the office?--i consider him as the acting manager. then the honorary secretary has a sinecure?--what does the word honorary mean but a sinecure? mr. cooper.--"may it please your lordship; gentlemen of the jury; i am exceedingly sorry that some more able counsel has not to address you on this most important and momentous occasion. i should have been unequal to the task, under any circumstances." mr. gurney.--"stop a minute." (the learned counsel for the prosecution here intimated, that he had something to add to his case; but, after a pause, he intimated to mr. cooper, that he might proceed.) mr. cooper.--gentlemen, under any circumstances, this would be a task, for which, i fear, i am very ill qualified; but under those, in which i stand to address you on this question, i feel my incapacity doubled and trebled. i appear before you without notice, and almost wholly without preparation. i was, indeed, applied to by the defendant, some months ago, and negotiated with (if i may use the phrase) to undertake her defence. but, after this, many days and even weeks passed, during which i heard nothing of the case; and i began to suppose that the defendant had determined to employ some other counsel, or trust herself to her own address to the jury against this charge. at the end of a month, however, i was again applied to; and, again, weeks having elapsed, without my hearing any more of this prosecution, i dismissed it entirely, not only from my mind, but from my memory; nor was it, till last night, that, that i was once more informed that i was to be employed as the defendant's counsel; and my brief at last put into my hands. i was then unfortunately engaged in other important business: and the time, i have taken to collect my own thoughts upon this question, and huddle together a few extract's from writers of authority, i have been obliged to borrow from sleep; and have, therefore, in a great measure counteracted myself; for i have lost in strength, what i have gained in information, and appear before you ill able, indeed, to do justice to this cause. but, whilst i make this statement to excuse my own deficiency, i am bound to acquit the defendant of any reproachable negligence of her own interests. i understand, that the cause of her late application to me, is, that having had, as a mere matter of grace, three weeks' notice of trial from another society, by which she has been prosecuted, she mistook it for her right; and expected the same notice from her present prosecutors. as she had not received any such notice (and indeed she was not in law entitled to it), she supposed, that either she was not to be brought to trial at these sittings, or that the charge was abandoned; as i wish it had been, and as it ought to have been; for i am convinced, that this prosecution cannot be sustained by either law or reason; and that it must be from the weakness of the counsel alone, that you, gentlemen, can be betrayed to pronounce a verdict of guilty against the defendant. gentlemen, it is my duty to clear this case of every possible prejudice that may hang about it in your minds before i enter into the merits of my defence. i do not know how you are affected, but i well know, that with many persons, i should have a host of prejudices to contend against, in the very name alone of carlile. many either believe, or affect to believe, that the very sound is an omen and an execration, and that either he cannot be sincere and honest in the opinions which he professes, or if he be, that those opinions are incompatible with the existence or practice of any moral or social virtue. but, whatever his opinions may be, and whatever your sentiments upon them, i have at least a right to ask of you not to allow any prejudice against the relation, against the brother, to warp your judgment on the trial of the defendant: for, what can possibly be more remote from justice, than, instead of judging a person fairly for his own conduct, to condemn him by our opinion of the sentiments and character of another? i hope and trust that you have entertained no such prejudices: but if you have, i feel assured, that you brought them no further than the threshold of the court:--at that door they fell from you, like the burthen from the pilgrim (in the beautiful allegory) on his reaching the cross; and you stand there with your minds unbiassed, free and pure, to decide between the crown and the defendant in this cause. but it is not only my duty, gentlemen, to clear the defendant, but to extricate the counsel from every unfavourable suspicion, lest it should, possibly, by any confusion of the client with the advocate, operate to the disadvantage of the defendant. whatever, therefore, may be thought of the pamphlet which is before you, as a libel, or of the writer or publisher, i most solemnly affirm, that there is no one who more warmly admires the english constitution, as it stands in theory and ought to exist in practice, than myself, nor is there any one who would more willingly shed his blood if it were necessary, or even lose his life in its support. it is needless then to say, that a more irreconcileable enemy would not be found than myself to the man (if any such there be) who could attempt to overturn our mingled and limited forms of government: and substitute a wild democracy in their place. i think, indeed, that a democratic form of government, however specious in argument, is by no means so capable of raising a state to that eminence of civilization and prosperity, which this country has reached; a condition, for which it is indebted to better times, while the practice concurred with the theory of our government; but which, unless the practice is brought back to the theory, i venture to predict, has not much longer to continue. i, gentlemen, appear here only in the discharge of my duty; and to redeem that pledge to defend the accused, which every man, upon assuming this gown, gives to the public of england. i would, however, have it distinctly understood, that it is only to guard against prejudice to the defendant, and not from any apprehensions for myself, that i trouble you with this explanation. for myself, i am extremely careless, what may be thought of me for having come forward to defend this unfortunate woman. i do not expect to escape obloquy in the present overheated disposition of the country, how can i expect it? when even the present lord erskine, whose talents and independence should have rendered his character sacred, as soon as it was known that he was to be counsel for paine was overwhelmed with abuse, and threatened with the loss of his situation, as attorney general to the prince, if he did not decline the defence. but he knew his duty and discharged it. and for which will he be most honoured by posterity? by which most ennobled? for having in spite of threats, and all the seductions of self-interest, persevered in his duty? or for having been exalted to the peerage of england and adorned with the national order of scotch knighthood? but, if even my humble situation, should not exempt me from the attacks of the malicious and furious, i can tell them that their malignity will be disappointed. instead of regret and mortification it will be a source of pride and happiness to me. small as my chance may be of credit for the assertion, i declare, that i propose to myself no reward so high for my exertions, as the consciousness of having, in spite of all hopes on one side, or fears on the other, honestly discharged my duty. if ever in my course in the profession, i should find myself wounded either in fortune or reputation, instead of regretting and deploring it, i will rejoice and exult at it, and, at those hours, when in full confidence of his companions, it is neither indecent nor unsafe in a man to speak of his own actions, i will boast of it, i will shew it, as an honourable scar. gentlemen, with these preliminary observations, i will proceed to introduce my case to you. my learned friend, mr. gurney, has opened this prosecution with all that pomp of eloquence, and solemnity of declamation, which he possesses in so ample a manner, and which make him so accomplished an advocate. but what has he done? all, indeed, that he or any one else could have done: yet, nothing more than repeat those arguments, which are trite, and worn like a turnpike, and have been topics for counsel after counsel, through a thousand of these prosecutions; while he has left all the great subjects of consideration that present themselves to the mind on these questions, wholly untouched. he has declared, indeed, but without showing you why, that the words, charged in the indictment are an atrocious libel; in which, as it appears to me, he has been rather premature, for a libel they are not, and cannot be, unless your verdict should so declare them. i assert, gentlemen, i am sure his lordship will nod assent to me while i assert it, that you are the only judges of the law of libel in this case; and this paper, for which the defendant stands before you, is either a libel or not a libel, as you may in your consciences think it, and on your oaths pronounce it. the statute, indeed, which declares this the law, has given, or rather left with his lordship, the right of stating his opinion on that question to you; but i am sure he will not think that i exceed my duty, as an advocate, when i say, that though it is your duty to receive his opinion with respect, and give it the most attentive consideration, yet it still leaves you free to your own judgments, and if after weighing his opinion, you find yours unaltered, you have not only a right, but it is your duty to reject his opinion and to act on your own. gentlemen, i submit that it is within your province to take into consideration the nature and operation of those writings, which are called in prosecutions of this kind libels. you are sitting there to try this charge as an offence by the common law of the land. the defendant is accused of having committed an act in the nature of a nuisance; and you are to judge whether that act could operate as a nuisance or not. you are not bound, because pamphlets have been prosecuted as libels time out of mind, or even because they have been declared libels by the verdicts of preceding juries to tread in no other path than their steps; and to find similar, or even the same matter, libels, if you should not think them criminal or dangerous. if you should be convinced by argument, not only that the pamphlet before you is not a libel, but that almost all those political writings, which it has been the habit of certain people, taking up the cry from their leaders, to call libels, are not merely not dangerous but beneficial to political society; is it possible to conceive, that you can be induced to pronounce a verdict of guilty against the defendant! how can you come to such a conclusion; as that there should be punishment where there has been no mischief, and where there could have been none, and if there not only has been no mischief, but could have been none,--nay, if even there must have been benefit, how can you lay your hands on your hearts, and say there has been crime? suppose a man was indicted for a nuisance in doing that for which a number of persons had in succession been indicted and convicted, would that oblige a jury to find a verdict against a person at this day indicted for the same act, if he should prove to them by evidence, which their minds could not resist, that what had been complained of as hurtful to public health and morals was noxious to neither, but salutary to both? would you, in such a case, though a thousand preceding juries had, in their ignorance, pronounced verdicts of guilty, follow their example, against your full knowledge and internal conscience? to illustrate by a familiar instance, when hops were first introduced into this country they were very generally believed to be pernicious. several persons were i believe prosecuted and convicted for using them; yet now they are known not only to be not pernicious, but nutritious; they form a principal ingredient in the daily beverage of our tables, and are even employed largely in medicine. let us now imagine a man prosecuted for the use of hops or any other drugs upon the ground that they injured health, and that upon his trial he should fill the box with men of science as witnesses, and shew you to moral demonstration, that so far from being injurious, they were highly salutary, would you, because other juries had convicted in a state of ignorance, imitate their blindness, and convict the defendant? certainly not. then to apply this to writings, prosecuted as libels, though there may have been hundreds, and thousands, nay tens of thousands of convictions upon them, yet, if you should be convinced, that what are usually called libels (and this among them) cannot be injurious, but so far from it, that they are innocent and even salutary to the state, in which they are published, would you hand over the publisher to punishment by a verdict of guilty? but i am anticipating, i fear, my defence, and introducing too early observations, which will better be urged in a subsequent part of my address to you. i will, therefore, pass at once to the paper charged as a libel in the indictment, and examine, under what circumstances it has come before you. and in the first place, as to the publication, without which (whatever the nature of the writing may be, there can be no crime) who are morally the publishers of this pamphlet? have you any evidence, whatever, that any one of these pamphlets was in circulation, or ever would have been circulated, but for the impertinent, obtrusive, sordid, and base part of the ministers of the constitutional association? how otherwise is this pamphlet here? let us turn back to the evidence of the first witness. he was the worthy servant of the association in this and a few other recent instances, but for the most part, within a year and a half, the servant of the society for the suppression of vice: a society very different, indeed, from that with which we have had to deal to-day;--not that i have any affection even for that association: i would neither praise nor even be suspected of approving it, but i will not be so unjust and scandalous as to compare it with the constitutional association. before this witness was employed by that society, he was a custom-house officer. are you, i asked him, now a custom-house officer? no. how comes that? i lost my place. how old are you? fifty-four. have you any pension? no. now, gentlemen, i beg to observe, that it is not the habit of the custom- house to turn away officers, who have grown grey in their service, without a pension; unless they have richly deserved to be so discarded and abandoned. such, gentlemen, are the instruments employed as spies by the acting members of this association! this fellow is sent out with instructions from the honorary secretary, mr. murray, who is the attorney for the prosecution, to purchase, not this pamphlet alone, but any political pamphlet, which in his judgment might be libelous. good god! to what a condition are we reduced, when, under the auspices of this blessed association, discarded tide-waiters, and broken gaugers, are made judges of what is libelous, and leagued with an attorney, are to determine what may, and what may not, without the terror of a prosecution, issue from a free press. such was the course pursued: and can you conscientiously say, that, but for this hiring of a spy to make a purchase of this pamphlet for the sole purpose of founding this prosecution upon that very instance of sale, the public would ever have heard of it? gentlemen, it is a great happiness, and much security arises from it, that every person who stands forward as a prosecutor exposes his own conduct, as it is connected with the prosecution, to scrutiny and animadversion. i have a right to assume that freedom which is the privilege of the bar. i remember that in the case of the king and the dean of st. asaph, in which the present marshal of the king's bench prison, without any apparent connection with the subject of the prosecution, was the prosecutor, the counsel for the defendant exercised this right, and the marshal was successively the object of his ridicule and indignation. mr. justice best.--mr. cooper do you think it acting fairly to make this sort of attack on a gentleman who is not present? is this the practice of the bar? mr. cooper.--my lord, i make no attack on the marshal. i only state that-- mr. justice best.--these observations being made on one who is not anywise connected with this case, who is not present to answer for himself, and who would not be permitted if he was, what are we to suppose? can any gentleman at the bar consider this as fair? mr. cooper.--my lord, i have no design to attack the marshal either in his absence or presence. i mentioned him but incidentally. what earthly purpose could it answer to this case to attack him? he _was_ the prosecutor in _that_ case, and i rather incautiously, perhaps, mentioned who the prosecutor was, by name; when i ought only to have said the prosecutor. if i have done him any injustice, i beg his pardon as publicly for it, and thus, i give a remedy as wide as the wound. i say then, gentlemen, that the prosecutor in that case, was alternately the object of the keenest indignation, and the most jeering ridicule, and i have a right to be equally as free, as the counsel in that case, with the prosecutors in this: but i shall by no means follow the example. on the contrary, i think, we are deeply indebted to the constitutional association. consider how we were circumstanced when they first arose amongst us. there was the state, with a standing army of only a hundred thousand men, and nothing besides, except the whole civil force of the realm, a revenue of no more than seventy millions; and the feeble assistance of the established law officers of the crown to prosecute public offenders, when this constitutional association in the pure spirit of chivalry, steps forward to help the weakness of government, and succour its distress. now, whatever men may talk of justice, who can say that disinterestedness has altogether abandoned the earth? who can say that generosity has forsaken us and flown to heaven? let it be considered too, that but for their active vigilance carlile's shop would not have been known. no productions from it had ever been the subject of prosecution, and but for the keen scent of the association, the rank and huge sedition contained in the new year's address might have lain in its covert undetected and undisturbed. but to drop this irony and be serious, the law officers of the crown are fully adequate to their duties, and carlile's shop was as well known to the attorney general as st. paul's to you. for years he has not had his eyes off it. i will engage that every publication, that has issued from it, and this very pamphlet among the rest, has passed through his hands, and under his review. yet the law officers of the crown do not appear here to prosecute it as a libel against the state; and i entreat you to mark this, for i have a right to urge it, as a strong negative proof, that they do not so consider it; and how can that require your condemnation which they (with a judgment surely very much superior to that of the committee of the constitutional association) have not thought worthy of prosecution or notice? yes, you are actually called upon by this association to deliver over to punishment the publisher of this paper, whilst the law officers of the crown (who neglect their duty, if they do not prosecute offences against the state) have thought it of a nature not at all requiring their interference what can be so preposterous? so monstrous? and in taking leave of this view of the case, let me once more ask you who have been actually the publishers of this paper? have you a single iota of evidence, which ought to satisfy your minds, that, but for the insidious conduct of the association, and its spies, this pamphlet would ever have been before you or the public? is there a shadow of proof that one copy was ever sold, except those bought by the creatures employed by the honorary secretary (who is also the feed attorney in this prosecution) for the sole object of entangling the defendant in this indictment? none, whatever. none. they conspired you see to procure and seduce (the word is neither too broad nor too long for their conduct) the publication for the very purpose of this prosecution. how then having thus suborned the offence of which they complain, can they dare to stand forward as prosecutors, when they themselves are the criminals, and ought to be the defendants. mr. justice best.--you mean. mr. cooper, to offer some evidence of that, i suppose. mr. cooper.--none, my lord, but the evidence already before the court and the jury, and the strong and necessary inference from the facts proved by the witnesses for the prosecution themselves. mr. gurney.--there were many others lying on the counter. mr. cooper.--what of that, does it follow that they must, therefore, have been sold? in the absence of all other proof of any publication, i have a right, i am forced to consider the association as the only publishers. mr. justice best.--in the evidence there is nothing like it. mr. cooper.--what, gentlemen, is it a necessary conclusion, that because the pamphlets were lying in the shop, they must have been sold to other persons? the defendant but for their intrusion, for the sole design of prosecution, might have sold no others. she might have changed her intention to sell. the pamphlets might have lain like bad verses untouched on the shop counter, till they were turned over for waste paper, and not a soul have ever known of their contents. the association, therefore, by their insidious and plotted purchase for the sole object of prosecution, have provoked the act of publication, and they, who provoke crimes are the criminals, and ought to be the culprits; and those, who would punish the crimes that they have provoked, are devils, and not men; "the tempters ere the accusers." when i contemplate such conduct--but i will not waste another word, or another moment of your time upon this miserable association. if i had consulted my better judgment, i should have passed them in silence; thus much my indignation has wrung from my contempt. i shall now, gentlemen, proceed to the examination of the libel, or rather that which is charged as a libel itself; and i shall begin with the last part so charged in the indictment, instead (as my learned friend has done) with the first; and let me beg your regard to one remarkable fact, that at the very point of the paper, at which the motives, and design of the writer present themselves to the reader; at that very point this indictment stops. it has not, as you will presently see, the candour to proceed a single syllable farther. i will now read the passage, "reform," it says, "will be obtained when the existing authorities have no longer the power to withhold it, and not before, we shall gain it as early without petitioning as with it; and i would again put forward my opinion that something more than a petitioning attitude is necessary." this it has been urged to you, with great emphasis, is an excitement to insurrection; and you are called upon to draw that inference, though the author immediately afterwards disavows, expressly disavows any such intention. but even, if the words stood alone, i deny that you are compelled to such a construction. gentlemen, will any one venture to say, that i, standing in this place, and in the very exercise of my profession, mean any thing, but what is strictly legal, when i say myself, that supposing reform in parliament be necessary, something more than mere petitioning is requisite to obtain it? but in saying this, do i mean any thing violent or illegal? heaven forbid; no: but i would have societies formed, and meetings held for the purpose of discussing that momentous subject. if reform be necessary, and the desire of a great majority of the country, i would have that desire shown unambiguously to the legislature, by resolutions and declarations at such meetings. who will deny such societies and meetings to be legal? yet, such meetings would be more than mere petitioning, much more: and the author means nothing beyond this; for i say, that in the absence of all other criteria, the only means of judging of a writer's intentions are his words. look then at the words which immediately follow the assertion, that "something more than a petitioning attitude is necessary." if those words had been included in the indictment, this prosecution must have been at an end upon merely reading the charge, and those words, therefore, the association avoided, as cautiously as they would the poison of a viper. they felt, that though the indicted words standing alone might perhaps admit of a doubt for a moment, yet the context completely explained them, and gave an air of perfect innocence to the whole passage. but you shall judge for yourselves: i will read the passage,--"something more than a petitioning attitude is necessary. at this moment i would not say a word about insurrection; but i would strongly recommend union, activity, and co-operation. be ready and steady to meet any concurrent circumstance." now what kind of union, activity, and co-operation does he mean? is it military association, marches, and attack? no. hear the writer's own words again:--"the union rooms at manchester and stockport are admirable models of co-operation, and are more calculated than any thing else to strengthen the body of reformers." for what do the reformers assemble in these rooms? how do they co-operate there? is it to consult how they shall arm and organize themselves, and seize with a violent hand the reform which they despair of gaining by petition? nothing like it. the writer himself still tells you his meaning. "here (that is at the manchester and stockport rooms) children are educated, and adults instruct each other. here there is a continual and frequent communication between all the reformers in those towns." this, then, and no other, is the co-operation which the author intended, and proposes. if any man, taking the paper in his hand and reading the whole paragraph, can say that any thing more is meant, to his reason i should cease to appeal. i should sit down in silent despair of making any impression on such an understanding; but you, gentlemen, i ask you, adding the words which i have read to the broken passage, which is insidiously separated and included in the indictment, can there be a doubt remaining in any rational and unprejudiced mind, that the union and co-operation called for by this address from those who desire reform in parliament, is nothing more than the establishment at other places, of rooms, on the model of those at stockport and manchester; where children and adults are instructed, and information disseminated on the subject of parliamentary reform. and if this is all that is meant, there is an end of this part of the indictment; for it cannot be libelous to recommend in a writing the people to do that, which it is perfectly legal to do. with regard to reform itself, i cannot know, whether any of you are advocates for it or opposed to it, nor is it requisite that i should; i do not ask you to think or say with me, and others, that reform in parliament is necessary, and that nothing but reform can save the country from ruin; all that i ask of you is to allow me and others credit for the conscientiousness of our opinions, and charitably admit, if yours are opposite, that though we may be mistaken in our judgments, we must not of necessity be criminal in our intentions. i leave you and every man to the free exercise of your thoughts, and the free enjoyment of the conclusions to which they lead you. let this liberality be reciprocal, and concede the same freedom to others which you demand for yourselves. i have always thought that a difference in religious and political matters need not and ought not to create hostility of feeling, and sever those, who would otherwise be friends. i myself enjoy the friendship of several, who entertain very different opinions from mine upon those subjects; and yet that difference has not, and never shall, on my part, at least, disturb our friendship. in all questions in which you cannot have mathematical demonstration, there may be fair, honest, conscientious difference of opinion; and you cannot have geometrical proof in questions of religion, politics, and morals. the very nature of the subjects altogether excludes it. to expect it, as bishop sanderson says, would be as absurd as to expect to see with the ear and to hear with the eye. so various are our opinions upon these subjects, that we not only differ from one another upon them, but at different times we find we differ from ourselves; and, as another learned churchman, in more recent times, has said, what could be more unjust than to quarrel with other men for differing in opinion from him, when no two men ever differed more from one another than he at different times differed on the very same subject from himself. under this state of uncertainty in human judgment, i call upon you, and i am sure i shall not call in vain, to be slow to condemn the opinions of others, because they are different from your own; and, therefore, if any of you should think reform in parliament needless, or even dangerous, i still call upon you (though the writer of this paper should be a reformer, and even though he is called in reproach a radical reformer) not to condemn the defendant in this case through prejudice against the author's opinions; but solely to enquire (be those opinions ever so just or ever so absurd) whether he is sincere in entertaining them; for, if he be (as i shall show you presently from the highest authority) the law does not consider him criminal. try him by this test, and this test, and this alone; and then, whatever may be your verdict, you will be free from reproach, and secure to yourselves quiet by day, and sound slumbers by night; for you will have discharged your duty to yourselves, to the defendant, and to the country. with regard, gentlemen, to the other part of the alleged libel, i must bespeak your patience; for i am afraid that i shall be drawn by my comments upon it into considerable length. (i am afraid, gentlemen, i weary you, and i am sorry for it. if i had had leisure, i would have condensed my observations; but, under the circumstances i have disclosed to you, i hope you will forgive me for occupying more of your attention than i would otherwise have done. i really have not had time to be short.) to return to the passage in the paper, which is first charged as a libel: it denies the existence of any constitution in great britain. now whether there be anything malicious and criminal in this, depends entirely upon the meaning which the author attaches to the word constitution. i confess it is a word that gives me a very indistinct and uncertain idea; and i believe that if any of you were now suddenly to ask yourselves what you understood by it, you would find you were not very ready to give yourselves an answer; and if you could even satisfactorily answer yourselves, you would find if you were to go further and question your neighbour, that he would give you a very different definition from your own. in itself it means nothing more than simply a standing or placing together; and it really seems to me rather hard and venturous to indict a man for denying the existence of something (whatever it may be) expressed by the most indefinite term in our whole language. but, if we were agreed upon the ideas which should be attached to the word, let us examine whether, allowing for a certain freedom of expression and the earnest eagerness with which a man who is sincere in his doctrines enforces them in his composition, a writer may not, without being exposed to a charge of criminal intention, assert that there is no constitution in this country. and let us take with us to this examination, that a man is not to be too strictly tied to words, when under the impulse of warm and keen feelings, and when the thoughts flow, as it were, at once from the heart into the pen, he sits down to excite his countrymen to their good, or warn them of their danger. you must not think to bind him down with the shackles of verbal criticism, when he is too intent upon his theme exactly to measure his expressions. now, that the writer of this paper is sincere in his opinions, whatever the quality of those opinions is, it is difficult not to believe. he published his opinions, though he exposed himself to punishment for them, and he perseveres in them while he is suffering a heavy punishment. you can have no more convincing proof of sincerity than this. but, what if a political writer has, in the warmth of composition, asserted that in england we have no constitution, who can misunderstand him? we cannot suppose he meant that there was a dissolution of all law and government; because we know and feel the contrary. few would have occasion to ask him what he meant. if, however, he were asked, he should explain by telling you, that the constitution in theory is very much corrupted from the practice; and i and you, and every person must admit, that the practice has strayed wide from the theory; and, forced to admit this, i assert with a writer, who (whatever was thought of him once, and whilst those who were the objects of his reproach still lived) is now the pride and boast of the country, both for the supreme elegance and the principles of his political writings, that "wherever the practice deviates from the theory so far the practice is vicious and corrupt." now, saying no more than this, and when it would have been the merest stupidity to understand him literally, how can the writer be convicted of a design to bring the government into hatred and contempt, because he has expressed his meaning by saying figuratively "there is no constitution." but he has previously said, that to talk about the british constitution is, in his opinion, dishonesty. i know he has. i did not mean to pass it, i will not, gentlemen, shrink from any part of the passage, for i feel that it cannot bear with any heavy pressure against me. "to talk of the british constitution is, in my opinion, a sure proof of dishonesty." here it will be seen that the only exception that can be taken to this sentence is the mere mode of expression. if a man were to talk to me of the constitution of england, and, by omitting all notice of its aberrations in practice from its theory, by which he would leave it free to me to suspect, that he would insinuate that the theory and the practice were the same, i should certainly say, that he was exhibiting want of candour. i might, perhaps, think dishonesty, rather too strong a term for such conduct; but i should not scruple to say, that he was disingenuous, and he _would_ be guilty of a species of dishonesty; for all the disingenuousness is to a degree dishonest; and, since the meaning is the same, why should we quarrel at a mere difference of expression? the author proceeds to say, "if we speak of the spanish constitution, we have something tangible; there is a substance and meaning as well as sound." so that it is clear he was saying, that we had no constitution in comparison with that just promulged by the spanish nation. the spaniards we know have recently gained by their own glorious efforts, that political liberty to which they had been so long strangers; and their legislature had just published a code of fundamental laws, few in number, but most comprehensive in securing freedom to the people, for whom they are framed. they are (comparatively with the laws of countries, in which the frame of government is old, and complicated) not numerous, but the mind may collect them almost at a glance, and possess itself of them with a single effort of the understanding. in this view of the subject, without doubt, the constitution of spain is tangible; and in this sense he is justified in asserting that our own constitution is not tangible; for is it not notorious that our laws are spread through so many acts of parliament of doubtful and difficult construction, and so many books of reports, containing the common law of the land (and in which there are no few conflicting decisions) that the whole life of a man does not suffice to achieve a knowledge of them. so multifarious and infinite and perplexed is our code, that even amongst those whose profession is the law it is not possible to meet with an accomplished lawyer. the defendant here fainted, and was taken out of court. after the interruption which this circumstance occasioned had subsided, mr. cooper proceeded-- gentlemen, i lament in common with many others that this evil has attended an extended degree of civilization and trade--that our laws have become too numerous and complicated for the capacity of the mind. that they are so, is not my opinion alone, but that of the legislature itself. i believe that a committee of the houses of parliament has been sitting and still sits for the object of reducing our laws to some limit in their number and some order as to their design; without which our constitution, to use the words of the writer, cannot be tangible; a tangible shape, at present it does not possess, for that cannot be tangible which spreads itself over a boundless extent, that eludes, and defies the grasp of the human intellect. having disposed of thus much of this paragraph, i come to the words, on which my learned friend, mr. gurney, laid such extreme stress in his address to you. "our very laws, are corrupt and partial both in themselves, and in their administration. in fact corruption _as notorious as the sun at noon-day_ is an avowed part of the system, and is denominated the necessary oil for the wheels of government. it is a most pernicious oil to the interests of the people." this is strong language i admit, and would perhaps be censurable as imprudent, at least, if the very expressions themselves, which the writer uses, did not guide us directly to the facts to which he alludes, and explain the passage. he alludes most manifestly to the celebrated exclamation of a person at the time that he was in the seat of office, the first commoner of the realm, and who instead of being reproached for his words has retired from his office with the honours which he has merited for his services in it. it transpired in the house of commons, that seats had been trafficked for as articles of sale and purchase for money. mr. justice best.--is that a subject at all relating to the question which is now before the jury? mr. cooper.--my lord, i am going to use the declaration of the speaker, as a matter of history, and to show, that the words charged as criminal were an allusion to it; and if so, were not criminally used. i do not wish, nay i would avoid the introduction of any improper or inflammatory topics. i would not attempt to serve my client by such means. when it was exposed, that there had been certain trafficking for seats in the house of commons, the speaker used these words (and it is to them, i would show the jury, the writer of the paper alludes), "practices are as notorious as the sun at noon-day at which our ancestors would have started with indignation," and that gentlemen-- mr. justice best.--will you allow me to ask you mr. cooper, i want to know where you get that from. mr. cooper.--my lord, from all the reports of the speeches in the newspapers of the day which were never contradicted. mr. justice best.--i beg to state, that, whatever passed in parliament, cannot be questioned anywhere else. whatever the speaker said in parliament, he was justified in saying. but i have no means of knowing, nor have you, whether he ever did say so or not. mr. cooper.--i am not questioning anything he said in the house of commons-- mr. justice best.--if mr. abbot had said it any where else, it would have been a libel on the constitution; if he said it there, we cannot enquire about it; it would be a breach of privilege. mr. cooper.--your lordship asked me, how i came to know that he said so. my lord, i have seen it in all the recorded speeches of the house of commons in the published debates in parliament, and-- mr. justice best.--i say there are no recorded speeches of the house of commons to which we can listen or attend. mr. cooper.--certainly, there are no records of speeches in the house of commons in the sense in which the proceedings of courts of law are records, nor is there in that sense any recorded speech of cicero or of lord chatham; but, my lord, will your lordship say, that i am not entitled in my address to the jury to use that which has been reported as part of a speech of lord chatham or of cicero; because there are no records filed, as in the courts of law, of their speeches! i submit that they are matters of history; and that, as such, i am at liberty to use them. mr. justice best.--i tell you, mr. cooper, what the distinction is. if you publish, that, which may be said to be a speech of lord chatham's, and it may be an accurate report of his speech, you may be guilty of publishing a libel, though the place, in which that speech was delivered gave a liberty to the speech. you know it has been so decided in my lord abingdon's case, who published his own speeches. mr. cooper.--that, my lord, was a libel upon a private individual. i say-- mr. justice best.--i say you have no knowledge of anything which is said in the houses of parliament. mr. cooper.--with great submission i re-urge it as a matter of history, and as such i would use it whether the fact is ten years old or ten thousand, i submit makes no difference. mr. justice best.--mr. cooper, i have told you my opinion; if you don't choose to submit to it, the best way will be to go on, perhaps. mr. cooper.--with the utmost deference to your lordship-- mr. justice best.--the court of king's bench has decided this very point, within the last two terms, against what you are contending for. if your own opinion be the better one, proceed. mr. cooper.--gentlemen, i was going to say, when the speaker of the house of commons exclaimed (i will not repeat particularly upon what occasion) that our ancestors would have started with indignation at practices which were "as notorious as the sun at noon-day," can you have any doubt in your mind that the writer of this pamphlet alluded to that exclamation? why look at the passage, see, he uses the same words. "corruption is as notorious as the sun at noon-day" is his very expression. he is citing the speaker's own words, and cannot but be supposed to be speaking of the very same facts. it was proposed, on that occasion, to impeach a nobleman, whom i will not name and need not, for those practices. this however was resisted by almost all, and even by some who were friendly to parliamentary reform, and politically adverse to the noblemen, to whom i allude, not, indeed, upon any pretext of his innocence of the practices, charged against him; but on the sole ground that those practices were so general and notorious that they would condemn themselves in sentencing him; and among so many guilty, it would be unjust to single him alone for punishment. yes; although they were practices, at which our ancestors would have started with indignation, they were the practices of numbers, and the practices were as notorious as the sun at noon-day; and, therefore, the proposition of impeachment was rejected, and rightly; for as it has been said by the first speaker of all antiquity, we cannot call men to a strict account for their actions, while we are infirm in our own conduct. if this is the state of one branch of our legislature, and if it is avowed, and by those who would conceal it, if concealment were possible (but it would be as easy to conceal the sun). good god! shall a man be prosecuted and pronounced guilty, and consigned to punishment for affirming that our laws are corrupt; that there is corruption in the system, and that corruption is an avowed part of that system? when in so affirming he only echoes the exclamation of the speaker himself, that "practices, at which our ancestors would have started with indignation, were as notorious as the sun at noon-day?" why, if as the speaker declared, such practices exist, and affect the most important branch of the legislature, i myself say, that there is corruption in the very vitals of the constitution itself. in such a state of things, to talk of the constitution, is mockery and insult; and i say there is no constitution. what, then, has the writer of this pamphlet said more than has been avowed by the highest authority, and everybody knows? and now, can you lay your hands on your hearts, and by your verdict of guilty send the defendant to linger in a jail for having published what the author has, under such circumstances, written? having thus concluded my observations on the passages selected from this paper for prosecution, i will, for i have a right to read it all if i please, direct your attention to another part of it. let us examine whether other passages will not convince us, that (though he should be mistaken in some of his opinions) the whole was written with a single and honest intention. i myself never read a paper, which, on the whole, appeared to be written with more candour. there is an openness that does not even spare the writer himself. indeed, with regard to his opinions, peculiar and mistaken as he may be, he seems himself, sincerely to believe in them. he is now suffering for those opinions, and suffering with a firmness, which to those who think him wrong, is stubbornness; and, thus, he affords another proof of the extreme impolicy of attempting to impose silence by prosecutions, and extort from the mind the abjuration of opinions by external and physical force. it never succeeds; but, on the contrary, works the very opposite effect to that which is its object. as the author from whom i have just now cited says, with extreme force and equal beauty, "a kind of maternal feeling is excited in the mind that makes us love the cause for which we suffer." it is not for the mere point of expression that it has been said, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church. it is not theological doctrine alone, that thrives and nourishes under persecution. the principle of the aphorism applies equally to all opinions upon all subjects. there is widely spread through our nature an inclination to suspect that there is a secret value in that from which others attempt to drive us by force; and from this, joined to other powerful motives, the persecution of men for their tenets, whatever they may be, only draws their attachment closer, and rivets their affections to them. every effort to make them abandon the obnoxious doctrine renders them more steadfast to it. the loppings, which are designed to destroy, serve but as prunings, from which it shoots with increased vigour, and strikes its root still deeper. has it not always been seen, that persecution has bred in men that stubborn resolution, which present death has not been able to shake; and, what is more, an eagerness to disseminate amongst others those principles for which they have themselves been prosecuted and pursued. i therefore, from my very soul, deprecate every species of persecution on account of religious and political opinions, not only from its illiberality, but bad policy; and i am full of hope, that you will by your verdict to day show, that you have an equal aversion to it. to recur, gentlemen, to the pamphlet; i submit to you that there is a general air of sincerity in the language of the writer throughout the composition, which obliges us to believe, that, however mistaken you may think him in his opinions, he is honest in his intentions. he says in another part of the address "every government must derive its support from the body of the people; and it follows, as a matter of course, that the people must have a power to withhold their supplies." which is very true: for, where there is a shadow of political liberty, a revenue can only be raised by taxes to which the people have consented: it being allowed that where there is taxation without representation tyranny begins. now, if the writer really believes that there are corrupt practices in the government, who can blame him, for proposing (by abstinence from those articles which are taxed and yield a revenue so large that it supports a system of misgovernment) to compel our rulers, by a diminution of their means of undue influence to a regard to economy and a just administration? i know, indeed, that this doctrine is considered offensive; nor am i prepared to say with confidence that under the wide construction which has been given to the law against conspiracy, persons who were to combine to force such a change by abstaining from all exciseable articles might not be indicted for it as a conspiracy. it may, for aught that i know, be even indictable to unite and desist from using tea, tobacco and snuff to coerce the government into reform by a reduction of the revenue raised from those articles; but you are not sitting there to try an indictment for a conspiracy; and, therefore, though this passage may not be pleasing, i read it, without hesitation, because it leads to others, which i think demand your consideration and attention. "we must deny ourselves, he proceeds to say, those little luxuries in which we have long indulged. why not? who gains, and who loses by this denial? we do not rob ourselves, we only check our passions; and, in doing this, we strengthen both our bodies and our purses. i would appeal to those, who, for the last year, have had the courage and the virtue to abstain from the use of malt and spirituous liquors, foreign tea and coffee, tobacco, snuff, &c., whether they do not feel satisfaction from the change of habit; and whether they are not better in health and pocket, without the use of these things." this, gentlemen, is a sermon on temperance, and i wish it were generally followed. i apprehend that this is not only innocent, but highly meritorious. for my own part i shall maintain the opinion (though ten thousand mandevilles should write, and imagine they have proved private vices public benefits) that it is infinitely more important and beneficial that the mass of the people should be temperate and healthy, though poor, than that an immense revenue should be collected from their addiction to sensual pleasures and vicious luxuries. i say vicious, because all moral writers concur in calling those sensualities vices, as free indulgence in them leads to a state of total dissipation of mind under which scarcely any profligacy seems a crime. the writer continues: "there are a variety of other things which are heavily excised, the use of which might be prudently dropped; and which are not essential either to the health or comfort of mankind. speaking for myself, i can say, i do not recommend more than i practise; and that my food for the last year has consisted chiefly of milk and bread and raw native fruits. i have been fatter and stronger than in any former year of my life; and i feel as if i had obtained a new system by the change. _my natural disposition is luxurious_, and under a better system of government, or when this rational warfare was not called for, i should at all times live up to my income." and here, gentlemen, i beg you to mark, that so unreserved, so much in earnest is the writer in his object, that he does not attempt even to conceal his own faults, and weakness. i ask, whether you have ever found men, who were acting and writing with duplicity and sinister intentions, reproach or expose themselves? but the writer of this paper practises no reserve; he conceals nothing, though the disclosure should be against himself, but pours out all himself as plain, as dowright shippen, or as old montaigne. he concludes this exhortation to temperance with this sentence, "shrink not then you male and female reformers from this virtuous mode of warfare; for to conquer our injurious habits and our enemy at the same time is a double conquest, to obtain which both man and woman and child can very properly assist." i read this conclusion of the paragraph, gentlemen, and i beg your attention to it, because it makes it manifest that the change which the writer proposes to compass is a change by a moral operation through legal and peaceful means; and that he never dreamed of inculcating, as it is insinuated, any appeal to violence and arms. i have now, gentlemen, concluded all the particular observations which i had to address you upon this paper; and having shown you that by the least liberal construction, no criminality of intention can be imputed to the author, how can i doubt of your acquittal? for it is your duty to construe the author's words so as to give them an innocent meaning if they will bear it, and not come to a conclusion of guilt from them unless you shall be convinced that they will not possibly admit of any other than a criminal sense. that he had no criminal design, is apparent enough, even from the indicted passages; and by reading the context is put beyond the possibility of a doubt. there are many other passages as well as that, which i have read, which tend equally to the inference of the sincerity with which the whole paper was written, but which i will not consume your time in reading, as you will have the whole before you when you deliberate on your verdict, and they must themselves strike your attention. now, gentlemen, i cannot tell, how you feel, but i have no opinion more deeply impressed on my mind than that the prosecution of such political papers as this before you, as state libels, is perfectly unnecessary; and, so far from doing good, is, if any mischief can be produced by such writings, mischievous. prosecution excites the public regard, and a curiosity that will not rest till it is gratified, towards that which, under silent neglect, would hardly gain attention; if indeed, it did not drop quite dead-born from the press. but i deny wholly that any political writings, whatever their nature, have done or ever could do any harm to political society. let those who advocate the contrary opinion show you a single instance of a state injured or destroyed by inflammatory political writings. the republic of athens was not thrown down by libels: no--she perished for want of that widely diffused excitement to courage, and patriotism, and virtue, which a press perfectly free and unshackled can alone spread throughout a whole people. she was not ruined by anarchy into which she was thrown by seditious writings, but because, sunk in luxury and enervated by refinement, it was impossible to rouse the athenians to the energy and ardour of facing and withstanding the enemy in the field. rome too--as little was her gigantic power levelled with the dust by libels, but perished from the corruptions of the tyrannical government of the emperors, which drained the nation of all its ancient virtue, and bred the slavery which produces an utter debasement of the mind (and which never could have been, if a free publication of political opinion had been suffered), and thus she fell an easy conquest and prey to the barbarians and goths. both these renowned states fell, because their governments and the people wanted the goad of a free press to excite them to that public spirit and virtue, without which no country is capable of political independence and liberty. how our ears have been dinned with the french revolution, and how often have we been gravely told, that it was caused by the writings of voltaire, rousseau, and helvetius. ridiculous! i have read the history of those times and have read it very differently. i am forced to understand that the inextricable and utter embarrassment of the french finances, the selfish and insolent luxury of the nobles, the desperate wretchedness of the lower orders of the people, and the profligate licentiousness of the court, were the causes and the only causes of that great event. if the finances of that country had been in order, the nobles moderate, the poor unoppressed, and any public spirit in the government, voltaire, and helvetius, and rousseau, might have racked their brains for thought, and written themselves blind, before they would have raised a single arm, or even excited a single voice to exclaim for change. a perfect freedom of the press would, indeed, have prevented the causes which roused the people to assert themselves; but the causes once in existence, all the writers in the world could not one moment have either retarded the revolution or accelerated it. it is not the representations of a political writer that can alter the nature of things. whose ingenuity, and wit, and eloquence, will persuade me that i am cold when i am warm; that i am hungry when i am full; a slave when i am free; and miserable, when i feel myself happy? while such is my state, what writings would drive me into insurrection? and if the contrary is my condition, what stimulus could i want to free myself from it? what persuasions could possibly even delay my utmost efforts for a change? it is not by the prosecution of political libels that the stability of a government and domestic peace is ever secured. no; let the government pursue its only end, the public good, and let every man, or at least a large majority, have more or less an interest in the preservation of the state, and then all the writers in the country, from the highest down to the obscurest corners of grub-street, may wear their fingers to the roots of the nails with their pens, before they will work the slightest discontent in the public or change in the government. nothing, gentlemen, is more common with writers and speakers, than to discourse of states by figures drawn from the government of a ship; and i will tell you what i once heard from a friend of mine who has served his country in our navy, and which at the time most forcibly struck my mind. "when i was stationed in the mediterranean (he said, speaking of the occurrences of his professional experience) we made captures of the vessels of all countries except the greeks, but we never captured them; for they were always vigilant, active, and brave. we never surprised them; if we chased them, they escaped us; and if we attempted to cut them from the shelter to which we had driven them, we were repulsed." what created this difference? by the rules of navigation amongst the greek islands, every man, from the captain down to the lowest cabin-boy, has, more or less, a share in the vessel. they watched, therefore,--they laboured and fought for their own interest and property. let those who sit at the helm and govern us imitate this policy. let them extend the elective franchise; let them restore us to a condition in which industry and skill may find employment and be secure in their gain. give men an interest and ownership in the state, and it shall never be upset by libels; not a seditious or mutinous voice shall be heard; and what foreign enemy shall dare to lift a hand against us? but keep the people excluded from their share in the representation, and pressed down by taxation, and millions of prosecutions against libels will not save the country from sinking in ruin. let me now, gentlemen, call your attention back to the argument i used almost at setting out in my address to you, by which i attempted to maintain that you are not bound, whatever you may judge the intention of the writer to have been, to pronounce a publication a libel by your verdict, if you should be of opinion that such a publication cannot be mischievous, and that prosecution of it is unnecessary. if it can do no harm, it is no nuisance at common law to have written a paper, whatever its nature may be, and if it could be no nuisance, you are bound in duty to acquit the defendant, who is only the publisher. the doctrine for which i am contending with regard to this paper, has been acted upon by the government of one free country, with regard to all political writings, whatever their intention or nature. the legislature of the state of virginia has actually _legislated against_ such prosecutions, and declared them totally unnecessary. mr. justice best.--that is not the law of this country. mr. cooper.--i only use it my lord as part of my speech in argument. mr. justice best.--i will tell you what i am bound to tell the jury. i shall tell them that we have nothing to do here with what may be expedient, we are not legislating here--the question is whether this is a proper prosecution? mr. cooper.--i feel that it is exceedingly important to use as matter of argument, and as a part of my speech. if your lordship stops me i know that it will be my duty to submit. mr. justice best.--all this is only drawing them away from the question they are to consider. with the propriety of instituting the prosecution they have nothing to do; the only questions they have to determine, are--is that paper a libel, and has the defendant published it? an act of the assembly of virginia has no validity in this country. mr. cooper.--my lord, i do not cite it as a statute of this realm to which we are bound to pay legal attention-- mr. justice best.--we are bound to pay no attention to it. mr. cooper.--my lord, i only use it to show that other men have been of the opinion which i have expressed to your lordship and the jury. if your lordship insists on my not addressing myself to the jury upon it, i know too well the deference that is due from me to the bench to persevere in attempting it. mr. justice best.--no, i don't insist upon it. but, mr. cooper, can you deceive yourself so much as to think this has anything to do with the question? i shall tell the jury to pay no attention to it. mr. cooper.--your lordship will make any observations your condescension may lead you to make, as well on this as on any other part of the defence. i believe the course which i wish to take was taken on a similar occasion by a man who united the soundest and correctest judgment with the brightest imagination--i mean lord erskine--he-- mr. justice best.--i knew him for thirty odd years at the bar, and i never in all my life knew him address himself to points such as these--that is all i can say. i know what is due to the liberty of the bar, and i shall cherish a love for its freedom to the latest hour of my life. mr. cooper.--if your lordship refuses me-- mr. justice best.--no, i don't refuse you. mr. cooper.--i think it necessary to my case. the preamble is--(gentlemen, i am sorry to detain you, but i have a most important duty to discharge. if in addressing you, i am taking a course which i ought not, i assure you it is an error of judgment and not of design. i declare most sincerely, that i am addressing to you arguments which i should attend to if they were addressed to myself in such a case. his lordship will have a right to make what observations he pleases, and of course i offer this and every other argument to you liable to the honour he may confer upon me of condescending to notice anything i have said or may say. you, gentlemen, will, i know, regard my observations or arguments solely as you think them forcible or weak; if they are the former you will attend to them, if the latter reject them. and with this observation i shall now proceed to read to you the preamble to the act of the legislative assembly of virginia.) "it is time enough for the rightful purposes of civil government, for its officers to interfere when principles break out into overt acts against peace and good order, and that truth is great and will prevail if left to herself, and that she is the proper and sufficient antagonist to error, and has nothing to fear from the conflict, unless, by human interposition disarmed of her natural weapons, free argument and debate: errors ceasing to be dangerous, when it is permitted freely to contradict them." thus, you see, by an act of the legislature of that country, passed by those who had all the knowledge of history before their eyes, and ample experience in their own times, i am fully supported in the position that prosecutions of this kind are not only useless but hurtful. by free argument and debate errors cease to be dangerous, if they are not exploded; but attempts to stifle even errors by power and punishment, provoke a stubborn adherence to them, and awake an eager spirit of propagation. if erroneous positions are published, meet them by argument, and refutation must ensue. if falsehood uses the press to promulge her doctrines, let truth oppose her with the same weapon. let the press answer the press, and what is there to fear? shall i be told that the propensity of human nature is so base and evil that it will listen to falsehood and turn a deaf ear to truth? to assert so is not only scandalous to human nature, but impious towards the creator. we are placed here imperfect indeed, and erring; but still with preponderance of virtue over vice. the deity has sent us from his hands with qualities fitting us for civil society: it is our natural state; and we know that civil society is sapped by vice and supported by virtue: if, therefore, our disposition to good did not redound over the evil a state of society could not be maintained. it would indeed be an impiety little short of blasphemy to the great being who has created us, to say, that mankind at large are eagerly inclined to what is vicious, but turn with aversion from what is moral and good. yet this, whatever they may avow, must be the opinion of those who say that good doctrine from the press cannot be left with safety to oppose bad. now, gentlemen, not only am i not without the corroboration of this enactment of the legislature of virginia for my humble opinions, but the act of virginia is itself not without the very highest human sanction, as i shall show you by a passage which i am about to cite from the work of a man, with whom, in my mind, the writings of all other men are but as the ill-timed uninformed prattlings of children--a man from whom to differ in opinion is but another phrase to be wrong. need i, after this, name him? for was there ever more than one man who could be identified with such a description? i mean locke, the great champion of civil freedom. in this work on government he says-- "perhaps it will be said, that the people being ignorant and always discontented, to lay the foundations of government in the unsteady opinion and uncertain humour of the people, is to expose it to certain ruin, and no government will be able long to subsist if the people may set up a new legislature whenever they take offence at the old. to this i answer, quite the contrary, people are not so easy got out of their old forms as some are apt to suggest; they are hardly to be prevailed with to amend the acknowledged faults in the frame they have been accustomed to, and if there be any original defects or adventitious ones introduced by time or corruption, it is not an easy thing to be changed, even where all the world sees there is an opportunity for it. this slowness and aversion in the people to quit their old constitutions has in the many revolutions which have been seen in this kingdom still kept us to, or, after some intervals of fruitless attempts, still brought us back again to our old legislature of king, lords and commons." such is the opinion of this greatest of men, formed on the most consummate wisdom, enriched by observation, during times which afforded no small degree of experience. upon his authority, then, that men are not to be excited to sudden discontent, and passion for hasty change, i assert, that there is no danger to be apprehended from the freest political discussions; and consequently no need of their condemnation by a jury's verdict of guilty. milton, too, the greatest of poets, and hardly less a politician, was of the same sentiment as to the firmness of the people, and thought it might safely be left to them to read what they pleased, and to their reason and discretion, what to object and what to adopt, without any other interference. it is his areopagitica, in which he contends for unlicensed printing--an oration addressed from his closet to the parliament of england, and which has been cited by lord mansfield himself, on the bench. his words are--"nor is it to the common people less than a reproach; for if we be so jealous of them that we cannot trust them with an english pamphlet, what do we but censure them for a giddy, vicious and ungrounded people? that this is care or love of them we cannot pretend." such are the sentiments of milton, in that noble effort of united argument and eloquence, which i should not fear to hold up against the most splendid orations of antiquity. having thus, i submit, made good my position, that political papers, whatever their description, can produce no mischief, and that there is no need to prosecute them; i will now show you, that not only can publications, containing false opinions, do no mischief, but that they actually produce benefit, and that therefore not they, but the prosecutions, which would check, and stifle them are injurious. is it meant to be contended that error is stronger than truth; folly more powerful than reason, and irreligion than religion? no man, in his senses, will maintain such propositions. on the contrary, error has always been dispersed before reason, and infidelity by religion. the appearance of error and falsehood has always roused truth to rise to the work of refutation. even the sublime truths of religion have never been so completely demonstrated, and conviction and faith have never been so firmly fixed in the minds of men as by those books of controversy which have been drawn forth by attacks upon christianity; and which, but for the publications denying the authenticity of the religion, would never have been in existence; but, invaluable as they are, the world must have wanted them. as to political writings, is it not notorious, that the very best expositions of the nature of civil society and government, are solely to be ascribed to the conflicts of reason with the false and loathsome doctrines of passive obedience and divine indefeasible right, which found their way into the world by the freedom of publication? even that great work, the treatise of locke on government, itself, which is justly regarded as the political bible (i mean no irreverence) of englishmen, would never have seen the light, but that it was written to refute the base and detestable tenets of barclay and filmer. their political treatises were false and slavish, and even illegal; for they were the same for which dr. sacheverel was afterwards impeached by the parliament; and which he would not have been if it had not been an offence to maintain and publish such opinions. yet were not their falsehoods and errors useful and beneficial? did they not provoke locke to rise in all the majesty and strength of truth and cast down filmer and his doctrines into the lowest abyss of contempt, never again to emerge? see, now, if the government of those days had prosecuted barclay and filmer, and suppressed their books by power instead of leaving them to be demolished by reasoning, what would have been the consequence? the mighty mind of locke would not have been called into action, and the total refutation and utter explosion of filmer would not have been effected. by criminal prosecutions the odious positions would only have been suppressed for a time, not as they now are, extinguished for ever; and the base and degrading doctrines of passive obedience and divine right, which are the stigma of the times in which they prevailed, might have been the disgrace and reproach of ours. but supposing that prosecutions for political writings were in any respect politic, useful, or wise, will they prevent their publication? no more than your strong and violent revenue laws have been able to suppress the rise of illicit stills in ireland and scotland. even if by dint of the terror of prosecutions the press in this city could be reduced to such awe and subjection, that everything that issued from it was as flat and unmeaning as the most arbitrary government could desire, its inhabitants would still gratify their thirst for political discussion and information. they would compose and print as they distil, in the depth of deserts and the solitude of mountains, and under the cover of darkness drop the pamphlets into the houses, or scatter them in the streets, and the obstacles to circulation will serve only to inflame the desire for possession. this would be the result of a determination to suppress everything in the shape of political discussion that did not please the humour of a set of men in authority, while by far the greater part if not all those publications which inspire so much apprehension, would if passed in silence either never be noticed, or read their hour and forgotten. it is these public trials that give them importance and notoriety. they would not draw an eye but for the glare thrown on them by these luminous prosecutions. these indictments (though i would not willingly be ludicrous on so serious an occasion) force into my mind the course once adopted with regard to houses of ill-fame, by the society for the suppression of vice. they paid men who were fixed before the doors of such houses with huge paper lanterns, on which there was painted in large illuminated letters, "this is a house of bad fame." but, instead of causing a desertion of the houses, they operated as an advertisement and an allurement, and increased the numbers who resorted to them. those who had before frequented them did not discontinue their visits, and those who were ignorant of such places and seeking them, on seeing the emblazonment by the doors, cried out--that is just what we wanted, and turned in. the society at last discovered their mistake. they found that they were encouraging what they wished to abolish, and discontinued the plan. my learned friend, who is counsel for the society, can confirm me when i assert that they do not now carry it into practice. precisely the operation that these lanterns had with regard to houses of ill-fame, have these trials upon obnoxious writings. they are illuminated by the rays which are shed on them by these proceedings. they attract every eye, and are read in the light (as it were) of the notoriety which is thus thrown upon them by these prosecutions. gentlemen, it just occurs to my recollection, that i have omitted in its proper place something which i ought to have mentioned, and urged to you, and i beg your indulgence to supply the omission. you will remember that in one of the passages charged as libelous, the words "i will not, now, say a word about insurrection" are to be found, and my learned friend, mr. gurney, suggested to you that it was an excitement, at some future period, to insurrection. i, gentlemen, repeat that these words are not only no excitement to insurrection, but an express disavowal of it. if you infer that he means insurrection at any future time, you must also suppose that the insurrection he contemplates is conditional, and in speculation of conduct in the government that may justify it. is there any extrinsic evidence to show that he means something beyond the words? none--and the words themselves are a literal disclaimer of any intention of insurrection. and it is by the words then that you will judge of his design, and not take it from the vague and partial declamation of the counsel for the prosecution, whose opinions ought no more than my own, to have any weight with you, except as they are supported by reason. if you can find any such meaning as an intention to excite insurrection in the words, so much the worse for the defendant; but, if you cannot, and i am sure you cannot, then you will not hesitate to adjudge the words innocent. what! may not i, or any man, say there is no occasion for insurrection at this moment, but there may be at a future time? good god! are there no possible situations in which resistance to a government will be justifiable? there have been such situations, and may again. surely there may be. why, even the most vehement strugglers for indefeasible right and passive obedience have been forced (after involving themselves in the most foolish inconsistencies, and after the most ludicrous shuffling in attempting to deny it) to admit, that there may be such a conjuncture. they have tried to qualify the admission indeed--admitted, and then retracted--then admitted again, and then denied in the term, what they admitted in the phrase, till, as you shall see, nothing ever equalled the absurdity, and ridiculousness of the _rigmarole_ into which they fell, in their unwillingness to confess, what they were unable to deny. yes, gentlemen, there are situations in which insurrection against a government is not only legal, but a duty and a virtue. the period of our glorious revolution was such a situation. when the bigot, james, attempted to force an odious superstition on the people for their religion, and to violate the fundamental laws of the realm, englishmen owed it to themselves, they owed it to millions of their fellow-creatures, not only in this country, but all over the world; they owed it to god who had made them man to rise against such a government; and cast ruin on the tyrant for the oppression and slavery which he meditated for them. locke, in the work from which i have already cited to you, in the chapter entitled, "on dissolution of government," contends with barclay, an advocate for divine right and passive obedience, and refutes him on this very question, and proves that subjects may use force against tyranny in governments. he cites barclay who wrote in latin, but i read to you from the translation. "wherefore if the king shall be guilty of immense and intolerable cruelty not only against individuals but against the body of the state, that it is the whole people, or any large part of the people, in such a case indeed it is competent to the people to resist and defend themselves from injury, but only to defend themselves, not to attack the prince, and only to repair the injury they have received; not to depart, on account of the injury received from the reverence which they owe him. when the tyranny is intolerable (for we ought always to submit to a tyranny in a moderate degree) the subject may resist with reverence." in commenting on this passage, mr. locke, mixes with his reasonings the ridicule it deserves:--"'he (that is barclay) says, it must be with reverence.' how to resist force without striking again, or how to strike with reverence, will need some skill to make intelligible. he that shall oppose an assault only with a shield to receive the blow, or in any more respectful posture without a sword in his hand, to abate the confidence and force of the assailant will quickly be at the end of his resistance, and will find such a defence serve only to draw on him the worse usage: this is as ridiculous a way of resisting, as juvenal thought of fighting, 'ubi tu _pulsas_, ego _vapulo_ tantum,' and the result of the combat will be unavoidably the same as he there describes it. libertas paupcris haec est. _pulsatus_ rogat, et _pugnis_ concisus adorat, ut _liceat_ paucis cum dentibus inde _reverti_. "'this is the liberty of the slave: when beaten and bruised with blows, he requests and implores as a favour to be allowed to depart with some few of his teeth.' this will always be the event of such an imaginary resistance, when men may not strike again. he, therefore, who may resist must be allowed to strike. and then let our author, or anybody else, join a knock on the head, or a cut on the face, with as much reverence and respect as he thinks fit. he that can reconcile blows and reverence may, for aught i know, deserve for his pains, a civil respectful cudgeling whenever he can meet with it." so much, gentlemen, for the doctrine of non-resistance. therefore the author of this paper in stating that there may be times when insurrection may be called for, has done no more than a hundred other writers, and among them locke, have done before him. locke proceeding still with the discussion of the question, whether oppressive governments may be opposed by the people, and, having concluded in the affirmative, says, "but here the question may be made, who shall be judge whether the prince or legislature act contrary to their trust. this, perhaps, ill affected and factious men may spread among the people, when the prince only makes use of his just prerogative. to this, i reply, the people shall be judge; for who shall be judge whether the trustee or deputy acts with and according to the trust that is reposed in him, but he who deputes him, and must, by having deputed him, have still a power to discard him when he fails in his trust. if this be reasonable in particular cases of private men, why should it be otherwise in that of the greatest moment when the welfare of millions is concerned, and also when the evil if not prevented is greater, and the redress very dear, difficult, and dangerous." locke, therefore, most unambiguously concludes that insurrection may be justified and necessary. a greater and more important truth does not exist, and we owe its promulgation with such freedom and boldness to that most extraordinary and felicitous conjuncture at the revolution which called upon us to support a king against a king, and obliged us to explode (as has been done most completely) the divine right and passive obedience under which one king claimed, to maintain the legal title of the other. locke goes on further to say-- "this question, who shall be supreme judge? cannot mean that there is no judge at all. for where there is no judicature on earth to decide controversies among men, god in heaven is judge. but every man is to judge for himself, as in all other cases, so in this, whether another hath put himself in a state of war with him, and whether, as jeptha did, he should appeal to the supreme judge." i beg that i may not be misinterpreted, i hope it will not be said i mean to insinuate that any circumstances at present exist to justify insurrection. i protest against any such inference. nothing can be further from my thoughts, and i regret that such an extravagant mode of construing men's words should be in fashion, as to render such a caution on my part needful. all i say is, that the writer of this paper spoke of insurrection conditionally, and prospectively only, and, in doing so, has done no more than locke, in other terms had done before him. gentlemen, i have but a very few more arguments to address to you, and i am glad of it, for i assure you, you cannot be more exhausted in patience than i am in strength. i now, gentlemen, ask you even admitting that the _style_ and manner, in which the opinions of the writer of this address are expressed, should verge upon intemperance and impropriety, would you venture, merely upon the ground of such a defect in style, to say the defendant is guilty; when the very same opinions in substance, expressed in a different style, would be innocent and legal, and unquestionable? gentlemen, i have heard it asserted, with a surprise that i cannot express, that if persons will write in a moderate, delicate, temperate, and refined style they may discuss questions which become exceptionable and forbidden if they are handled in a coarse and illiberal style. now i should have thought, that the very reverse of this would have been the case; for by a refined and guarded style you may insinuate and persuade--by vulgar coarseness and intemperance you disgust and nauseate. to say that a political paper of the very same sentiments, and principles would be innocent, written in a calm and delicate style which would be criminal, written in an abrupt, vehement and passionate manner, is to remove guilt from the thought and conception and substance of a writing, and impute it to the medium only of the thought, the mere expression. so that upon such a rule and principle of decision, if i were to heap violent and gross abuse even on abershaw, or any other highwayman, who was deservedly hanged a hundred years ago, i might actually be indicted for a libel. such a course, gentlemen, would be to degrade your judgments from a decision upon the thought, and opinions (which, are alone important) of an author to a criticism and condemnation of his words, and would be waging war with the vocabulary and the dictionary, a degradation, to which i trust, your reason will never submit. a difference of style in political writings is much too refined and subtle to found a distinction upon between innocence and crime. difference of style is so minute, and is a subject of such nice discrimination, that it would not only be difficult, but almost impossible, and most unsafe for any jury to attempt by it to draw a line between guilt and innocence; besides, what would be the effect upon the press? if i were told, when i sat down to write upon any topic, that i must treat it in a given style, and no other, or risk prosecution, i should be confounded, and throw down my pen without writing at all. at least i should either not write at all, or write in such a manner that i might as well not have written at all, for i should most certainly never be read. good god! to leave a man the alternative of a particular style, or an indictment for a libel, when he sat down to compose, would be like placing a torpedo on his hand; for you cannot, as was most forcibly, and beautifully said by lord erskine, "expect men to communicate their free thoughts to one another under the terror of a lash hanging over their heads;" and again, on another occasion, "under such circumstances, no man could sit down to write a pamphlet, without an attorney at one elbow, and a counsel at the other." gentlemen, if you, sitting coolly and dispassionately to give a deliberate judgment upon the manner and style of an author's composition would find it difficult to form a certain judgment, how great, how insuperable, must be the difficulty of the writer himself. how is he when he sits down intent on his subject and when vehement and ardent (as he must be, if he is in earnest, and that he may persuade others of that, which he feels himself) and his ideas are thronging and pressing upon him for expression--how is he to be select and cautious and measured in his words? would you not by subjecting the freedom of political discussion to such a restriction run the hazard of destroying it altogether? upon this question of the difficulty of distinguishing between propriety and impropriety in the style of writings i can not abstain from reading to you a passage from a speech of lord chesterfield, which was quoted by lord erskine, when he was at the bar, upon a trial for libel. on that occasion, indeed, lord kenyon told him, that he believed it flowed from the pen of dr. johnson, and _that_ lord erskine took as a valuable concession; for from the frame of mind and bias of that learned man on political subjects, he was certainly not a friend to popular liberty, while lord chesterfield, i believe, acted without deviation upon whig principles, and was a constant advocate for the freedom of the press. from dr. johnson, however, it was most important, as it had the effect of an unwilling admission, and if lord kenyon was correct in attributing the speech to dr. johnson, its excellence is to be inferred from the fact, that lord chesterfield never discountenanced the opinion that he was its author. the passage is this:-- "one of the greatest blessings we enjoy, one of the greatest blessings a people, my lords, can enjoy, is liberty; but every good in this life has its alloy of evil; licentiousness is the alloy of liberty; it is an ebullition, an excrescence--it is a speck upon the eye of the political body: but which i can never touch but with a gentle, with a trembling hand, lest i destroy the body, lest i injure the eye upon which it is apt to appear. "there is such a connection between licentiousness and liberty, that it is not easy to correct the one, without dangerously wounding the other: it is extremely hard to distinguish the true limit between them: like a changeable silk, we can easily see there are two different colours, but we cannot easily discover where the one ends, or where the other begins." mr. gurney.--you should state, in fairness and candour, that that was an argument against licensing. mr. cooper.--i know it was. the argument contends for the difficulty, next to impossibility, of distinguishing where that which is allowable ends, and that which is licentious begins. a licenser could not tell where to allow, and where to object, yet a licenser, gentlemen, would have had just the same means of judging that you possess; and if he could not tell with distinctness and certainty what to let pass and what to stop, how, with no greater power, and means of judgment, can you? with what justice, then, can it be objected to me, that i have shown any want of candour in not stating the precise question on which the argument was delivered, when in the principle there is not a shadow of difference? my application of the passage is therefore perfectly just. gentlemen, i have only one more quotation to trouble you with before i conclude. that is the opinion of lord loughborough, afterwards chancellor of england. i do not know in what case, or on what occasion it was delivered, but i believe in a judgment on a case of libel. "every man (says that judge) may publish at his discretion, his opinions concerning forms and systems of government. _if they be weak and absurd_, _they will be laughed at and forgotten_; _and_, _if they be_ bona fide, _they cannot be criminal_, _however erroneous_." this is the opinion of a great judge upon political publications, sitting under the authority of the king himself to administer the laws; and to apply this authority to the paper before you, what reason on earth have you to suppose, that the writer from the beginning to the end was not bona fide in his opinions; and then, however erroneous they may be, i say, under the sanction of lord loughborough himself, they are not criminal. having, gentlemen, submitted these observations to you, i declare most unfeignedly that i have uttered them with the most conscientious belief, that they are founded in reason, justice, and truth. i have not advanced a proposition nor uttered a sentiment as an advocate, which i am not prepared to avow and maintain as a man. if i am wrong in my judgment, you will correct me. you will, however, consider my reasonings, and the passages which i have cited to you in support of them, and judge if i have not maintained the propositions, which i have submitted to you. no argument can be drawn from any of the observations, which i have addressed to you for impunity to libelers and defamers of private character. no, they are justly called assassins; for they who destroy that without which life is worthless are as guilty as those who destroy life itself, and let them feel the heaviest vengeance of the law. private persons may be attacked and have no power to defend themselves. they may not only be unable themselves to answer published calumnies against their character; but also unable to employ those who can. but such can never be the case with those who administer the affairs of the nation. all the wealth and power of the country is in their hands. they may hire a thousand writers to support their measures, and vindicate their characters, and they will not want volunteers; they can command the press; and, for their protection, it is sufficient, that the press should be opposed to the press. private individuals cannot command the press; and, therefore, let slanderers of private character suffer the utmost punishment that the law can inflict. and now, gentlemen, i ask you to give me your verdict for the defendant. i make no attempt to move your compassion. i will not urge you to consider that the defendant is a woman, and unable, from the tenderness of her sex, to sustain hardship; nor call upon you to remember, that which you cannot but know, that she has already been convicted upon one prosecution, for which she will, without doubt, be the subject of severe punishment. i ask it on the higher ground of justice; though, i confess, that i hope and wish it with more anxiety, because i trust it will send these embodied prosecutors, this constitutional association, as (by the figure, i suppose, of _lucus a non lucendo_) they entitle themselves, into that obscurity to which they properly belong, or at least if they will obtrude further upon the impatience of the public, let them carry with them the ill omen of a failure in their first attempt to insinuate, either that the english constitution is deficient in its establishment of responsible law officers of the crown, or that those officers are incapable of fulfilling the duties of their station. it is said, and i hope truly, that the country is gradually recovering from the distress, under which it has so long suffered, and that plenty and prosperity have again begun to flow in upon us. may it be so! but we shall never derive enjoyment from any improvement in our physical condition; unless it is accompanied with domestic tranquillity. to be happy we must be at peace amongst ourselves; and nothing will have the effect of allaying the heart- burnings of political animosity and uniting us, as it were, in bands of harmonious brotherhood, so much as a discouragement of these party prosecutions, which, while they kindle feelings of indignation, and hostility, and hatred in large numbers of the people, are of no general benefit to the state. fling back this prosecution, then, in the faces of those who have instituted it; and, instead of sending this unfortunate woman to a prison, send her back by your verdict of acquittal to the children of her brother, who, deprived (in the manner you know) both of their father and mother, are as much orphans as they would be by their death; and who, sordid and neglected in her absence, are requiring her care. and, what is more, you will, by your verdict of not guilty, give security to the free expression of public opinion, compose our dissensions, and protect both yourselves and posterity; since in calling on you to acquit the defendant, i call on you to protect the freedom of the press, and with it the freedom of the country; for unless the press is preserved, and preserved inviolate, the political liberties of englishmen are lost. mr. justice best.--it was his duty to call back the attention of the jury to the question which they were to try. a number of observations had been made relative to what had taken place in virginia, but which had nothing to do with the verdict which they were to give. one observation had been made, in the propriety of which he perfectly agreed, which was that they would dismiss from their minds all prejudices. the learned counsel for the defendant seemed to think that the name of carlile was sufficient to create prejudices. if that were the case, he hoped the jury would forget that the present defendant was of that name. they had nothing now to do but to exercise their judgment upon the facts before them. the jury were told, and truly told, that they were the judges as to whether this was a libel or not. the statute gave the jury the power of finding a general verdict; but they still were bound under the sanction of their oaths to find it according to law. he should give his opinion, and the jury were at liberty to differ with him; but he must beg in the most distinct terms to state that the jury or the court had nothing to do with the propriety or impropriety of these prosecutions, or with the association by which the prosecution had been instituted. for his own part he did not know by whom it had been instituted until he had been requested by the defendant to ask the jurors as they went into the box, whether or not they were members of that association. the two questions to be decided were, first, was this pamphlet a libel? and secondly, was the defendant the publisher? they must lay out of their consideration acts of parliament passed in virginia. the principles laid down in the preamble of the act alluded to, might be a good principle for america, but he was bound to tell them that it was not law in england. in the book quoted from by the learned gentlemen, it was said "how wretched must be the state of society in a country where the laws were uncertain;" and that must be the case where the jury take into consideration the propriety or impropriety of laws. in his opinion this publication was libelous, and if the jury were not satisfied of the contrary, the safer course would be for the jury to agree in opinion with one who must be presumed to be acquainted with the law, and who gives that opinion upon his oath. no man could be a more ardent admirer than he of the press, to the freedom of which europe was principally indebted for its happiness; and god forbid that he should do anything which would for a moment extinguish that liberty! the learned counsel for the defendant had said, that the libel upon a private individual was a species of moral assassination. it was odd that an individual could not be libeled with impunity, and yet that society might be set by the ears. the government were equally protected with all others against the malevolence and virulence of the press. he would again repeat, but he would say nothing as to what the law ought to be, but he stated what it was. what he conceived to be the true liberty of the press was this, that any man might, without permission, publish what he please, if he were responsible for what he might publish. it might be asked, then is a man answerable for every expression? to that he would answer, no; if a man's intention were to convince the people that the government was not acting right, he had a right to publish his opinions; and if some sparks should fly out beyond decorum when the real apparent object was to instruct, the expressions ought not to be visited with punishment. but men must not go farther than instruct: they must not say that the system of government is a system of tyranny; which meant nothing more than that the people ought to pull down such systems. the learned counsel had alluded to athens and rome, but it was well known that those states punished offences of this description with greater severity than the laws of england inflicted. every man had a right to point out with firmness, but with respect, the errors of government. every man has a right to appeal to the understanding, but not to the passions; and the man who wished to do so need not be afraid to write. the distinction between fair discussion and libel was this, that one was an appeal to the passions, and the other to the understanding. if the jury were of opinion that this pamphlet was an address to the people of the country, to induce them by legal and constitutional means to procure a redress of grievances, then they would acquit the defendant; but, if on the other hand, they should be of opinion that the intention was to appeal to prejudices and passions (as he thought) it was their bounden duty, whatever they might think of the propriety or impropriety of the prosecution, to return a verdict of guilty. he next felt it his duty to remark upon the passages in the record, and if the learned gentleman had gone through the pamphlet, he would have found in the next page, in which the writer said, that the making and administration of laws was corrupt, a sufficient explanation of what was intended by the sentence, "to talk of the british constitution, &c." there was in the country a constitution not like the spanish constitution, created in a day; but matured by the sense of ages, altering and adapting it to times and circumstances until it became what was a practical and not theoretical system of liberty. the learned counsel had made some observations upon what had fallen from lord colchester in the house of commons; such observations he thought irregular, but he permitted them sooner than it should be said that the defendant, to use a familiar expression, had not "fair play." he did not want the authority of lord colchester with respect to these corruptions, because he had evidence of it in a case in which he tried twenty-four persons for such practices. but was it the meaning of the passage, that there was corruption in the house of commons? no, the expression was that the laws (which were corrupt enough to bring to punishment persons guilty of those practices) were corrupt. was this true? if there were anything for which this country was more distinguished than another it was the equity of the laws, and it was for this that the laws of england were extolled by all foreigners. the writer could not mean the borough of grampound, or any other borough, when he said that corruption was the oil of the system. when the writer said he did not "at that moment speak of insurrection," what was his meaning? why that insurrection would not do then, but at some future time they might, when satisfied of their strength, take advantage of all circumstances. as far as he understood the nature of the manchester and stockport rooms they were for instruction, and if the writer did not go farther, then indeed would the pamphlet be harmless. "delay some time." "have such meetings as those at manchester and stockport; be assured of your numbers, and you can overpower the government." there could be no doubt that these passages were libelous. the next question was, whether the defendant had or had not published the libel? and it was in evidence that these copies were purchased at two different times. the jury were not to take into consideration the former conviction; and he could assure the jury that no greater severity would be used than was sufficient to restrain this licentiousness, which, if not restrained, would overturn this or any other government. the revolution recommended by this pamphlet would not be an ordinary change of masters, but a transfer of property. at about four o'clock the jury retired; and, having returned at quarter before five, mr. justice best said, he had received a communication that they were not likely to agree; and as they must agree at some time or other, he sent for them in order to give them any information in his power upon such points as they disagreed upon. a juror.--the foreman was rather precipitate in writing to your lordship; we have not wasted much time, and we are discussing it among ourselves. mr. justice best.--i am not in a hurry. the foreman said, there were four of the jurors obstinate, and he would wish his lordship to draw a juror. mr. justice best.--i have not the power to do so. a juror.--i throw back the charge of obstinacy in the teeth of the foreman--he is obstinate. another juryman.--my lord there is obstinacy. second juryman.--this is invidious; i am not the only one who stands out; there are four of us. the foreman again expressed his opinion that they should not agree. mr. justice best.--gentlemen, you must see the impropriety of this public discussion; you had better retire, and endeavour to agree among yourselves. the jury again retired, and at eight o'clock desired their families might be informed that it was not likely they would return home before the morning. wednesday, july th. this morning the jury were still enclosed without the least chance of any agreement. a number of persons were in waiting to hear the verdict. at half-past nine o'clock, mr. justice holroyd appeared on the bench, and an intimation was conveyed to his lordship that there was no probability that the jury would agree. a conference took place between the counsel for the prosecution and defence who appeared to be both willing to enter a _noli prosequi_ and discharge the jury without a verdict. a gentleman in black (said to be mr. longueville clarke, one of the committee of the constitutional association, and one of the _state locusts_) suddenly started up, and declared that he would not consent to such a course. mr. cooper (to the man in black).--are you the attorney for the prosecution, sir? mr. longueville clarke.--no: i am a member of the constitutional committee; and _i will_ have a verdict. mr. cooper.--however potent, sir, your word might be in the committee- room, it has no power in this court. mr. gurney, as counsel for the prosecution, in the absence of mr. murray, the attorney, would take upon himself the responsibility of consenting to discharge the jury. mr. cooper, thinking it cruelty to confine the jury any longer would yield also to a consent for their discharge. the jury were then sent for, and in their passage to the court were loudly and rapturously cheered by the bystanders. having answered to their names, mr. justice holroyd addressed them.--gentlemen of the jury, i am glad that it is in my power to relieve you from your present unpleasant situation. the learned counsel on both sides have consented to discharge you without your returning a verdict. the jury then left the court, and were again loudly cheered in their passage through the hall. thus ended the first attempt of the constitutional association, or the bridge-street banditti, to get a verdict; particularly important to the country--particularly honourable to the counsel for the defendant, and the honest jurors who made so noble a stand for the liberty of the press--and particularly disgraceful to all parties connected with the prosecution. london: w. & h. s. warr, printers, , red lion passage, & , high holborn. the day of the dog by george barr mccutcheon author of "grauslark" "the sherrods etc" with illustrations by harrison fisher and decorations by margaret & helen maitland armstrong new york illustrations swallow (in color) frontispiece crosby drives to the station the hands had gone to their dinner the big red barn the two boys mrs. delancy and mrs. austin mr. austin mrs. delancy pleads with swallow they examine the documents "she deliberately spread out the papers on the beam" (in color) swallow she watches him descend into danger mr. crosby shows swallow a new trick "swallow's chubby body shot squarely through the opening" (in color) the man with the lantern mr. higgins "he was splashing through the shallow brook" (in color) he carries her over the brook mrs. higgins they enjoy mrs. higgins's good supper lonesomeville the deputy sheriff crosby and the deputy mrs. delancy falls asleep they go to the theatre "'good heavens!' 'what is it?' he cried. 'you are not married, are you?'" (in color) "crosby won both suits" the day of the dog part i "i'll catch the first train back this evening, graves. wouldn't go down there if it were not absolutely necessary; but i have just heard that mrs. delancy is to leave for new york to-night, and if i don't see her to-day there will be a pack of troublesome complications. tell mrs. graves she can count me in on the box party to-night." "we'll need you, crosby. don't miss the train." [illustration: crosby drives to the station] "i'll be at the station an hour before the train leaves. confound it, it's a mean trip down there--three hours through the rankest kind of scenery and three hours back. she's visiting in the country, too, but i can drive out and back in an hour." "on your life, old man, don't fail me." "don't worry, graves; all christendom couldn't keep me in dexter after four o'clock this afternoon. good-by." and crosby climbed into the hansom and was driven away at breakneck speed toward the station. crosby was the junior member of the law firm of rolfe & crosby, and his trip to the country was on business connected with the settlement of a big estate. mrs. delancy, widow of a son of the decedent, was one of the legatees, and she was visiting her sister-in-law, mrs. robert austin, in central illinois. mr. austin owned extensive farming interests near dexter, and his handsome home was less than two miles from the heart of the town. crosby anticipated no trouble in driving to the house and back in time to catch the afternoon train for chicago. it was necessary for mrs. delancy to sign certain papers, and he was confident the transaction could not occupy more than half an hour's time. at : crosby stepped from the coach to the station platform in dexter, looked inquiringly about, and then asked a perspiring man with a star on his suspender-strap where he could hire a horse and buggy. the officer directed him to a "feed-yard and stable," but observed that there was a "funeral in town an' he'd be lucky if he got a rig, as all of smith's horses were out." application at the stable brought the first frown to crosby's brow. he could not rent a "rig" until after the funeral, and that would make it too late for him to catch the four o'clock train for chicago. to make the story short, twelve o'clock saw him trudging along the dusty road covering the two miles between town and austin's place, and he was walking with the rapidity of one who has no love for the beautiful. the early spring air was invigorating, and it did not take him long to reduce the distance. austin's house stood on a hill, far back from the highway, and overlooking the entire country-side. the big red barn stood in from the road a hundred yards or more, and he saw that the same driveway led to the house on the hill. there was no time for speculation, so he hastily made his way up the lane. crosby had never seen his client, their business having been conducted by mail or through mr. rolfe. there was not a person in sight, and he slowed his progress considerably as he drew nearer the big house. at the barn-yard gate he came to a full stop and debated within himself the wisdom of inquiring at the stables for mr. austin. he flung open the gate and strode quickly to the door. this he opened boldly and stepped inside, finding himself in a lofty carriage room. several handsome vehicles stood at the far end, but the wide space near the door was clear. the floor was as "clean as a pin," except along the west side. no one was in sight, and the only sound was that produced by the horses as they munched their hay and stamped their hoofs in impatient remonstrance with the flies. "where the deuce are the people?" he muttered as he crossed to the mangers. "devilish queer," glancing about in considerable doubt. "the hands must be at dinner or taking a nap." he passed by a row of mangers and was calmly inspected by brown-eyed horses. at the end of the long row of stalls he found a little gate opening into another section of the barn. he was on the point of opening this gate to pass in among the horses when a low growl attracted his attention. in some alarm he took a precautionary look ahead. on the opposite side of the gate stood a huge and vicious looking bulldog, unchained and waiting for him with an eager ferocity that could not be mistaken. mr. crosby did not open the gate. instead he inspected it to see that it was securely fastened, and then drew his hand across his brow. "what an escape!" he gasped, after a long breath. "lucky for me you growled, old boy. my name is crosby, my dear sir, and i'm not here to steal anything. i'm only a lawyer. anybody else at home but you?" an ominous growl was the answer, and there was lurid disappointment in the face of the squat figure beyond the gate. "come, now, old chap, don't be nasty. i won't hurt you. there was nothing farther from my mind than a desire to disturb you. and say, please do something besides growl. bark, and oblige me. you may attract the attention of some one." by this time the ugly brute was trying to get at the man, growling, and snarling savagely. crosby complacently looked on from his place of safety for a moment, and was on the point of turning away when his attention was caught by a new move on the part of the dog. the animal ceased his violent efforts to get through the gate, turned about deliberately, and raced from view behind the horse stalls. crosby brought himself up with a jerk. "thunder," he ejaculated; "the brute knows a way to get at me, and he won't be long about it, either. what the dickens shall i--by george, this looks serious! he'll head me off at the door if i try to get out and--ah, the fire-escape! we'll fool you, you brute! what a cursed idiot i was not to go to the house instead of coming--" he was shinning up a ladder with little regard for grace as he mumbled this self-condemnatory remark. there was little dignity in his manner of flight, and there was certainly no glory in the position in which he found himself a moment later. but there was a vast amount of satisfaction. the ladder rested against a beam that crossed the carriage shed near the middle. the beam was a large one, hewn from a monster tree, and was free on all sides. the ladder had evidently been left there by men who had used it recently and had neglected to return it to the hooks on which it properly hung. when the dog rushed violently through the door and into the carriage room, he found a vast and inexplicable solitude. he was, to all appearances, alone with the vehicles under which he was permitted to trot when his master felt inclined to grant the privilege. crosby, seated on the beam, fifteen feet above the floor, grinned securely but somewhat dubiously as he watched the mystified dog below. at last he laughed aloud. he could not help it. the enemy glanced upward and blinked his red eyes in surprise; then he stared in deep chagrin, then glared with rage. for a few minutes crosby watched his frantic efforts to leap through fifteen feet of altitudinal space, confidently hoping that some one would come to drive the brute away and liberate him. finally he began to lose the good humor his strategy in fooling the dog had inspired, and a hurt, indignant stare was directed toward the open door through which he had entered. "what's the matter with the idiots?" he growled impatiently. "are they going to let this poor dog snarl his lungs out? he's a faithful chap, too, and a willing worker. gad, i never saw anything more earnest than the way he tries to climb up that ladder." adjusting himself in a comfortable position, his elbows on his knees, his hands to his chin, he allowed his feet to swing lazily, tantalizingly, below the beam. "i'm putting a good deal of faith in this beam," he went on resignedly. the timber was at least fifteen inches square. "ah, by george! that was a bully jump--the best you've made. you didn't miss me more than ten feet that time. i don't like to be disrespectful, you know, but you are an exceedingly rough looking dog. don't get huffy about it, old fellow, but you have the ugliest mouth i ever saw. yes, you miserable cur, politeness at last ceases to be a virtue with me. if i had you up here i'd punch your face for you, too. why don't you come up, you coward? you're bow-legged, too, and you haven't any more figure than a crab. anybody that would take an insult like that is beneath me (thank heaven!) and would steal sheep. great scott! where are all these people? shut up, you brute, you! i'm getting a headache. but it doesn't do any good to reason with you, i can see that plainly. the thing i ought to do is to go down there and punish you severely. but i'll-- hello! hey, boy! call off this--confounded dog." two small lord fauntleroy boys were standing in the door, gazing up at him with wide open mouths and bulging eyes. "call him off, i say, or i'll come down there and kick a hole clear through him." the boys stared all the harder. "is your name austin?" he demanded, addressing neither in particular. "yes, sir," answered the larger boy, with an effort. "well, where's your father? shut up, you brute! can't you see i'm talking? go tell your father i want to see him, boy." "dad's up at the house." "that sounds encouraging. can't you call off this dog?" "i--i guess i'd better not. that's what dad keeps him for." "oh, he does, eh? and what is it that he keeps him for?" "to watch tramps." "to watch--to watch tramps? say, boy, i'm a lawyer and i'm here on business." he was black in the face with indignation. "you better come up to the house and see dad, then. he don't live in the barn," said the boy keenly. "i can't fly to the house, boy. say, if you don't call off this dog i'll put a bullet through him." "you'd have to be a purty good shot, mister. nearly everybody in the county has tried to do it." both boys were grinning diabolically and the dog took on energy through inspiration. crosby longed for a stick of dynamite. "i'll give you a dollar if you get him away from here." "let's see your dollar." crosby drew a silver dollar from his trousers pocket, almost falling from his perch in the effort. "here's the coin. call him off," gasped the lawyer. "i'm afraid papa wouldn't like it," said the boy. the smaller lad nudged his brother and urged him to "take the money anyhow." "i live in chicago," crosby began, hoping to impress the boys at least. "so do we when we're at home," said the smaller boy. "we live in chicago in the winter time." "is mrs. delancy your aunt?" "yes, sir." "i'll give you this dollar if you'll tell your father i'm here and want to see him at once." "throw down your dollar." the coin fell at their feet but rolled deliberately through a crack in the floor and was lost forever. crosby muttered something unintelligible, but resignedly threw a second coin after the first. "he'll be out when he gets through dinner," said the older boy, just before the fight. two minutes later he was streaking across the barn lot with the coin in his pocket, the smaller boy wailing under the woe of a bloody nose. for half an hour crosby heaped insult after insult upon the glowering dog at the bottom of the ladder and was in the midst of a rabid denunciation of austin when the city-bred farmer entered the barn. "am i addressing mr. robert austin?" called crosby, suddenly amiable. the dog subsided and ran to his master's side. austin, a black-moustached, sallow-faced man of forty, stopped near the door and looked aloft, squinting. "where are you?" he asked somewhat sharply. "i am very much up in the air," replied crosby. "look a little sou' by sou'east. ah, now you have me. can you manage the dog? if so, i'll come down." "one moment, please. who are you?" "my name is crosby, of rolfe & crosby, chicago. i am here to see mrs. delancy, your sister-in-law, on business before she leaves for new york." "what is your business with her, may i ask?" "private," said crosby laconically. "hold the dog." "i insist in knowing the nature of your business," said austin firmly. "i'd rather come down there and talk, if you don't mind." "i don't but the dog may," said the other grimly. "well, this is a nice way to treat a gentleman," cried crosby wrathfully. "a gentleman would scarcely have expected to find a lady in the barn, much less on a cross-beam. this is where my horses and dogs live." "oh, that's all right now; this isn't a joke, you know." "i quite agree with you. what is your business with mrs. delancy?" "we represent her late husband's interests in settling up the estate of his father. your wife's interests are being looked after by morton & rogers, i believe. i am here to have mrs. delancy go through the form of signing papers authorizing us to bring suit against the estate in order to establish certain rights of which you are fully aware. your wife's brother left his affairs slightly tangled, you remember." "well, i can save you a good deal of trouble. mrs. delancy has decided to let the matter rest as it is and to accept the compromise terms offered by the other heirs. she will not care to see you, for she has just written to your firm announcing her decision." "you--you don't mean it," exclaimed crosby in dismay. he saw a prodigious fee slipping through his fingers. "gad, i must see her about this," he went on, starting down the ladder, only to go back again hastily. the growling dog leaped forward and stood ready to receive him. austin chuckled audibly. "she really can't see you, mr. crosby. mrs. delancy leaves at four o'clock for chicago, where she takes the michigan central for new york to-night. you can gain nothing by seeing her." "but i insist, sir," exploded crosby. "you may come down when you like," said austin. "the dog will be here until i return from the depot after driving her over. come down when you like." crosby did not utter the threat that surged to his lips. with the wisdom born of self-preservation, he temporized, reserving deep down in the surging young breast a promise to amply recompense his pride for the blows it was receiving at the hands of the detestable mr. austin. "you'll admit that i'm in a devil of a pickle, mr. austin," he said jovially. "the dog is not at all friendly." "he is at least diverting. you won't be lonesome while i'm away. i'll tell mrs. delancy that you called," said austin ironically. he turned to leave the barn, and the sinister sneer on his face gave crosby a new and amazing inspiration. like a flash there rushed into his mind the belief that austin had a deep laid design in not permitting him to see the lady. with this belief also came the conviction that he was hurrying her off to new york on some pretext simply to forestall any action that might induce her to continue the contemplated suit against the estate. mrs. delancy had undoubtedly been urged to drop the matter under pressure of promises, and the austins were getting her away from the scene of action before she could reconsider or before her solicitors could convince her of the mistake she was making. the thought of this sent the fire of resentment racing through crosby's brain, and he fairly gasped with the longing to get at the bottom of the case. his only hope now lay in sending a telegram to mr. rolfe, commanding him to meet mrs. delancy when her train reached chicago, and to lay the whole matter before her. before austin could make his exit the voices of women were heard outside the door and an instant later two ladies entered. the farmer attempted to turn them back, but the younger, taller, and slighter of the newcomers cried: "i just couldn't go without another look at the horses, bob." crosby, on the beam, did not fail to observe the rich, tender tone of the voice, and it would have required almost total darkness to obscure the beauty of her face. her companion was older and coarser, and he found delight in the belief that she was the better half of the disagreeable mr. austin. "good-afternoon, mrs. delancy!" came a fine masculine voice from nowhere. the ladies started in amazement, mr. austin ground his teeth, the dog took another tired leap upward; mr. crosby took off his hat gallantly, and waited patiently for the lady to discover his whereabouts. "who is it, bob?" cried the tall one, and crosby patted his bump of shrewdness happily. "who have you in hiding here?" "i'm not in hiding, mrs. delancy. i'm a prisoner, that's all. i'm right near the top of the ladder directly in front of you. you know me only through the mails, but my partner, mr. rolfe, is known to you personally. my name is crosby." "how very strange," she cried in wonder. "why don't you come down, mr. crosby?" "i hate to admit it, but i'm afraid. there's the dog, you know. have you any influence over him?" "none whatever. he hates me. perhaps mr. austin can manage him. oh, isn't it ludicrous?" and she burst into hearty laughter. it was a very musical laugh, but crosby considered it a disagreeable croak. "but mr. austin declines to interfere. i came to see you on private business and am not permitted to do so." "we don't know this fellow, louise, and i can't allow you to talk to him," said austin brusquely. "i found him where he is and there he stays until the marshal comes out from town. his actions have been very suspicious and must be investigated. i can't take chances on letting a horse thief escape. swallow will watch him until i can secure assistance." "i implore you, mrs. delancy, to give me a moment or two in which to explain," cried crosby. "he knows i'm not here to steal his horses, and he knows i intend to punch his head the minute i get the chance." mrs. austin's little shriek of dismay and her husband's fierce glare did not check the flow of language from the beam. "i am crosby of rolfe & crosby, your counsel. i have the papers here for you to sign and--" "louise, i insist that you come away from here. this fellow is a fraud--" "he's refreshing, at any rate," said mrs. delancy gaily. "there can be no harm in hearing what he has to say, bob." "you are very kind, and i won't detain you long." "i've a mind to kick you out of this barn," cried austin angrily. "i don't believe you're tall enough, my good fellow." mr. crosby was more than amiable. he was positively genial. mrs. delancy's pretty face was the picture of eager, excited mirth, and he saw that she was determined to see the comedy to the end. "louise!" exclaimed mrs. austin, speaking for the first time. "you are not fool enough to credit this fellow's story, i'm sure. come to the house at once. i will not stay here." mrs. austin's voice was hard and biting, and crosby also caught the quick glance that passed between husband and wife. "i am sure mrs. delancy will not be so unkind as to leave me after i've had so much trouble in getting an audience. here is my card, mrs. delancy." crosby tossed a card from his perch, but swallow gobbled it up instantly. mrs. delancy gave a little cry of disappointment, and crosby promptly apologized for the dog's greediness. "mr. austin knows i'm crosby," he concluded. "i know nothing of the sort, sir, and i forbid mrs. delancy holding further conversation with you. this is an outrageous imposition, louise. you must hurry, by the way, or we'll miss the train," said austin, biting his lip impatiently. "that reminds me, i also take the four o'clock train for chicago, mrs. delancy. if you prefer, we can talk over our affairs on the train instead of here. i'll confess this isn't a very dignified manner in which to hold a consultation," said crosby apologetically. "will you be kind enough to state the nature of your business, mr. crosby?" said the young woman, ignoring mr. austin. "then you believe i'm crosby?" cried that gentleman triumphantly. "louise!" cried mrs. austin in despair. "in spite of your present occupation, i believe you are crosby," said mrs. delancy merrily. "but, good gracious, i can't talk business with you from this confounded beam," he cried lugubriously. "mr. austin will call the dog away," she said confidently, turning to the man in the door. austin's sallow face lighted with a sudden malicious grin, and there was positive joy in his voice. "you may be satisfied, but i am not. if you desire to transact business with this impertinent stranger, mrs. delancy, you'll have to do so under existing conditions. i do not approve of him or his methods, and my dog doesn't either. you can trust a dog for knowing a man for what he is. mrs. austin and i are going to the house. you may remain, of course; i have no right to command you to follow. when you are ready to drive to the station, please come to the house. i'll be ready. your mr. crosby may leave when he likes--if he can. come, elizabeth." with this defiant thrust, mr. austin stalked from the barn, followed by his wife. mrs. delancy started to follow but checked herself immediately, a flush of anger mounting to her brow. after a long pause she spoke. "i don't understand how you came to be where you are, mr. crosby," she said slowly. he related his experiences rapidly and laughed with her simply because she had a way with her. "you'll pardon me for laughing," she giggled. "with all my heart," he replied gallantly. "it must be very funny. however, this is not business. you are in a hurry to get away from here and--i'm not, it seems. briefly, mrs. delancy, i have the papers you are to sign before we begin your action against the fairwater estate. you know what they are through mr. rolfe." "well, i'm sorry, mr. crosby, to say to you that i have decided to abandon the matter. a satisfactory compromise is under way." "so i've been told. but are you sure you understand yourself?" "perfectly, thank you." "this is a very unsatisfactory place from which to argue my case, mrs. delancy. can't you dispose of the dog?" "only god disposes." "well, do you mind telling me what the compromise provides?" she stared at him for a moment haughtily, but his smile won the point for him. she told him everything and then looked very much displeased when he swore distinctly. "pardon me, but you are getting very much the worst of it in this deal. it is the most contemptible scheme to rob that i ever heard of. by this arrangement you are to get farming lands and building lots in rural towns worth in all about $ , , i'd say. don't you know that you are entitled to nearly half a million?" "oh, dear, no. by right, my share is less than $ , ," she cried triumphantly. "who told you so?" he demanded, and she saw a very heavy frown on his erstwhile merry face. "why--why, mr. austin and another brother-in-law, mr. gray, both of whom are very kind to me in the matter, i'm sure." "mrs. delancy, you are being robbed by these fellows. can't you see that these brothers-in-law and their wives will profit immensely if they succeed in keeping the wool over your eyes long enough? let me show you some figures." he excitedly drew a packet of papers from his pocket and in five minutes' time had her gasping with the knowledge that she was legally entitled to more than half a million of dollars. "are you sure?" she cried, unable to believe her ears. "absolutely. here is the inventory and here are the figures to corroborate everything i say." "but they had figures, too," she cried in perplexity. "certainly. figures are wonderful things. i only ask you to defer this plan to compromise until we are able to thoroughly convince you that i am not misrepresenting the facts to you." "oh, if i could only believe you!" "i'd toss the documents down to you if i were not afraid they'd join my card. that is a terribly ravenous beast. surely you can coax him out of the barn," he added eagerly. "i can try, but persuasion is difficult with a bulldog, you know," she said doubtfully. "it is much easier to persuade a man," she smiled. "i trust you won't try to persuade me to come down," he said in alarm. "mr. austin is a brute to treat you in this manner," she cried indignantly. "i wouldn't treat a dog as he is treating me." "oh, i am sure you couldn't," she cried in perfect sincerity. "swallow doesn't like me, but i'll try to get him away. you can't stay up there all night." "by jove!" he exclaimed sharply. "what is it?" she asked quickly. "i had forgotten an engagement in chicago for to-night. box party at the comic opera," he said, looking nervously at his watch. "it would be too bad if you missed it," she said sweetly. "you'd be much more comfortable in a box." "you are consoling at least. are you going to coax him off?" "in behalf of the box party, i'll try. come, swallow. there's a nice doggie!" crosby watched the proceedings with deepest interest and concern and not a little admiration. but not only did swallow refuse to abdicate but he seemed to take decided exceptions to the feminine method of appeal. he evidently did not like to be called "doggie," "pet," "dearie," and all such. "he won't come," she cried plaintively. "i have it!" he exclaimed, his face brightening. "will you hand me that three-tined pitchfork over there? with that in my hands i'll make swallow see--look out! for heaven's sake, don't go near him! he'll kill you." she had taken two or three steps toward the dog, her hand extended pleadingly, only to be met by an ominous growl, a fine display of teeth, and a bristling back. as if paralyzed, she halted at the foot of the ladder, terror suddenly taking possession of her. "can you get the pitchfork?" "i am afraid to move," she moaned. "he is horrible--horrible!" "i'll come down, mrs. delancy, and hang the consequences," crosby cried, and was suiting the action to the word when she cried out in remonstrance. "don't come down--don't! he'll kill you. i forbid you to come down, mr. crosby. look at him! oh, he's coming toward me! don't come down!" she shrieked. "i'll come up!" grasping her skirts with one hand she started frantically up the ladder, her terrified eyes looking into the face of the man above. there was a vicious snarl from the dog, a savage lunge, and then something closed over her arm like a vice. she felt herself being jerked upward and a second later she was on the beam beside the flushed young man whose strong hand and not the dog's jaws had reached her first. he was obliged to support her for a few minutes with one of his emphatic arms, so near was she to fainting. "oh," she gasped at last, looking into his eyes questioningly. "did he bite me? i was not sure, you know. he gave such an awful leap for me. how did you do it?" "a simple twist of the wrist, as the prestidigitators say. you had a close call, my dear mrs. delancy." he was a-quiver with new sensations that were sending his spirits sky high. after all it was not turning out so badly. "he would have dragged me down had it not been for you. and i might have been torn to pieces," she shuddered, glancing down at the now infuriated dog. "it would have been appalling," he agreed, discreetly allowing her to imagine the worst. "how can i ever thank you?" cried she impulsively. he made a very creditable show of embarrassment in the effort to convince her that he had accomplished only what any man would have attempted under similar circumstances. she was thoroughly convinced that no other man could have succeeded. "well, we're in a pretty position, are we not?" he asked in the end. "i think i can stick on without being held, mr. crosby," she said, and his arm slowly and regretfully came to parade rest. "are you sure you won't get dizzy?" he demanded in deep solicitude. "i'll not look down," she said, smiling into his eyes. he lost the power of speech for a moment. "may i look at those figures now?" for the next ten minutes she studiously followed him as he explained the contents of the various papers. she held the sheets and they sat very close to each other on the big beam. the dog looked on in sour disgust. "they cannot be wrong," she cried at last. her eyes were sparkling. "you are as good as an angel." "i only regret that i can't complete the illusion by unfolding a strong and convenient pair of wings," he said dolorously. "how are we to catch that train for chicago?" "i'm afraid we can't," she said demurely. "you'll miss the box party." "that's a pleasure easily sacrificed." "besides, you are seeing me on business. pleasure should never interfere with business, you know." "it doesn't seem to," he said, and the dog saw them smile tranquilly into each other's eyes. "oh, isn't this too funny for words?" he looked very grateful. "i wonder when austin will condescend to release us." "i have come to a decision, mr. crosby," she said irrelevantly. "indeed?" "i shall never speak to robert austin again, and i'll never enter his house as long as i live," she announced determinedly. "good! but you forget your personal effects. they are in his house." he was overflowing with happiness. "they have all gone to the depot and i have the baggage checks. my ticket and my money are in this purse. you see, we are quite on the same footing." "i don't feel sure of my footing," he commented ruefully. "by the way, i have a fountain pen. would you mind signing these papers? we'll be quite sure of our standing at least." she deliberately spread out the papers on the beam, and, while he obligingly kept her from falling, signed seven documents in a full, decisive hand: "louise hampton delancy." "there! that means that you are to begin suit," she said finally, handing the pen to him. [illustration: "she deliberately spread out the papers on the beam."] "i'll not waste an instant," he said meaningly. "in fact, the suit is already under way." "i don't understand you," she said, but she flushed. "that's what a lawyer says when he goes to court," he explained. "oh," she said, thoroughly convinced. at the end of another hour the two on the beam were looking at each other with troubled eyes. when he glanced at his watch at six o'clock, his face was extremely sober. there was a tired, wistful expression in her eyes. "do you think they'll keep us here all night?" she asked plaintively. "heaven knows what that scoundrel will do." "we have the papers signed, at any rate." she sighed, trying to revive the dying spark of humor. "and we won't be lonesome," he added, glaring at the dog. "did you ever dream that a man could be so despicable?" "ah, here comes some one at last," he cried, brightening up. the figure of robert austin appeared in the doorway. "oho, you're both up there now, are you?" he snapped. "that's why you didn't go to the depot, is it? well, how has the business progressed?" "she has signed all the papers, if that's what you want to know," said crosby tantalizingly. "that's all the good it will do her. we'll beat you in court, mr. crosby, and we won't leave a dollar for you, my dear sister-in-law," snarled austin, his face white with rage. "and now that we've settled our business, and missed our train, perhaps you'll call off your confounded dog," said crosby. austin's face broke into a wide grin, and he chuckled aloud. then he leaned against the door-post and held his sides. "what's the joke?" demanded the irate crosby. mrs. delancy clasped his arm and looked down upon austin as if he had suddenly gone mad. "you want to come down, eh?" cackled austin. "why don't you come down? i know you'll pardon my laughter, but i have just remembered that you may be a horse thief and that i was not going to let you escape. mrs. delancy refuses to speak to me, so i decline to ask her to come down." "do you mean to say you'll keep this lady up here for--" began crosby fiercely. her hand on his arm prevented him from leaping to the floor. "she may come down when she desires, and so may you, sir," roared austin stormily. "but some one will release us, curse you, and then i'll make you sorry you ever lived," hissed crosby. "you are a black-hearted cur, a cowardly dog--" "don't--don't!" whispered the timid woman beside him. "you are helping your cause beautifully," sneered austin. "my men have instructions to stay away from the barn until the marshal comes. i, myself, expect to feed and bed the horses." deliberately he went about the task of feeding the horses. the two on the beam looked on in helpless silence. crosby had murder in his heart. at last the master of the situation started for the door. "good-night," he said sarcastically. "pleasant dreams." "you brute," cried crosby, hoarse with anger. a sob came from his tired companion and crosby turned to her, his heart full of tenderness and--shame, perhaps. tears were streaming down her cheeks and her shoulders drooped dejectedly. "what shall we do?" she moaned. crosby could frame no answer. he gently took her hand in his and held it tightly. she made no effort to withdraw it. "i'm awfully sorry," he said softly. "don't cry, little woman. it will all end right, i know." just then austin reentered the barn. without a word he strode over and emptied a pan of raw meat on the floor in front of the dog. then he calmly departed, but crosby could have sworn he heard him chuckle. the captives looked at each other dumbly for a full minute, one with wet, wide-open, hurt eyes, the other with consternation. gradually the sober light in their eyes faded away and feeble smiles developed into peals of laughter. the irony of the situation bore down upon them irresistibly and their genuine, healthy young minds saw the picture in all of its ludicrous colorings. not even the prospect of a night in mid-air could conquer the wild desire to laugh. "isn't it too funny for words?" she laughed bravely through her tears. then, for some reason, both relapsed into dark, silent contemplation of the dog who was so calmly enjoying his evening repast. "i am sorry to admit it, mr. crosby, but i am growing frightfully hungry," she said wistfully. "it has just occurred to me that i haven't eaten a bite since seven o'clock this morning," he said. "you poor man! i wish i could cook something for you." "you might learn." "you know what i mean," she explained, reddening a bit. "you must be nearly famished." "i prefer to think of something more interesting," he said coolly. "it is horrid!" she sobbed. "see, it is getting dark. night is coming. mr. crosby, what is to become of us?" he was very much distressed by her tears and a desperate resolve took root in his breast. she was so tired and dispirited that she seemed glad when he drew her close to him and pressed her head upon his shoulder. he heard the long sigh of relief and relaxation and she peered curiously over her wet lace handkerchief when he muttered tenderly: "poor little chap!" then she sighed again quite securely, and there was a long silence, broken regularly and rhythmically by the faint little catches that once were tearful sobs. "oh, dear me! it is quite dark," she cried suddenly, and he felt a shudder run through her body. "where could you go to-night, mrs. delancy, if we were to succeed in getting away from here?" he asked abruptly. she felt his figure straighten and his arm grow tense as if a sudden determination had charged through it. "why--why, i hadn't thought about that," she confessed, confronted by a new proposition. "there's a late night train for chicago," he volunteered. "but how are we to catch it?" "if you are willing to walk to town i think you can catch it," he said, a strange ring in his voice. "what do you mean?" she demanded, looking up at his face quickly. "can you walk the two miles?" he persisted. "the train leaves dexter at eleven o'clock and it is now nearly eight." "of course i can walk it," she said eagerly. "i could walk a hundred miles to get away from this place." "you'll miss the new york train, of course." "i've changed my mind, mr. crosby. i shall remain in chicago until we have had our revenge on austin and the others." "that's very good of you. may i ask where you stop in chicago?" "my apartments are in the c--- building. my mother lives with me." "will you come to see me some time?" he asked, an odd smile on his lips. "come to see you?" she cried in surprise. "the idea! what do you mean?" "i may not be able to call on you for some time, but you can be very good to me by coming to see me. i'll be stopping at st. luke's hospital for quite a while." "at st. luke's hospital? i don't understand," she cried perplexed. "you see, my dear mrs. delancy, i have come to a definite conclusion in regard to our present position. you must not stay here all night. i'd be a coward and a cur to subject you to such a thing. well, i'm going down to tackle that dog." "to--tackle--the--dog," she gasped. "and while i'm keeping him busy you are to cut and run for the road down there. then you'll have easy sailing for town." "mr. crosby," she said firmly, clasping his arm; "you are not to leave this beam. do you think i'll permit you to go down there and be torn to pieces by that beast, just for the sake of letting me cut and run, as you call it? i'd be a bigger brute than the dog and--and--" "mrs. delancy, my mind is made up. i'm going down!" "that settles it! i'm coming too," she proclaimed emphatically. "to be sure. that's the plan. you'll escape while i hold swallow." "i'll do nothing of the sort. you shall not sacrifice yourself for my sake. i'd stay up here with you all the rest of my life before i'd permit you to do that." "i'll remind you of that offer later on, my dear mrs. delancy, when we are not so pressed for time. just now you must be practical, however. we can't stay up here all night." "please, mr. crosby, for my sake, don't go down there. to please me, don't be disfigured. i know you are awfully brave and strong, but he is such a huge, vicious dog. won't you please stay here?" "ten minutes from now it will be too dark to see the dog and he'll have an advantage over me. listen: i'll meet you at the depot in an hour and a half. this is final, mrs. delancy. will you do as i tell you? run for the road and then to town. i'll promise to join you there." "oh, dear! oh, dear!" she moaned, as he drew away from her and swung one foot to the ladder. "i shall die if you go down there." "i am going just the same. don't be afraid, little woman. my pocket knife is open and it is a trusty blade. now, be brave and be quick. follow me down the ladder and cut for it." "please, please, please!" she implored, wringing her hands. but he was already half-way down the ladder and refused to stop. suddenly crosby paused as if checked in his progress by some insurmountable obstacle. the dog was at the foot of the ladder, snarling with joy over the prospective end of his long vigil. above, mrs. delancy was moaning and imploring him to come back to her side, even threatening to spring from the beam to the floor before he could reach the bottom. "by george!" he exclaimed, and then climbed up three or four rounds of the ladder, greatly to the annoyance of the dog. "what is it?" cried mrs. delancy, recovering her balance on the beam. "let me think for a minute," he answered, deliberately resting his elbow on an upper round. "it is about time you were doing a little thinking," she said, relief and asperity in her voice. "in another second i should have jumped into that dog's jaws." "i believe it can be done," he went on, excited enthusiasm growing in his voice. "that's what bulldogs are famous for, isn't it?" "i don't know what you are talking about, but i do know that whenever they take hold of anything they have to be treated for lockjaw before they will let go. if you don't come up here beside me i'll have a fit, mr. crosby." "that's it--that's what i mean," he cried eagerly. "if they close those jaws upon anything they won't let go until death them doth part. gad, i believe i see a way out of this pickle." "i don't see how that can help us. the dog's jaws are the one and only obstacle, and it is usually the other fellow's death that parts them. oh," she went on, plaintively, "if we could only pull his teeth. good heaven, mr. crosby," sitting up very abruptly, "you are not thinking of undertaking it, are you?" "no, but i've got a scheme that will make swallow ashamed of himself to the end of his days. i can't help laughing over it." he leaned back and laughed heartily. "hold my coat, please." he removed his coat quickly and passed it up to her. "i insist on knowing what you intend doing," she exclaimed. "just wait and see me show mr. swallow a new trick or two." he had already taken his watch and chain, his fountain pen, and other effects from his vest, jamming them into his trousers pockets. mrs. delancy, in the growing darkness, looked on, puzzled and anxious. "you might tell me," she argued resentfully. "are you going to try to swim out?" folding the vest lengthwise, he took a firm grip on the collar, and cautiously descended the ladder. "i'll not come to the hospital," she cried warningly. "don't! he'll bite your leg off!" "i'm merely teasing him, mrs. delancy. he sha'n't harm my legs, don't fear. now watch for developments." pausing just beyond reach of the dog's mightiest leaps, he took a firm hold on the ladder and swung down with the vest until it almost slapped the head of the angry animal. it was like casting a fly directly at the head of a hungry pickerel. swallow's eager jaws closed down upon the cloth and the teeth met like a vice. the heavy body of the brute almost jerked crosby's arm from the socket, but he braced himself, recovered his poise, and clung gaily to the ladder, with the growling, squirming dog dangling free of the floor. mrs. delancy gave a little shriek of terror. "are you--going to bring him up here?" she gasped. "heaven knows where he'll end." "but he will ruin your vest." "i'll charge it up to your account. item: one vest, fifteen dollars." by this time he was swinging swallow slowly back and forth, and he afterwards said that it required no little straining of his muscles. "you extravagant thing!" she cried, but did not tell whether she meant his profligacy in purchasing or his wantonness in destroying. "and now, pray enlighten me. are you swinging him just for fun or are you crazy?" "everything depends on his jaws and my strong right arm," he said, and he was beginning to pant from the exertion. swallow was swinging higher and higher. "well, it is the most aimless proceeding i ever saw." "i hope not. on second thought, everything depends on my aim." "and what is your aim, mr. hercules?" "see that opening above the box-stall over there?" "dimly." "that's my aim. heavens, he's a heavy brute." "oh, i see!" she cried ecstatically, clapping her hands. "delicious! lovely! oh, mr. crosby, you are so clever." "don't fall off that beam, please," he panted. "it might rattle me." "i can't help being excited. it is the grandest thing i ever heard of. he can't get out of there, can he? dear me, the sides of that stall are more than eight feet high." "he can't--get--out--of it if--i get him--in," gasped crosby. not ten feet away to the left and some four feet above the floor level there was a wide opening into a box-stall, the home of mr. austin's prize stallion. as the big horse was inside munching his hay, crosby was reasonably sure that the stall with its tall sides was securely closed and bolted. [illustration: "swallow's chubby body shot squarely through the opening"] suddenly there was a mighty creak of the ladder, the swish of a heavy body through the air, an interrupted growl, and then a ripping thud. swallow's chubby body shot squarely through the opening, accompanied by a trusty though somewhat sadly stretched vest, and the deed was done. a cry of delight came from the beam, a shout of pride and relief from the ladder, and sounds of a terrific scramble from the stall. first there was a sickening grunt, then a surprised howl, then the banging of horse-hoofs, and at last a combination of growls and howls that proved swallow's invasion of a hornet's nest. "thunderation!" came in sharp, agonized tones from the ladder. "what is the matter?" she cried, detecting disaster in the exclamation. "i am a--a--blooming idiot," he groaned. "i forgot to remove a roll of bills from an upper pocket in that vest!" "oh, is that all?" she cried, in great relief, starting down the ladder. "all? there was at least fifty dollars in that roll," he said, from the floor, not forgetting to assist her gallantly to the bottom. "you can add it to my bill, you know," she said sweetly. "but it leaves me dead broke." "you forget that i have money, mr. crosby. what is mine to-night is also yours. i think we should shake hands and congratulate one another." crosby's sunny nature lost its cloud in an instant, and the two clasped hands at the bottom of the ladder. "i think it is time to cut and run," he said. "it's getting so beastly dark we won't be able to find the road." "and there is no moon until midnight. but come; we are free. let us fly the hated spot, as they say in the real novels. how good the air feels!" she was soon leading the way swiftly toward the gate. night had fallen so quickly that they were in utter darkness. there were lights in the windows of the house on the hill, and the escaped prisoners, with one impulse, shook their clenched hands toward them. "i am awfully sorry, mr. crosby, that you have endured so much hardship in coming to see me," she went on. "i hope you haven't many such clients as i." "one is enough, i assure you," he responded, and somehow she took it as a compliment. "i suppose our next step is to get to the railway station," she said. "unless you will condescend to lead me through this assortment of plows, wood-piles, and farm-wagons, i'm inclined to think my next step will be my last. was ever night so dark?" her warm, strong fingers clutched his arm and then dropped to his hand. in this fashion she led him swiftly through the night, down a short embankment, and into the gravel highway. "the way looks dark and grewsome ahead of us, mrs. delancy. as your lawyer, i'd advise you to turn back and find safe lodging with the enemy. it is going to storm, i'm sure." "that's your advice as a lawyer, mr. crosby. will you give me your advice as a friend?" she said lightly. although the time had passed when her guiding hand was necessary, he still held the member in his own. "i couldn't be so selfish," he protested, and without another word they started off down the road toward town. "do you suppose they are delaying the opera in chicago until you come?" she asked. "poor graves! he said he'd kill me if i didn't come," said crosby, laughing. "how dreadful!" "but i'm not regretting the opera. quive does not sing until to-morrow night." "i adore quive." "you can't possibly have an engagement for to-morrow night either," he said reflectively. "i don't see how i could. i expected to be on a pullman sleeper." "i'll come for you at : then." "you are very good, mr. crosby, but i have another plan." "i beg your pardon for presuming to--" he began, and a hot flush mounted to his brow. "you are to come at seven for dinner," she supplemented delightedly. "what a nice place the seventh heaven is!" he cried warmly. "sh!" she whispered suddenly, and both stopped stock-still. "there is a man with a lantern at the lower gate. see? over yonder." "they're after me, mrs. delancy," he whispered. a moment later they were off the road and in the dense shadow of the hedge. "is he still in the barn, mr. austin?" demanded the man in the buggy. "i am positive he is. no human being could get away from that dog of mine." crosby chuckled audibly, and mrs. delancy with difficulty suppressed a proud giggle. "well, we might as well go up and get him then. do you think he's a desperate character?" "i don't know anything about him, davis. he says he is a lawyer, but his actions were so strange that i thought you'd best look into his case. a night in the jail won't hurt him, and if he can prove that he is what he says he is, let him go to-morrow. on the other hand, he may turn out to be a very important capture." "oh, this is rich!" whispered crosby excitedly. "austin is certainly doing the job up brown. but wait till he consults swallow, the infallible; he won't be so positive." for a few minutes the party of men at the gate conversed in low tones, the listeners being able to catch but few of the words uttered. "please let go of my arm, mrs. delancy," said crosby suddenly. "where are you going?" "i am going to tell austin what i think of him. you don't expect me to stand by and allow a pack of jays to hunt me down as if i were jesse james or some other desperado, do you?" "do you suppose they would credit your story? they will throw you into jail and there you'd stay until some one came down from chicago to identify you." "but a word from you would clear me," he said in surprise. "if they pinned me down to the truth, i could only say i had never seen you until this afternoon." "great scott! you know i am crosby, don't you?" "i am positive you are, but what would you, as a lawyer, say to me if you were cross-examining me on the witness stand? you'd ask some very embarrassing questions, and i could only say in the end that the suspected horse thief told me his name and i was goose enough to believe him. no, my dear friend, i think the safest plan is to take advantage of the few minutes' start we have and escape the law." "you mean that i must run from these fellows as if i were really a thief?" "only a suspected thief, you know." "i'd rather be arrested a dozen times than to desert you at this time." "oh, but i'm going with you," she said positively. "like a thief, too? i could not permit that, you know. just stop and think how awkward for you it would be if we were caught flying together." "birds of a feather. it might have been worse if you had not disposed of swallow." "i must tell you what a genuine brick you are. if they overtake us it will give me the greatest delight in the world to fight the whole posse for your sake." "after that, do you wonder i want to go with you?" she whispered, and crosby would have fought a hundred men for her. the marshal and his men were now following mr. austin and the lantern toward the barn, and the road was quite deserted. mrs. delancy and crosby started off rapidly in the direction of the town. the low rumble of distant thunder came to their ears, and ever and anon the western blackness was faintly illumined by flashes of lightning. neither of the fugitives uttered a word until they were far past the gate. "by george, mrs. delancy, we are forgetting one important thing," said crosby. they were striding along swiftly arm in arm. "they'll discover our flight, and the railway station will be just where they'll expect to find us." "oh, confusion! we can't go to the station, can we?" "we can, but we'll be captured with humiliating ease." "i know what we can do. scott higgins is the tenant on my farm, and he lives half a mile farther from town than austin. we can turn back to his place, but we will have to cut across one of mr. austin's fields." "charming. we can have the satisfaction of trampling on some of mr. austin's early wheat crop. right about, face! but, incidentally, what are we to do after we get to mr. higgins's?" they were now scurrying back over the ground they had just traversed. "oh, dear me, why should we think about troubles until we come to them?" "i wasn't thinking about troubles. i'm thinking about something to eat." "you are intensely unromantic. but mrs. higgins is awfully good. she will give us eggs and cakes and milk and coffee and--everything. won't it be jolly?" five minutes later they were plunging through a field of partly grown wheat, in what she averred to be the direction of the higgins home. it was not good walking, but they were young and strong and very much interested in one another and the adventure. "hello, what's this? a river?" he cried, as the swish of running waters came to his ears. "oh; isn't it dreadful? i forgot this creek was here, and there is no bridge nearer than a mile. what shall we do? see there is a light in higgins's house over there. isn't it disgusting? i could sit down and cry," she wailed. in the distance a dog was heard barking fiercely, but they did not recognize the voice of swallow. a new trouble confronted them. [illustration: "he was splashing through the shallow brook"] "don't do that," he said resignedly. "remember how eliza crossed the ice with the bloodhounds in full trail. do you know how deep and wide the creek is?" "it's a tiny bit of a thing, but it's wet," she said ruefully. "i'll carry you over." and a moment later he was splashing through the shallow brook, holding the lithe, warm figure of his client high above the water. as he set her down upon the opposite bank she gave a pretty sigh of satisfaction, and naively told him that he was very strong for a man in the last stages of starvation. two or three noisy dogs gave them the first welcome, and crosby sagely looked aloft for refuge. his companion quieted the dogs, however, and the advance on the squat farmhouse was made without resistance. the visitors were not long in acquainting the good-natured and astonished young farmer with the situation. mrs. higgins was called from her bed and in a jiffy was bustling about the kitchen, from which soon floated odors so tantalizing that the refugees could scarcely suppress the desire to rush forth and storm the good cook in her castle. "it's mighty lucky you got here when you did, mrs. delancy," said higgins, peering from the window. "looks 's if it might rain before long. we ain't got much of a place here, but, if you'll put up with it, i guess we can take keer of you over night." "oh, but we couldn't think of it," she protested. "after we have had something to eat we must hurry off to the station." "what station?" asked crosby sententiously. "i don't know, but it wouldn't be a bit nice to spoil the adventure by stopping now." "but we can't walk all over the state of illinois," he cried. "for shame! you are ready to give up the instant something to eat comes in sight. mr. higgins may be able to suggest something. what is the nearest----" "i have it," interrupted crosby. "the wabash road runs through this neighborhood, doesn't it? well, where is its nearest station?" "lonesomeville--about four miles south," said higgins. "do the night trains stop there?" "i guess you can flag 'em." "there's an east-bound train from st. louis about midnight, i'm quite sure." while the fugitives were enjoying mrs. higgins's hastily but adorably prepared meal, the details of the second stage of the flight were perfected. mr. higgins gladly consented to hitch up his high-boarded farm wagon and drive them to the station on the wabash line, and half an hour later higgins's wagon clattered away in the night. to all appearances he was the only passenger. but seated on a soft pile of grain sacks in the rear of the wagon, completely hidden from view by the tall "side-beds," were the refugees. mrs. delancy insisted upon this mode of travel as a precaution against the prying eyes of persistent marshal's men. hidden in the wagon-bed they might reasonably escape detection, she argued, and crosby humored her for more reasons than one. higgins threw a huge grain tarpaulin over the wagon-bed, and they were sure to be dry in case the rainstorm came as expected. it was so dark that neither could see the face of the other. he had a longing desire to take her hand into his, but there was something in the atmosphere that warned him against such a delightful but unnecessary proceeding. naturally, they were sitting quite close to each other; even the severe jolting of the springless wagon could not disturb the feeling of happy contentment. [illustration: they enjoy mrs higgin's good supper] "i hope it won't storm," she said nervously, as a little shudder ran through her body. the wind was now blowing quite fiercely and those long-distant rolls of thunder were taking on the sinister sound of near-by crashes. "i don't mind thunder when i'm in the house." "and under the bed, i suppose," he laughed. "well, you know, lightning could strike this wagon," she persisted. "oh, goodness, that was awfully close!" she cried, as a particularly loud crash came to their ears. the wagon came to an abrupt stop, and crosby was about to crawl forth to demand the reason when the sound of a man's voice came through the rushing wind. "what is it?" whispered mrs. delancy, clutching his arm. "sh!" he replied. "we're held up by highwaymen, i think!" "oh, how lovely!" she whispered rapturously. "how far are you goin'?" came the strange voice from the night. "oh, 's far ag'in as half," responded higgins warily. "that you, scott?" demanded the other. "yep." "say, scott, gimme a ride, will you? goin' as far as lonesomeville?" "what you doin' out this time o' night?" demanded higgins. "lookin' for a feller that tried to steal mr. austin's horses. we thought we had him cornered up to the place, but he got away somehow. but we'll get him. davis has got fifty men scouring the country, i bet. i been sent on to lonesomeville to head him off if he tries to take a train. he's a purty desperate character, they say, too, scott. say, gimme a lift as far as you're agoin', won't you?" "i--i--well, i reckon so," floundered the helpless higgins. "really, this is getting a bit serious," whispered crosby to his breathless companion. the deputy was now on the seat with higgins, and the latter, bewildered and dismayed beyond expression, was urging his horses into their fastest trot. "how far is it to lonesomeville?" asked the deputy. "'bout two mile." "it'll rain before we get there," said the other significantly. "i'm not afeared of rain," said higgins. "what are you goin' over there this time o' night for?" asked the other. "you ain't got much of a load." "i'm--i'm takin' some meat over to mr. talbert." "hams?" "no; jest bacon," answered scott, and his two hearers in the wagon-bed laughed silently. "not many people out a night like this," volunteered the deputy. "nope." "that a tarpaulin you got in the back of the bed? jest saw it by the lightnin'." "got the bacon kivered to keep it from gittin' wet 'n case it rains," hastily interposed scott. he was discussing within himself the advisability of knocking the deputy from the seat and whipping the team into a gallop, leaving him behind. "you don't mind my crawlin' under the tarpaulin if it rains, do you, scott?" "there ain't no--no room under it, harry, an' i won't allow that bacon to git wet under no consideration." a generous though nerve-racking crash of thunder changed the current of conversation. it drifted from the weather immediately, however, to a one-sided discussion of the escaped horse thief. "i guess he's a purty slick one," they heard the deputy say. "austin said he had him dead to rights in his barn! that big bulldog of his had him treed on a beam, but when we got there, just after dark, the darned cuss was gone, an' the dog was trapped up in a box-stall. by thunder, it showed how desperate the feller is. he evidently come down from that beam an' jest naturally picked that turrible bulldog up by the neck an' throwed him over into the stall." "have you got a revolver?" asked higgins loudly. "sure! you don't s'pose i'd go up against that kind of a man without a gun, do you?" "oh, goodness!" some one whispered in crosby's ear. "but he ain't armed," argued higgins. "if he'd had a gun don't you s'pose he'd shot that dog an' got away long before he did?" "that shows how much you know about these crooks, higgins," said the other loftily. "he had a mighty good reason for not shooting the dog." "what was the reason?" "i don't know jest what it was, but any darned fool ought to see that he had a reason. else why didn't he shoot? course he had a reason. but the funny part of the whole thing is what has become of the woman." "what woman?" "that widder," responded the other, and crosby felt her arm harden. "i never thought much o' that woman. you'd think she owned the whole town of dexter to see her paradin' around the streets, showin' off her city clothes, an' all such stuff. they do say she led george delancy a devil of a life, an' it's no wonder he died." "the wretch!" came from the rear of the wagon. "well, she's up and skipped out with the horse thief. austin says she tried to protect him, and i guess they had a regular family row over the affair. she's gone an' the man's gone, an' it looks darned suspicious. he was a good-lookin' feller, austin says, an' she's dead crazy to git another man, i've heard. dang me, it's jest as i said to davis: i wouldn't put it above her to take up with this good-lookin' thief an' skip off with him. her husband's been dead more'n two year, an' she's too darned purty to stay in strict mournin' longer'n she has to---" but just then something strong, firm, and resistless grasped his neck from behind, and, even as he opened his mouth to gasp out his surprise and alarm, a vise-like grip shut down on his thigh, and then, he was jerked backward, lifted upward, tossed outward, falling downward. the wagon clattered off in the night, and a tall man and a woman looked over the side of the wagon-bed and waited for the next flash of lightning to show them where the official gossiper had fallen. the long, blinding, flash came, and crosby saw the man as he picked himself from the ditch at the roadside. "whip up, higgins, and we'll leave him so far behind he'll never catch us," cried crosby eagerly. the first drops of rain began to fall and mrs. delancy hurriedly crawled beneath the tarpaulin, urging him to follow at once. another flash of lightning revealed the deputy, far back in the road waving his hands frantically. "i'm glad his neck isn't broken. hurry on, mr. higgins; it is now more urgent than ever that you save your bacon." '"tain't very comfortable ridin' for mrs. delancy," apologized higgins, his horses in a lope. "if the marshal asks you why you didn't stop and help his deputy, just tell him that the desperado held a pistol at your head and commanded you to drive like the devil. holy mackerel, here comes the deluge!" an instant later he was under the tarpaulin, crouching beside his fellow fugitive. conversation was impossible, so great was the noise of the rain-storm and the rattle of the wagon over the hard pike. he did his best to protect her from the jars and bumps incident to the leaping and jolting of the wagon, and both were filled with rejoicing when higgins shouted "whoa!" to the horses and brought the wild ride to an end. "where are we?" cried crosby, sticking his head from beneath the tarpaulin. "we're in the dump-shed of the grain elevator, just across the track from the depot." "and the ride is over?" "yep. did you get bumped much?" "it was worse, a thousand times, than sitting on the beam," bemoaned a sweet, tired voice, and a moment later the two refugees stood erect in the wagon, neither quite sure that legs so tired and stiff could serve as support. "it was awful; wasn't it?" crosby said, stretching himself painfully. "are you not drenched to the skin, mr. higgins?" cried mrs. delancy anxiously. "how selfish of us not to have thought of you before!" "oh, that's all right. this gum coat kept me purty dry." he and crosby assisted her from the wagon, and, while the former gave his attention to the wet and shivering horses, the latter took her arm and walked up and down the dark shed with her. "i think you are regretting the impulse that urged you into this folly," he was saying. "if you persist in accusing me of faintheartedness, mr. crosby, i'll never speak to you again," she said. "i cast my lot with a desperado, as the deputy insinuated, and i am sure you have not heard me bewail my fate. isn't it worth something to have one day and night of real adventure? my gown must be a sight, and i know my hair is just dreadful, but my heart is gayer and brighter to-night than it has been in years." "and you don't regret anything that has happened?" he asked, pressing her arm ever so slightly. "my only regret is that you heard what the deputy said about me. you don't believe i am like that, do you?" there was sweet womanly concern in her voice. "i wish it were light enough to see your face," he answered, his lips close to her ear. "i know you are blushing, and you must be more beautiful--oh, no, of course i don't think you are at all as he painted you," he concluded, suddenly checking himself and answering the plaintive question he had almost ignored. "thank you, kind sir," she said lightly, but he failed not to observe the tinge of confusion in the laugh that followed. "if you'll watch the team, mr. crosby," the voice of higgins broke in at this timely juncture, "i'll run acrost to the depot an' ast about the train." "much obliged, old man; much obliged," returned crosby affably. "are you afraid to be alone in the dark?" he asked, as higgins rushed out into the rain. the storm had abated by this time and there was but the faintest suggestion of distant thunder and lightning, the after-fall of rain being little more than a drizzle. "awfully," she confessed, "but it's safer here than on the beam," she added, and his heart grew very tender as he detected the fatigue in her voice. "anyhow, we have the papers safely signed." "mrs. delancy, i--i swear that you shall never regret this day and night," he said, stopping in his walk and placing his hands on her shoulders. she caught her breath quickly. "do you know what i mean?" "i--i think--i'm not quite sure," she stammered. "you will know some day," he said huskily. when mr. higgins appeared at the end of the shed, carrying a lighted lantern, he saw a tall young man and a tall young woman standing side by side, awaiting his approach with the unconcern of persons who have no interest in common. "ah, a lantern," cried crosby. "now we can see what we look like and--and who we are." higgins informed them that an east-bound passenger train went through in twenty minutes, stopping on the side track to allow west-bound no. to pass. this train also took water near the bridge which crossed the river just west of the depot. the west-bound train was on time, the other about five minutes late. he brought the welcome news that the rain was over and that a few stars were peeping through the western sky. there was unwelcome news, however, in the statement that the mud was ankle deep from the elevator to the station platform and that the washing out of a street culvert would prevent him from using the wagon. "i don't mind the mud," said mrs. delancy, very bravely indeed. "my dear mrs. delancy, i can and will carry you a mile or more rather than have one atom of lonesomeville mud bespatter those charming boots of yours," said crosby cheerfully, and her protestations were useless against the argument of both men. the distance was not great from the sheds to the station and was soon covered. crosby was muddy to his knees, but his fair passenger was as dry as toast when he lowered her to the platform. "you are every bit as strong as the hero in the modern novel," she said gaily. "after this, i'll believe every word the author says about his stalwart, indomitable hero." to say that higgins was glad to be homeward bound would be putting it too mildly. the sigh of relief that came from him as he drove out of town a few minutes later was so audible that he heard it himself and smiled contentedly. if he expected to meet the unlamented harry brown on the home trip, he was to be agreeably disappointed. mr. brown was not on the roadway. he was, instead, on the depot platform at lonesomeville, and when the westbound express train whistled for the station he was standing grimly in front of two dumbfounded young people who sat sleepily and unwarily on a baggage truck. the feeble-eyed lantern sat on the platform near crosby's swinging feet, and the picture that it looked upon was one suggestive of the cheap, sensational, and bloodcurdling border drama. a mud-covered man stood before the trapped fugitives, a huge revolver in his hand, the muzzle of which, even though it wobbled painfully, was uncomfortably close to mr. crosby's nose. "throw up your hands!" said brown, his hoarse voice shaking perceptibly. crosby's hands went up instantly, for he was a man and a diplomat. "point it the other way!" cried the lady, with true feminine tact. "how dare you!--oh, will it go off? please, please put it away! we won't try to escape!" "i'm takin' no chances on this feller," said brown grimly. "it won't go off, ma'am, unless he makes a move to git away." "what do you want?" demanded crosby indignantly. "my money? take it, if you like, but don't be long about it." "i'm no robber, darn you." "well, what in thunder do you mean then by holding me up at the point of a revolver?" "i'm an officer of the law an' i arrest you. that's what i'm here for," said brown. "arrest me?" exclaimed crosby in great amazement. "what have i done?" "no back talk now, young feller. you're the man we're after, an' it won't do you any good to chew the rag about it." "if you don't turn that horrid pistol away, i'll faint," cried femininity in collapse. crosby's arm went about her waist and she hid her terror-stricken eyes on his shoulder. "keep that hand up!" cried brown threateningly. "don't be mean about it, old man. can't you see that my arm is not at all dangerous?" "i've got to search you." "search me? well, i guess not. where is your authority?" "i'm a deputy marshal from dexter." "have you been sworn in, sir?" "aw, that's all right now. no more rag chewin' out of you. that'll do you! keep your hands up!" "what am i charged with?" "attempted horse stealin', an' you know it." "have you a warrant? what is my name?" "that'll do you now; that'll do you." "see here, my fine friend, you've made a sad mistake. i'm not the man you want. i'm ready to go to jail, if you insist, but it cost you every dollar you have in the world. i'll make you pay dearly for calling an honest man a thief, sir." crosby's indignation was beautifully assumed and it took effect. "mr. austin is the man who ordered your arrest," he explained. "i know mrs. delancy here all right, an' she left austin's with you." "what are you talking about, man? she is my cousin and drove over here this evening to see me between trains. i think you'd better lower your gun, my friend. this will go mighty hard with you." "but---" "he has you confused with that horse thief who said his name was crosby, tom," said she, pinching his arm delightedly. "he was the worst-looking brute i ever saw. i thought mr. austin had him so secure with the bulldog as guardian. did he escape?" "yes, an' you went with him," exclaimed brown, making a final stand. "an' i know all about how you come over here in scott higgins's wagon too." "the man is crazy!" exclaimed mrs. delancy. "he may have escaped from the asylum up north of here," whispered crosby, loud enough for the deputy to hear. "here comes the train," cried she. "now we can ask the train men to disarm him and send him back to the asylum. isn't it awful that such dangerous people can be at large?" brown lowered his pistol as the engine thundered past. the pilot was almost in the long bridge at the end of the depot when the train stopped to wait for the eastbound express to pass. the instant that brown's revolver arm was lowered and his head turned with uncertainty to look at the train, crosby's hand went to his coat pocket, and when the deputy turned toward him again he found himself looking into the shiny, glittering barrel of a pistol. "throw that gun away, my friend," said crosby in a low tone, "or i'll blow your brains out." "great scott!" gasped brown. "throw it away!" "don't kill him," pleaded mrs. delancy. brown's knees were shaking like leaves and his teeth chattered. his revolver sailed through the air and clattered on the brick pavement beyond the end of the platform. "don't shoot," he pleaded, ready to drop to his knees. "i won't if you are good and kind and obliging," said crosby sternly. "turn around--face the engine. that's right. now listen to me. i've got this pistol jammed squarely against your back, and if you make a false move--well, you won't have time to regret it. answer my questions too. how long is that bridge?" "i--i do--don't kno--ow." "it's rather long, isn't it?" "with the fill and trestle it's nearly half a mile." "what is the next stop west of here for this train?" "hopville, forty mile west." "where does the east-bound train stop next after leaving here?" "it don't stop till it gits over in indiana, thirty mile or more." "i'm much obliged to you. now walk straight ahead until you come to the blind end of the mail car." at the front end of the mail car crosby and his prisoner halted. every one knows that the head end of the coach just back of the engine tender is "blind." that is, there is no door leading to the interior, and one must stand outside on the narrow platform if, perchance, he is there when the train starts. as the east-bound train pulled in from the bridge, coming to a stop on the track beyond the west-bound train, crosby commanded his erstwhile captor to climb aboard the blind end of the mail coach. "geewhillikers, don't make me do that," groaned the unhappy brown. "get aboard and don't argue. you can come back to-morrow, you know, and you're perfectly safe if you stay awake and don't roll off. hurry up! if you try to jump off before you reach the bridge i'll shoot." a moment later the train pulled into the bridge and crosby hurried back to his anxious companion. brown was on his way to a station forty miles west, and he did not dare risk jumping off. by the time the train reached the far end of the bridge it was running forty miles an hour. "where is he?" she cried in alarm as he rushed with her across the intervening space to the coveted "east-bound." "i'll tell you all about it when we get inside this train," he answered. "i think brown is where he can't telegraph to head us off any place along the line, and if we once get into indiana we are comparatively safe. up you go!" and he lifted her up the car steps. "safe," she sighed, as they dropped into a seat in a coach. "i'm ashamed to mention it, my dear accomplice, but are you quite sure you have your purse with you? with the usual luck of a common thief, i am penniless." "penniless because you gave your fortune to the cause of freedom," she supplemented, fumbling in her chatelaine bag for her purse. "here it is. the contents are yours until the end of our romance." the conductor took fare from him to lafayette and informed the mud-covered gentleman that he could get a train from that city to chicago at : in the morning. "we're all right now," said crosby after the conductor had passed on. "you are tired, little woman. lie back and go to sleep. the rough part of the adventure is almost over." he secured a pillow for her, and she was soon resting as comfortably as it was possible in the day coach of a passenger train. for many minutes he sat beside her, his eyes resting on the beautiful tired face with its closed eyes, long lashes, pensive mouth, and its frame of dark hair, disarranged and wild. "it's strange," he thought, almost aloud, "how suddenly it comes to a fellow. twelve hours ago i was as free as a bird in the air, and now--" [illustration: "they go to the theatre"] [illustration: '"good heavens!" "what is it?" he cried. "you are not married, are you?'"] just then her eyes opened widely with a start, as if she had suddenly come from a rather terrifying dream. they looked squarely into his, and he felt so abashed that he was about to turn away when, with a little catch in her voice, she exclaimed: "good heavens!" "what is it?" he cried. "you are not married, are you?" "no!!!" like a culprit caught she blushed furiously, and her eyes wavered as the lids fell, shutting from his eager, surprised gaze the prettiest confusion in the world. "i--it just occurred to me to ask," she murmured. crosby's exhilaration was so great that, after a long, hungry look at the peaceful face, he jumped up and went out into the vestibule, where he whistled with all the ardor of a school-boy. when he returned to his seat beside her she was awake, and the little look of distress left her face when he appeared, a happy smile succeeding. "i thought you had deserted me," she said. "perish the thought." "mr. crosby, if you had a pistol all the time we were in the barn, why did you not shoot the dog and free us hours before you did?" she asked sternly. "i had no pistol," he grinned. from his pocket he drew a nickel-plated menthol inhaler and calmly leveled it at her head. "it looked very much like a pistol in the darkness," he said, "and it deserves a place among the cherished relics descending from our romance." the next night two happy, contented persons sat in a brilliant chicago theatre, and there was nothing in their appearance to indicate that the day and night before had been the most strenuous in their lives. "this is more comfortable than a cross beam in a barn," she smiled. "but it is more public," he responded. three months later--but crosby won both suits. [illustration: crosby won both suits.] letters of pliny by gaius plinius caecilius secundus translated by william melmoth revised by f. c. t. bosanquet gaius plinius caecilius secundus, usually known as pliny the younger, was born at como in a. d. he was only eight years old when his father caecilius died, and he was adopted by his uncle, the elder pliny, author of the natural history. he was carefully educated, studying rhetoric under quintilian and other famous teachers, and he became the most eloquent pleader of his time. in this and in much else he imitated cicero, who had by this time come to be the recognized master of latin style. while still young he served as military tribune in syria, but he does not seem to have taken zealously to a soldier's life. on his return he entered politics under the emperor domitian; and in the year a. d. was appointed consul by trajan and admitted to confidential intercourse with that emperor. later while he was governor of bithynia, he was in the habit of submitting every point of policy to his master, and the correspondence between trajan and him, which forms the last part of the present selection, is of a high degree of interest, both on account of the subjects discussed and for the light thrown on the characters of the two men. he is supposed to have died about a. d. pliny's speeches are now lost, with the exception of one, a panegyric on trajan delivered in thanksgiving for the consulate. this, though diffuse and somewhat too complimentary for modern taste, became a model for this kind of composition. the others were mostly of two classes, forensic and political, many of the latter being, like cicero's speech against verres, impeachments of provincial governors for cruelty and extortion toward their subjects. in these, as in his public activities in general, he appears as a man of public spirit and integrity; and in his relations with his native town he was a thoughtful and munificent benefactor. the letters, on which to-day his fame mainly rests, were largely written with a view to publication, and were arranged by pliny himself. they thus lack the spontaneity of cicero's impulsive utterances, but to most modern readers who are not special students of roman history they are even more interesting. they deal with a great variety of subjects: the description of a roman villa; the charms of country life; the reluctance of people to attend author's readings and to listen when they were present; a dinner party; legacy-hunting in ancient rome; the acquisition of a piece of statuary; his love for his young wife; ghost stories; floating islands, a tame dolphin, and other marvels. but by far the best known are those describing the great eruption of vesuvius in which his uncle perished, a martyr to scientific curiosity, and the letter to trajan on his attempts to suppress christianity in bithynia, with trajan's reply approving his policy. taken altogether, these letters give an absorbingly vivid picture of the days of the early empire, and of the interests of a cultivated roman gentleman of wealth. occasionally, as in the last letters referred to, they deal with important historical events; but their chief value is in bringing before us, in somewhat the same manner as "the spectator" pictures the england of the age of anne, the life of a time which is not so unlike our own as its distance in years might indicate. and in this time by no means the least interesting figure is that of the letter-writer himself, with his vanity and self-importance, his sensibility and generous affection, his pedantry and his loyalty. contents letters gaius plinius caecilius secundus i -- to septittus ii -- to arrianus iii -- to voconius romanus iv -- to cornelius tacitus v -- to pompeius saturninus vi -- to atrius clemens vii -- to fabius justus viii -- to calestrius tiro ix -- to socius senecio x -- to junsus mauricus xi -- to septitius clarus xii -- to suetonius tranquillus xiii -- to romanus firmus xiv -- to cornelius tacitus xv -- to paternus xvi -- to catilius severus [ ] xvii -- to voconius romanus xviii -- to nepos xix -- to avitus xx -- to macrinus xxi -- to paiscus xxii -- to maimus xxiii -- to gallus xxiv -- to cerealis xxv -- to calvisius xxvi -- to calvisius xxvii -- to baebius macer xxviii -- to annius severus xxix -- to caninius rufus xxx -- to spurinna and cottia[ ] xxxi -- to julius genitor xxxii -- to catilius severus xxxiii -- to acilius xxxiv -- to nepos xxxv -- to severus xxxvi -- to calvisius rufus xxxvii -- to cornelius priscus xxxviii -- to fabatus (his wife's grandfather) xxxix -- to attius clemens xl -- to catius lepidus xli -- to maturus arrianus xlii -- to statius sabinus xliii -- to cornelius minicianus xlv -- to asinius xlvi -- to hispulla xlvii -- to romatius fiasius xlviii -- to licinius sura xlix -- to annius severus l -- to titius aristo li -- to nonius maximus lii -- to domitius apollinaris liii -- to calvisius liv -- to marcellinus lv -- to spurinna lvi -- to paulinus lvii -- to rufus lviii -- to arrianus lix -- to calpurnia[ ] lx -- to calpurnia lxi -- to priscus lxii -- to albinus lxiii -- to maximus lxiv -- to romanus lxv -- to tacitus lxvi -- to cornelius tacitus lx vii -- to macer lxviii -- to servianus lxix -- to severus lxx -- to fabatus lxxi -- to cornelianus lxxii -- to maximus lxxiii -- to restitutus lxxiv -- to calpurnia[ ] lxxv -- to macrinus lxxvi -- to tuscus lxx vii -- to fabatus (his wife's grandfather) lxxviii -- to corellia lxxix -- to celer lxxx -- to priscus lxxxi -- to geminius lxxxii -- to maximus lxxxiii -- to sura lxxxiv -- to septitius lxxxv -- to tacitus lxxx vi -- to septitius lxxxvii -- to calvisius lxxx viii -- to romanus lxxxix -- to aristo xc -- to paternus xci -- to macrinus xcii -- to rufinus xciii -- to gallus xciv -- to arrianus xcv -- to maximus xcvi -- to paulinus xcvii -- to calvisius xcviii -- to romanus xcix -- to geminus c -- to junior ci -- to quadratus cii -- to genitor ciii -- to sabinianus civ -- to maximus cv -- to sabinianus cvi -- to lupercus cvii -- to caninius cviii -- to fuscus cix -- to paulinus cx -- to fuscus footnotes to the letters of pliny] correspondence with the emperor trajan i -- to the emperor trajan[ ] ii -- to the emperor trajan iii -- to the emperor trajan iv -- to the emperor trajan v -- trajan to pliny vi -- to the emperor trajan vii -- to the emperor trajan viii -- trajan to pliny x -- to the emperor trajan xi -- to the emperor trajan xii -- trajan to pliny xiii -- to the emperor trajan xiv -- to the emperor trajan xv -- trajan to pliny xvi -- to the emperor trajan xvii -- trajan to pliny xviii -- to the emperor trajan xix -- to the emperor trajan xx -- to the emperor trajan xxi -- to the emperor trajan xxii -- to the emperor trajan xxiii -- to the emperor trajan xxiv -- to the emperor trajan xxv -- to the emperor trajan xxvi -- to the emperor trajan xxvii -- to the emperor trajan xxviii -- to the emperor trajan xxix -- to the emperor trajan xxx -- to the emperor trajan xxxi -- trajan to pliny xxxii -- to the emperor trajan xxxiii -- trajan to pliny xxxiv -- to the emperor trajan xxxv -- trajan to pliny xxxvi -- to the emperor trajan xxx vii -- trajan to pliny xxxviii to the emperor trajan xxxix -- trajan to pliny xl -- to the emperor trajan xli -- trajan to pliny xlii -- to the emperor trajan xliii -- trajan to pliny xliv -- to the emperor trajan xlv -- trajan to pliny xlvi -- to the emperor trajan xlvii -- trajan to pliny xlviii -- to the emperor trajan xlix -- trajan to pliny l -- to the emperor trajan li -- trajan to pliny lii -- to the emperor trajan liii -- trajan to pliny liv -- to the emperor trajan lv -- trajan to pliny lvi -- to the emperor trajan lvii -- trajan to pliny lviii -- to the emperor trajan lix -- trajan to pliny lx -- to the emperor trajan lxi -- trajan to pliny lxii -- to the emperor trajan lxiii -- trajan to pliny lxiv -- to the emperor trajan lxv -- trajan to pliny lxvi -- to the emperor trajan lxvii -- to the emperor trajan lx viii -- trajan to pliny lxix -- to the emperor trajan lxx -- trajan to pliny lxxi -- to the emperor trajan lxxii trajan to pliny lxxiii -- to the emperor trajan lxx iv -- trajan to pliny lxxv -- to the emperor trajan lxxvi -- trajan to pliny lxxvii -- to the emperor trajan lxxviii -- trajan to pliny lxxix -- to the emperor trajan lxxx -- trajan to pliny lxxxi -- to the emperor trajan lxxxii -- trajan to pliny lxxxiii -- to the emperor trajan lxxxiv -- trajan to pliny lxxxv -- to the emperor trajan lxxxvi -- trajan to pliny lxxxvii -- to the emperor trajan lxxxviii -- trajan to pliny lxxxix -- to the emperor trajan xc -- trajan to pliny xci -- to the emperor trajan xcii -- trajan to pliny xciii -- to the emperor trajan xciv -- trajan to pliny xcv -- to the emperor trajan xcvi -- trajan to pliny xcvii to the emperor trajan xcviii -- trajan to pliny xcix -- to the emperor trajan c -- trajan to pliny ci to the emperor trajan cii -- trajan to pliny ciii -- to the emperor trajan civ -- trajan to pliny cv -- to tile emperor trajan cvi -- trajan to pliny cvii -- to the emperor trajan cviii -- trajan to pliny cix -- to the emperor trajan cx -- trajan to pliny cxi -- to the emperor trajan cxii -- trajan to pliny cxiii -- to the emperor trajan cxiv -- trajan to pliny cxv -- to the emperor trajan cxvi -- trajan to pliny cxvii -- to the emperor trajan cxviii -- trajan to pliny cxix -- to the emperor trajan cxx -- trajan to pliny cxxi -- to the emperor trajan cxxii -- trajan to pliny footnotes to the correspondence with the emperor trajan letters gaius plinius caecilius secundus i -- to septittus you have frequently pressed me to make a select collection of my letters (if there really be any deserving of a special preference) and give them to the public. i have selected them accordingly; not, indeed, in their proper order of time, for i was not compiling a history; but just as each came to hand. and now i have only to wish that you may have no reason to repent of your advice, nor i of my compliance: in that case, i may probably enquire after the rest, which at present be neglected, and preserve those i shall hereafter write. farewell. ii -- to arrianus i foresee your journey in my direction is likely to be delayed, and therefore send you the speech which i promised in my former; requesting you, as usual, to revise and correct it. i desire this the more earnestly as i never, i think, wrote with the same empressment in any of my former speeches; for i have endeavoured to imitate your old favourite demosthenes and calvus, who is lately become mine, at least in the rhetorical forms of the speech; for to catch their sublime spirit, is given, alone, to the "inspired few." my subject, indeed, seemed naturally to lend itself to this (may i venture to call it?) emulation; consisting, as it did, almost entirely in a vehement style of address, even to a degree sufficient to have awakened me (if only i am capable of being awakened) out of that indolence in which i have long reposed. i have not however altogether neglected the flowers of rhetoric of my favourite marc-tully, wherever i could with propriety step out of my direct road, to enjoy a more flowery path: for it was energy, not austerity, at which i aimed. i would not have you imagine by this that i am bespeaking your indulgence: on the contrary, to make your correcting pen more vigorous, i will confess that neither my friends nor myself are averse from the publication of this piece, if only you should join in the approval of what is perhaps my folly. the truth is, as i must publish something, i wish it might be this performance rather than any other, because it is already finished: (you hear the wish of laziness.) at all events, however, something i must publish, and for many reasons; chiefly because of the tracts which i have already sent in to the world, though they have long since lost all their recommendation from novelty, are still, i am told, in request; if, after all, the booksellers are not tickling my ears. and let them; since, by that innocent deceit, i am encouraged to pursue my studies. farewell. iii -- to voconius romanus did you ever meet with a more abject and mean-spirited creature than marcus regulus since the death of domitian, during whose reign his conduct was no less infamous, though more concealed, than under nero's? he began to be afraid i was angry with him, and his apprehensions were perfectly correct; i was angry. he had not only done his best to increase the peril of the position in which rusticus arulenus[ ] stood, but had exulted in his death; insomuch that he actually recited and published a libel upon his memory, in which he styles him "the stoics' ape": adding, "stigmated[ ] with the vitellian scar."[ ] you recognize regulus' eloquent strain! he fell with such fury upon the character of herennius senecio that metius carus said to him, one day, "what business have you with my dead? did i ever interfere in the affair of crassus[ ] or camerinus?"[ ] victims, you know, to regulus, in nero's time. for these reasons he imagined i was highly exasperated, and so at the recitation of his last piece, i got no invitation. besides, he had not forgotten, it seems, with what deadly purpose he had once attacked me in the court of the hundred.[ ] rusticus had desired me to act as counsel for arionilla, titnon's wife: regulus was engaged against me. in one part of the case i was strongly insisting upon a particular judgment given by metius modestus, an excellent man, at that time in banishment by domitian's order. now then for regulus. "pray," says he, "what is your opinion of modestus?" you see what a risk i should have run had i answered that i had a high opinion of him, how i should have disgraced myself on the other hand if i had replied that i had a bad opinion of him. but some guardian power, i am persuaded, must have stood by me to assist me in this emergency. "i will tell you my opinion," i said, "if that is a matter to be brought before the court." "i ask you," he repeated, "what is your opinion of modestus?" i replied that it was customary to examine witnesses to the character of an accused man, not to the character of one on whom sentence had already been passed. he pressed me a third time. "i do not now enquire," said he, "your opinion of modestus in general, i only ask your opinion of his loyalty." "since you will have my opinion then," i rejoined, "i think it illegal even to ask a question concerning a person who stands convicted." he sat down at this, completely silenced; and i received applause and congratulation on all sides, that without injuring my reputation by an advantageous, perhaps, though ungenerous answer, i had not entangled myself in the toils of so insidious a catch-question. thoroughly frightened upon this then, he first seizes upon caecilius celer, next he goes and begs of fabius justus, that they would use their joint interest to bring about a reconciliation between us. and lest this should not be sufficient, he sets off to spurinna as well; to whom he came in the humblest way (for he is the most abject creature alive, where he has anything to be afraid of) and says to him, "do, i entreat of you, call on pliny to-morrow morning, certainly in the morning, no later (for i cannot endure this anxiety of mind longer), and endeavour by any means in your power to soften his resentment." i was already up, the next day, when a message arrived from spurinna, "i am coming to call on you." i sent word back, "nay, i will wait upon you;" however, both of us setting out to pay this visit, we met under livia's portico. he acquainted me with the commission he had received from regulus, and interceded for him as became so worthy a man in behalf of one so totally dissimilar, without greatly pressing the thing. "i will leave it to you," was my reply, "to consider what answer to return regulus; you ought not to be deceived by me. i am waiting for mauricus'[ ] return" (for he had not yet come back out of exile), "so that i cannot give you any definite answer either way, as i mean to be guided entirely by his decision, for he ought to be my leader here, and i simply to do as he says." well, a few days after this, regulus met me as i was at the praetor's; he kept close to me there and begged a word in private, when he said he was afraid i deeply resented an expression he had once made use of in his reply to satrius and myself, before the court of the hundred, to this effect, "satrius rufus, who does not endeavour to rival cicero, and who is content with the eloquence of our own day." i answered, now i perceived indeed, upon his own confession, that he had meant it ill-naturedly; otherwise it might have passed for a compliment. "for i am free to own," i said, "that i do endeavour to rival cicero, and am not content with the eloquence of our own day. for i consider it the very height of folly not to copy the best models of every kind. but, how happens it that you, who have so good a recollection of what passed upon this occasion, should have forgotten that other, when you asked me my opinion of the loyalty of modestus?" pale as he always is, he turned simply pallid at this, and stammered out, "i did not intend to hurt you when i asked this question, but modestus." observe the vindictive cruelty of the fellow, who made no concealment of his willingness to injure a banished man. but the reason he alleged in justification of his conduct is pleasant. modestus, he explained, in a letter of his, which was read to domitian, had used the following expression, "regulus, the biggest rascal that walks upon two feet:" and what modestus had written was the simple truth, beyond all manner of controversy. here, about, our conversation came to an end, for i did not wish to proceed further, being desirous to keep matters open until mauricus returns. it is no easy matter, i am well aware of that, to destroy regulus; he is rich, and at the head of a party; courted[ ] by many, feared by more: a passion that will sometimes prevail even beyond friendship itself. but, after all, ties of this sort are not so strong but they may be loosened; for a bad man's credit is as shifty as himself. however (to repeat), i am waiting until mauricus comes back. he is a man of sound judgment and great sagacity formed upon long experience, and who, from his observations of the past, well knows how to judge of the future. i shall talk the matter over with him, and consider myself justified either in pursuing or dropping this affair, as he shall advise. meanwhile i thought i owed this account to our mutual friendship, which gives you an undoubted right to know about not only all my actions but all my plans as well. farewell. iv -- to cornelius tacitus you will laugh (and you are quite welcome) when i tell you that your old acquaintance is turned sportsman, and has taken three noble boars. "what!" you exclaim, "pliny!"--even he. however, i indulged at the same time my beloved inactivity; and, whilst i sat at my nets, you would have found me, not with boar spear or javelin, but pencil and tablet, by my side. i mused and wrote, being determined to return, if with all my hands empty, at least with my memorandums full. believe me, this way of studying is not to be despised: it is wonderful how the mind is stirred and quickened into activity by brisk bodily exercise. there is something, too, in the solemnity of the venerable woods with which one is surrounded, together with that profound silence which is observed on these occasions, that forcibly disposes the mind to meditation. so for the future, let me advise you, whenever you hunt, to take your tablets along with you, as well as your basket and bottle, for be assured you will find minerva no less fond of traversing the hills than diana. farewell. v -- to pompeius saturninus nothing could be more seasonable than the letter which i received from you, in which you so earnestly beg me to send you some of my literary efforts: the very thing i was intending to do. so you have only put spurs into a willing horse and at once saved yourself the excuse of refusing the trouble, and me the awkwardness of asking the favour. without hesitation then i avail myself of your offer; as you must now take the consequence of it without reluctance. but you are not to expect anything new from a lazy fellow, for i am going to ask you to revise again the speech i made to my fellow-townsmen when i dedicated the public library to their use. you have already, i remember, obliged me with some annotations upon this piece, but only in a general way; and so i now beg of you not only to take a general view of the whole speech, but, as you usually do, to go over it in detail. when you have corrected it, i shall still be at liberty to publish or suppress it: and the delay in the meantime will be attended with one of these alternatives; for, while we are deliberating whether it is fit for publishing, a frequent revision will either make it so, or convince me that it is not. though indeed my principal difficulty respecting the publication of this harangue arises not so much from the composition as out of the subject itself, which has something in it, i am afraid, that will look too like ostentation and self-conceit. for, be the style ever so plain and unassuming, yet, as the occasion necessarily led me to speak not only of the munificence of my ancestors, but of my own as well, my modesty will be seriously embarrassed. a dangerous and slippery situation this, even when one is led into it by plea of necessity! for, if mankind are not very favourable to panegyric, even when bestowed upon others, how much more difficult is it to reconcile them to it when it is a tribute which we pay to ourselves or to our ancestors? virtue, by herself, is generally the object of envy, but particularly so when glory and distinction attend her; and the world is never so little disposed to detract from the rectitude of your conduct as when it passes unobserved and unapplauded. for these reasons, i frequently ask myself whether i composed this harangue, such as it is, merely from a personal consideration, or with a view to the public as well; and i am sensible that what may be exceedingly useful and proper in the prosecution of any affair may lose all its grace and fitness the moment the business is completed: for instance, in the case before us, what could be more to my purpose than to explain at large the motives of my intended bounty? for, first, it engaged my mind in good and ennobling thoughts; next, it enabled me, by frequent dwelling upon them, to receive a perfect impression of their loveliness, while it guarded at the same time against that repentance which is sure to follow on an impulsive act of generosity. there arose also a further advantage from this method, as it fixed in me a certain habitual contempt of money. for, while mankind seem to be universally governed by an innate passion to accumulate wealth, the cultivation of a more generous affection in my own breast taught me to emancipate myself from the slavery of so predominant a principle: and i thought that my honest intentions would be the more meritorious as they should appear to proceed, not from sudden impulse, but from the dictates of cool and deliberate reflection. i considered, besides, that i was not engaging myself to exhibit public games or gladiatorial combats, but to establish an annual fund for the support and education of young men of good families but scanty means. the pleasures of the senses are so far from wanting the oratorical arts to recommend them that we stand in need of all the powers of eloquence to moderate and restrain rather than stir up their influence. but the work of getting anybody to cheerfully undertake the monotony and drudgery of education must be effected not by pay merely, but by a skilfully worked- up appeal to the emotions as well. if physicians find it expedient to use the most insinuating address in recommending to their patients a wholesome though, perhaps, unpleasant regimen, how much more occasion had he to exert all the powers of persuasion who, out of regard to the public welfare, was endeavouring to reconcile it to a most useful though not equally popular benefaction? particularly, as my aim was to recommend an institution, calculated solely for the benefit of those who were parents to men who, at present, had no children; and to persuade the greater number to wait patiently until they should be entitled to an honour of which a few only could immediately partake. but as at that time, when i attempted to explain and enforce the general design and benefit of my institution, i considered more the general good of my countrymen, than any reputation which might result to myself; so i am apprehensive lest, if i publish that piece, it may perhaps look as if i had a view rather to my own personal credit than the benefit of others. besides, i am very sensible how much nobler it is to place the reward of virtue in the silent approbation of one's own breast than in the applause of the world. glory ought to be the consequence, not the motive, of our actions; and although it happen not to attend the worthy deed, yet it is by no means the less fair for having missed the applause it deserved. but the world is apt to suspect that those who celebrate their own beneficent acts performed them for no other motive than to have the pleasure of extolling them. thus, the splendour of an action which would have been deemed illustrious if related by another is totally extinguished when it becomes the subject of one's own applause. such is the disposition of mankind, if they cannot blast the action, they will censure its display; and whether you do what does not deserve particular notice, or set forth yourself what does, either way you incur reproach. in my own case there is a peculiar circumstance that weighs much with me: this speech was delivered not before the people, but the decurii;[ ] not in the forum, but the senate; i am afraid therefore it will look inconsistent that i, who, when i delivered it, seemed to avoid popular applause, should now, by publishing this performance, appear to court it: that i, who was so scrupulous as not to admit even these persons to be present when i delivered this speech, who were interested in my benefaction, lest it might be suspected i was actuated in this affair by any ambitious views, should now seem to solicit admiration, by forwardly displaying it to such as have no other concern in my munificence than the benefit of example. these are the scruples which have occasioned my delay in giving this piece to the public; but i submit them entirely to your judgment, which i shall ever esteem as a sufficient sanction of my conduct. farewell. vi -- to atrius clemens if ever polite literature flourished at rome, it certainly flourishes now; and i could give you many eminent instances: i will content myself, however, with naming only euphrates[ ] the philosopher. i first became acquainted with this excellent person in my youth, when i served in the army in syria. i had an opportunity of conversing with him familiarly, and took some pains to gain his affection: though that, indeed, was not very difficult, for he is easy of access, unreserved, and actuated by those social principles he professes to teach. i should think myself extremely happy if i had as fully answered the expectations he, at that time, conceived of me, as he exceeds everything i had imagined of him. but, perhaps, i admire his excellencies more now than i did then, because i know better how to appreciate them; not that i sufficiently appreciate them even now. for as none but those who are skilled in painting, statuary, or the plastic art, can form a right judgment of any performance in those respective modes of representation, so a man must, himself, have made great advances in philosophy before he is capable of forming a just opinion of a philosopher. however, as far as i am qualified to determine, euphrates is possessed of so many shining talents that he cannot fail to attract and impress the most ordinarily educated observer. he reasons with much force, acuteness, and elegance; and frequently rises into all the sublime and luxuriant eloquence of plato. his style is varied and flowing, and at the same time so wonderfully captivating that he forces the reluctant attention of the most unwilling hearer. for the rest, a fine stature, a comely aspect, long hair, and a large silver beard; circumstances which, though they may probably be thought trifling and accidental, contribute, however, to gain him much reverence. there is no affected negligence in his dress and appearance; his countenance is grave but not austere; and his approach commands respect without creating awe. distinguished as he is by the perfect blamelessness of his life, he is no less so by the courtesy and engaging sweetness of his manner. he attacks vices, not persons, and, without severity, reclaims the wanderer from the paths of virtue. you follow his exhortations with rapt attention, hanging, as it were, upon his lips; and even after the heart is convinced, the ear still wishes to listen to the harmonious reasoner. his family consists of three children (two of which are sons), whom he educates with the utmost care. his father-in-law, pompeius julianus, as he greatly distinguished himself in every other part of his life, so particularly in this, that though he was himself of the highest rank in his province, yet, among many considerable matches, he preferred euphrates for his son-in-law, as first in merit, though not in dignity. but why do i dwell any longer upon the virtues of a man whose conversation i am so unfortunate as not to have time sufficiently to enjoy? is it to increase my regret and vexation that i cannot enjoy it? my time is wholly taken up in the execution of a very honourable, indeed, but equally troublesome, employment; in hearing cases, signing petitions, making up accounts, and writing a vast amount of the most illiterate literature. i sometimes complain to euphrates (for i have leisure at least to complain) of these unpleasing occupations. he endeavours to console me, by affirming that, to be engaged in the public service, to hear and determine cases, to explain the laws, and administer justice, is a part, and the noblest part, too, of philosophy; as it is reducing to practice what her professors teach in speculation. but even his rhetoric will never be able to convince me that it is better to be at this sort of work than to spend whole days in attending his lectures and learning his precepts. i cannot therefore but strongly recommend it to you, who have the time for it, when next you come to town (and you will come, i daresay, so much the sooner for this), to take the benefit of his elegant and refined instructions. for i do not (as many do) envy others the happiness i cannot share with them myself: on the contrary, it is a very sensible pleasure to me when i find my friends in possession of an enjoyment from which i have the misfortune to be excluded. farewell. vii -- to fabius justus it is a long time since i have had a letter from you, "there is nothing to write about," you say: well then write and let me know just this, that "there is nothing to write about," or tell me in the good old style, _if you are well that's right, i am quite well_. this will do for me, for it implies everything. you think i am joking? let me assure you i am in sober earnest. do let me know how you are; for i cannot remain ignorant any longer without growing exceedingly anxious about you. farewell. viii -- to calestrius tiro i have suffered the heaviest loss; if that word be sufficiently strong to express the misfortune which has deprived me of so excellent a man. corellius rufus is dead; and dead, too, by his own act! a circumstance of great aggravation to my affliction: as that sort of death which we cannot impute either to the course of nature, or the hand of providence, is, of all others, the most to be lamented. it affords some consolation in the loss of those friends whom disease snatches from us that they fall by the general destiny of mankind; but those who destroy themselves leave us under the inconsolable reflection, that they had it in their power to have lived longer. it is true, corellius had many inducements to be fond of life; a blameless conscience, high reputation, and great dignity of character, besides a daughter, a wife, a grandson, and sisters; and, amidst these numerous pledges of happiness, faithful friends. still, it must be owned he had the highest motive (which to a wise man will always have the force of destiny), urging him to this resolution. he had long been tortured by so tedious and painful a complaint that even these inducements to living on, considerable as they are, were over-balanced by the reasons on the other side. in his thirty- third year (as i have frequently heard him say) he was seized with the gout in his feet. this was hereditary; for diseases, as well as possessions, are sometimes handed down by a sort of inheritance. a life of sobriety and continence had enabled him to conquer and keep down the disease while he was still young, latterly as it grew upon him with advancing years, he had to manfully bear it, suffering meanwhile the most incredible and undeserved agonies; for the gout was now not only in his feet, but had spread itself over his whole body. i remember, in domitian's reign, paying him a visit at his villa, near rome. as soon as i entered his chamber, his servants went out: for it was his rule, never to allow them to be in the room when any intimate friend was with him; nay, even his own wife, though she could have kept any secret, used to go too. casting his eyes round the room, "why," he exclaimed, "do you suppose i endure life so long under these cruel agonies? it is with the hope that i may outlive, at least for one day, that villain." had his bodily strength been equal to his resolution, he would have carried his desire into practical effect. god heard and answered his prayer; and when he felt that he should now die a free, un-enslaved, roman, he broke through those other great, but now less forcible, attachments to the world. his malady increased; and, as it now grew too violent to admit of any relief from temperance, he resolutely determined to put an end to its uninterrupted attacks, by an effort of heroism. he had refused all sustenance during four days when his wife hispulla sent our common friend geminius to me, with the melancholy news, that corellius was resolved to die; and that neither her own entreaties nor her daughter's could move him from his purpose; i was the only person left who could reconcile him to life. i ran to his house with the utmost precipitation. as i approached it, i met a second messenger from hispulla, julius atticus, who informed me there was nothing to be hoped for now, even from me, as he seemed more hardened than ever in his purpose. he had said, indeed to his physician, who pressed him to take some nourishment, "'tis resolved": an expression which, as it raised my admiration of the greatness of his soul, so it does my grief for the loss of him. i keep thinking what a friend, what a man, i am deprived of. that he had reached his sixty-seventh year, an age which even the strongest seldom exceed, i well know; that he is released from a life of continual pain; that he has left his dearest friends behind him, and (what was dearer to him than all these) the state in a prosperous condition: all this i know. still i cannot forbear to lament him, as if he had been in the prime and vigour of his days; and i lament him (shall i own my weakness?) on my account. and--to confess to you as i did to calvisius, in the first transport of my grief--i sadly fear, now that i am no longer under his eye, i shall not keep so strict a guard over my conduct. speak comfort to me then, not that he was old, he was infirm; all this i know: but by supplying me with some reflections that are new and resistless, which i have never heard, never read, anywhere else. for all that i have heard, and all that i have read, occur to me of themselves; but all these are by far too weak to support me under so severe an affliction. farewell. ix -- to socius senecio this year has produced a plentiful crop of poets: during the whole month of april scarcely a day has passed on which we have not been entertained with the recital of some poem. it is a pleasure to me to find that a taste for polite literature still exists, and that men of genius do come forward and make themselves known, notwithstanding the lazy attendance they got for their pains. the greater part of the audience sit in the lounging-places, gossip away their time there, and are perpetually sending to enquire whether the author has made his entrance yet, whether he has got through the preface, or whether he has almost finished the piece. then at length they saunter in with an air of the greatest indifference, nor do they condescend to stay through the recital, but go out before it is over, some slyly and stealthily, others again with perfect freedom and unconcern. and yet our fathers can remember how claudius cæsar walking one day in the palace, and hearing a great shouting, enquired the cause: and being informed that nonianus[ ] was reciting a composition of his, went immediately to the place, and agreeably surprised the author with his presence. but now, were one to bespeak the attendance of the idlest man living, and remind him of the appointment ever so often, or ever so long beforehand; either he would not come at all, or if he did would grumble about having "lost a day!" for no other reason but because he had not lost it. so much the more do those authors deserve our encouragement and applause who have resolution to persevere in their studies, and to read out their compositions in spite of this apathy or arrogance on the part of their audience. myself indeed, i scarcely ever miss being present upon any occasion; though, to tell the truth, the authors have generally been friends of mine, as indeed there are few men of literary tastes who are not. it is this which has kept me in town longer than i had intended. i am now, however, at liberty to go back into the country, and write something myself; which i do not intend reciting, lest i should seem rather to have lent than given my attendance to these recitations of my friends, for in these, as in all other good offices, the obligation ceases the moment you seem to expect a return. farewell. x -- to junsus mauricus you desire me to look out a proper husband for your niece: it is with justice you enjoin me that office. you know the high esteem and affection i bore that great man her father, and with what noble instructions he nurtured my youth, and taught me to deserve those praises he was pleased to bestow upon me. you could not give me, then, a more important, or more agreeable, commission; nor could i be employed in an office of higher honour, than that of choosing a young man worthy of being father of the grandchildren of rusticus arulenus; a choice i should be long in determining, were i not acquainted with minutius aemilianus, who seems formed for our purpose. he loves me with all that warmth of affection which is usual between young men of equal years (as indeed i have the advance of him but by a very few), and reveres me at the same time, with all the deference due to age; and, in a word, he is no less desirous to model himself by my instructions than i was by those of yourself and your brother. he is a native of brixia, one of those provinces in italy which still retain much of the old modesty, frugal simplicity, and even rusticity, of manner. he is the son of minutius macrinus, whose humble desires were satisfied with standing at the head of the equestrian order: for though he was nominated by vespasian in the number of those whom that prince dignified with the praetorian office, yet, with an inflexible greatness of mind, he resolutely preferred an honourable repose, to the ambitious, shall i call them, or exalted, pursuits, in which we public men are engaged. his grandmother, on the mother's side, is serrana procula, of patavium:[ ] you are no stranger to the character of its citizens; yet serrana is looked upon, even among these correct people, as an exemplary instance of strict virtue. acilius, his uncle, is a man of almost exceptional gravity, wisdom, and integrity. in short, you will find nothing throughout his family unworthy of yours. minutius himself has plenty of vivacity, as well as application, together with a most amiable and becoming modesty. he has already, with considerable credit, passed through the offices of quaestor, tribune, and praetor; so that you will be spared the trouble of soliciting for him those honourable employments. he has a fine, well-bred, countenance, with a ruddy, healthy complexion, while his whole person is elegant and comely and his mien graceful and senatorian: advantages, i think, by no means to be slighted, and which i consider as the proper tribute to virgin innocence. i think i may add that his father is very rich. when i contemplate the character of those who require a husband of my choosing, i know it is unnecessary to mention wealth; but when i reflect upon the prevailing manners of the age, and even the laws of rome, which rank a man according to his possessions, it certainly claims some regard; and, indeed, in establishments of this nature, where children and many other circumstances are to be duly weighed, it is an article that well deserves to be taken into the account. you will be inclined, perhaps, to suspect that affection has had too great a share in the character i have been drawing, and that i have heightened it beyond the truth: but i will stake all my credit, you will find everything far beyond what i have represented. i love the young fellow indeed (as he justly deserves) with all the warmth of a most ardent affection; but for that very reason i would not ascribe more to his merit than i know it will bear. farewell. xi -- to septitius clarus ah! you are a pretty fellow! you make an engagement to come to supper and then never appear. justice shall be exacted;--you shall reimburse me to the very last penny the expense i went to on your account; no small sum, let me tell you. i had prepared, you must know, a lettuce a-piece, three snails, two eggs, and a barley cake, with some sweet wine and snow, (the snow most certainly i shall charge to your account, as a rarity that will not keep.) olives, beet-root, gourds, onions, and a thousand other dainties equally sumptuous. you should likewise have been entertained either with an interlude, the rehearsal of a poem, or a piece of music, whichever you preferred; or (such was my liberality) with all three. but the oysters, sows'-bellies, sea-urchins, and dancers from cadiz of a certain--i know not who, were, it seems, more to your taste. you shall give satisfaction, how, shall at present be a secret. oh! you have behaved cruelly, grudging your friend,--had almost said yourself;--and upon second thoughts i do say so;--in this way: for how agreeably should we have spent the evening, in laughing, trifling, and literary amusements! you may sup, i confess, at many places more splendidly; but nowhere with more unconstrained mirth, simplicity, and freedom: only make the experiment, and if you do not ever after excuse yourself to your other friends, to come to me, always put me off to go to them. farewell. xii -- to suetonius tranquillus you tell me in your letter that you are extremely alarmed by a dream; apprehending that it forebodes some ill success to you in the case you have undertaken to defend; and, therefore, desire that i would get it adjourned for a few days, or, at least, to the next. this will be no easy matter, but i will try: "for dreams descend from jove." meanwhile, it is very material for you to recollect whether your dreams generally represent things as they afterwards fall out, or quite the reverse. but if i may judge of yours by one that happened to myself, this dream that alarms you seems to portend that you will acquit yourself with great success. i had promised to stand counsel for junius pastor; when i fancied in my sleep that my mother-in-law came to me, and, throwing herself at my feet, earnestly entreated me not to plead. i was at that time a very young man; the case was to be argued in the four centumviral courts; my adversaries were some of the most important personages in rome, and particular favourites of cæsar;[ ] any of which circumstances were sufficient, after such an inauspicious dream, to have discouraged me. notwithstanding this, i engaged in the cause, reflecting that, "without a sign, his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen but his country's cause."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> for i looked upon the promise i had given to be as sacred to me as my country, or, if that were possible, more so. the event happened as i wished; and it was that very case which first procured me the favourable attention of the public, and threw open to me the gates of fame. consider then whether your dream, like this one i have related, may not pre-signify success. but, after all, perhaps you will think it safer to pursue this cautious maxim: "never do a thing concerning the rectitude of which you are in doubt;" if so, write me word. in the interval, i will consider of some excuse, and will so plead your cause that you may be able to plead it your self any day you like best. in this respect, you are in a better situation than i was: the court of the centumviri, where i was to plead, admits of no adjournment: whereas, in that where your case is to be heard, though no easy matter to procure one, still, however, it is possible. farewell. xiii -- to romanus firmus as you are my towns-man, my school-fellow, and the earliest companion of my youth; as there was the strictest friendship between my mother and uncle and your father (a happiness which i also enjoyed as far as the great inequality of our ages would admit); can i fail (thus biassed as i am by so many and weighty considerations) to contribute all in my power to the advancement of your honours? the rank you bear in our province, as decurio, is a proof that you are possessed, at least, of an hundred thousand sesterces;[ ] but that we may also have the satisfaction of seeing you a roman knight,[ ] i present you with three hundred thousand, in order to make up the sum requisite to entitle you to that dignity. the long acquaintance we have had leaves me no room to apprehend you will ever be forgetful of this instance of my friendship. and i know your disposition too well to think it necessary to advise you to enjoy this honour with the modesty that becomes a person who receives it from me; for the advanced rank we possess through a friend's kindness is a sort of sacred trust, in which we have his judgment, as well as our own character, to maintain, and therefore to be guarded with the greater caution. farewell. xiv -- to cornelius tacitus i have frequent debates with a certain acquaintance of mine, a man of skill and learning, who admires nothing so much in the eloquence of the bar as conciseness. i agree with him, that where the case will admit of this precision, it may with propriety be adopted; but insist that, to leave out what is material to be mentioned,--or only briefly and cursorily to touch upon those points which should be inculcated, impressed, and urged well home upon the minds of the audience, is a downright fraud upon one's client. in many cases, to deal with the subject at greater length adds strength and weight to our ideas, which frequently produce their impression upon the mind, as iron does upon solid bodies, rather by repeated strokes than a single blow. in answer to this, he usually has recourse to authorities, and produces lysias[ ] amongst the grecians, together with cato and the two gracchi, among our own countrymen, many of whose speeches certainly are brief and curtailed. in return, i name demosthenes, aeschines, hyperides,[ ] and many others, in opposition to lysias; while i confront cato and the gracchi with cæsar, pollio,[ ] caelius,[ ] but, above all, cicero, whose longest speech is generally considered his best. why, no doubt about it, in good compositions, as in everything else that is valuable, the more there is of them, the better. you may observe in statues, basso-relievos, pictures, and the human form, and even in animals and trees, that nothing is more graceful than magnitude, if accompanied with proportion. the same holds true in pleading; and even in books a large volume carries a certain beauty and authority in its very size. my antagonist, who is extremely dexterous at evading an argument, eludes all this, and much more, which i usually urge to the same purpose, by insisting that those very individuals, upon whose works i found my opinion, made considerable additions to their speeches when they published them. this i deny; and appeal to the harangues of numberless orators, particularly to those of cicero, for murena and varenus, in which a short, bare notification of certain charges is expressed under mere heads. whence it appears that many things which he enlarged upon at the time he delivered those speeches were retrenched when he gave them to the public. the same excellent orator informs us that, agreeably to the ancient custom, which allowed only of one counsel on a side, cluentius had no other advocate than himself; and he tells us further that he employed four whole days in defence of cornelius; by which it plainly appears that those speeches which, when delivered at their full length, had necessarily taken up so much time at the bar were considerably cut down and pruned when he afterwards compressed them into a single volume, though, i must confess, indeed, a large one. but good pleading, it is objected, is one thing, just composition another. this objection, i am aware, has had some favourers; nevertheless, i am persuaded (though i may, perhaps, be mistaken) that, as it is possible you may have a good pleading which is not a good speech, so a good speech cannot be a bad pleading; for the speech on paper is the model and, as it were, the archetype of the speech that was delivered. it is for this reason we find, in many of the best speeches extant, numberless extemporaneous turns of expression; and even in those which we are sure were never spoken; as, for instance, in the following passage from the speech against verres: --"a certain mechanic--what's his name? oh, thank you for helping me to it: yes, i mean polyclitus." it follows, then, that the nearer approach a speaker makes to the rules of just composition, the more perfect will he be in his art; always supposing, however, that he has his due share of time allowed him; for, if he be limited of that article, no blame can justly be fixed upon the advocate, though much certainly upon the judge. the sense of the laws, i am sure, is on my side, which are by no means sparing of the orator's time; it is not conciseness, but fulness, a complete representation of every material circumstance, which they recommend. now conciseness cannot effect this, unless in the most insignificant cases. let me add what experience, that unerring guide, has taught me: it has frequently been my province to act both as an advocate and a judge; and i have often also attended as an assessor.[ ] upon those occasions, i have ever found the judgments of mankind are to be influenced by different modes of application, and that the slightest circumstances frequently produce the most important consequences. the dispositions and understandings of men vary to such an extent that they seldom agree in their opinions concerning any one point in debate before them; or, if they do, it is generally from different motives. besides, as every man is naturally partial to his own discoveries, when he hears an argument urged which had previously occurred to himself, he will be sure to embrace it as extremely convincing. the orator, therefore, should so adapt himself to his audience as to throw out something which every one of them, in turn, may receive and approve as agreeable to his own particular views. i recollect, once when regulus and i were engaged on the same side, his remarking to me, "you seem to think it necessary to go into every single circumstance: whereas i always take aim at once at my adversary's throat, and there i press him closely." ('tis true, he keeps a tight hold of whatever part he has once fixed upon; but the misfortune is, he is extremely apt to fix upon the wrong place.) i replied, it might possibly happen that what he called the throat was, in reality, the knee or the ankle. as for myself, said i, who do not pretend to direct my aim with so much precision, i test every part, i probe every opening; in short, to use a vulgar proverb, i leave no stone unturned. and as in agriculture, it is not my vineyards or my woods only, but my fields as well, that i look after and cultivate, and (to carry on the metaphor) as i do not content myself with sowing those fields simply with corn or white wheat, but sprinkle in barley, pulse, and the other kinds of grain; so, in my pleadings at the bar, i scatter broadcast various arguments like so many kinds of seed, in order to reap whatever may happen to come up. for the disposition of your judges is as hard to fathom as uncertain, and as little to be relied on as that of soils and seasons. the comic writer eupolis,[ ] i remember, mentions it in praise of that excellent orator pericles, that "on his lips persuasion hung, and powerful reason rul'd his tongue: thus he alone could boast the art to charm at once, and pierce the heart." [ ] but could pericles, without the richest variety of expression, and merely by the force of the concise or the rapid style, or both (for they are very different), have thus charmed and pierced the heart. to delight and to persuade requires time and great command of language; and to leave a sting in the minds of the audience is an effect not to be expected from an orator who merely pinks, but from him, and him only, who thrusts in. another comic poet,[ ] speaking of the same orator, says: "his mighty words like jove's own thunder roll; greece hears, and trembles to her inmost soul." but it is not the close and reserved; it is the copious, the majestic, and the sublime orator, who thunders, who lightens, who, in short, bears all before him in a confused whirl. there is, undeniably, a just mean in everything; but he equally misses the mark who falls short of it, as he who goes beyond it; he who is too limited as he who is too unrestrained. hence it is as common a thing to hear our orators condemned for being too jejune and feeble as too excessive and redundant. one is said to have exceeded the bounds of his subject, the other not to have reached them. both, no doubt, are equally in fault, with this difference, however, that in the one the fault arises from an abundance, in the other, from a deficiency; an error, in the former case, which, if it be not the sign of a more correct, is certainly of a more fertile genius. when i say this, i would not be understood to approve that everlasting talker[ ] mentioned in homer, but that other' described in the following lines: "frequent and soft, as falls the winter snow, thus from his lips the copious periods flow." not but that i extremely admire him,[ ] too, of whom the poet says, "few were his words, but wonderfully strong." yet, if the choice were given me, i should give the preference to that style resembling winter snow, that is, to the full, uninterrupted, and diffusive; in short, to that pomp of eloquence which seems all heavenly and divine. but (it is replied) the harangue of a more moderate length is most generally admired. it is:--but only by indolent people; and to fix the standard by their laziness and false delicacy would be simply ridiculous. were you to consult persons of this cast, they would tell you, not only that it is best to say little, but that it is best to say nothing at all. thus, my friend, i have laid before you my opinions upon this subject, and i am willing to change them if not agreeable to yours. but should you disagree with me, pray let me know clearly your reasons why. for, though i ought to yield in this case to your more enlightened judgment, yet, in a point of such consequence, i had rather be convinced by argument than by authority. so if i don't seem to you very wide of the mark, a line or two from you in return, intimating your concurrence, will be sufficient to confirm me in my opinion: on the other hand, if you should think me mistaken, let me have your objections at full length. does it not look rather like bribery, my requiring only a short letter, if you agree with me; but a very long one if you should be of a different opinion. farewell. xv -- to paternus as i rely very much upon the soundness of your judgment, so i do upon the goodness of your eyes: not because i think your discernment very great (for i don't want to make you conceited), but because i think it as good as mine: which, it must be confessed, is saying a great deal. joking apart, i like the look of the slaves which were purchased for me on your recommendation very well; all i further care about is, that they be honest: and for this i must depend upon their characters more than their countenances. farewell. xvi -- to catilius severus [ ] i am at present (and have been a considerable time) detained in rome, under the most stunning apprehensions. titus aristo,[ ] whom i have a singular admiration and affection for, is fallen into a long and obstinate illness, which troubles me. virtue, knowledge, and good sense, shine out with so superior a lustre in this excellent man that learning herself, and every valuable endowment, seem involved in the danger of his single person. how consummate his knowledge, both in the political and civil laws of his country! how thoroughly conversant is he in every branch of history or antiquity? in a word, there is nothing you might wish to know which he could not teach you. as for me, whenever i would acquaint myself with any abstruse point, i go to him as my store-house. what an engaging sincerity, what dignity in his conversation! how chastened and becoming is his caution! though he conceives, at once, every point in debate, yet he is as slow to decide as he is quick to apprehend; calmly and deliberately sifting and weighing every opposite reason that is offered, and tracing it, with a most judicious penetration, from its source through all its remotest consequences. his diet is frugal, his dress plain; and whenever i enter his chamber, and view him reclined upon his couch, i consider the scene before me as a true image of ancient simplicity, to which his illustrious mind reflects the noblest ornament. he places no part of his happiness in ostentation, but in the secret approbation of his conscience, seeking the reward of his virtue, not in the clamorous applauses of the world, but in the silent satisfaction which results from having acted well. in short, you will not easily find his equal, even among our philosophers by outward profession. no, he does not frequent the gymnasia or porticoes[ ] nor does he amuse his own and others' leisure with endless controversies, but busies himself in the scenes of civil and active life. many has he assisted with his interest, still more with his advice, and withal in the practice of temperance, piety, justice, and fortitude, he has no superior. you would be astonished, were you there to see, at the patience with which he bears his illness, how he holds out against pain, endures thirst, and quietly submits to this raging fever and to the pressure of those clothes which are laid upon him to promote perspiration. he lately called me and a few more of his particular friends to his bedside, requesting us to ask his physicians what turn they apprehended his distemper would take; that, if they pronounced it incurable, he might voluntarily put an end to his life; but if there were hopes of a recovery, how tedious and difficult soever it might prove, he would calmly wait the event; for so much, he thought, was due to the tears and entreaties of his wife and daughter, and to the affectionate intercession of his friends, as not voluntarily to abandon our hopes, if they were not entirely desperate. a true hero's resolution this, in my estimation, and worthy the highest applause. instances are frequent in the world, of rushing into the arms of death without reflection and by a sort of blind impulse but deliberately to weigh the reasons for life or death, and to be determined in our choice as either side of the scale prevails, shows a great mind. we have had the satisfaction to receive the opinion of his physicians in his favour: may heaven favour their promises and relieve me at length from this painful anxiety. once easy in my mind, i shall go back to my favourite laurentum, or, in other words, to my books, my papers and studious leisure. just now, so much of my time and thoughts are taken up in attendance upon my friend, and anxiety for him, that i have neither leisure nor inclination for any reading or writing whatever. thus you have my fears, my wishes, and my after-plans. write me in return, but in a gayer strain, an account not only of what you are and have been doing, but of what you intend doing too. it will be a very sensible consolation to me in this disturbance of mind, to be assured that yours is easy. farewell. xvii -- to voconius romanus rome has not for many years beheld a more magnificent and memorable spectacle than was lately exhibited in the public funeral of that great, illustrious, and no less fortunate man, verginius rufus. he lived thirty years after he had reached the zenith of his fame. he read poems composed in his honour, he read histories of his achievements, and was himself witness of his fame among posterity. he was thrice raised to the dignity of consul, that he might at least be the highest of subjects, who[ ] had refused to be the first of princes. as he escaped the resentment of those emperors to whom his virtues had given umbrage and even rendered him odious, and ended his days when this best of princes, this friend of mankind[ ] was in quiet possession of the empire, it seems as if providence had purposely preserved him to these times, that he might receive the honour of a public funeral. he reached his eighty- fourth year, in full tranquillity and universally revered, having enjoyed strong health during his lifetime, with the exception of a trembling in his hands, which, however, gave him no pain. his last illness, indeed, was severe and tedious, but even that circumstance added to his reputation. as he was practising his voice with a view of returning his public acknowledgements to the emperor, who had promoted him to the consulship, a large volume he had taken into his hand, and which happened to be too heavy for so old a man to hold standing up, slid from his grasp. in hastily endeavouring to recover it, his foot slipped on the smooth pavement, and he fell down and broke his thigh- bone, which being clumsily set, his age as well being against him, did not properly unite again. the funeral obsequies paid to the memory of this great man have done honour to the emperor, to the age, and to the bar. the consul cornelius tacitus[ ] pronounced his funeral oration and thus his good fortune was crowned by the public applause of so eloquent an orator. he has departed from our midst, full of years, indeed, and of glory; as illustrious by the honours he refused as by those he accepted. yet still we shall miss him and lament him, as the shining model of a past age; i, especially, shall feel his loss, for i not only admired him as a patriot, but loved him as a friend. we were of the same province, and of neighbouring towns, and our estates were also contiguous. besides these accidental connections, he was left my guardian, and always treated me with a parent's affection. whenever i offered myself as a candidate for any office in the state, he constantly supported me with his interest; and although he had long since given up all such services to friends, he would kindly leave his retirement and come to give me his vote in person. on the day on which the priests nominate those they consider most worthy of the sacred office[ ] he constantly proposed me. even in his last illness, apprehending the possibility of the senate's appointing him one of the five commissioners for reducing the public expenses, he fixed upon me, young as i am, to bear his excuses, in preference to so many other friends, elderly men too, and of consular rank and said to me, "had i a son of my own, i would entrust you with this matter." and so i cannot but lament his death, as though it were premature, and pour out my grief into your bosom; if indeed one has any right to grieve, or to call it death at all, which to such a man terminates his mortality, rather than ends his life. he lives, and will live on for ever; and his fame will extend and be more celebrated by posterity, now that he is gone from our sight. i had much else to write to you but my mind is full of this. i keep thinking of verginius: i see him before me: i am for ever fondly yet vividly imagining that i hear him, am speaking to him, embrace him. there are men amongst us, his fellow-citizens, perhaps, who may rival him in virtue; but not one that will ever approach him in glory. farewell. xviii -- to nepos the great fame of isaeus had already preceded him here; but we find him even more wonderful than we had heard. he possesses the utmost readiness, copiousness, and abundance of language: he always speaks extempore, and his lectures are as finished as though he had spent a long time over their written composition. his style is greek, or rather the genuine attic. his exordiums are terse, elegant, attractive, and occasionally impressive and majestic. he suggests several subjects for discussion, allows his audience their choice, sometimes to even name which side he shall take, rises, arranges himself, and begins. at once he has everything almost equally at command. recondite meanings of things are suggested to you, and words--what words they are! exquisitely chosen and polished. these extempore speeches of his show the wideness of his reading, and how much practice he has had in composition. his preface is to the point, his narrative lucid, his summing up forcible, his rhetorical ornament imposing. in a word, he teaches, entertains, and affects you; and you are at a loss to decide which of the three he does best. his reflections are frequent, his syllogisms also are frequent, condensed, and carefully finished, a result not easily attainable even with the pen. as for his memory, you would hardly believe what it is capable of. he repeats from a long way back what he has previously delivered extempore, without missing a single word. this marvellous faculty he has acquired by dint of great application and practice, for night and day he does nothing, hears nothing, says nothing else. he has passed his sixtieth year and is still only a rhetorician, and i know no class of men more single-hearted, more genuine, more excellent than this class. we who have to go through the rough work of the bar and of real disputes unavoidably contract a certain unprincipled adroitness. the school, the lecture-room, the imaginary case, all this, on the other hand, is perfectly innocent and harmless, and equally enjoyable, especially to old people, for what can be happier at that time of life than to enjoy what we found pleasantest in our young days? i consider isaeus then, not only the most eloquent, but the happiest, of men, and if you are not longing to make his acquaintance, you must be made of stone and iron. so, if not upon my account, or for any other reason, come, for the sake of hearing this man, at least. have you never read of a certain inhabitant of cadiz who was so impressed with the name and fame of livy that he came from the remotest corner of the earth on purpose to see him, and, his curiosity gratified, went straight home again. it is utter want of taste, shows simple ignorance, is almost an actual disgrace to a man, not to set any high value upon a proficiency in so pleasing, noble, refining a science. "i have authors," you will reply, "here in my own study, just as eloquent." true: but then those authors you can read at any time, while you cannot always get the opportunity of hearing eloquence. besides, as the proverb says, "the living voice is that which sways the soul;" yes, far more. for notwithstanding what one reads is more clearly understood than what one hears, yet the utterance, countenance, garb, aye and the very gestures of the speaker, alike concur in fixing an impression upon the mind; that is, unless we disbelieve the truth of aeschines' statement, who, after he had read to the rhodians that celebrated speech of demosthenes, upon their expressing their admiration of it, is said to have added, "ah! what would you have said, could you have heard the wild beast himself?" and aeschines, if we may take demosthenes' word for it, was no mean elocutionist; yet, he could not but confess that the speech would have sounded far finer from the lips of its author. i am saying all this with a view to persuading you to hear isaeus, if even for the mere sake of being able to say you have heard him. farewell. xix -- to avitus it would be a long story, and of no great importance, to tell you by what accident i found myself dining the other day with an individual with whom i am by no means intimate, and who, in his own opinion, does things in good style and economically as well, but according to mine, with meanness and extravagance combined. some very elegant dishes were served up to himself and a few more of us, whilst those placed before the rest of the company consisted simply of cheap dishes and scraps. there were, in small bottles, three different kinds of wine; not that the guest might take their choice, but that they might not have any option in their power; one kind being for himself, and for us; another sort for his lesser friends (for it seems he has degrees of friends), and the third for his own freedmen and ours. my neighbour,[ ] reclining next me, observing this, asked me if i approved the arrangement. not at all, i told him. "pray then," he asked, "what is your method upon such occasions?" "mine," i returned, "is to give all my visitors the same reception; for when i give an invitation, it is to entertain, not distinguish, my company: i place every man upon my own level whom i admit to my table." "not excepting even your freedmen?" "not excepting even my freedmen, whom i consider on these occasions my guests, as much as any of the rest." he replied, "this must cost you a great deal." "not in the least." "how can that be?" "simply because, although my freedmen don't drink the same wine as myself, yet i drink the same as they do." and, no doubt about it, if a man is wise enough to moderate his appetite, he will not find it such a very expensive thing to share with all his visitors what he takes himself. restrain it, keep it in, if you wish to be true economist. you will find temperance a far better way of saving than treating other people rudely can be. why do i say all this? why, for fear a young man of your high character and promise should be imposed upon by this immoderate luxury which prevails at some tables, under the specious notion of frugality. whenever any folly of this sort falls under my eye, i shall, just because i care for you, point it out to you as an example you ought to shun. remember, then, nothing is more to be avoided than this modern alliance of luxury with meanness; odious enough when existing separate and distinct, but still more hateful where you meet with them together. farewell. xx -- to macrinus the senate decreed yesterday, on the emperor's motion, a triumphal statue to vestricius spurinna: not as they would to many others, who never were in action, or saw a camp, or heard the sound of a trumpet, unless at a show; but as it would be decreed to those who have justly bought such a distinction with their blood, their exertions, and their deeds. spurinna forcibly restored the king of the bructeri[ ] to his throne; and this by the noblest kind of victory; for he subdued that warlike people by the terror of the mere display of his preparation for the campaign. this is his reward as a hero, while, to console him for the loss of his son cottius, who died during his absence upon that expedition, they also voted a statue to the youth; a very unusual honour for one so young; but the services of the father deserved that the pain of so severe a wound should be soothed by no common balm. indeed cottius himself evinced such remarkable promise of the highest qualities that it is but fitting his short limited term of life should be extended, as it were, by this kind of immortality. he was so pure and blameless, so full of dignity, and commanded such respect, that he might have challenged in moral goodness much older men, with whom he now shares equal honours. honours, if i am not mistaken, conferred not only to perpetuate the memory of the deceased youth, and in consolation to the surviving father, but for the sake of public example also. this will rouse and stimulate our young men to cultivate every worthy principle, when they see such rewards bestowed upon one of their own years, provided he deserve them: at the same time that men of quality will be encouraged to beget children and to have the joy and satisfaction of leaving a worthy race behind, if their children survive them, or of so glorious a consolation, should they survive their children. looking at it in this light then, i am glad, upon public grounds, that a statue is decreed cottius: and for my own sake too, just as much; for i loved this most favoured, gifted, youth, as ardently as i now grievously miss him amongst us. so that it will be a great satisfaction to me to be able to look at this figure from time to time as i pass by, contemplate it, stand underneath, and walk to and fro before it. for if having the pictures of the departed placed in our homes lightens sorrow, how much more those public representations of them which are not only memorials of their air and countenance, but of their glory and honour besides? farewell. xxi to paiscus as i know you eagerly embrace every opportunity of obliging me, so there is no man whom i had rather be under an obligation to. i apply to you, therefore, in preference to anyone else, for a favour which i am extremely desirous of obtaining. you, who are commander-in-chief of a very considerable army, have many opportunities of exercising your generosity; and the length of time you have enjoyed that post must have enabled you to provide for all your own friends. i hope you will now turn your eyes upon some of mine: as indeed they are but a few your generous disposition, i know, would be better pleased if the number were greater, but one or two will suffice my modest desires; at present i will only mention voconius romanus. his father was of great distinction among the roman knights, and his father-in-law, or, i might more properly call him, his second father, (for his affectionate treatment of voconius entitles him to that appellation) was still more conspicuous. his mother was one of the most considerable ladies of upper spain: you know what character the people of that province bear, and how remarkable they are for their strictness of their manners. as for himself, he lately held the post of flamen.[ ] now, from the time when we were first students together, i have felt very tenderly attached to him. we lived under the same roof, in town and country, we joked together, we shared each other's serious thoughts: for where indeed could i have found a truer friend or pleasanter companion than he? in his conversation, and even in his very voice and countenance, there is a rare sweetness; as at the bar he displays talents of a high order; acuteness, elegance, ease, and skill: and he writes such letters too that were you to read them you would imagine they had been dictated by the muses themselves. i have a very great affection for him, as he has for me. even in the earlier part of our lives, i warmly embraced every opportunity of doing him all the good services which then lay in my power, as i have lately obtained for him from our most gracious prince[ ] the privilege[ ] granted to those who have three children: a favour which, though cæsar very rarely bestows, and always with great caution, yet he conferred, at my request, in such a matter as to give it the air and grace of being his own choice. the best way of showing that i think he deserves the kindnesses he has already received from me is by increasing them, especially as he always accepts my services so gratefully as to deserve more. thus i have shown you what manner of man romanus is, how thoroughly i have proved his worth, and how much i love him. let me entreat you to honour him with your patronage in a way suitable to the generosity of your heart, and the eminence of your station. but above all let him have your affection; for though you were to confer upon him the utmost you have in your power to bestow, you can give him nothing more valuable than your friendship- that you may see he is worthy of it, even to the closest degree of intimacy, i send you this brief sketch of his tastes, character, his whole life, in fact. i should continue my intercessions in his behalf, but that i know you prefer not being pressed, and i have already repeated them in every line of this letter: for, to show a good reason for what one asks is true intercession, and of the most effectual kind. farewell. xxii -- to maimus you guessed correctly: i am much engaged in pleading before the hundred. the business there is more fatiguing than pleasant. trifling, inconsiderable cases, mostly; it is very seldom that anything worth speaking of, either from the importance of the question or the rank of the persons concerned, comes before them. there are very few lawyers either whom i take any pleasure in working with. the rest, a parcel of impudent young fellows, many of whom one knows nothing whatever about, come here to get some practice in speaking, and conduct themselves so forwardly and with such utter want of deference that my friend attilius exactly hit it, i think, when he made the observation that "boys set out at the bar with cases in the court of the hundred as they do at school with homer," intimating that at both places they begin where they should end. but in former times (so my elders tell me) no youth, even of the best families, was allowed in unless introduced by some person of consular dignity. as things are now, since every fence of modesty and decorum is broken down, and all distinctions are levelled and confounded, the present young generation, so far from waiting to be introduced, break in of their own free will. the audience at their heels are fit attendants upon such orators; a low rabble of hired mercenaries, supplied by contract. they get together in the middle of the court, where the dole is dealt round to them as openly as if they were in a dining-room: and at this noble price they run from court to court. the greeks have an appropriate name in their language for this sort of people, importing that they are applauders by profession, and we stigmatize them with the opprobrious title of table-flatterers: yet the dirty business alluded to increases every day. it was only yesterday two of my domestic officers, mere striplings, were hired to cheer somebody or other, at three denarii apiece:[ ] that is what the highest eloquence goes for. upon these terms we fill as many benches as we please, and gather a crowd; this is how those rending shouts are raised, as soon as the individual standing up in the middle of the ring gives the signal. for, you must know, these honest fellows, who understand nothing of what is said, or, if they did, could not hear it, would be at a loss without a signal, how to time their applause: for many of them don't hear a syllable, and are as noisy as any of the rest. if, at any time, you should happen to be passing by when the court is sitting, and feel at all interested to know how any speaker is acquitting himself, you have no occasion to give yourself the trouble of getting up on the judge's platform, no need to listen; it is easy enough to find out, for you may be quite sure he that gets most applause deserves it the least. largius licinus was the first to introduce this fashion; but then he went no farther than to go round and solicit an audience. i know, i remember hearing this from my tutor quinctilian. "i used," he told me, "to go and hear domitius afer, and as he was pleading once before the hundred in his usual slow and impressive manner, hearing, close to him, a most immoderate and unusual noise, and being a good deal surprised at this, he left off: the noise ceased, and he began again: he was interrupted a second time, and a third. at last he enquired who it was that was speaking? he was told, licinus. upon which, he broke off the case, exclaiming, 'eloquence is no more!'" the truth is it had only begun to decline then, when in afer's opinion it no longer existed -- whereas now it is almost extinct. i am ashamed to tell you of the mincing and affected pronunciation of the speakers, and of the shrill- voiced applause with which their effusions are received; nothing seems wanting to complete this sing-song performance except claps, or rather cymbals and tambourines. howlings indeed (for i can call such applause, which would be indecent even in the theatre, by no other name) abound in plenty. up to this time the interest of my friends and the consideration of my early time of life have kept me in this court, as i am afraid they might think i was doing it to shirk work rather than to avoid these indecencies, were i to leave it just yet: however, i go there less frequently than i did, and am thus effecting a gradual retreat. farewell. xxiii -- to gallus you are surprised that i am so fond of my laurentine, or (if you prefer the name) my laurens: but you will cease to wonder when i acquaint you with the beauty of the villa, the advantages of its situation, and the extensive view of the sea-coast. it is only seventeen miles from rome: so that when i have finished my business in town, i can pass my evenings here after a good satisfactory day's work. there are two different roads to it: if you go by that of laurentum, you must turn off at the fourteenth mile-stone; if by astia, at the eleventh. both of them are sandy in places, which makes it a little heavier and longer by carriage, but short and easy on horseback. the landscape affords plenty of variety, the view in some places being closed in by woods, in others extending over broad meadows, where numerous flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, which the severity of the winter has driven from the mountains, fatten in the spring warmth, and on the rich pasturage. my villa is of a convenient size without being expensive to keep up. the courtyard in front is plain, but not mean, through which you enter porticoes shaped into the form of the letter d, enclosing a small but cheerful area between. these make a capital retreat for bad weather, not only as they are shut in with windows, but particularly as they are sheltered by a projection of the roof. from the middle of these porticoes you pass into a bright pleasant inner court, and out of that into a handsome hall running out towards the sea-shore; so that when there is a south-west breeze, it is gently washed with the waves, which spend themselves at its base. on every side of this hall there are either folding-doors or windows equally large, by which means you have a view from the front and the two sides of three different seas, as it were: from the back you see the middle court, the portico, and the area; and from another point you look through the portico into the courtyard, and out upon the woods and distant mountains beyond. on the left hand of this hall, a little farther from the sea, lies a large drawing-room, and beyond that, a second of a smaller size, which has one window to the rising and another to the setting sun: this as well has a view of the sea, but more distant and agreeable. the angle formed by the projection of the dining-room with this drawing-room retains and intensifies the warmth of the sun, and this forms our winter quarters and family gymnasium, which is sheltered from all the winds except those which bring on clouds, but the clear sky comes out again before the warmth has gone out of the place. adjoining this angle is a room forming the segment of a circle, the windows of which are so arranged as to get the sun all through the day: in the walls are contrived a sort of cases, containing a collection of authors who can never be read too often. next to this is a bed-room, connected with it by a raised passage furnished with pipes, which supply, at a wholesome temperature, and distribute to all parts of this room, the heat they receive. the rest of this side of the house is appropriated to the use of my slaves and freedmen; but most of the rooms in it are respectable enough to put my guests into. in the opposite wing is a most elegant, tastefully fitted up bed-room; next to which lies another, which you may call either a large bed-room or a modified dining-room; it is very warm and light, not only from the direct rays of the sun, but by their reflection from the sea. beyond this is a bed-room with an ante-room, the height of which renders it cool in summer, its thick walls warm in winter, for it is sheltered, every way from the winds. to this apartment another anteroom is joined by one common wall. from thence you enter into the wide and spacious cooling-room belonging to the bath, from the opposite walls of which two curved basins are thrown out, so to speak; which are more than large enough if you consider that the sea is close at hand. adjacent to this is the anointing-room, then the sweating-room, and beyond that the bath- heating room: adjoining are two other little bath-rooms, elegantly rather than sumptuously fitted up: annexed to them is a warm bath of wonderful construction, in which one can swim and take a view of the sea at the same time. not far from this stands the tennis-court, which lies open to the warmth of the afternoon sun. from thence you go up a sort of turret which has two rooms below, with the same number above, besides a dining-room commanding a very extensive look-out on to the sea, the coast, and the beautiful villas scattered along the shore line. at the other end is a second turret, containing a room that gets the rising and setting sun. behind this is a large store-room and granary, and underneath, a spacious dining-room, where only the murmur and break of the sea can be heard, even in a storm: it looks out upon the garden, and the gestatio,[ ] running round the garden. the gestatio is bordered round with box, and, where that is decayed, with rosemary: for the box, wherever sheltered by the buildings, grows plentifully, but where it lies open and exposed to the weather and spray from the sea, though at some distance from the latter, it quite withers up. next the gestatio, and running along inside it, is a shady vine plantation, the path of which is so soft and easy to the tread that you may walk bare-foot upon it. the garden is chiefly planted with fig and mulberry trees, to which this soil is as favourable as it is averse from all others. here is a dining-room, which, though it stands away from the sea enjoys the garden view which is just as pleasant: two apartments run round the back part of it, the windows of which look out upon the entrance of the villa, and into a fine kitchen-garden. from here extends an enclosed portico which, from its great length, you might take for a public one. it has a range of windows on either side, but more on the side facing the sea, and fewer on the garden side, and these, single windows and alternate with the opposite rows. in calm, clear, weather these are all thrown open; but if it blows, those on the weather side are closed, whilst those away from the wind can remain open without any inconvenience. before this enclosed portico lies a terrace fragrant with the scent of violets, and warmed by the reflection of the sun from the portico, which, while it retains the rays, keeps away the north-east wind; and it is as warm on this side as it is cool on the side opposite: in the same way it is a protection against the wind from the south-west; and thus, in short, by means of its several sides, breaks the force of the winds, from whatever quarter they may blow. these are some of its winter advantages, they are still more appreciable in the summer time; for at that season it throws a shade upon the terrace during the whole of the forenoon, and upon the adjoining portion of the gestatio and garden in the afternoon, casting a greater or less shade on this side or on that as the day increases or decreases. but the portico itself is coolest just at the time when the sun is at its hottest, that is, when the rays fall directly upon the roof. also, by opening the windows you let in the western breezes in a free current, which prevents the place getting oppressive with close and stagnant air. at the upper end of the terrace and portico stands a detached garden building, which i call my favourite; my favourite indeed, as i put it up myself. it contains a very warm winter-room, one side of which looks down upon the terrace, while the other has a view of the sea, and both lie exposed to the sun. the bed-room opens on to the covered portico by means of folding-doors, while its window looks out upon the sea. on that side next the sea, and facing the middle wall, is formed a very elegant little recess, which, by means of transparent[ ] windows, and a curtain drawn to or aside, can be made part of the adjoining room, or separated from it. it contains a couch and two chairs: as you lie upon this couch, from where your feet are you get a peep of the sea; looking behind you see the neighbouring villas, and from the head you have a view of the woods: these three views may be seen either separately, from so many different windows, or blended together in one. adjoining this is a bed-room, which neither the servants' voices, the murmuring of the sea, the glare of lightning, nor daylight itself can penetrate, unless you open the windows. this profound tranquillity and seclusion are occasioned by a passage separating the wall of this room from that of the garden, and thus, by means of this intervening space, every noise is drowned. annexed to this is a tiny stove-room, which, by opening or shutting a little aperture, lets out or retains the heat from underneath, according as you require. beyond this lie a bed-room and ante-room, which enjoy the sun, though obliquely indeed, from the time it rises, till the afternoon. when i retire to this garden summer-house, i fancy myself a hundred miles away from my villa, and take especial pleasure in it at the feast of the saturnalia,[ ] when, by the licence of that festive season, every other part of my house resounds with my servants' mirth: thus i neither interrupt their amusement nor they my studies. amongst the pleasures and conveniences of this situation, there is one drawback, and that is, the want of running water; but then there are wells about the place, or rather springs, for they lie close to the surface. and, altogether, the quality of this coast is remarkable; for dig where you may, you meet, upon the first turning up of the ground, with a spring of water, quite pure, not in the least salt, although so near the sea. the neighbouring woods supply us with all the fuel we require, the other necessaries ostia furnishes. indeed, to a moderate man, even the village (between which and my house there is only one villa) would supply all ordinary requirements. it has three public baths, which are a great convenience if it happen that friends come in unexpectedly, or make too short a stay to allow time in preparing my own. the whole coast is very pleasantly sprinkled with villas either in rows or detached, which whether looking at them from the sea or the shore, present the appearance of so many different cities. the strand is, sometimes, after a long calm, perfectly smooth, though, in general, through the storms driving the waves upon it, it is rough and uneven. i cannot boast that our sea is plentiful in choice fish; however, it supplies us with capital soles and prawns; but as to other kinds of provisions, my villa aspires to excel even inland countries, particularly in milk: for the cattle come up there from the meadows in large numbers, in pursuit of water and shade. tell me, now, have i not good reason for living in, staying in, loving, such a retreat, which, if you feel no appetite for, you must be morbidly attached to town? and i only wish you would feel inclined to come down to it, that to so many charms with which my little villa abounds, it might have the very considerable addition of your company to recommend it. farewell. xxiv -- to cerealis you advise me to read my late speech before an assemblage of my friends. i shall do so, as you advise it, though i have strong scruples. compositions of this sort lose, i well know, all their force and fire, and even their very name almost, by a mere recital. it is the solemnity of the tribunal, the concourse of advocates, the suspense of the event, the fame of the several pleaders concerned, the different parties formed amongst the audience; add to this the gestures, the pacing, aye the actual running, to and fro, of the speaker, the body working[ ] in harmony with every inward emotion, that conspire to give a spirit and a grace to what he delivers. this is the reason that those who plead sitting, though they retain most of the advantages possessed by those who stand up to plead, weaken the whole force of their oratory. the eyes and hands of the reader, those important instruments of graceful elocution, being engaged, it is no wonder that the attention of the audience droops, without anything extrinsic to keep it up, no allurements of gesture to attract, no smart, stinging impromptus to enliven. to these general considerations i must add this particular disadvantage which attends the speech in question, that it is of the argumentative kind; and it is natural for an author to infer that what he wrote with labour will not be read with pleasure. for who is there so unprejudiced as not to prefer the attractive and sonorous to the sombre and unornamented in style? it is very unreasonable that there should be any distinction; however, it is certain the judges generally expect one style of pleading, and the audience another; whereas an auditor ought to be affected only by those parts which would especially strike him, were he in the place of the judge. nevertheless it is possible the objections which lie against this piece may be surmounted in consideration of the novelty it has to recommend it: the novelty i mean with respect to us; for the greek orators have a method of reasoning upon a different occasion, not altogether unlike that which i have employed. they, when they would throw out a law, as contrary to some former one unrepealed, argue by comparing those together; so i, on the contrary, endeavour to prove that the crime, which i was insisting upon as falling within the intent and meaning of the law relating to public extortions, was agreeable, not only to that law, but likewise to other laws of the same nature. those who are ignorant of the jurisprudence of their country can have no taste for reasonings of this kind, but those who are not ought to be proportionably the more favourable in the judgments they pass upon them. i shall endeavour, therefore, if you persist in my reciting it, to collect as learned an audience as i can. but before you determine this point, do weigh impartially the different considerations i have laid before you, and then decide as reason shall direct; for it is reason that must justify you; obedience to your commands will be a sufficient apology for me. farewell. xxv -- to calvisius give me a penny, and i will tell you a story "worth gold," or, rather, you shall hear two or three; for one brings to my mind another. it makes no difference with which i begin. verania, the widow of piso, the piso, i mean, whom galba adopted, lay extremely ill, and regulus paid her a visit. by the way, mark the assurance of the man, visiting a lady who detested him herself, and to whose husband he was a declared enemy! even barely to enter her house would have been bad enough, but he actually went and seated himself by her bed-side and began enquiring on what day and hour she was born. being informed of these important particulars, he composes his countenance, fixes his eyes, mutters something to himself, counts upon his fingers, and all this merely to keep the poor sick lady in suspense. when he had finished, "you are," he says, "in one of your climacterics; however, you will get over it. but for your greater satisfaction, i will consult with a certain diviner, whose skill i have frequently experienced." accordingly off he goes, performs a sacrifice, and returns with the strongest assurances that the omens confirmed what he had promised on the part of the stars. upon this the good woman, whose danger made her credulous, calls for her will and gives regulus a legacy. she grew worse shortly after this; and in her last moments exclaimed against this wicked, treacherous, and worse than perjured wretch, who had sworn falsely to her by his own son's life. but imprecations of this sort are as common with regulus as they are impious; and he continually devotes that unhappy youth to the curse of those gods whose vengeance his own frauds every day provoke. velleius blaesus, a man of consular rank, and remarkable for his immense wealth, in his last illness was anxious to make some alterations in his will. regulus, who had lately endeavoured to insinuate himself into his good graces, hoped to get something from the new will, and accordingly addresses himself to his physicians, and conjures them to exert all their skill to prolong the poor man's life. but after the will was signed, he changes his character, reversing his tone: "how long," says he to these very same physicians, "do you intend keeping this man in misery? since you cannot preserve his life, why do you grudge him the happy release of death?" blaesus dies, and, as if he had overheard every word that regulus had said, has not left him one farthing.--and now have you had enough? or are you for the third, according to rhetorical canon? if so, regulus will supply you. you must know, then, that aurelia, a lady of remarkable accomplishments, purposing to execute her will,[ ] had put on her smartest dress for the occasion. regulus, who was present as a witness, turned to the lady, and "pray," says he, "leave me these fine clothes." aurelia thought the man was joking: but he insisted upon it perfectly seriously, and, to be brief, obliged her to open her will, and insert the dress she had on as a legacy to him, watching as she wrote, and then looking over it to see that it was all down correctly. aurelia, however, is still alive: though regulus, no doubt, when he solicited this bequest, expected to enjoy it pretty soon. the fellow gets estates, he gets legacies, conferred upon him, as if he really deserved them! but why should i go on dwelling upon this in a city where wickedness and knavery have, for this time past, received, the same, do i say, nay, even greater encouragement, than modesty and virtue? regulus is a glaring instance of this truth, who, from a state of poverty, has by a train of villainies acquired such immense riches that he once told me, upon consulting the omens to know how soon he should be worth sixty millions of sesterces,[ ] he found them so favourable as to portend he should possess double that sum. and possibly he may, if he continues to dictate wills for other people in this way: a sort of fraud, in my opinion, the most infamous of any. farewell. xxvi -- to calvisius i never, i think, spent any time more agreeably than my time lately with spurinna. so agreeably, indeed, that if ever i should arrive at old age, there is no man whom i would sooner choose for my model, for nothing can be more perfect in arrangement than his mode of life. i look upon order in human actions, especially at that advanced age, with the same sort of pleasure as i behold the settled course of the heavenly bodies. in young men, indeed, a little confusion and disarrangement is all well enough: but in age, when business is unseasonable, and ambition indecent, all should be composed and uniform. this rule spurinna observes with the most religious consistency. even in those matters which one might call insignificant, were they not of every-day occurrence, he observes a certain periodical season and method. the early morning he passes on his couch; at eight he calls for his slippers, and walks three miles, exercising mind and body together. on his return, if he has any friends in the house with him, he gets upon some entertaining and interesting topic of conversation; if by himself, some book is read to him, sometimes when visitors are there even, if agreeable to the company. then he has a rest, and after that either takes up a book or resumes his conversation in preference to reading. by-and-by he goes out for a drive in his carriage, either with his wife, a most admirable woman, or with some friend: a happiness which lately was mine.--how agreeable, how delightful it is getting a quiet time alone with him in this way! you could imagine you were listening to some worthy of ancient times! what deeds, what men you hear about, and with what noble precepts you are imbued! yet all delivered with so modest an air that there is not the least appearance of dictating. when he has gone about seven miles, he gets out of his chariot and walks a mile more, after which he returns home, and either takes a rest or goes back to his couch and writing. for he composes most elegant lyrics both in greek and latin. so wonderfully soft, sweet, and gay they are, while the author's own unsullied life lends them additional charm. when the baths are ready, which in winter is about three o'clock, and in summer about two, he undresses himself and, if there happen to be no wind, walks for some time in the sun. after this he has a good brisk game of tennis: for by this sort of exercise too, he combats the effects of old age. when he has bathed, he throws himself upon his couch, but waits a little before he begins eating, and in the meanwhile has some light and entertaining author read to him. in this, as in all the rest, his friends are at full liberty to share; or to employ themselves in any other way, just as they prefer. you sit down to an elegant dinner, without extravagant display, which is served up in antique plate of pure silver. he has another complete service in corinthian metal, which, though he admires as a curiosity, is far from being his passion. during dinner he is frequently entertained with the recital of some dramatic piece, by way of seasoning his very pleasures with study; and although he continues at the table, even in summer, till the night is somewhat advanced, yet he prolongs the entertainment with so much affability and politeness that none of his guests ever finds it tedious. by this method of living he has preserved all his senses entire, and his body vigorous and active to his seventy- eighth year, without showing any sign of old age except wisdom. this is the sort of life i ardently aspire after; as i purpose enjoying it when i shall arrive at those years which will justify a retreat from active life. meanwhile i am embarrassed with a thousand affairs, in which spurinna is at once my support and my example: for he too, so long as it became him, discharged his professional duties, held magistracies, governed provinces, and by toiling hard earned the repose he now enjoys. i propose to myself the same career and the same limits: and i here give it to you under my hand that i do so. if an ill-timed ambition should carry me beyond those bounds, produce this very letter of mine in court against me; and condemn me to repose, whenever i enjoy it without being reproached with indolence. farewell. xxvii -- to baebius macer it gives me great pleasure to find you such a reader of my uncle's works as to wish to have a complete collection of them, and to ask me for the names of them all. i will act as index then, and you shall know the very order in which they were written, for the studious reader likes to know this. the first work of his was a treatise in one volume, "on the use of the dart by cavalry"; this he wrote when in command of one of the cavalry corps of our allied troops, and is drawn up with great care and ingenuity. "the life of pomponius secundus,"[ ] in two volumes. pomponius had a great affection for him, and he thought he owed this tribute to his memory. "the history of the wars in germany," in twenty books, in which he gave an account of all the battles we were engaged in against that nation. a dream he had while serving in the army in germany first suggested the design of this work to him. he imagined that drusus nero[ ] (who extended his conquest very far into that country, and there lost his life) appeared to him in his sleep, and entreated him to rescue his memory from oblivion. next comes a work entitled "the student," in three parts, which from their length spread into six volumes: a work in which is discussed the earliest training and subsequent education of the orator. "questions of grammar and style," in eight books, written in the latter part of nero's reign, when the tyranny of the times made it dangerous to engage in literary pursuits requiring freedom and elevation of tone. he has completed the history which aufidius bassus[ ] left unfinished, and has added to it thirty books. and lastly he has left thirty-seven books on natural history, a work of great compass and learning, and as full of variety as nature herself. you will wonder how a man as busy as he was could find time to compose so many books, and some of them too involving such care and labour. but you will be still more surprised when you hear that he pleaded at the bar for some time, that he died in his sixty-sixth year, that the intervening time was employed partly in the execution of the highest official duties, partly in attendance upon those emperors who honoured him with their friendship. but he had a quick apprehension, marvellous power of application, and was of an exceedingly wakeful temperament. he always began to study at midnight at the time of the feast of vulcan, not for the sake of good luck, but for learning's sake; in winter generally at one in the morning, but never later than two, and often at twelve.[ ] he was a most ready sleeper, insomuch that he would sometimes, whilst in the midst of his studies, fall off and then wake up again. before day-break he used to wait upon vespasian' (who also used his nights for transacting business in), and then proceed to execute the orders he had received. as soon as he returned home, he gave what time was left to study. after a short and light refreshment at noon (agreeably to the good old custom of our ancestors) he would frequently in the summer, if he was disengaged from business, lie down and bask in the sun; during which time some author was read to him, while he took notes and made extracts, for every book he read he made extracts out of, indeed it was a maxim of his, that "no book was so bad but some good might be got out of it." when this was over, he generally took a cold bath, then some light refreshment and a little nap. after this, as if it had been a new day, he studied till supper-time, when a book was again read to him, which he would take down running notes upon. i remember once his reader having mis-pronounced a word, one of my uncle's friends at the table made him go back to where the word was and repeat it again; upon which my uncle said to his friend, "surely you understood it?" upon his acknowledging that he did, "why then," said he, "did you make him go back again? we have lost more than ten lines by this interruption." such an economist he was of time! in the summer he used to rise from supper at daylight, and in winter as soon as it was dark: a rule he observed as strictly as if it had been a law of the state. such was his manner of life amid the bustle and turmoil of the town: but in the country his whole time was devoted to study, excepting only when he bathed. in this exception i include no more than the time during which he was actually in the bath; for all the while he was being rubbed and wiped, he was employed either in hearing some book read to him or in dictating himself. in going about anywhere, as though he were disengaged from all other business, he applied his mind wholly to that single pursuit. a shorthand writer constantly attended him, with book and tablets, who, in the winter, wore a particular sort of warm gloves, that the sharpness of the weather might not occasion any interruption to my uncle's studies: and for the same reason, when in rome, he was always carried in a chair. i recollect his once taking me to task for walking. "you need not," he said, "lose these hours." for he thought every hour gone that was not given to study. through this extraordinary application he found time to compose the several treatises i have mentioned, besides one hundred and sixty volumes of extracts which he left me in his will, consisting of a kind of common-place, written on both sides, in very small hand, so that one might fairly reckon the number considerably more. he used himself to tell us that when he was comptroller of the revenue in spain, he could have sold these manuscripts to largius licinus for four hundred thousand sesterces,[ ] and then there were not so many of them. when you consider the books he has read, and the volumes he has written, are you not inclined to suspect that he never was engaged in public duties or was ever in the confidence of his prince? on the other hand, when you are told how indefatigable he was in his studies, are you not inclined to wonder that he read and wrote no more than he did? for, on one side, what obstacles would not the business of a court throw in his way? and on the other, what is it that such intense application might not effect? it amuses me then when i hear myself called a studious man, who in comparison with him am the merest idler. but why do i mention myself, who am diverted from these pursuits by numberless affairs both public and private? who amongst those whose whole lives are devoted to literary pursuits would not blush and feel himself the most confirmed of sluggards by the side of him? i see i have run out my letter farther than i had originally intended, which was only to let you know, as you asked me, what works he had left behind him. but i trust this will be no less acceptable to you than the books themselves, as it may, possibly, not only excite your curiosity to read his works, but also your emulation to copy his example, by some attempts of a similar nature. farewell. xxviii -- to annius severus i have lately purchased with a legacy that was left me a small statue of corinthian brass. it is small indeed, but elegant and life-like, as far as i can form any judgment, which most certainly in matters of this sort, as perhaps in all others, is extremely defective. however, i do see the beauties of this figure: for, as it is naked the faults, if there be any, as well as the perfections, are the more observable. it represents an old man, in an erect attitude. the bones, muscles, veins, and the very wrinkles, give the impression of breathing life. the hair is thin and failing, the forehead broad, the face shrivelled, the throat lank, the arms loose and hanging, the breast shrunken, and the belly fallen in, as the whole turn and air of the figure behind too is equally expressive of old age. it appears to be true antique, judging from the colour of the brass. in short, it is such a masterpiece as would strike the eyes of a connoisseur, and which cannot fail to charm an ordinary observer: and this induced me, who am an absolute novice in this art, to buy it. but i did so, not with any intention of placing it in my own house (for i have nothing of the kind there), but with a design of fixing it in some conspicuous place in my native province; i should like it best in the temple of jupiter, for it is a gift well worthy of a temple, well worthy of a god. i desire therefore you would, with that care with which you always perform my requests, undertake this commission and give immediate orders for a pedestal to be made for it, out of what marble you please, but let my name be engraved upon it, and, if you think proper to add these as well, my titles. i will send the statue by the first person i can find who will not mind the trouble of it; or possibly (which i am sure you will like better) i may myself bring it along with me: for i intend, if business can spare me that is to say, to make an excursion over to you. i see joy in your looks when i promise to come; but you will soon change your countenance when i add, only for a few days: for the same business that at present keeps me here will prevent my making a longer stay. farewell. xxix -- to caninius rufus i have just been informed that silius italicus[ ] has starved himself to death, at his villa near naples. ill-health was the cause. being troubled with an incurable cancerous humour, he grew weary of life and therefore put an end to it with a determination not to be moved. he had been extremely fortunate all through his life with the exception of the death of the younger of his two sons; however, he has left behind him the elder and the worthier man of the two in a position of distinction, having even attained consular rank. his reputation had suffered a little in nero's time, as he was suspected of having officiously joined in some of the informations in that reign; but he used his interest with vitellius, with great discretion and humanity. he acquired considerable honour by his administration of the government of asia, and, by his good conduct after his retirement from business, cleared his character from that stain which his former public exertions had thrown upon it. he lived as a private nobleman, without power, and consequently without envy. though he was frequently confined to his bed, and always to his room, yet he was highly respected, and much visited; not with an interested view, but on his own account. he employed his time between conversing with literary men and composing verses; which he sometimes read out, by way of testing the public opinion: but they evidence more industry than genius. in the decline of his years he entirely quitted rome, and lived altogether in campania, from whence even the accession of the new emperor[ ] could not draw him. a circumstance which i mention as much to the honour of cæsar, who was not displeased with that liberty, as of italicus, who was not afraid to make use of it. he was reproached with indulging his taste for the fine arts at an immoderate expense. he had several villas in the same province, and the last purchase was always the especial favourite, to the neglect of all the rest, these residences overflowed with books, statues, and pictures, which he more than enjoyed, he even adored; particularly that of virgil, of whom he was so passionate an admirer that he celebrated the anniversary of that poet's birthday with more solemnity than his own, at naples especially where he used to approach his tomb as if it had been a temple. in this tranquillity he passed his seventy-fifth year, with a delicate rather than an infirm constitution. as he was the last person upon whom nero conferred the consular office, so he was the last survivor of all those who had been raised by him to that dignity. it is also remarkable that, as he was the last to die of nero's consuls, so nero died when he was consul. recollecting this, a feeling of pity for the transitory condition of mankind comes over me. is there anything in nature so short and limited as human life, even at its longest? does it not seem to you but yesterday that nero was alive? and yet not one of all those who were consuls in his reign now remains! though why should i wonder at this? lucius piso (the father of that piso who was so infamously assassinated by valerius festus in africa) used to say, he did not see one person in the senate whose opinion he had consulted when he was consul: in so short a space is the very term of life of such a multitude of beings comprised! so that to me those royal tears seem not only worthy of pardon but of praise. for it is said that xerxes, on surveying his immense army, wept at the reflection that so many thousand lives would in such a short space of time be extinct. the more ardent therefore should be our zeal to lengthen out this frail and transient portion of existence, if not by our deeds (for the opportunities of this are not in our power) yet certainly by our literary accomplishments; and since long life is denied us, let us transmit to posterity some memorial that we have at least lived. i well know you need no incitements, but the warmth of my affection for you inclines me to urge you on in the course you are already pursuing, just as you have so often urged me. "happy rivalry" when two friends strive in this way which of them shall animate the other most in their mutual pursuit of immortal fame. farewell. xxx -- to spurinna and cottia[ ] i did not tell you, when i paid you my last visit, that i had composed something in praise of your son; because, in the first place, i wrote it not for the sake of talking about my performance, but simply to satisfy my affection, to console my sorrow for the loss of him. again, as you told me, my dear spurinna, that you had heard i had been reciting a piece of mine, i imagined you had also heard at the same time what was the subject of the recital, and besides i was afraid of casting a gloom over your cheerfulness in that festive season, by reviving the remembrance of that heavy sorrow. and even now i have hesitated a little whether i should gratify you both, in your joint request, by sending only what i recited, or add to it what i am thinking of keeping back for another essay. it does not satisfy my feelings to devote only one little tract to a memory so dear and sacred to me, and it seemed also more to the interest of his fame to have it thus disseminated by separate pieces. but the consideration, that it will be more open and friendly to send you the whole now, rather than keep back some of it to another time, has determined me to do the former, especially as i have your promise that it shall not be communicated by either of you to anyone else, until i shall think proper to publish it. the only remaining favour i ask is, that you will give me a proof of the same unreserve by pointing out to me what you shall judge would be best altered, omitted, or added. it is difficult for a mind in affliction to concentrate itself upon such little cares. however, as you would direct a painter or sculptor who was representing the figure of your son what parts he should retouch or express, so i hope you will guide and inform my hand in this more durable or (as you are pleased to think it) this immortal likeness which i am endeavouring to execute: for the truer to the original, the more perfect and finished it is, so much the more lasting it is likely to prove. farewell. xxxi -- to julius genitor it is just like the generous disposition of artemidorus to magnify the kindnesses of his friends; hence he praises my deserts (though he is really indebted to me) beyond their due. it is true indeed that when the philosophers were expelled from rome,[ ] i visited him at his house near the city, and ran the greater risk in paying him that civility, as it was more noticeable then, i being praetor at the time. i supplied him too with a considerable sum to pay certain debts he had contracted upon very honourable occasions, without charging interest, though obliged to borrow the money myself, while the rest of his rich powerful friends stood by hesitating about giving him assistance. i did this at a time when seven of my friends were either executed or banished; senecio, rusticus, and helvidius having just been put to death, while mauricus, gratilla, arria, and fannia, were sent into exile; and scorched as it were by so many lightning-bolts of the state thus hurled and flashing round me, i augured by no uncertain tokens my own impending doom. but i do not look upon myself, on that account, as deserving of the high praises my friend bestows upon me: all i pretend to is the being clear of the infamous guilt of abandoning him in his misfortunes. i had, as far as the differences between our ages would admit, a friendship for his father-in-law musonius, whom i both loved and esteemed, while artemidorus himself i entered into the closest intimacy with when i was serving as a military tribune in syria. and i consider as a proof that there is some good in me the fact of my being so early capable of appreciating a man who is either a philosopher or the nearest resemblance to one possible; for i am sure that, amongst all those who at the present day call themselves philosophers, you will find hardly any one of them so full of sincerity and truth as he. i forbear to mention how patient he is of heat and cold alike, how indefatigable in labour, how abstemious in his food, and what an absolute restraint he puts upon all his appetites; for these qualities, considerable as they would certainly be in any other character, are less noticeable by the side of the rest of those virtues of his which recommended him to musonius for a son-in-law, in preference to so many others of all ranks who paid their addresses to his daughter. and when i think of all these things, i cannot help feeling pleasurably affected by those unqualified terms of praise in which he speaks of me to you as well as to everyone else. i am only apprehensive lest the warmth of his kind feeling carry him beyond the due limits; for he, who is so free from all other errors, is apt to fall into just this one good-natured one, of overrating the merits of his friends. farewell. xxxii -- to catilius severus i will come to supper, but must make this agreement beforehand, that i go when i please, that you treat me to nothing expensive, and that our conversation abound only in socratic discourse, while even that in moderation. there are certain necessary visits of ceremony, bringing people out before daylight, which cato himself could not safely fall in with; though i must confess that julius cæsar reproaches him with that circumstance in such a manner as redounds to his praise; for he tells us that the persons who met him reeling home blushed at the discovery, and adds, "you would have thought that cato had detected them, and not they cato." could he place the dignity of cato in a stronger light than by representing him thus venerable even in his cups? but let our supper be as moderate in regard to hours as in the preparation and expense: for we are not of such eminent reputation that even our enemies cannot censure our conduct without applauding it at the same time. farewell. xxxiii -- to acilius the atrocious treatment that largius macedo, a man of praetorian rank, lately received at the hands of his slaves is so extremely tragical that it deserves a place rather in public history than in a private letter; though it must at the same time be acknowledged there was a haughtiness and severity in his behaviour towards them which shewed that he little remembered, indeed almost entirely forgot, the fact that his own father had once been in that station of life. he was bathing at his formian villa, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by his slaves; one seizes him by the throat, another strikes him on the mouth, whilst others trampled upon his breast, stomach, and even other parts which i need not mention. when they thought the breath must be quite out of his body, they threw him down upon the heated pavement of the bath, to try whether he were still alive, where he lay outstretched and motionless, either really insensible or only feigning to be so, upon which they concluded him to be actually dead. in this condition they brought him out, pretending that he had got suffocated by the heat of the bath. some of his more trusty servants received him, and his mistresses came about him shrieking and lamenting. the noise of their cries and the fresh air, together, brought him a little to himself; he opened his eyes, moved his body, and shewed them (as he now safely might) that he was not quite dead. the murderers immediately made their escape; but most of them have been caught again, and they are after the rest. he was with great difficulty kept alive for a few days, and then expired, having however the satisfaction of finding himself as amply revenged in his lifetime as he would have been after his death. thus you see to what affronts, indignities, and dangers we are exposed. lenity and kind treatment are no safeguard; for it is malice and not reflection that arms such ruffians against their masters. so much for this piece of news. and what else? what else? nothing else, or you should hear it, for i have still paper, and time too (as it is holiday time with me) to spare for more, and i can tell you one further circumstance relating to macedo, which now occurs to me. as he was in a public bath once, at rome, a remarkable, and (judging from the manner of his death) an ominous, accident happened to him. a slave of his, in order to make way for his master, laid his hand gently upon a roman knight, who, turning suddenly round, struck, not the slave who had touched him, but macedo, so violent a blow with his open palm that he almost knocked him down. thus the bath by a kind of gradation proved fatal to him; being first the scene of an indignity he suffered, afterwards the scene of his death. farewell. xxxiv -- to nepos i have constantly observed that amongst the deeds and sayings of illustrious persons of either sex, some have made more noise in the world, whilst others have been really greater, although less talked about; and i am confirmed in this opinion by a conversation i had yesterday with fannia. this lady is a grand-daughter to that celebrated arria, who animated her husband to meet death, by her own glorious example. she informed me of several particulars relating to arria, no less heroic than this applauded action of hers, though taken less notice of, and i think you will be as surprised to read the account of them as i was to hear it. her husband caecinna paetus, and her son, were both attacked at the same time with a fatal illness, as was supposed; of which the son died, a youth of remarkable beauty, and as modest as he was comely, endeared indeed to his parents no less by his many graces than from the fact of his being their son. his mother prepared his funeral and conducted the usual ceremonies so privately that paetus did not know of his death. whenever she came into his room, she pretended her son was alive and actually better: and as often as he enquired after his health, would answer, "he has had a good rest, and eaten his food with quite an appetite." then when she found the tears, she had so long kept back, gushing forth in spite of herself, she would leave the room, and having given vent to her grief, return with dry eyes and a serene countenance, as though she had dismissed every feeling of bereavement at the door of her husband's chamber. i must confess it was a brave action[ ] in her to draw the steel, plunge it into her breast, pluck out the dagger, and present it to her husband with that ever memorable, i had almost said that divine, expression, "paetus, it is not painful." but when she spoke and acted thus, she had the prospect of glory and immortality before her; how far greater, without the support of any such animating motives, to hide her tears, to conceal her grief, and cheerfully to act the mother, when a mother no more! scribonianus had taken up arms in illyria against clatidius, where he lost his life, and paetus, who was of his party, was brought a prisoner to rome. when they were going to put him on board ship, arria besought the soldiers that she might be permitted to attend him: "for surely," she urged, "you will allow a man of consular rank some servants to dress him, attend to him at meals, and put his shoes on for him; but if you will take me, i alone will perform all these offices." her request was refused; upon which she hired a fishing-boat, and in that small vessel followed the ship. on her return to rome, meeting the wife of scribonianus in the emperor's palace, at the time when this woman voluntarily gave evidence against the conspirators--"what," she exclaimed, "shall i hear you even speak to me, you, on whose bosom your husband scribonianus was murdered, and yet you survive him?"--an expression which plainly shews that the noble manner in which she put an end to her life was no unpremeditated effect of sudden passion. moreover, when thrasea, her son-in-law, was endeavouring to dissuade her from her purpose of destroying herself, and, amongst other arguments which he used, said to her, "would you then advise your daughter to die with me if my life were to be taken from me?" "most certainly i would," she replied, "if she had lived as long, and in as much harmony with you, as i have with my paetus." this answer greatly increased the alarm of her family, and made them watch her for the future more narrowly; which, when she perceived, "it is of no use," she said, "you may oblige me to effect my death in a more painful way, but it is impossible you should prevent it." saying this, she sprang from her chair, and running her head with the utmost violence against the wall, fell down, to all appearance, dead; but being brought to herself again, "i told you," she said, "if you would not suffer me to take an easy path to death, i should find a way to it, however hard." now, is there not, my friend, something much greater in all this than in the so-much-talked-of "paetus, it is not painful," to which these led the way? and yet this last is the favourite topic of fame, while all the former are passed over in silence. whence i cannot but infer, what i observed at the beginning of my letter, that some actions are more celebrated, whilst others are really greater. farewell. xxxv -- to severus i was obliged by my consular office to compliment the emperor[ ] in the name of the republic; but after i had performed that ceremony in the senate in the usual manner, and as fully as the time and place would allow, i thought it agreeable to the affection of a good subject to enlarge those general heads, and expand them into a complete discourse. my principal object in doing so was, to confirm the emperor in his virtues, by paying them that tribute of applause which they so justly deserve; and at the same time to direct future princes, not in the formal way of lecture, but by his more engaging example, to those paths they must pursue if they would attain the same heights of glory. to instruct princes how to form their conduct, is a noble, but difficult task, and may, perhaps, be esteemed an act of presumption: but to applaud the character of an accomplished prince, and to hold out to posterity, by this means, a beacon-light as it were, to guide succeeding monarchs, is a method equally useful, and much more modest. it afforded me a very singular pleasure that when i wished to recite this panegyric in a private assembly, my friends gave me their company, though i did not solicit them in the usual form of notes or circulars, but only desired their attendance, "should it be quite convenient to them," and "if they should happen to have no other engagement." you know the excuses generally made at rome to avoid invitations of this kind; how prior invitations are usually alleged; yet, in spite of the worst possible weather, they attended the recital for two days together; and when i thought it would be unreasonable to detain them any longer, they insisted upon my going through with it the next day. shall i consider this as an honour done to myself or to literature? rather let me suppose to the latter, which, though well-nigh extinct, seems to be now again reviving amongst us. yet what was the subject which raised this uncommon attention? no other than what formerly, even in the senate, where we had to submit to it, we used to grudge even a few moments' attention to. but now, you see, we have patience to recite and to attend to the same topic for three days together; and the reason of this is, not that we have more eloquent writing now than formerly, but we write under a fuller sense of individual freedom, and consequently more genially than we used to. it is an additional glory therefore to our present emperor that this sort of harangue, which was once as disgusting as it was false, is now as pleasing as it is sincere. but it was not only the earnest attention of my audience which afforded me pleasure; i was greatly delighted too with the justness of their taste: for i observed, that the more nervous parts of my discourse gave them peculiar satisfaction. it is true, indeed, this work, which was written for the perusal of the world in general, was read only to a few; however, i would willingly look upon their particular judgment as an earnest of that of the public, and rejoice at their manly taste as if it were universally spread. it was just the same in eloquence as it was in music, the vitiated ears of the audience introduced a depraved style; but now, i am inclined to hope, as a more refined judgment prevails in the public, our compositions of both kinds will improve too; for those authors whose sole object is to please will fashion their works according to the popular taste. i trust, however, in subjects of this nature the florid style is most proper; and am so far from thinking that the vivid colouring i have used will be esteemed foreign and unnatural that i am most apprehensive that censure will fall upon those parts where the diction is most simple and unornate. nevertheless, i sincerely wish the time may come, and that it now were, when the smooth and luscious, which has affected our style, shall give place, as it ought, to severe and chaste composition. -- thus have i given you an account of my doings of these last three days, that your absence might not entirely deprive you of a pleasure which, from your friendship to me, and the part you take in everything that concerns the interest of literature, i know you would have received, had you been there to hear. farewell. xxxvi -- to calvisius rufus i must have recourse to you, as usual, in an affair which concerns my finances. an estate adjoining my land, and indeed running into it, is for sale. there are several considerations strongly inclining me to this purchase, while there are others no less weighty deterring me from it. its first recommendation is, the beauty which will result from uniting this farm to my own lands; next, the advantage as well as pleasure of being able to visit it without additional trouble and expense; to have it superintended by the same steward, and almost by the same sub-agents, and to have one villa to support and embellish, the other just to keep in common repair. i take into this account furniture, housekeepers, fancy-gardeners, artificers, and even hunting-apparatus, as it makes a very great difference whether you get these altogether into one place or scatter them about in several. on the other hand, i don't know whether it is prudent to expose so large a property to the same climate, and the same risks of accident happening; to distribute one's possessions about seems a safer way of meeting the caprice of fortune, besides, there is something extremely pleasant in the change of air and place, and the going about between one's properties. and now, to come to the chief consideration:--the lands are rich, fertile, and well-watered, consisting chiefly of meadow-ground, vineyard, and wood, while the supply of building timber and its returns, though moderate, still, keep at the same rate. but the soil, fertile as it is, has been much impoverished by not having been properly looked after. the person last in possession used frequently to seize and sell the stock, by which means, although he lessened his tenants' arrears for the time being, yet he left them nothing to go on with and the arrears ran up again in consequence. i shall be obliged, then, to provide them with slaves, which i must buy, and at a higher than the usual price, as these will be good ones; for i keep no fettered slaves[ ] myself, and there are none upon the estate. for the rest, the price, you must know, is three millions of sesterces.[ ] it has formerly gone over five millions,[ ] but owing, partly to the general hardness of the times, and partly to its being thus stripped of tenants, the income of this estate is reduced, and consequently its value. you will be inclined perhaps to enquire whether i can easily raise the purchase-money? my estate, it is true, is almost entirely in land, though i have some money out at interest; but i shall find no difficulty in borrowing any sum i may want. i can get it from my wife's mother, whose purse i may use with the same freedom as my own; so that you need not trouble yourself at all upon that point, should you have no other objections, which i should like you very carefully to consider: for, as in everything else, so, particularly in matters of economy, no man has more judgment and experience than yourself. farewell. xxxvii -- to cornelius priscus i have just heard of valerius martial's death, which gives me great concern. he was a man of an acute and lively genius, and his writings abound in equal wit, satire, and kindliness. on his leaving rome i made him a present to defray his travelling expenses, which i gave him, not only as a testimony of friendship, but also in return for the verses with which he had complimented me. it was the custom of the ancients to distinguish those poets with honours or pecuniary rewards, who had celebrated particular individuals or cities in their verses; but this good custom, along with every other fair and noble one, has grown out of fashion now; and in consequence of our having ceased to act laudably, we consider praise a folly and impertinence. you may perhaps be curious to see the verses which merited this acknowledgment from me, and i believe i can, from memory, partly satisfy your curiosity, without referring you to his works: but if you should be pleased with this specimen of them, you must turn to his poems for the rest. he addresses himself to his muse, whom he directs to go to my house upon the esquiline,[ ] but to approach it with respect. "go, wanton muse, but go with care, nor meet, ill-tim'd, my pliny's ear; he, by sage minerva taught, gives the day to studious thought, and plans that eloquence divine, which shall to future ages shine, and rival, wondrous tully! thine. then, cautious, watch the vacant hour, when bacchus reigns in all his pow'r; when, crowned with rosy chaplets gay, catos might read my frolic lay."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> do you not think that the poet who wrote of me in such terms deserved some friendly marks of my bounty then, and of my sorrow now? for he gave me the very best he had to bestow, and would have given more had it been in his power. though indeed what can a man have conferred on him more valuable than the honour of never-fading praise? but his poems will not long survive their author, at least i think not, though he wrote them in the expectation of their doing so. farewell. xxxviii -- to fabatus (his wife's grandfather) you have long desired a visit from your grand-daughter[ ] accompanied by me. nothing, be assured, could be more agreeable to either of us; for we equally wish to see you, and are determined to delay that pleasure no longer. for this purpose we are already packing up, and hastening to you with all the speed the roads will permit of. we shall make only one, short, stoppage, for we intend turning a little out of our way to go into tuscany: not for the sake of looking upon our estate, and into our family concerns, which we can postpone to another opportunity, but to perform an indispensable duty. there is a town near my estate, called tifernum-upon-the-tiber,[ ] which, with more affection than wisdom, put itself under my patronage when i was yet a youth. these people celebrate my arrival among them, express the greatest concern when i leave them, and have public rejoicings whenever they hear of my preferments. by way of requiting their kindnesses (for what generous mind can bear to be excelled in acts of friendship?) i have built a temple in this place, at my own expense, and as it is finished, it would be a sort of impiety to put off its dedication any longer. so we shall be there on the day on which that ceremony is to be performed, and i have resolved to celebrate it with a general feast. we may possibly stay on there for all the next day, but shall make so much the greater haste in our journey afterwards. may we have the happiness to find you and your daughter in good health! in good spirits i am sure we shall, should we get to you all safely. farewell. xxxix -- to attius clemens regulus has lost his son; the only undeserved misfortune which could have befallen him, in that i doubt whether he thinks it a misfortune. the boy had quick parts, but there was no telling how he might turn out; however, he seemed capable enough of going right, were he not to grow up like his father. regulus gave him his freedom,[ ] in order to entitle him to the estate left him by his mother; and when he got into possession of it, (i speak of the current rumours, based upon the character of the man,) fawned upon the lad with a disgusting shew of fond affection which in a parent was utterly out of place. you may hardly think this credible; but then consider what regulus is. however, he now expresses his concern for the loss of this youth in a most extravagant manner. the boy had a number of ponies for riding and driving, dogs both big and little, together with nightingales, parrots, and blackbirds in abundance. all these regulus slew round the funeral pile. it was not grief, but an ostentatious parade of grief. he is visited upon this occasion by a surprising number of people, who all hate and detest the man, and yet are as assiduous in their attendance upon him as if they really esteemed and loved him, and, to give you my opinion in a word, in endeavouring to do regulus a kindness, make themselves exactly like him. he keeps himself in his park on the other side the tiber, where he has covered a vast extent of ground with his porticoes, and crowded all the shore with his statues; for he unites prodigality with excessive covetousness, and vain-glory with the height of infamy. at this very unhealthy time of year he is boring society, and he feels pleasure and consolation in being a bore. he says he wishes to marry,--a piece of perversity, like all his other conduct. you must expect, therefore, to hear shortly of the marriage of this mourner, the marriage of this old man; too early in the former case, in the latter, too late. you ask me why i conjecture this? certainly not because he says so himself (for a greater liar never stepped), but because there is no doubt that regulus will do whatever ought not to be done. farewell. xl -- to catius lepidus i often tell you that there is a certain force of character about regulus: it is wonderful how he carries through what he has set his mind to. he chose lately to be extremely concerned for the loss of his son: accordingly he mourned for him as never man mourned before. he took it into his head to have an immense number of statues and pictures of him; immediately all the artisans in rome are set to work. canvas, wax, brass, silver, gold, ivory, marble, all exhibit the figure of the young regulus. not long ago he read, before a numerous audience, a memoir of his son: a memoir of a mere boy! however he read it. he wrote likewise a sort of circular letter to the several decurii desiring them to choose out one of their order who had a strong clear voice, to read this eulogy to the people; it has been actually done. now had this force of character or whatever else you may call a fixed determination in obtaining whatever one has a mind for, been rightly applied, what infinite good it might have effected! the misfortune is, there is less of this quality about good people than about bad people, and as ignorance begets rashness, and thoughtfulness produces deliberation, so modesty is apt to cripple the action of virtue, whilst confidence strengthens vice. regulus is a case in point: he has a weak voice, an awkward delivery, an indistinct utterance, a slow imagination, and no memory; in a word, he possesses nothing but a sort of frantic energy: and yet, by the assistance of a flighty turn and much impudence, he passes as an orator. herennius senecio admirably reversed cato's definition of an orator, and applied it to regulus: "an orator," he said, "is a bad man, unskilled in the art of speaking." and really cato's definition is not a more exact description of a true orator than seneclo's is of the character of this man. would you make me a suitable return for this letter? let me know if you, or any of my friends in your town, have, like a stroller in the marketplace, read this doleful production of regulus's, "raising," as demosthenes says, "your voice most merrily, and straining every muscle in your throat." for so absurd a performance must excite laughter rather than compassion; and indeed the composition is as puerile as the subject. farewell. xli -- to maturus arrianus mv advancement to the dignity of augur[ ] is an honour that justly indeed merits your congratulations; not only because it is highly honourable to receive, even in the slightest instances, a testimony of the approbation of so wise and discreet a prince,[ ] but because it is moreover an ancient and religious institution, which has this sacred and peculiar privilege annexed to it, that it is for life. other sacerdotal offices, though they may, perhaps, be almost equal to this one in dignity, yet as they are given so they may be taken away again: but fortune has no further power over this than to bestow it. what recommends this dignity still more highly is, that i have the honour to succeed so illustrious a person as julius frontinus. he for many years, upon the nomination-day of proper persons to be received into the sacred college, constantly proposed me, as though he had a view to electing me as his successor; and since it actually proved so in the event, i am willing to look upon it as something more than mere accident. but the circumstance, it seems, that most pleases you in this affair, is, that cicero enjoyed the same post; and you rejoice (you tell me) to find that i follow his steps as closely in the path of honours as i endeavour to do in that of eloquence. i wish, indeed, that as i had the advantage of being admitted earlier into the same order of priesthood, and into the consular office, than cicero, that so i might, in my later years, catch some spark, at least, of his divine genius! the former, indeed, being at man's disposal, may be conferred on me and on many others, but the latter it is as presumptuous to hope for as it is difficult to reach, being in the gift of heaven alone. farewell. xlii -- to statius sabinus your letter informs me that sabina, who appointed you and me her heirs, though she has nowhere expressly directed that modestus shall have his freedom, yet has left him a legacy in the following words, "i give, &c.- -to modestus, whom i have ordered to have his freedom": upon which you desire my opinion. i have consulted skilful lawyers upon the point, and they all agree modestus is not entitled to his liberty, since it is not expressly given, and consequently that the legacy is void, as being bequeathed to a slave.[ ] but it evidently appears to be a mistake in the testatrix; and therefore i think we ought to act in this case as though sabina had directed, in so many words, what, it is clear, she had ordered. i am persuaded you will go with me in this opinion, who so religiously regard the will of the deceased, which indeed where it can be discovered will always be law to honest heirs. honour is to you and me as strong an obligation as the compulsion of law is to others. let modestus then enjoy his freedom and his legacy as fully as if sabina had observed all the requisite forms, as indeed they effectually do who make a judicious choice of their heirs. farewell. xliii -- to cornelius minicianus [ ] have you heard--i suppose, not yet, for the news has but just arrived -- that valerius licinianus has become a professor in sicily? this unfortunate person, who lately enjoyed the dignity of praetor, and was esteemed the most eloquent of our advocates, is now fallen from a senator to an exile, from an orator to a teacher of rhetoric. accordingly in his inaugural speech he uttered, sorrowfully and solemnly, the following words: "oh! fortune, how capriciously dost thou sport with mankind! thou makest rhetoricians of senators, and senators of rhetoricians!" a sarcasm so poignant and full of gall that one might almost imagine he fixed upon this profession merely for the sake of an opportunity of applying it. and having made his first appearance in school, clad in the greek cloak (for exiles have no right to wear the toga), after arranging himself and looking down upon his attire, "i am, however," he said, "going to declaim in latin." you will think, perhaps, this situation, wretched and deplorable as it is, is what he well deserves for having stained the honourable profession of an orator with the crime of incest. it is true, indeed, he pleaded guilty to the charge; but whether from a consciousness of his guilt, or from an apprehension of worse consequences if he denied it, is not clear; for domitian generally raged most furiously where his evidence failed him most hopelessly. that emperor had determined that cornelia, chief of the vestal virgins, should be buried alive, from an extravagant notion that exemplary severities of this kind conferred lustre upon his reign. accordingly, by virtue of his office as supreme pontiff, or, rather, in the exercise of a tyrant's cruelty, a despot's lawlessness, he convened the sacred college, not in the pontifical court where they usually assemble, but at his villa near alba; and there, with a guilt no less heinous than that which he professed to be punishing, he condemned her, when she was not present to defend herself, on the charge of incest, while he himself had been guilty, not only of debauching his own brother's daughter, but was also accessory to her death: for that lady, being a widow, in order to conceal her shame, endeavoured to procure an abortion, and by that means lost her life. however, the priests were directed to see the sentence immediately executed upon cornelia. as they were leading her to the place of execution, she called upon vesta, and the rest of the gods, to attest her innocence; and, amongst other exclamations, frequently cried out, "is it possible that cæsar can think me polluted, under the influence of whose sacred functions he has conquered and triumphed?"[ ] whether she said this in flattery or derision; whether it proceeded from a consciousness of her innocence, or contempt of the emperor, is uncertain; but she continued exclaiming in this manner, till she came to the place of execution, to which she was led, whether innocent or guilty i cannot say, at all events with every appearance and demonstration of innocence. as she was being lowered down into the subterranean vault, her robe happening to catch upon something in the descent, she turned round and disengaged it, when, the executioner offering his assistance, she drew herself back with horror, refusing to be so much as touched by him, as though it were a defilement to her pure and unspotted chastity: still preserving the appearance of sanctity up to the last moment; and, among all the other instances of her modesty, "she took great care to fall with decency."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> celer likewise, a roman knight, who was accused of an intrigue with her, while they were scourging him with rods[ ] in the forum, persisted in exclaiming, "what have i done?--i have done nothing." these declarations of innocence had exasperated domitian exceedingly, as imputing to him acts of cruelty and injustice, accordingly licinianus being seized by the emperor's orders for having concealed a freedwoman of cornelia's in one of his estates, was advised, by those who took him in charge, to confess the fact, if he hoped to obtain a remission of his punishment, circumstance to add further, that a young nobleman, having had his tunic torn, an ordinary occurrence in a crowd, stood with his gown thrown over him, to hear me, and that during the seven hours i was speaking, whilst my success more than counterbalanced the fatigue of so long a speech. so let us set to and not screen our own indolence under pretence of that of the public. never, be very sure of that, will there be wanting hearers and readers, so long as we can only supply them with speakers and writers worth their attention. farewell. xlv -- to asinius you advise me, nay you entreat me, to undertake, in her absence, the cause of corellia, against c. caecilius, consul elect. for your advice i am grateful, of your entreaty i really must complain; without the first, indeed, i should have been ignorant of this affair, but the last was unnecessary, as i need no solicitations to comply, where it would be ungenerous in me to refuse; for can i hesitate a moment to take upon myself the protection of a daughter of corellius? it is true, indeed, though there is no particular intimacy between her adversary and myself, still we are upon good enough terms. it is also true that he is a person of rank, and one who has a high claim upon my especial regard, as destined to enter upon an office which i have had the honour to fill; and it is natural for a man to be desirous those dignities should be held in the highest esteem which he himself once possessed. yet all these considerations appear indifferent and trifling when i reflect that it is the daughter of corellius whom i am to defend. the memory of that excellent person, than whom this age has not produced a man of greater dignity, rectitude, and acuteness, is indelibly imprinted upon my mind. my regard for him sprang from my admiration of the man, and contrary to what is usually the case, my admiration increased upon a thorough knowledge of him, and indeed i did know him thoroughly, for he kept nothing back from me, whether gay or serious, sad or joyous. when he was but a youth, he esteemed, and (i will even venture to say) revered, me as if i had been his equal. when i solicited any post of honour, he supported me with his interest, and recommended me with his testimony; when i entered upon it, he was my introducer and my companion; when i exercised it, he was my guide and my counsellor. in a word, whenever my interest was concerned, he exerted himself, in spite of his weakness and declining years, with as much alacrity as though he were still young and lusty. in private, in public, and at court, how often has he advanced and supported my credit and interest! it happened once that the conversation, in the presence of the emperor nerva, turned upon the promising young men of that time, and several of the company present were pleased to mention me with applause; he sat for a little while silent, which gave what he said the greater weight; and then, with that air of dignity, to which you are no stranger, "i must be reserved," said he, "in my praises of pliny, because he does nothing without advice." by which single sentence he bestowed upon me more than my most extravagant wishes could aspire to, as he represented my conduct to be always such as wisdom must approve, since it was wholly under the direction of one of the wisest of men. even in his last moments he said to his daughter (as she often mentions), "i have in the course of a long life raised up many friends to you, but there are none in whom you may more assuredly confide than pliny and cornutus." a circumstance i cannot reflect upon without being deeply sensible how incumbent it is upon me to endeavour not to disappoint the confidence so excellent a judge of human nature reposed in me. i shall therefore most readily give my assistance to corellia in this affair, and willingly risk any displeasure i may incur by appearing in her behalf. though i should imagine, if in the course of my pleadings i should find an opportunity to explain and enforce more fully and at large than the limits of a letter allow of the reasons i have here mentioned, upon which i rest at once my apology and my glory; her adversary (whose suit may perhaps, as you say, be entirely without precedent, as it is against a woman) will not only excuse, but approve, my conduct. farewell. xlvi -- to hispulla as you are a model of all virtue, and loved your late excellent brother, who had such a fondness for you, with an affection equal to his own; regarding too his daughter[ ] as your child, not only shewing her an aunt's tenderness but supplying the place of the parent she had lost; i know it will give you the greatest pleasure and joy to hear that she proves worthy of her father, her grandfather, and yourself. she possesses an excellent understanding together with a consummate prudence, and gives the strongest evidence of the purity of her heart by her fondness of her husband. her affection for me, moreover, has given her a taste for books, and my productions, which she takes a pleasure in reading, and even in getting by heart, are continually in her hands. how full of tender anxiety is she when i am going to speak in any case, how rejoiced she feels when it is got through. while i am pleading, she stations persons to inform her from time to time how i am heard, what applauses i receive, and what success attends the case. when i recite my works at any time, she conceals herself behind some curtain, and drinks in my praises with greedy ears. she sings my verses too, adapting them to her lyre, with no other master but love, that best of instructors, for her guide. from these happy circumstances i derive my surest hopes, that the harmony between us will increase with our days, and be as lasting as our lives. for it is not my youth or person, which time gradually impairs; it is my honour and glory that she cares for. but what less could be expected from one who was trained by your hands, and formed by your instructions; who was early familiarized under your roof with all that is pure and virtuous, and who learnt to love me first through your praises? and as you revered my mother with all the respect due even to a parent, so you kindly directed and encouraged my tender years, presaging from that early period all that my wife now fondly imagines i really am. accept therefore of our mutual thanks, mine, for your giving me her, hers for your giving her me; for you have chosen us out, as it were, for each other. farewell. xlvii -- to romatius fiasius look here! the next time the court sits, you must, at all events, take your place there. in vain would your indolence repose itself under my protection, for there is no absenting oneself with impunity. look at that severe, determined, praetor, licinius nepos, who fined even a senator for the same neglect! the senator pleaded his cause in person, but in suppliant tone. the fine, it is true, was remitted, but sore was his dismay, humble his intercession, and he had to ask pardon. "all praetors are not so severe as that," you will reply; you are mistaken -- for though indeed to be the author and reviver of an example of this kind may be an act of severity, yet, once introduced, even lenity herself may follow the precedent. farewell. xlviii -- to licinius sura i have brought you as a little present out of the country a query which well deserves the consideration of your extensive knowledge. there is a spring which rises in a neighbouring mountain, and running among the rocks is received into a little banqueting-room, artificially formed for that purpose, from whence, after being detained a short time, it falls into the larian lake. the nature of this spring is extremely curious; it ebbs and flows regularly three times a day. the increase and decrease is plainly visible, and exceedingly interesting to observe. you sit down by the side of the fountain, and while you are taking a repast and drinking its water, which is extremely cool, you see it gradually rise and fall. if you place a ring, or anything else at the bottom, when it is dry, the water creeps gradually up, first gently washing, finally covering it entirely, and then little by little subsides again. if you wait long enough, you may see it thus alternately advance and recede three successive times. shall we say that some secret current of air stops and opens the fountain-head, first rushing in and checking the flow and then, driven back by the counter-resistance of the water, escaping again; as we see in bottles, and other vessels of that nature, where, there not being a free and open passage, though you turn their necks perpendicularly or obliquely downwards, yet, the outward air obstructing the vent, they discharge their contents as it were by starts? or, may not this small collection of water be successively contracted and enlarged upon the same principle as the ebb and flow of the sea? or, again, as those rivers which discharge themselves into the sea, meeting with contrary winds and the swell of the ocean, are forced back in their channels, so, in the same way, may there not be something that checks this fountain, for a time, in its progress? or is there rather a certain reservoir that contains these waters in the bowels of the earth, and while it is recruiting its discharges, the stream in consequence flows more slowly and in less quantity, but, when it has collected its due measure, runs on again in its usual strength and fulness? or lastly, is there i know not what kind of subterranean counterpoise, that throws up the water when the fountain is dry, and keeps it back when it is full? you, who are so well qualified for the enquiry, will examine into the causes of this wonderful phenomenon; it will be sufficient for me if i have given you an adequate description of it. farewell. xlix -- to annius severus a small legacy was lately left me, yet one more acceptable than a far larger bequest would have been. how more acceptable than a far larger one? in this way. pomponia gratilla, having disinherited her son assidius curianus, appointed me of one of her heirs, and sertorius severus, of pretorian rank, together with several eminent roman knights, co-heirs along with me. the son applied to me to give him my share of the inheritance, in order to use my name as an example to the rest of the joint-heirs, but offered at the same time to enter into a secret agreement to return me my proportion. i told him, it was by no means agreeable to my character to seem to act one way while in reality i was acting another, besides it was not quite honourable making presents to a man of his fortune, who had no children; in a word, this would not at all answer the purpose at which he was aiming, whereas, if i were to withdraw my claim, it might be of some service to him, and this i was ready and willing to do, if he could clearly prove to me that he was unjustly disinherited. "do then," he said, "be my arbitrator in this case." after a short pause i answered him, "i will, for i don't see why i should not have as good an opinion of my own impartial disinterestedness as you seem to have. but, mind, i am not to be prevailed upon to decide the point in question against your mother, if it should appear she had just reason for what she has done." "as you please," he replied, "which i am sure is always to act according to justice." i called in, as my assistants, corellius and frontinus, two of the very best lawyers rome at that time afforded. with these in attendance, i heard the case in my own chamber. curianus said everything which he thought would favour his pretensions, to whom (there being nobody but myself to defend the character of the deceased) i made a short reply; after which i retired with my friends to deliberate, and, being agreed upon our verdict, i said to him, "curianus, it is our opinion that your conduct has justly drawn upon you your mother's displeasure." sometime afterwards, curianus commenced a suit in the court of the hundred against all the co-heirs except myself. the day appointed for the trial approaching, the rest of the co-heirs were anxious to compromise the affair and have done with it, not out of any diffidence of their cause, but from a distrust of the times. they were apprehensive of what had happened to many others, happening to them, and that from a civil suit it might end in a criminal one, as there were some among them to whom the friendship of gratilla and rusticus[ ] might be extremely prejudicial: they therefore desired me to go and talk with curianus. we met in the temple of concord; "now supposing," i said, "your mother had left you the fourth part of her estate, or even suppose she had made you sole heir, but had exhausted so much of the estate in legacies that there would not be more than a fourth part remaining to you, could you justly complain? you ought to be content, therefore, if, being absolutely disinherited as you are, the heirs are willing to relinquish to you a fourth part, which however i will increase by contributing my proportion. you know you did not commence any suit against me, and two years have now elapsed, which gives me legal and indisputable possession. but to induce you to agree to the proposals on the part of the other co-heirs, and that you may be no sufferer by the peculiar respect you shew me, i offer to advance my proportion with them." the silent approval of my own conscience is not the only result out of this transaction; it has contributed also to the honour of my character. for it is this same cunianus who has left me the legacy i have mentioned in the beginning of my letter, and i received it as a very notable mark of his approbation of my conduct, if i do not flatter myself. i have written and told you all this, because in all my joys and sorrows i am wont to look upon you as myself, and i thought it would be unkind not to communicate to so tender a friend whatever occasions me a sensible gratification; for i am not philosopher enough to be indifferent, when i think i have acted like an honour-able man, whether my actions meet with that approval which is in some sort their due. farewell. l -- to titius aristo among the many agreeable and obliging instances i have received of your friendship, your not concealing from me the long conversations which lately took place at your house concerning my verses, and the various judgments passed upon them (which served to prolong the talk,) is by no means the least. there were some, it seems, who did not disapprove of my poems in themselves, but at the same time censured me in a free and friendly way, for employing myself in composing and reciting them. i am so far, however, from desiring to extenuate the charge that i willingly acknowledge myself still more deserving of it, and confess that i sometimes amuse myself with writing verses of the gayer sort. i compose comedies, divert myself with pantomimes, read the lyric poets, and enter into the spirit of the most wanton muse, besides that, i indulge myself sometimes in laughter, mirth, and frolic, and, to sum up every kind of innocent relaxation in one word, i am a man. i am not in the least offended, though, at their low opinion of my morals, and that those who are ignorant of the fact that the most learned, the wisest, and the best of men have employed themselves in the same way, should be surprised at the tone of my writings: but from those who know what noble and numerous examples i follow, i shall, i am confident, easily obtain permission to err with those whom it is an honour to imitate, not only in their most serious occupations but their lightest triflings. is it unbecoming me (i will not name any living example, lest i should seem to flatter), but is it unbecoming me to practise what became tully, calvus, pollio, messala, hortensius, brutus, sulla, catulus, scaevola, sulpitius, varro, the torquati, memmius, gaetulicus, seneca, lucceius, and, within our own memory, verginius rufus? but if the examples of private men are not sufficient to justify me, i can cite julius casar, augustus, nerva, and tiberius casar. i forbear to add nero to the catalogue, though i am aware that what is practised by the worst of men does not therefore degenerate into wrong: on the contrary, it still maintains its credit, if frequently countenanced by the best. in that number, virgil, cornelius nepos, and prior to these, ennius and attius, justly deserve the most distinguished place. these last indeed were not senators, but goodness knows no distinction of rank or title. i recite my works, it is true, and in this instance i am not sure i can support myself by their examples. they, perhaps, might be satisfied with their own judgment, but i have too humble an opinion of mine to suppose my compositions perfect, because they appear so to my own mind. my reason then for reciting are, that, for one thing, there is a certain deference for one's audience, which excites a somewhat more vigorous application, and then again, i have by this means an opportunity of settling any doubts i may have concerning my performance, by observing the general opinion of the audience. in a word, i have the advantage of receiving different hints from different persons: and although they should not declare their meaning in express terms, yet the expression of the countenance, the movement of the head, the eyes, the motion of a hand, a whisper, or even silence itself will easily distinguish their real opinion from the language of politeness. and so if any one of my audience should have the curiosity to read over the same performance which he heard me read, he may find several things altered or omitted, and perhaps too upon his particular judgment, though he did not say a single word to me. but i am not defending my conduct in this particular, as if i had actually recited my works in public, and not in my own house before my friends, a numerous appearance of whom has upon many occasions been held an honour, but never, surely, a reproach. farewell. li -- to nonius maximus i am deeply afflicted with the news i have received of the death of fannius; in the first place, because i loved one so eloquent and refined, in the next, because i was accustomed to be guided by his judgment--and indeed he possessed great natural acuteness, improved by practice, rendering him able to see a thing in an instant. there are some circumstances about his death, which aggravate my concern. he left behind him a will which had been made a considerable time before his decease, by which it happens that his estate is fallen into the hands of those who had incurred his displeasure, whilst his greatest favourites are excluded. but what i particularly regret is, that he has left unfinished a very noble work in which he was employed. notwithstanding his full practice at the bar, he had begun a history of those persons who were put to death or banished by nero, and completed three books of it. they are written with great elegance and precision, the style is pure, and preserves a proper medium between the plain narrative and the historical: and as they were very favourably received by the public, he was the more desirous of being able to finish the rest. the hand of death is ever, in my opinion, too untimely and sudden when it falls upon such as are employed in some immortal work. the sons of sensuality, who have no outlook beyond the present hour, put an end every day to all motives for living, but those who look forward to posterity, and endeavour to transmit their names with honour to future generations by their works--to such, death is always immature, as it still snatches them from amidst some unfinished design. fannius, long before his death, had a presentiment of what has happened: he dreamed one night that as he was lying on his couch, in an undress, all ready for his work, and with his desk,[ ] as usual, in front of him, nero entered, and placing himself by his side, took up the three first books of this history, which he read through and then departed. this dream greatly alarmed him, and he regarded it as an intimation, that he should not carry on his history any farther than nero had read, and so the event has proved. i cannot reflect upon this accident without lamenting that he was prevented from accomplishing a work which had cost him so many toilsome vigils, as it suggests to me, at the same time, reflections on my own mortality, and the fate of my writings: and i am persuaded the same apprehensions alarm you for those in which you are at present employed. let us then, my friend, while life permits, exert all our endeavours, that death, whenever it arrives, may find as little as possible to destroy. farewell. lii -- to domitius apollinaris the kind concern you expressed on hearing of my design to pass the summer at my villa in tuscany, and your obliging endeavours to dissuade me from going to a place which you think unhealthy, are extremely pleasing to me. it is quite true indeed that the air of that part of tuscany which lies towards the coast is thick and unwholesome: but my house stands at a good distance from the sea, under one of the apennines which are singularly healthy. but, to relieve you from all anxiety on my account, i will give you a description of the temperature of the climate, the situation of the country, and the beauty of my villa, which, i am persuaded, you will hear with as much pleasure as i shall take in giving it. the air in winter is sharp and frosty, so that myrtles, olives, and trees of that kind which delight in constant warmth, will not flourish here: but the laurel thrives, and is remarkably beautiful, though now and then the cold kills it--though not oftener than it does in the neighbourhood of rome. the summers are extraordinarily mild, and there is always a refreshing breeze, seldom high winds. this accounts for the number of old men we have about, you would see grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those now grown up to be young men, hear old stories and the dialect of our ancestors, and fancy yourself born in some former age were you to come here. the character of the country is exceedingly beautiful. picture to yourself an immense amphitheatre, such as nature only could create. before you lies a broad, extended plain bounded by a range of mountains, whose summits are covered with tall and ancient woods, which are stocked with all kinds of game. the descending slopes of the mountains are planted with underwood, among which are a number of little risings with a rich soil, on which hardly a stone is to be found. in fruitfulness they are quite equal to a valley, and though their harvest is rather later, their crops are just as good. at the foot of these, on the mountain-side, the eye, wherever it turns, runs along one unbroken stretch of vineyards terminated by a belt of shrubs. next you have meadows and the open plain. the arable land is so stiff that it is necessary to go over it nine times with the biggest oxen and the strongest ploughs. the meadows are bright with flowers, and produce trefoil and other kinds of herbage as fine and tender as if it were but just sprung up, for all the soil is refreshed by never failing streams. but though there is plenty of water, there are no marshes; for the ground being on a slope, whatever water it receives without absorbing runs off into the tiber. this river, which winds through the middle of the meadows, is navigable only in the winter and spring, at which seasons it transports the produce of the lands to rome: but in summer it sinks below its banks, leaving the name of a great river to an almost empty channel: towards the autumn, however, it begins again to renew its claim to that title. you would be charmed by taking a view of this country from the top of one of our neighbouring mountains, and would fancy that not a real, but some imaginary landscape, painted by the most exquisite pencil, lay before you, such an harmonious variety of beautiful objects meets the eye, whichever way it turns. my house, although at the foot of a hill, commands as good a view as if it stood on its brow, yet you approach by so gentle and gradual a rise that you find yourself on high ground without perceiving you have been making an ascent. behind, but at a great distance, is the apennine range. in the calmest days we get cool breezes from that quarter, not sharp and cutting at all, being spent and broken by the long distance they have travelled. the greater part of the house has a southern aspect, and seems to invite the afternoon sun in summer (but rather earlier in the winter) into a broad and proportionately long portico, consisting of several rooms, particularly a court of antique fashion. in front of the portico is a sort of terrace, edged with box and shrubs cut into different shapes. you descend, from the terrace, by an easy slope adorned with the figures of animals in box, facing each other, to a lawn overspread with the soft, i had almost said the liquid, acanthus: this is surrounded by a walk enclosed with evergreens, shaped into a variety of forms. beyond it is the gestation laid out in the form of a circus running round the multiform box-hedge and the dwarf-trees, which are cut quite close. the whole is fenced in with a wall completely covered by box cut into steps all the way up to the top. on the outside of the wall lies a meadow that owes as many beauties to nature as all i have been describing within does to art; at the end of which are open plain and numerous other meadows and copses. from the extremity of the portico a large dining-room runs out, opening upon one end of the terrace, while from the windows there is a very extensive view over the meadows up into the country, and from these you also see the terrace and the projecting wing of the house together with the woods enclosing the adjacent hippodrome. almost opposite the centre of the portico, and rather to the back, stands a summer-house, enclosing a small area shaded by four plane-trees, in the midst of which rises a marble fountain which gently plays upon the roots of the plane-trees and upon the grass-plots underneath them. this summer-house has a bed-room in it free from every sort of noise, and which the light itself cannot penetrate, together with a common dining-room i use when i have none but intimate friends with me. a second portico looks upon this little area, and has the same view as the other i have just been describing. there is, besides, another room, which, being situate close to the nearest plane-tree, enjoys a constant shade and green. its sides are encrusted with carved marble up to the ceiling, while above the marble a foliage is painted with birds among the branches, which has an effect altogether as agreeable as that of the carving, at the foot of which a little fountain, playing through several small pipes into a vase it encloses, produces a most pleasing murmur. from a corner of the portico you enter a very large bed-chamber opposite the large dining-room, which from some of its windows has a view of the terrace, and from others, of the meadow, as those in the front look upon a cascade, which entertains at once both the eye and the ear; for the water, dashing from a great height, foams over the marble basin which receives it below. this room is extremely warm in winter, lying much exposed to the sun, and on a cloudy day the heat of an adjoining stove very well supplies his absence. leaving this room, you pass through a good-sized, pleasant, undressing-room into the cold-bath-room, in which is a large gloomy bath: but if you are inclined to swim more at large, or in warmer water, in the middle of the area stands a wide basin for that purpose, and near it a reservoir from which you may be supplied with cold water to brace yourself again, if you should find you are too much relaxed by the warm. adjoining the cold bath is one of a medium degree of heat, which enjoys the kindly warmth of the sun, but not so intensely as the hot bath, which projects farther. this last consists of three several compartments, each of different degrees of heat; the two former lie open to the full sun, the latter, though not much exposed to its heat, receives an equal share of its light. over the undressing-room is built the tennis-court, which admits of different kinds of games and different sets of players. not far from the baths is the staircase leading to the enclosed portico, three rooms intervening. one of these looks out upon the little area with the four plane-trees round it, the other upon the meadows, and from the third you have a view of several vineyards, so that each has a different one, and looks towards a different point of the heavens. at the upper end of the enclosed portico, and indeed taken off from it, is a room that looks out upon the hippodrome, the vineyards, and the mountains; adjoining is a room which has a full exposure to the sun, especially in winter, and out of which runs another connecting the hippodrome with the house. this forms the front. on the side rises an enclosed portico, which not only looks out upon the vineyards, but seems almost to touch them. from the middle of this portico you enter a dining-room cooled by the wholesome breezes from the apennine valleys: from the windows behind, which are extremely large, there is a close view of the vineyards, and from the folding doors through the summer portico. along that side of the dining-room where there are no windows runs a private staircase for greater convenience in serving up when i give an entertainment; at the farther end is a sleeping-room with a look-out upon the vineyards, and (what is equally agreeable) the portico. underneath this room is an enclosed portico resembling a grotto, which, enjoying in the midst of summer heats its own natural coolness, neither admits nor wants external air. after you have passed both these porticoes, at the end of the dining-room stands a third, which according as the day is more or less advanced, serves either for winter or summer use. it leads to two different apartments, one containing four chambers, the other, three, which enjoy by turns both sun and shade. this arrangement of the different parts of my house is exceedingly pleasant, though it is not to be compared with the beauty of the hippodrome,' lying entirely open in the middle of the grounds, so that the eye, upon your first entrance, takes it in entire in one view. it is set round with plane-trees covered with ivy, so that, while their tops flourish with their own green, towards the roots their verdure is borrowed from the ivy that twines round the trunk and branches, spreads from tree to tree, and connects them together. between each plane-tree are planted box-trees, and behind these stands a grove of laurels which blend their shade with that of the planes. this straight boundary to the hippodrome[ ] alters its shape at the farther end, bending into a semicircle, which is planted round, shut in with cypresses, and casts a deeper and gloomier shade, while the inner circular walks (for there are several), enjoying an open exposure, are filled with plenty of roses, and correct, by a very pleasant contrast, the coolness of the shade with the warmth of the sun. having passed through these several winding alleys, you enter a straight walk, which breaks out into a variety of others, partitioned off by box-row hedges. in one place you have a little meadow, in another the box is cut in a thousand different forms, sometimes into letters, expressing the master's name, sometimes the artificer's, whilst here and there rise little obelisks with fruit-trees alternately intermixed, and then on a sudden, in the midst of this elegant regularity, you are surprised with an imitation of the negligent beauties of rural nature. in the centre of this lies a spot adorned with a knot of dwarf plane-trees. beyond these stands an acacia, smooth and bending in places, then again various other shapes and names. at the upper end is an alcove of white marble, shaded with vines and supported by four small carystian columns. from this semicircular couch, the water, gushing up through several little pipes, as though pressed out by the weight of the persons who recline themselves upon it, falls into a stone cistern underneath, from whence it is received into a fine polished marble basin, so skilfully contrived that it is always full without ever overflowing. when i sup here, this basin serves as a table, the larger sort of dishes being placed round the margin, while the smaller ones swim about in the form of vessels and water-fowl. opposite this is a fountain which is incessantly emptying and filling, for the water which it throws up to a great height, falling back again into it, is by means of consecutive apertures returned as fast as it is received. facing the alcove (and reflecting upon it as great an ornament as it borrows from it) stands a summer-house of exquisite marble, the doors of which project and open into a green enclosure, while from its upper and lower windows the eye falls upon a variety of different greens. next to this is a little private closet (which, though it seems distinct, may form part of the same room), furnished with a couch, and notwithstanding it has windows on every side, yet it enjoys a very agreeable gloom, by means of a spreading vine which climbs to the top, and entirely overshadows it. here you may lie and fancy yourself in a wood, with this only difference, that you are not exposed to the weather as you would be there. here too a fountain rises and instantly disappears--several marble seats are set in different places, which are as pleasant as the summer-house itself after one is tired out with walking. near each is a little fountain, and throughout the whole hippodrome several small rills run murmuring along through pipes, wherever the hand of art has thought proper to conduct them, watering here and there different plots of green, and sometimes all parts at once. i should have ended before now, for fear of being too chatty, had i not proposed in this letter to lead you into every corner of my house and gardens. nor did i apprehend your thinking it a trouble to read the description of a place which i feel sure would please you were you to see it; especially as you can stop just when you please, and by throwing aside my letter, sit down as it were, and give yourself a rest as often as you think proper. besides, i gave my little passion indulgence, for i have a passion for what i have built, or finished, myself. in a word, (for why should i conceal from my friend either my deliberate opinion or my prejudice?) i look upon it as the first duty of every writer to frequently glance over his title-page and consider well the subject he has proposed to himself; and he may be sure, if he dwells on his subject, he cannot justly be thought tedious, whereas if, on the contrary, he introduces and drags in anything irrelevant, he will be thought exceedingly so. homer, you know, has employed many verses in the description of the arms of achilles, as virgil has also in those of aeneas, yet neither 'of them is prolix, because they each keep within the limits of their original design. aratus, you observe, is not considered too circumstantial, though he traces and enumerates the minutest stars, for he does not go out of his way for that purpose, but only follows where his subject leads him. in the same way (to compare small things with great), so long as, in endeavouring to give you an idea of my house, i have not introduced anything irrelevant or superfluous, it is not my letter which describes, but my villa which is described, that is to be considered large. but to return to where i began, lest i should justly be condemned by my own law, if i continue longer in this digression, you see now the reasons why i prefer my tuscan villa to those which i possess at tusculum, tiber, and praeneste.[ ] besides the advantages already mentioned, i enjoy here a cozier, more profound and undisturbed retirement than anywhere else, as i am at a greater distance from the business of the town and the interruption of troublesome clients. all is calm and composed; which circumstances contribute no less than its clear air and unclouded sky to that health of body and mind i particularly enjoy in this place, both of which i keep in full swing by study and hunting. and indeed there is no place which agrees better with my family, at least i am sure i have not yet lost one (may the expression be allowed![ ]) of all those i brought here with me. and may the gods continue that happiness to me, and that honour to my villa. farewell. liii -- to calvisius it is certain the law does not allow a corporate city to inherit any estate by will, or to receive a legacy. saturninus, however, who has appointed me his heir, had left a fourth part of his estate to our corporation of comum; afterwards, instead of a fourth part, he bequeathed four hundred thousand sesterces.[ ] this bequest, in the eye of the law, is null and void, but, considered as the clear and express will of the deceased, ought to stand firm and valid. myself, i consider the will of the dead (though i am afraid what i say will not please the lawyers) of higher authority than the law, especially when the interest of one's native country is concerned. ought i, who made them a present of eleven hundred thousand sesterces[ ] out of my own patrimony, to withhold a benefaction of little more than a third part of that sum out of an estate which has come quite by a chance into my hands? you, who like a true patriot have the same affection for this our common country, will agree with me in opinion, i feel sure. i wish therefore you would, at the next meeting of the decurii, acquaint them, just briefly and respectfully, as to how the law stands in this case, and then add that i offer them four hundred thousand sesterces according to the direction in saturninus' will. you will represent this donation as his present and his liberality; i only claim the merit of complying with his request. i did not trouble to write to their senate about this, fully relying as i do upon our intimate friendship and your wise discretion, and being quite satisfied that you are both able and willing to act for me upon this occasion as i would for myself; besides, i was afraid i should not seem to have so cautiously guarded my expressions in a letter as you will be able to do in a speech. the countenance, the gesture, and even the tone of voice govern and determine the sense of the speaker, whereas a letter, being without these advantages, is more liable to malignant misinterpretation. farewell. liv -- to marcellinus i write this to you in the deepest sorrow: the youngest daughter of my friend fundanus is dead! i have never seen a more cheerful and more lovable girl, or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, i had almost said an immortal, life! she was scarcely fourteen, and yet there was in her a wisdom far beyond her years, a matronly gravity united with girlish sweetness and virgin bashfulness. with what an endearing fondness did she hang on her father's neck! how affectionately and modestly she used to greet us his friends! with what a tender and deferential regard she used to treat her nurses, tutors, teachers, each in their respective offices! what an eager, industrious, intelligent, reader she was! she took few amusements, and those with caution. how self-controlled, how patient, how brave, she was, under her last illness! she complied with all the directions of her physicians; she spoke cheerful, comforting words to her sister and her father; and when all her bodily strength was exhausted, the vigour of her mind sustained her. that indeed continued even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes us miss her, and grieve that she has gone from us, the more. melancholy, untimely, loss, too truly! she was engaged to an excellent young man; the wedding-day was fixed, and we were all invited. how our joy has been turned into sorrow! i cannot express in words the inward pain i felt when i heard fundanus himself (as grief is ever finding out fresh circumstances to aggravate its affliction) ordering the money he had intended laying out upon clothes, pearls, and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in frankincense, ointments, and perfumes for her funeral. he is a man of great learning and good sense, who has applied himself from his earliest youth to the deeper studies and the fine arts, but all the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects, and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. you will excuse, you will even approve, his grief, when you consider what he has lost. he has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person, and exactly copied out all her father. so, if you should think proper to write to him upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind you not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them, but those of kind and sympathizing humanity. time will render him more open to the dictates of reason: for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even seeks of its own accord the means of its cure, so a mind under the first impression of a misfortune shuns and rejects all consolations, but at length desires and is lulled by their gentle application. farewell. lv -- to spurinna knowing, as i do, how much you admire the polite arts, and what satisfaction you take in seeing young men of quality pursue the steps of their ancestors, i seize this earliest opportunity of informing you that i went to-day to hear calpurnius piso read a beautiful and scholarly production of his, entitled the sports of love. his numbers, which were elegiac, were tender, sweet, and flowing, at the same time that they occasionally rose to all the sublimity of diction which the nature of his subject required. he varied his style from the lofty to the simple, from the close to the copious, from the grave to the florid, with equal genius and judgment. these beauties were further recommended by a most harmonious voice; which a very becoming modesty rendered still more pleasing. a confusion and concern in the countenance of a speaker imparts a grace to all he utters; for diffidence, i know not how, is infinitely more engaging than assurance and self-sufficiency. i might mention several other circumstances to his advantage, which i am the more inclined to point out, as they are exceedingly striking in one of his age, and are most uncommon in a youth of his quality: but not to enter into a farther detail of his merit, i will only add that, when he had finished his poem, i embraced him very heartily, and being persuaded that nothing is a greater encouragement than applause, i exhorted him to go on as he had begun, and to shine out to posterity with the same glorious lustre, which was reflected upon him from his ancestors. i congratulated his excellent mother, and particularly his brother, who gained as much honour by the generous affection he manifested upon this occasion as calpurnius did by his eloquence; so remarkable a solicitude he showed for him when he began to recite his poem, and so much pleasure in his success. may the gods grant me frequent occasions of giving you accounts of this nature! for i have a partiality to the age in which i live, and should rejoice to find it not barren of merit. i ardently wish, therefore, our young men of quality would have something else to show of honourable memorial in their houses than the images[ ] of their ancestors. as for those which are placed in the mansion of these excellent youths, i now figure them to myself as silently applauding and encouraging their pursuits, and (what is a sufficient degree of honour to both brothers) as recognizing their kindred. farewell. lvi -- to paulinus as i know the humanity with which you treat your own servants, i have less reserve in confessing to you the indulgence i shew to mine. i have ever in my mind that line of homer's -- "who swayed his people with a father's love": and this expression of ours, "father of a family." but were i harsher and harder than i really am by nature, the ill state of health of my freedman zosimus (who has the stronger claim upon my tenderness, in that he now stands in more especial need of it) would be sufficient to soften me. he is a good, honest fellow, attentive in his services, and well- read; but his chief talent, and indeed his distinguishing qualification, is that of a comedian, in which he highly excels. his pronunciation is distinct, correct in emphasis, pure, and graceful: he has a very skilled touch, too, upon the lyre, and performs with better execution than is necessary for one of his profession. to this i must add, he reads history, oratory, and poetry, as well as if these had been the sole objects of his study. i am the more particular in enumerating his qualifications, to let you see how many agreeable services i receive from this one servant alone. he is indeed endeared to me by the ties of a long affection, which are strengthened by the danger he is now in. for nature has so formed our hearts that nothing contributes more to incite and kindle affection than the fear of losing the object of it: a fear which i have suffered more than once on his account. some years ago he strained himself so much by too strong an exertion of his voice, that he spit blood, upon which account i sent him into egypt;[ ] from whence, after a long absence, belately returned with great benefit to his health. but having again exerted himself for several days together beyond his strength, he was reminded of his former malady by a slight return of his cough, and a spitting of blood. for this reason i intend to send him to your farm at forum-julii,[ ] having frequently heard you mention it as a healthy air, and recommend the milk of that place as very salutary in disorders of his nature. i beg you would give directions to your people to receive him into your house, and to supply him with whatever he may have occasion for: which will not be much, for he is so sparing and abstemious as not only to abstain from delicacies, but even to deny himself the necessaries his ill state of health requires. i shall furnish him towards his journey with what will be sufficient for one of his moderate requirements, who is coming under your roof. farewell. lvii -- to rufus i went into the julian[ ] court to hear those lawyers to whom, according to the last adjournment, i was to reply. the judges had taken their seats, the decemviri[ ] were arrived, the eyes of the audience were fixed upon the counsel, and all was hushed silence and expectation, when a messenger arrived from the praetor, and the hundred are at once dismissed, and the case postponed: an accident extremely agreeable to me, who am never so well prepared but that i am glad of gaining further time. the occasion of the court's rising thus abruptly was a short edict of nepos, the praetor for criminal causes, in which he directed all persons concerned as plaintiffs or defendants in any cause before him to take notice that he designed strictly to put in force the decree of the senate annexed to his edict. which decree was expressed in the following words: all persons whosoever that have any law-suits depending are hereby required and commanded, before any proceedings be had thereon, to take an oath that they have not given, promised, or engaged to give, any fee or reward to any advocate, upon account of his undertaking their cause. in these terms, and many others equally full and express, the lawyers were prohibited to make their professions venal. however, after the case is decided, they are permitted to accept a gratuity of ten thousand sesterces.[ ] the praetor for civil causes, being alarmed at this order of nepos, gave us this unexpected holiday in order to take time to consider whether he should follow the example. meanwhile the whole town is talking, and either approving or condemning this edict of nepos. we have got then at last (say the latter with a sneer) a redressor of abuses. but pray was there never a praetor before this man? who is he then who sets up in this way for a public reformer? others, on the contrary, say, "he has done perfectly right upon his entry into office; he has paid obedience to the laws; considered the decrees of the senate, repressed most indecent contracts, and will not suffer the most honourable of all professions to be debased into a sordid lucre traffic." this is what one hears all around one; but which side may prevail, the event will shew. it is the usual method of the world (though a very unequitable rule of estimation) to pronounce an action either right or wrong, according as it is attended with good or ill success; in consequence of which you may hear the very same conduct attributed to zeal or folly, to liberty or licentiousness, upon different several occasions. farewell. lviii -- to arrianus sometimes i miss regulus in our courts. i cannot say i deplore his loss. the man, it must be owned, highly respected his profession, grew pale with study and anxiety over it, and used to write out his speeches though he could not get them by heart. there was a practice he had of painting round his right or left eye,[ ] and wearing a white patch[ ] over one side or the other of his forehead, according as he was to plead either for the plaintiff or defendant; of consulting the soothsayers upon the issue of an action; still, all this excessive superstition was really due to his extreme earnestness in his profession. and it was acceptable enough being concerned in the same cause with him, as he always obtained full indulgence in point of time, and never failed to get an audience together; for what could be more convenient than, under the protection of a liberty which you did not ask yourself, and all the odium of the arrangement resting with another, and before an audience which you had not the trouble of collecting, to speak on at your ease, and as long as you thought proper? nevertheless regulus did well in departing this life, though he would have done much better had he made his exit sooner. he might really have lived now without any danger to the public, in the reign of a prince under whom he would have had no opportunity of doing any harm. i need not scruple therefore, i think, to say i sometimes miss him: for since his death the custom has prevailed of not allowing, nor indeed of asking more than an hour or two to plead in, and sometimes not above half that time. the truth is, our advocates take more pleasure in finishing a cause than in defending it; and our judges had rather rise from the bench than sit upon it: such is their indolence, and such their indifference to the honour of eloquence and the interest of justice! but are we wiser than our ancestors? are we more equitable than the laws which grant so many hours and days of adjournments to a case? were our forefathers slow of apprehension, and dull beyond measure? and are we clearer of speech, quicker in our conceptions, or more scrupulous in our decisions, because we get over our causes in fewer hours than they took days? o regulus! it was by zeal in your profession that you secured an advantage which is but rarely given to the highest integrity. as for myself, whenever i sit upon the bench (which is much oftener than i appear at the bar), i always give the advocates as much time as they require: for i look upon it as highly presuming to pretend to guess, before a case is heard, what time it will require, and to set limits to an affair before one is acquainted with its extent; especially as the first and most sacred duty of a judge is patience, which constitutes an important part of justice. but this, it is objected, would give an opening to much superfluous matter: i grant it may; yet is it not better to hear too much than not to hear enough? besides, how shall you know that what an advocate has farther to offer will be superfluous, until you have heard him? but this, and many other public abuses, will be best reserved for a conversation when we meet; for i know your affection to the commonwealth inclines you to wish that some means might be found out to check at least those grievances, which would now be very difficult absolutely to remove. but to return to affairs of private concern: i hope all goes well in your family; mine remains in its usual situation. the good which i enjoy grows more acceptable to me by its continuance; as habit renders me less sensible of the evils i suffer. farewell. lix -- to calpurnia[ ] never was business more disagreeable to me than when it prevented me not only from accompanying you when you went into campania for your health, but from following you there soon after; for i want particularly to be with you now, that i may learn from my own eyes whether you are growing stronger and stouter, and whether the tranquillity, the amusements, and plenty of that charming country really agree with you. were you in perfect health, yet i could ill support your absence; for even a moment's uncertainty of the welfare of those we tenderly love causes a feeling of suspense and anxiety: but now your sickness conspires with your absence to trouble me grievously with vague and various anxieties. i dread everything, fancy everything, and, as is natural to those who fear, conjure up the very things i most dread. let me the more earnestly entreat you then to think of my anxiety, and write to me every day, and even twice a day: i shall be more easy, at least while i am reading your letters, though when i have read them, i shall immediately feel my fears again. farewell. lx -- to calpurnia you kindly tell me my absence very sensibly affects you, and that your only consolation is in conversing with my works, which you frequently substitute in my stead. i am glad that you miss me; i am glad that you find some rest in these alleviations. in return, i read over your letters again and again, and am continually taking them up, as if i had just received them; but, alas! this only stirs in me a keener longing for you; for how sweet must her conversation be whose letters have so many charms? let me receive them, however, as often as possible, notwithstanding there is still a mixture of pain in the pleasure they afford me. farewell. lxi -- to priscus you know attilius crescens, and you love him; who is there, indeed, of any rank or worth, that does not? for myself, i profess to have a friendship for him far exceeding ordinary attachments of the world. our native towns are separated only by a day's journey; and we got to care for each other when we were very young; the season for passionate friendships. ours improved by years; and so far from being chilled, it was confirmed by our riper judgments, as those who know us best can witness. he takes pleasure in boasting everywhere of my friendship; as i do to let the world know that his reputation, his ease, and his interest are my peculiar concern. insomuch that upon his expressing to me some apprehension of insolent treatment from a certain person who was entering upon the tribuneship of the people, i could not forbear answering, -- "long as achilles breathes this vital air, to touch thy head no impious hand shall dare."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> what is my object in telling you these things? why, to shew you that i look upon every injury offered to attilius as done to myself. "but what is the object of all this?" you repeat. you must know then, valerius varus, at his death, owed attilius a sum of money. though i am on friendly terms with maximus, his heir, yet there is a closer friendship between him and you. i beg therefore, and entreat you by the affection you have for me, to take care that attilius is not only paid the capital which is due to him, but all the long arrears of interest too. he neither covets the property of others nor neglects the care of his own; and as he is not engaged in any lucrative profession, he has nothing to depend upon but his own frugality: for as to literature, in which he greatly distinguishes himself, he pursues this merely from motives of pleasure and ambition. in such a situation, the slightest loss presses hard upon a man, and the more so because he has no opportunities of repairing any injury done to his fortune. remove then, i entreat you, our uneasiness, and suffer me still to enjoy the pleasure of his wit and bonhommie; for i cannot bear to see the cheerfulness of my friend over- clouded, whose mirth and good humour dissipates every gloom of melancholy in myself. in short, you know what a pleasant entertaining fellow he is, and i hope you will not suffer any injury to engloom and embitter his disposition. you may judge by the warmth of his affection how severe his resentments would prove; for a generous and great mind can ill brook an injury when coupled with contempt. but though he could pass it over, yet cannot i: on the contrary, i shall regard it as a wrong and indignity done to myself, and resent it as one offered to my friend; that is, with double warmth. but, after all, why this air of threatening? rather let me end in the same style in which i began, namely, by begging, entreating you so to act in this affair that neither attilius may have reason to imagine (which i am exceedingly anxious he should not) that i neglect his interest, nor that i may have occasion to charge you with carelessness of mine: as undoubtedly i shall not if you have the same regard for the latter as i have for the former. farewell. lxii -- to albinus i was lately at alsium,[ ] where my mother-in-law has a villa which once belonged to verginius rufus. the place renewed in my mind the sorrowful remembrance of that-great and excellent man. he was extremely fond of this retirement, and used to call it the nest of his old age. whichever way i looked, i missed him, i felt his absence. i had an inclination to visit his monument; but i repented having seen it, afterwards: for i found it still unfinished, and this, not from any difficulty residing in the work itself, for it is very plain, or rather indeed slight; but through the neglect of him to whose care it was entrusted. i could not see without a concern, mixed with indignation, the remains of a man, whose fame filled the whole world, lie for ten years after his death without an inscription, or a name. he had however directed that the divine and immortal action of his life should be recorded upon his tomb in the following lines: "here rufus lies, who vindex' arms withstood, not for himself, but for his country's good." but faithful friends are so rare, and the dead so soon forgotten, that we shall be obliged ourselves to build even our very tombs, and anticipate the office of our heirs. for who is there that has no reason to fear for himself what we see has happened to verginius, whose eminence and distinction, while rendering such treatment more shameful, so, in the same way, make it more notorious? farewell. lxiii -- to maximus o what a happy day i lately spent! i was called by the prefect of rome, to assist him in a certain case, and had the pleasure of hearing two excellent young men, fuscus salinator and numidius quadratus, plead on the opposite sides: their worth is equal, and each of them will one day, i am persuaded, prove an ornament not only to the present age, but to literature itself. they evinced upon this occasion an admirable probity, supported by inflexible courage: their dress was decent, their elocution distinct, their tones were manly, their memory retentive, their genius elevated, and guided by an equal solidity of judgment. i took infinite pleasure in observing them display these noble qualities; particularly as i had the satisfaction to see that, while they looked upon me as their guide and model, they appeared to the audience as my imitators and rivals. it was a day (i cannot but repeat it again) which afforded me the most exquisite happiness, and which i shall ever distinguish with the fairest mark. for what indeed could be either more pleasing to me on the public account than to observe two such noble youths building their fame and glory upon the polite arts; or more desirable upon my own than to be marked out as a worthy example to them in their pursuits of virtue? may the gods still grant me the continuance of that pleasure! and i implore the same gods, you are my witness, to make all these who think me deserving of imitation far better than i am, farewell. lxiv -- to romanus you were not present at a very singular occurrence here lately: neither was i, but the story reached me just after it had happened. passienus paulus, a roman knight, of good family, and a man of peculiar learning and culture besides, composes elegies, a talent which runs in the family, for propertius is reckoned by him amongst his ancestors, as well as being his countryman. he was lately reciting a poem which began thus: "priscus, at thy command"-- whereupon javolenus priscus, who happened to be present as a particular friend of the poet's, cried out--"but he is mistaken, i did not command him." think what laughter and merriment this occasioned. priscus's wits, you must know, are reckoned rather unsound,[ ] though he takes a share in public business, is summoned to consultations, and even publicly acts as a lawyer, so that this behaviour of his was the more remarkable and ridiculous: meanwhile paulus was a good deal disconcerted by his friend's absurdity. you see how necessary it is for those who are anxious to recite their works in public to take care that the audience as well as the author are perfectly sane. farewell. lxv -- to tacitus your request that i would send you an account of my uncle's death, in order to transmit a more exact relation of it to posterity, deserves my acknowledgments; for, if this accident shall be celebrated by your pen, the glory of it, i am well assured, will be rendered forever illustrious. and notwithstanding he perished by a misfortune, which, as it involved at the same time a most beautiful country in ruins, and destroyed so many populous cities, seems to promise him an everlasting remembrance; notwithstanding he has himself composed many and lasting works; yet i am persuaded, the mentioning of him in your immortal writings, will greatly contribute to render his name immortal. happy i esteem those to be to whom by provision of the gods has been granted the ability either to do such actions as are worthy of being related or to relate them in a manner worthy of being read; but peculiarly happy are they who are blessed with both these uncommon talents: in the number of which my uncle, as his own writings and your history will evidently prove, may justly be ranked. it is with extreme willingness, therefore, that i execute your commands; and should indeed have claimed the task if you had not enjoined it. he was at that time with the fleet under his command at misenum.[ ] on the th of august, about one in the afternoon, my mother desired him to observe a cloud which appeared of a very unusual size and shape. he had just taken a turn in the sun[ ] and, after bathing himself in cold water, and making a light luncheon, gone back to his books: he immediately arose and went out upon a rising ground from whence he might get a better sight of this very uncommon appearance. a cloud, from which mountain was uncertain, at this distance (but it was found afterwards to come from mount vesuvius), was ascending, the appearance of which i cannot give you a more exact description of than by likening it to that of a pine tree, for it shot up to a great height in the form of a very tall trunk, which spread itself out at the top into a sort of branches; occasioned, i imagine, either by a sudden gust of air that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in the manner i have mentioned; it appeared sometimes bright and sometimes dark and spotted, according as it was either more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. this phenomenon seemed to a man of such learning and research as my uncle extraordinary and worth further looking into. he ordered a light vessel to be got ready, and gave me leave, if i liked, to accompany him. i said i had rather go on with my work; and it so happened, he had himself given me something to write out. as he was coming out of the house, he received a note from rectina, the wife of bassus, who was in the utmost alarm at the imminent danger which threatened her; for her villa lying at the foot of mount vesuvius, there was no way of escape but by sea; she earnestly entreated him therefore to come to her assistance. he accordingly changed his first intention, and what he had begun from a philosophical, he now carries out in a noble and generous spirit. he ordered the galleys to be put to sea, and went himself on board with an intention of assisting not only rectina, but the several other towns which lay thickly strewn along that beautiful coast. hastening then to the place from whence others fled with the utmost terror, he steered his course direct to the point of danger, and with so much calmness and presence of mind as to be able to make and dictate his observations upon the motion and all the phenomena of that dreadful scene. he was now so close to the mountain that the cinders, which grew thicker and hotter the nearer he approached, fell into the ships, together with pumice- stones, and black pieces of burning rock: they were in danger too not only of being aground by the sudden retreat of the sea, but also from the vast fragments which rolled down from the mountain, and obstructed all the shore. here he stopped to consider whether he should turn back again; to which the pilot advising him, "fortune," said he, "favours the brave; steer to where pomponianus is." pomponianus was then at stabiae,[ ] separated by a bay, which the sea, after several insensible windings, forms with the shore. he had already sent his baggage on board; for though he was not at that time in actual danger, yet being within sight of it, and indeed extremely near, if it should in the least increase, he was determined to put to sea as soon as the wind, which was blowing dead in-shore, should go down. it was favourable, however, for carrying my uncle to pomponianus, whom he found in the greatest consternation: he embraced him tenderly, encouraging and urging him to keep up his spirits, and, the more effectually to soothe his fears by seeming unconcerned himself, ordered a bath to be got ready, and then, after having bathed, sat down to supper with great cheerfulness, or at least (what is just as heroic) with every appearance of it. meanwhile broad flames shone out in several places from mount vesuvius, which the darkness of the night contributed to render still brighter and clearer. but my uncle, in order to soothe the apprehensions of his friend, assured him it was only the burning of the villages, which the country people had abandoned to the flames: after this he retired to rest, and it is most certain he was so little disquieted as to fall into a sound sleep: for his breathing, which, on account of his corpulence, was rather heavy and sonorous, was heard by the attendants outside. the court which led to his apartment being now almost filled with stones and ashes, if he had continued there any time longer, it would have been impossible for him to have made his way out. so he was awoke and got up, and went to pomponianus and the rest of his company, who were feeling too anxious to think of going to bed. they consulted together whether it would be most prudent to trust to the houses, which now rocked from side to side with frequent and violent concussions as though shaken from their very foundations; or fly to the open fields, where the calcined stones and cinders, though light indeed, yet fell in large showers, and threatened destruction. in this choice of dangers they resolved for the fields: a resolution which, while the rest of the company were hurried into by their fears, my uncle embraced upon cool and deliberate consideration. they went out then, having pillows tied upon their heads with napkins; and this was their whole defence against the storm of stones that fell round them. it was now day everywhere else, but there a deeper darkness prevailed than in the thickest night; which however was in some degree alleviated by torches and other lights of various kinds. they thought proper to go farther down upon the shore to see if they might safely put out to sea, but found the waves still running extremely high, and boisterous. there my uncle, laying himself down upon a sail cloth, which was spread for him, called twice for some cold water, which he drank, when immediately the flames, preceded by a strong whiff of sulphur, dispersed the rest of the party, and obliged him to rise. he raised himself up with the assistance of two of his servants, and instantly fell down dead; suffocated, as i conjecture, by some gross and noxious vapour, having always had a weak throat, which was often inflamed. as soon as it was light again, which was not till the third day after this melancholy accident, his body was found entire, and without any marks of violence upon it, in the dress in which he fell, and looking more like a man asleep than dead. during all this time my mother and i, who were at miscnum--but this has no connection with your history, and you did not desire any particulars besides those of my uncle's death; so i will end here, only adding that i have faithfully related to you what i was either an eye-witness of myself or received immediately after the accident happened, and before there was time to vary the truth. you will pick out of this narrative whatever is most important: for a letter is one thing, a history another; it is one thing writing to a friend, another thing writing to the public. farewell. lxvi -- to cornelius tacitus the letter which, in compliance with your request, i wrote to you concerning the death of my uncle has raised, it seems, your curiosity to know what terrors and dangers attended me while i continued at misenum; for there, i think, my account broke off: "though my shock'd soul recoils, my tongue shall tell." my uncle having left us, i spent such time as was left on my studies (it was on their account indeed that i had stopped behind), till it was time for my bath. after which i went to supper, and then fell into a short and uneasy sleep. there had been noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth, which did not alarm us much, as this is quite an ordinary occurrence in campania; but it was so particularly violent that night that it not only shook but actually overturned, as it would seem, everything about us. my mother rushed into my chamber, where she found me rising, in order to awaken her. we sat down in the open court of the house, which occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. as i was at that time but eighteen years of age, i know not whether i should call my behaviour, in this dangerous juncture, courage or folly; but i took up livy, and amused myself with turning over that author, and even making extracts from him, as if i had been perfectly at my leisure. just then, a friend of my uncle's, who had lately come to him from spain, joined us, and observing me sitting by my mother with a book in my hand, reproved her for her calmness, and me at the same time for my careless security: nevertheless i went on with my author. though it was now morning, the light was still exceedingly faint and doubtful; the buildings all around us tottered, and though we stood upon open ground, yet as the place was narrow and confined, there was no remaining without imminent danger: we therefore resolved to quit the town. a panic- stricken crowd followed us, and (as to a mind distracted with terror every suggestion seems more prudent than its own) pressed on us in dense array to drive us forward as we came out. being at a convenient distance from the houses, we stood still, in the midst of a most dangerous and dreadful scene. the chariots, which we had ordered to be drawn out, were so agitated backwards and forwards, though upon the most level ground, that we could not keep them steady, even by supporting them with large stones. the sea seemed to roll back upon itself, and to be driven from its banks by the convulsive motion of the earth; it is certain at least the shore was considerably enlarged, and several sea animals were left upon it. on the other side, a black and dreadful cloud, broken with rapid, zigzag flashes, revealed behind it variously shaped masses of flame: these last were like sheet-lightning, but much larger. upon this our spanish friend, whom i mentioned above, addressing himself to my mother and me with great energy and urgency: "if your brother," he said, "if your uncle be safe, he certainly wishes you may be so too; but if he perished, it was his desire, no doubt, that you might both survive him: why therefore do you delay your escape a moment?" we could never think of our own safety, we said, while we were uncertain of his. upon this our friend left us, and withdrew from the danger with the utmost precipitation. soon afterwards, the cloud began to descend, and cover the sea. it had already surrounded and concealed the island of capreae and the promontory of misenum. my mother now besought, urged, even commanded me to make my escape at any rate, which, as i was young, i might easily do; as for herself, she said, her age and corpulency rendered all attempts of that sort impossible; however, she would willingly meet death if she could have the satisfaction of seeing that she was not the occasion of mine. but i absolutely refused to leave her, and, taking her by the hand, compelled her to go with me. she complied with great reluctance, and not without many reproaches to herself for retarding my flight. the ashes now began to fall upon us, though in no great quantity. i looked back; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself over the country like a cloud. "let us turn out of the high-road," i said, "while we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we should be pressed to death in the dark, by the crowds that are following us." we had scarcely sat down when night came upon us, not such as we have when the sky is cloudy, or when there is no moon, but that of a room when it is shut up, and all the lights put out. you might hear the shrieks of women, the screams of children, and the shouts of men; some calling for their children, others for their parents, others for their husbands, and seeking to recognise each other by the voices that replied; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some wishing to die, from the very fear of dying; some lifting their hands to the gods; but the greater part convinced that there were now no gods at all, and that the final endless night of which we have heard had come upon the world.[ ] among these there were some who augmented the real terrors by others imaginary or wilfully invented. i remember some who declared that one part of misenum had fallen, that another was on fire; it was false, but they found people to believe them. it now grew rather lighter, which we imagined to be rather the forerunner of an approaching burst of flames (as in truth it was) than the return of day: however, the fire fell at a distance from us: then again we were immersed in thick darkness, and a heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which we were obliged every now and then to stand up to shake off, otherwise we should have been crushed and buried in the heap. i might boast that, during all this scene of horror, not a sigh, or expression of fear, escaped me, had not my support been grounded in that miserable, though mighty, consolation, that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that i was perishing with the world itself. at last this dreadful darkness was dissipated by degrees, like a cloud or smoke; the real day returned, and even the sun shone out, though with a lurid light, like when an eclipse is coming on. every object that presented itself to our eyes (which were extremely weakened) seemed changed, being covered deep with ashes as if with snow. we returned to misenum, where we refreshed ourselves as well as we could, and passed an anxious night between hope and fear; though, indeed, with a much larger share of the latter: for the earthquake still continued, while many frenzied persons ran up and down heightening their own and their friends' calamities by terrible predictions. however, my mother and i, notwithstanding the danger we had passed, and that which still threatened us, had no thoughts of leaving the place, till we could receive some news of my uncle. and now, you will read this narrative without any view of inserting it in your history, of which it is not in the least worthy; and indeed you must put it down to your own request if it should appear not worth even the trouble of a letter. farewell. lx vii -- to macer how much does the fame of human actions depend upon the station of those who perform them! the very same conduct shall be either applauded to the skies or entirely overlooked, just as it may happen to proceed from a person of conspicuous or obscure rank. i was sailing lately upon our lake,[ ] with an old man of my acquaintance, who desired me to observe a villa situated upon its banks, which had a chamber overhanging the water. "from that room," said he, "a woman of our city threw herself and her husband." upon enquiring into the cause, he informed me, "that her husband having been long afflicted with an ulcer in those parts which modesty conceals, she prevailed with him at last to let her inspect the sore, assuring him at the same time that she would most sincerely give her opinion whether there was a possibility of its being cured. accordingly, upon viewing the ulcer, she found the case hopeless, and therefore advised him to put an end to his life: she herself accompanying him, even leading the way by her example, and being actually the means of his death; for tying herself to her husband, she plunged with him into the lake." though this happened in the very city where i was born, i never heard it mentioned before; and yet that this action is taken less notice of than that famous one of arria's, is not because it was less remarkable, but because the person who performed it was more obscure. farewell. lxviii -- to servianus i am extremely glad to hear that you intend your daughter for fuscus salinator, and congratulate you upon it. his family is patrician,[ ] and both his father and mother are persons of the most distinguished merit. as for himself, he is studious, learned, and eloquent, and, with all the innocence of a child, unites the sprightliness of youth and the wisdom of age. i am not, believe me, deceived by my affection, when i give him this character; for though i love him, i confess, beyond measure (as his friendship and esteem for me well deserve), yet partiality has no share in my judgment: on the contrary, the stronger my affection for him, the more exactingly i weigh his merit. i will venture, then, to assure you (and i speak it upon my own experience) you could not have, formed to your wishes, a more accomplished son-in-law. may he soon present you with a grandson, who shall be the exact copy of his father! and with what pleasure shall i receive from the arms of two such friends their children or grand-children, whom i shall claim a sort of right to embrace as my own! farewell. lxix -- to severus you desire me to consider what turn you should give to your speech in honour of the emperor,[ ] upon your being appointed consul elect.[ ] it is easy to find copies, not so easy to choose out of them; for his virtues afford such abundant material. however, i will write and give you my opinion, or (what i should prefer) i will let you have it in person, after having laid before you the difficulties which occur to me. i am doubtful, then, whether i should advise you to pursue the method which i observed myself on the same occasion. when i was consul elect, i avoided running into the usual strain of compliment, which, however far from adulation, might yet look like it. not that i affected firmness and independence; but, as well knowing the sentiments of our amiable prince, and being thoroughly persuaded that the highest praise i could offer to him would be to show the world i was under no necessity of paying him any. when i reflected what profusion of honours had been heaped upon the very worst of his predecessors, nothing, i imagined, could more distinguish a prince of his real virtues from those infamous emperors than to address him in a different manner. and this i thought proper to observe in my speech, lest it might be suspected i passed over his glorious acts, not out of judgment, but inattention. such was the method i then observed; but i am sensible the same measures are neither agreeable nor indeed suitable to all alike. besides the propriety of doing or omitting a thing depends not only upon persons, but time and circumstances; and as the late actions of our illustrious prince afford materials for panegyric, no less just than recent and glorious, i doubt (as i said before) whether i should persuade you in the present instance to adopt the same plan as i did myself. in this, however, i am clear, that it was proper to offer you by way of advice the method i pursued. farewell. lxx -- to fabatus i have the best reason, certainly, for celebrating your birthday as my own, since all the happiness of mine arises from yours, to whose care and diligence it is owing that i am gay here and at my ease in town. -- your camillian villa[ ] in campania has suffered by the injuries of time, and is falling into decay; however, the most valuable parts of the building either remain entire or are but slightly damaged, and it shall be my care to see it put into thorough repair. -- though i flatter myself i have many friends, yet i have scarcely any of the sort you enquire after, and which the affair you mention demands. all mine lie among those whose employments engage them in town; whereas the conduct of country business requires a person of a robust constitution, and bred up to the country, to whom the work may not seem hard, nor the office beneath him, and who does not feel a solitary life depressing. you think most highly of rufus, for he was a great friend of your son's; but of what use he can be to us upon this occasion, i cannot conceive; though i am sure he will be glad to do all he can for us. farewell. lxxi -- to cornelianus i received lately the most exquisite satisfaction at centumcellae[ ] (as it is now called), being summoned thither by cæsar[ ] to attend a council. could anything indeed afford a higher pleasure than to see the emperor exercising his justice, his wisdom, and his affability, even in retirement, where those virtues are most observable? various were the points brought in judgment before him, and which proved, in so many different instances, the excellence of the judge. the cause of claudius ariston came on first. he is an ephesian nobleman, of great munificence and unambitious popularity, whose virtues have rendered him obnoxious to a set of people of far different characters; they had instigated an informer against him, of the same infamous stamp with themselves; but he was honourably acquitted. the next day, the case of galitta, accused of adultery, was heard. her husband, who is a military tribune, was upon the point of offering himself as a candidate for certain honours at rome, but she had stained her own good name and his by an intrigue with a centurion.[ ] the husband informed the consul's lieutenant, who wrote to the emperor about it. cæsar, having thoroughly sifted the evidence, cashiered the centurion, and sentenced him to banishment. it remained that some penalty should be inflicted likewise upon the other party, as it is a crime of which both must necessarily be equally guilty. but the husband's affection for his wife inclined him to drop that part of the prosecution, not without some reflections on his forbearance; for he continued to live with her even after he had commenced this prosecution, content, it would seem, with having removed his rival. but he was ordered to proceed in the suit: and, though he complied with great reluctance, it was necessary, nevertheless, that she should be condemned. accordingly, she was sentenced to the punishment directed by the julian law.[ ] the emperor thought proper to specify, in his decree, the name and office of the centurion, that it might appear he passed it in virtue of military discipline; lest it should be imagined he claimed a particular cognizance in every cause of the same nature. the third day was employed in examining into an affair which had occasioned a good deal of talk and various reports; it was concerning the codicils of julius tiro, part of which was plainly genuine, while the other part, it was alleged, was forged. the persons accused of this fraud were sempronius senecio, a roman knight, and eurythmus, cæsar's freedman and procurator.[ ] the heirs jointly petitioned the emperor, when he was in dacia,[ ] that he would reserve to himself the trial of this cause; to which he consented. on his return from that expedition, he appointed a day for the hearing; and when some of the heirs, as though out of respect to eurythmus, offered to withdraw the suit, the emperor nobly replied, "he is not polycletus,[ ] nor am i nero." however, he indulged the petitioners with an adjournment, and the time being expired, he now sat to hear the cause. two of the heirs appeared, and desired that either their whole number might be compelled to plead, as they had all joined in the information, or that they also might have leave to withdraw. cæsar delivered his opinion with great dignity and moderation; and when the counsel on the part of senecio and eurythmus had represented that unless their clients were heard, they would remain under the suspicion of guilt,--"i am not concerned," said the emperor, "what suspicions they may lie under, it is i that am suspected;" and then turning to us, "advise me," said he, "how to act in this affair, for you see they complain when allowed to withdraw their suit." at length, by the advice of the counsel, he 'ordered notice to be given to the heirs that they should either proceed with the case or each of them justify their reasons for not doing so; otherwise that he would pass sentence upon them as calumniators.[ ] thus you see how usefully and seriously we spent our time, which however was diversified with amusements of the most agreeable kind. we were every day invited to cæsar's table, which, for so great a prince, was spread with much plainness and simplicity. there we were either entertained with interludes or passed the night in the most pleasing conversation. when we took our leave of him the last day, he made each of us presents; so studiously polite is cæsar! as for myself, i was not only charmed with the dignity and wisdom of the judge, the honour done to the assessors, the ease and unreserved freedom of our social intercourse, but with the exquisite situation of the place itself. this delightful villa is surrounded by the greenest meadows, and overlooks the shore, which bends inwards, forming a complete harbour. the left arm of this port is defended by exceedingly strong works, while the right is in process of completion. an artificial island, which rises at the mouth of the harbour, breaks the force of the waves, and affords a safe passage to ships on either side. this island is formed by a process worth seeing: stones of a most enormous size are transported hither in a large sort of pontoons, and being piled one upon the other, are fixed by their own weight, gradually accumulating in the manner, as it were, of a natural mound. it already lifts its rocky back above the ocean, while the waves which beat upon it, being broken and tossed to an immense height, foam with a prodigious noise, and whiten all the surrounding sea. to these stones are added wooden piers, which in process of time will give it the appearance of a natural island. this haven is to be called by the name of its great author,[ ] and will prove of infinite benefit, by affording a secure retreat to ships on that extensive and dangerous coast. farewell. lxxii -- to maximus you did perfectly right in promising a gladiatorial combat to our good friends the citizens of verona, who have long loved, looked up to, and honoured, you; while it was from that city too you received that amiable object of your most tender affection, your late excellent wife. and since you owed some monument or public representation to her memory, what other spectacle could you have exhibited more appropriate to the occasion? besides, you were so unanimously pressed to do so that to have refused would have looked more like hardness than resolution. the readiness too with which you granted their petition, and the magnificent manner in which you performed it, is very much to your honour; for a greatness of soul is seen in these smaller instances, as well as in matters of higher moment. i wish the african panthers, which you had largely provided for this purpose, had arrived on the day appointed, but though they were delayed by the stormy weather, the obligation to you is equally the same, since it was not your fault that they were not exhibited. farewell. lxxiii -- to restitutus this obstinate illness of yours alarms me; and though i know how extremely temperate you are, yet i fear lest your disease should get the better of your moderation. let me entreat you then to resist it with a determined abstemiousness: a remedy, be assured, of all others the most laudable as well as the most salutary. human nature itself admits the practicability of what i recommend: it is a rule, at least, which i always enjoin my family to observe with respect to myself. "i hope," i say to them, "that should i be attacked with any disorder, i shall desire nothing of which i ought either to be ashamed or have reason to repent; however, if my distemper should prevail over my resolution, i forbid that anything be given me but by the consent of my physicians; and i shall resent your compliance with me in things improper as much as another man would their refusal." i once had a most violent fever; when the fit was a little abated, and i had been anointed,[ ] my physician offered me something to drink; i held out my hand, desiring he would first feel my pulse, and upon his not seeming quite satisfied, i instantly returned the cup, though it was just at my lips. afterwards, when i was preparing to go into the bath, twenty days from the first attack of my illness, perceiving the physicians whispering together, i enquired what they were saying. they replied they were of opinion i may possibly bathe with safety, however that they were not without some suspicion of risk. "what need is there," said i, "of my taking a bath at all?" and so, with perfect calmness and tranquillity, i gave up a pleasure i was upon the point of enjoying, and abstained from the bath as serenely and composedly as though i were going into it. i mention this, not only by way of enforcing my advice by example, but also that this letter may be a sort of tie upon me to persevere in the same resolute abstinence for the future. farewell. lxxiv -- to calpurnia[ ] you will not believe what a longing for you possesses me. the chief cause of this is my love; and then we have not grown used to be apart. so it comes to pass that i lie awake a great part of the night, thinking of you; and that by day, when the hours return at which i was wont to visit you, my feet take me, as it is so truly said, to your chamber, but not finding you there, i return, sick and sad at heart, like an excluded lover. the only time that is free from these torments is when i am being worn out at the bar, and in the suits of my friends. judge you what must be my life when i find my repose in toil, my solace in wretchedness and anxiety. farewell. lxxv -- to macrinus a very singular and remarkable accident has happened in the affair of varenus,[ ] the result of which is yet doubtful. the bithynians, it is said, have dropped their prosecution of him being convinced at last that it was rashly undertaken. a deputy from that province is arrived, who has brought with him a decree of their assembly; copies of which he has delivered to cæsar,[ ] and to several of the leading men in rome, and also to us, the advocates for varenus. magnus,[ ] nevertheless, whom i mentioned in my last letter to you, persists in his charge, to support which he is incessantly teasing the worthy nigrinus. this excellent person was counsel for him in his former petition to the consuls, that varenus might be compelled to produce his accounts. upon this occasion, as i attended varenus merely as a friend, i determined to be silent. i thought it highly imprudent for me, as i was appointed his counsel by the senate, to attempt to defend him as an accused person, when it was his business to insist that there was actually no charge subsisting against him. however, when nigrinus had finished his speech, the consuls turning their eyes upon me, i rose up, and, "when you shall hear," i said, "what the real deputies from the province have to object against the motion of nigrinus, you will see that my silence was not without just reason." upon this nigrinus asked me, "to whom are these deputies sent?" i replied, "to me among others; i have the decree of the province in my hands." he returned, "that is a point which, though it may be clear to you, i am not so well satisfied of." to this i answered, "though it may not be so evident to you, who are concerned to support the accusation, it may be perfectly clear to me, who am on the more favourable side." then polyaenus, the deputy from the province, acquainted the senate with the reasons for superseding the prosecution, but desired it might be without prejudice to cæsar's determination. magnus answered him; polyaenus replied; as for myself, i only now and then threw in a word, observing in general a complete silence. for i have learned that upon some occasions it is as much an orator's business to be silent as to speak, and i remember, in some criminal cases, to have done even more service to my clients by a discreet silence than i could have expected from the most carefully prepared speech. to enter into the subject of eloquence is indeed very foreign to the purpose of my letter, yet allow me to give you one instance in proof of my last observation. a certain lady having lost her son suspected that his freedmen, whom he had appointed coheirs with her, were guilty of forging the will and poisoning him. accordingly she charged them with the fact before the emperor, who directed julianus suburanus to try the cause. i was counsel for the defendants, and the case being exceedingly remarkable, and the counsel engaged on both sides of eminent ability, it drew together a very numerous audience. the issue was, the servants being put to the torture, my clients were acquitted. but the mother applied a second time to the emperor, pretending she had discovered some new evidence. suburanus was therefore directed to hear the cause, and see if she could produce any fresh proofs. julius africanus was counsel for the mother, a young man of good parts, but slender experience. he is grandson to the famous orator of that name, of whom it is reported that passienus crispus, hearing him one day plead, archly said, "very fine, i must confess, very fine; but is all this fine speaking to the purpose?" julius africanus, i say, having made a long harangue, and exhausted the portion of time allotted to him, said, "i beg you, suburanus, to allow me to add one word more." when he had concluded, and the eyes of the whole assembly had been fixed a considerable time upon me, i rose up. "i would have answered africanus," said i, "if he had added that one word he begged leave to do, in which i doubt not he would have told us all that we had not heard before." i do not remember to have gained so much applause by any speech that i ever made as i did in this instance by making none. thus the little that i had hitherto said for varenus was received with the same general approbation. the consuls, agreeably to the request of polyaenus, reserved the whole affair for the determination of the emperor, whose resolution i impatiently wait for; as that will decide whether i may be entirely secure and easy with respect to varenus, or must again renew all my trouble and anxiety upon his account. farewell. lxxvi -- to tuscus you desire my opinion as to the method of study you should pursue, in that retirement to which you have long since withdrawn. in the first place, then, i look upon it as a very advantageous practice (and it is what many recommend) to translate either from greek into latin or from latin into greek. by this means you acquire propriety and dignity of expression, and a variety of beautiful figures, and an ease and strength of exposition, and in the imitation of the best models a facility of creating such models for yourself. besides, those things which you may possibly have overlooked in an ordinary reading over cannot escape you in translating: and this method will also enlarge your knowledge, and improve your judgment. it may not be amiss, after you have read an author, to turn, as it were, to his rival, and attempt something ol your own upon the same topic, and then make a careful comparison between your performance and his, in order to see in what points either you or he may be the happier. you may congratulate yourself indeed if you shall find in some things that you have the advantage of him, while it will be a great mortification if he is always superior. you may sometimes select very famous passages and compete with what you select. the competition is daring enough, but, as it is private, cannot be called impudent. not but that we have seen instances of persons who have publicly entered this sort of lists with great credit to themselves, and, while they did not despair of overtaking, have gloriously outstripped those whom they thought it sufficient honour to follow. a speech no longer fresh in your memory, you may take up again. you will find plenty in it to leave unaltered, but still more to reject; you will add a new thought here, and alter another there. it is a laborious and tedious task, i own, thus to re-enflame the mind after the first heat is over, to recover an impulse when its force has been checked and spent, and, worse than all, to put new limbs into a body already complete without disturbing the old; but the advantage attending this method will overbalance the difficulty. i know the bent of your present attention is directed towards the eloquence of the bar; but i would not for that reason advise you never to quit the polemic, if i may so call it, and contentious style. as land is improved by sowing it with various seeds, constantly changed, so is the mind by exercising it now with this subject of study, now with that. i would recommend you, therefore, sometimes to take a subject from history, and you might give more care to the composition of your letters. for it frequently happens that in pleading one has occasion to make use not only of historical, but even poetical, styles of description; and then from letters you acquire a concise and simple mode of expression. you will do quite right again in refreshing yourself with poetry: when i say so, i do not mean that species of poetry which turns upon subjects of great length and continuity (such being suitable only for persons of leisure), but those little pieces of the sprightly kind of poesy, which serve as proper reliefs to, and are consistent with, employments of every sort. they commonly go under the title of poetical amusements; but these amusements have sometimes gained their authors as much reputation as works of a more serious nature; and thus (for while i am exhorting you to poetry, why should i not turn poet myself?) "as yielding wax the artist's skill commands, submissive shap'd beneath his forming hands; now dreadful stands in arms a mars confest; or now with venus's softer air imprest; a wanton cupid now the mould belies; now shines, severely chaste, a pallas wife: as not alone to quench the raging flame, the sacred fountain pours her friendly stream; but sweetly gliding through the flow'ry green, spreads glad refreshment o'er the smiling scene: so, form'd by science, should the ductile mind receive, distinct, each various art refin'd." in this manner the greatest men, as well as the greatest orators, used either to exercise or amuse themselves, or rather indeed did both. it is surprising how much the mind is enlivened and refreshed by these little poetical compositions, as they turn upon love, hatred, satire, tenderness, politeness, and everything, in short, that concerns life and the affairs of the world. besides, the same advantage attends these, as every other sort of poems, that we turn from them to prose with so much the more pleasure after having experienced the difficulty of being constrained and fettered by metre. and now, perhaps, i have troubled you upon this subject longer than you desired; however, there is one thing i have left out: i have not told you what kind of authors you should read; though indeed that was sufficiently implied when i told you on what you should write. remember to be careful in your choice of authors of every kind: for, as it has been well observed, "though we should read much, we should not read many books." who those authors are, is so clearly settled, and so generally known, that i need not particularly specify them; besides, i have already extended this letter to such an immoderate length that, while suggesting how you ought to study, i have, i fear, been actually interrupting your studies. i will here resign you therefore to your tablets, either to resume the studies in which you were before engaged or to enter upon some of those i have recommended. farewell. lxx vii -- to fabatus (his wife's grandfather) you are surprised, i find, that my share of five-twelfths of the estate which lately fell to me, and which i had directed to be sold to the best bidder, should have been disposed of by my freedman hermes to corellia (without putting it up to auction) at the rate of seven hundred thousand sesterces[ ] for the whole. and as you think it might have fetched nine hundred thousand,[ ] you are so much the more desirous to know whether i am inclined to ratify what he has done. i am; and listen, while i tell you why, for i hope that not only you will approve, but also that my fellow-coheirs will excuse me for having, upon a motive of superior obligation, separated my interest from theirs. i have the highest esteem for corellia, both as the sister of rufus, whose memory will always be a sacred one to me, and as my mother's intimate friend. besides, that excellent man minutius tuscus, her husband, has every claim to my affection that a long friendship can give him; as there was likewise the closest intimacy between her son and me, so much so indeed that i fixed upon him to preside at the games which i exhibited when i was elected praetor. this lady, when i was last in the country, expressed a strong desire for some place upon the borders of our lake of comum; i therefore made her an offer, at her own price, of any part of my land there, except what came to me from my father and mother; for that i could not consent to part with, even to corellia, and accordingly when the inheritance in question fell to me, i wrote to let her know it was to be sold. this letter i sent by hermes, who, upon her requesting him that he would immediately make over to her my proportion of it, consented. am i not then obliged to confirm what my freedman has thus done in pursuance of my inclinations? i have only to entreat my fellow- coheirs that they will not take it ill at my hands that i have made a separate sale of what i had certainly a right to dispose of. they are not bound in any way to follow my example, since they have not the same connections with corellia. they are at full liberty therefore to be guided by interest, which in my own case i chose to sacrifice to friendship. farewell. lxxviii -- to corellia you are truly generous to desire and insist that i take for my share of the estate you purchased of me, not after the rate of seven hundred thousand sesterces for the whole, as my freedman sold it to you; but in the proportion of nine hundred thousand, agreeably to what you gave to the farmers of the twentieths for their part. but i must desire and insist in my turn that you would consider not only what is suitable to your character, but what is worthy of mine; and that you would suffer me to oppose your inclination in this single instance, with the same warmth that i obey it in all others. farewell. lxxix -- to celer every author has his particular reasons for reciting his works; mine, i have often said, are, in order, if any error should have escaped my own observation (as no doubt they do escape it sometimes), to have it pointed out to me. i cannot therefore but be surprised to find (what your letter assures me) that there are some who blame me for reciting my speeches: unless, perhaps, they are of opinion that this is the single species of composition that ought to be held exempt from any correction. if so, i would willingly ask them why they allow (if indeed they do allow) that history may be recited, since it is a work which ought to be devoted to truth, not ostentation? or why tragedy, as it is composed for action and the stage, not for being read to a private audience? or lyric poetry, as it is not a reader, but a chorus of voices and instruments that it requires? they will reply, perhaps, that in the instances referred to custom has made the practice in question usual: i should be glad to know, then, if they think the person who first introduced this practice is to be condemned? besides the rehearsal of speeches is no unprecedented thing either with us or the grecians. still, perhaps, they will insist that it can answer no purpose to recite a speech which has already been delivered. true; if one were immediately to repeat the very same speech word for word, and to the very same audience; but if you make several additions and alterations; if your audience is composed partly of the same, and partly of different persons, and the recital is at some distance of time, why is there less propriety in rehearsing your speech than in publishing it? "but it is difficult," the objectors urge, "to give satisfaction to an audience by the mere recital of a speech;" that is a consideration which concerns the particular skill and pains of the person who rehearses, but by no means holds good against recitation in general. the truth is, it is not whilst i am reading, but when i am read, that i aim at approbation; and upon this principle i omit no sort of correction. in the first place, i frequently go carefully over what i have written, by myself, after this i read it out to two or three friends, and then give it to others to make their remarks. if after this i have any doubt concerning the justness of their observations, i carefully weigh them again with a friend or two; and, last of all, i recite them to a larger audience, then is the time, believe me, when i correct most energetically and unsparingly; for my care and attention rise in proportion to my anxiety; as nothing renders the judgment so acute to detect error as that deference, modesty, and diffidence one feels upon those occasions. for tell me, would you not be infinitely less affected were you to speak before a single person only, though ever so learned, than before a numerous assembly, even though composed of none but illiterate people? when you rise up to plead, are you not at that juncture, above all others, most self-distrustful? and do you not wish, i will not say some particular parts only, but that the whole arrangement of your intended speech were altered? especially if the concourse should be large in which you are to speak? for there is something even in a low and vulgar audience that strikes one with awe. and if you suspect you are not well received at the first opening of your speech, do you not find all your energy relaxed, and feel yourself ready to give way? the reason i imagine to be that there is a certain weight of collective opinion in a multitude, and although each individual judgment is, perhaps, of little value, yet when united it becomes considerable. accordingly, pomponius secundus, the famous tragic poet, whenever some very intimate friend and he differed about the retaining or rejecting anything in his writings, used to say, "i appeal[ ] to the people"; and thus, by their silence or applause, adopted either his own or his friend's opinion; such was the deference he paid to the popular judgment! whether justly or not, is no concern of mine, as i am not in the habit of reciting my works publicly, but only to a select circle, whose presence i respect, and whose judgment i value; in a word, whose opinions i attend to as if they were so many individuals i had separately consulted, at the same time that i stand in as much awe before them as i should before the most numerous assembly. what cicero says of composing will, in my opinion, hold true of the dread we have of the public: "fear is the most rigid critic imaginable." the very thought of reciting, the very entrance into an assembly, and the agitated concern when one is there; each of these circumstances tends to improve and perfect an author's performance. upon the whole, therefore, i cannot repent of a practice which i have found by experience so exceedingly useful; and am so far from being discouraged by the trifling objections of these censors that i request you would point out to me if there is yet any other kind of correction, that i may also adopt it; for nothing can sufficiently satisfy my anxiety to render my compositions perfect. i reflect what an undertaking it is resigning any work into the hands of the public; and i cannot but be persuaded that frequent revisals, and many consultations, must go to the perfecting of a performance, which one desires should universally and forever please. farewell. lxxx -- to priscus the illness of my friend fannia gives me great concern. she contracted it during her attendance on junia, one of the vestal virgins, engaging in this good office at first voluntarily, junia being her relation, and afterwards being appointed to it by an order from the college of priests: for these virgins, when excessive ill-health renders it necessary to remove them from the temple of vesta, are always delivered over to the care and custody of some venerable matron. it was owing to her assiduity in the execution of this charge that she contracted her present dangerous disorder, which is a continual fever, attended with a cough that increases daily. she is extremely emaciated, and every part of her seems in a total decay except her spirits: those, indeed, she fully keeps up; and in a way altogether worthy the wife of helvidius, and the daughter of thrasea. in all other respects there is such a falling away that i am more than apprehensive upon her account; i am deeply afflicted. i grieve, my friend, that so excellent a woman is going to be removed from the eyes of the world, which will never, perhaps, again behold her equal. so pure she is, so pious, so wise and prudent, so brave and steadfast! twice she followed her husband into exile, and the third time she was banished herself upon his account. for senecio, when arraigned for writing the life of helvidius, having said in his defence that he composed that work at the request of fannia, metius carus, with a stern and threatening air, asked her whether she had made that request, and she replied, "i made it." did she supply him likewise with materials for the purpose? "i did." was her mother privy to this transaction? "she was not." in short, throughout her whole examination, not a word escaped her which betrayed the smallest fear. on the contrary, she had preserved a copy of those very books which the senate, over-awed by the tyranny of the times, had ordered to be suppressed, and at the same time the effects of the author to be confiscated, and carried with her into exile the very cause of her exile. how pleasing she is, how courteous, and (what is granted to few) no less lovable than worthy of all esteem and admiration! will she hereafter be pointed out as a model to all wives; and perhaps be esteemed worthy of being set forth as an example of fortitude even to our sex; since, while we still have the pleasure of seeing and conversing with her, we contemplate her with the same admiration, as those heroines who are celebrated in ancient story? for myself, i confess, i cannot but tremble for this illustrious house, which seems shaken to its very foundations, and ready to fall; for though she will leave descendants behind her, yet what a height of virtue must they attain, what glorious deeds must they perform, ere the world will be persuaded that she was not the last of her family! it is an additional affliction and anguish to me that by her death i seem to lose her mother a second time; that worthy mother (and what can i say higher in her praise?) of so noble a woman! who, as she was restored to me in her daughter, so she will now again be taken from me, and the loss of fannia will thus pierce my heart at once with a fresh, and at the same time re- opened, wound. i so truly loved and honoured them both, that i know not which i loved the best; a point they desired might ever remain undetermined. in their prosperity and their adversity i did them every kindness in my power, and was their comforter in exile, as well as their avenger at their return. but i have not yet paid them what i owe, and am so much the more solicitous for the recovery of this lady, that i may have time to discharge my debt to her. such is the anxiety and sorrow under which i write this letter! but if some divine power should happily turn it into joy, i shall not complain of the alarms i now suffer. farewell. lxxxi -- to geminius numidia quadratilla is dead, having almost reached her eightieth year. she enjoyed, up to her last illness, uninterrupted good health, and was unusually stout and robust for one of her sex. she has left a very prudent will, having disposed of two-thirds of her estate to her grandson, and the rest to her grand-daughter. the young lady i know very slightly, but the grandson is one of my most intimate friends. he is a remarkable young man, and his merit entitles him to the affection of a relation, even where his blood does not. notwithstanding his remarkable personal beauty, he escaped every malicious imputation both whilst a boy and when a youth: he was a husband at four-and-twenty, and would have been a father if providence had not disappointed his hopes. he lived in the family with his grandmother, who was exceedingly devoted to the pleasures of the town, yet observed great severity of conduct himself, while always perfectly deferential and submissive to her. she retained a set of pantomimes, and was an encourager of this class of people to a degree inconsistent with one of her sex and rank. but quadratus never appeared at these entertainments, whether she exhibited them in the theatre or in her own house; nor indeed did she require him to be present. i once heard her say, when she was recommending to me the supervision of her grandson's studies, that it was her custom, in order to pass away some of those unemployed hours with which female life abounds, to amuse herself with playing at chess, or seeing the mimicry of her pantomimes; but that, whenever she engaged in either of those amusements, she constantly sent away her grandson to his studies: she appeared to me to act thus as much out of reverence for the youth as from affection. i was a good deal surprised, as i am sure you will be too, at what he told me the last time the pontifical games[ ] were exhibited. as we were coming out of the theatre together, where we had been entertained with a show of these pantomimes, "do you know," said he, "to-day is the first time i ever saw my grandmother's freedman dance?" such was the grandson's speech! while a set of men of a far different stamp, in order to do honour to quadratilla (am ashamed to call it honour), were running up and down the theatre, pretending to be struck with the utmost admiration and rapture at the performances of those pantomimes, and then imitating in musical chant the mien and manner of their lady patroness. but now all the reward they have got, in return for their theatrical performances, is just a few trivial legacies, which they have the mortification to receive from an heir who was never so much as present at these shows.--i send you this account, knowing you do not dislike hearing town news, and because, too, when any occurrence has given me pleasure, i love to renew it again by relating it. and indeed this instance of affection in quadratilla, and the honour done therein to that excellent youth her grandson, has afforded me a very sensible satisfaction; as i extremely rejoice that the house which once belonged to cassius,[ ] the founder and chief of the cassian school, is come into the possession of one no less considerable than its former master. for my friend will fill it and become it as he ought, and its ancient dignity, lustre, and glory will again revive under quadratus, who, i am persuaded, will prove as eminent an orator as cassius was a lawyer. farewell. lxxxii -- to maximus the lingering disorder of a friend of mine gave me occasion lately to reflect that we are never so good as when oppressed with illness. where is the sick man who is either solicited by avarice or inflamed with lust? at such a season he is neither a slave of love nor the fool of ambition; wealth he utterly disregards, and is content with ever so small a portion of it, as being upon the point of leaving even that little. it is then he recollects there are gods, and that he himself is but a man: no mortal is then the object of his envy, his admiration, or his contempt; and the tales of slander neither raise his attention nor feed his curiosity: his dreams are only of baths and fountains. these are the supreme objects of his cares and wishes, while he resolves, if he should recover, to pass the remainder of his days in ease and tranquillity, that is, to live innocently and happily. i may therefore lay down to you and myself a short rule, which the philosophers have endeavoured to inculcate at the expense of many words, and even many volumes; that "we should try and realise in health those resolutions we form in sickness." farewell. lxxxiii -- to sura the present recess from business we are now enjoying affords you leisure to give, and me to receive, instruction. i am extremely desirous therefore to know whether you believe in the existence of ghosts, and that they have a real form, and are a sort of divinities, or only the visionary impressions of a terrified imagination. what particularly inclines me to believe in their existence is a story which i heard of curtius rufus. when he was in low circumstances and unknown in the world, he attended the governor of africa into that province. one evening, as he was walking in the public portico, there appeared to him the figure of a woman, of unusual size and of beauty more than human. and as he stood there, terrified and astonished, she told him she was the tutelary power that presided over africa, and was come to inform him of the future events of his life: that he should go back to rome, to enjoy high honours there, and return to that province invested with the pro-consular dignity, and there should die. every circumstance of this prediction actually came to pass. it is said farther that upon his arrival at carthage, as he was coming out of the ship, the same figure met him upon the shore. it is certain, at least, that being seized with a fit of illness, though there were no symptoms in his case that led those about him to despair, he instantly gave up all hope of recovery; judging, apparently, of the truth of the future part of the prediction by what had already been fulfilled, and of the approaching misfortune from his former prosperity. now the following story, which i am going to tell you just as i heard it, is it not more terrible than the former, while quite as wonderful? there was at athens a large and roomy house, which had a bad name, so that no one could live there. in the dead of the night a noise, resembling the clashing of iron, was frequently heard, which, if you listened more attentively, sounded like the rattling of chains, distant at first, but approaching nearer by degrees: immediately afterwards a spectre appeared in the form of an old man, of extremely emaciated and squalid appearance, with a long beard and dishevelled hair, rattling the chains on his feet and hands. the distressed occupants meanwhile passed their wakeful nights under the most dreadful terrors imaginable. this, as it broke their rest, ruined their health, and brought on distempers, their terror grew upon them, and death ensued. even in the day time, though the spirit did not appear, yet the impression remained so strong upon their imaginations that it still seemed before their eyes, and kept them in perpetual alarm, consequently the house was at length deserted, as being deemed absolutely uninhabitable; so that it was now entirely abandoned to the ghost. however, in hopes that some tenant might be found who was ignorant of this very alarming circumstance, a bill was put up, giving notice that it was either to be let or sold. it happened that athenodorus[ ] the philosopher came to athens at this time, and, reading the bill, enquired the price. the extraordinary cheapness raised his suspicion; nevertheless, when he heard the whole story, he was so far from being discouraged that he was more strongly inclined to hire it, and, in short, actually did so. when it grew towards evening, he ordered a couch to be prepared for him in the front part of the house, and, after calling for a light, together with his pencil and tablets, directed all his people to retire. but that his mind might not, for want of employment, be open to the vain terrors of imaginary noises and spirits, he applied himself to writing with the utmost attention. the first part of the night passed in entire silence, as usual; at length a clanking of iron and rattling of chains was heard: however, he neither lifted up his eyes nor laid down his pen, but in order to keep calm and collected tried to pass the sounds off to himself as something else. the noise increased and advanced nearer, till it seemed at the door, and at last in the chamber. he looked up, saw, and recognized the ghost exactly as it had been described to him: it stood before him, beckoning with the finger, like a person who calls another. athenodorus in reply made a sign with his hand that it should wait a little, and threw his eyes again upon his papers; the ghost then rattled its chains over the head of the philosopher, who looked up upon this, and seeing it beckoning as before, immediately arose, and, light in hand, followed it. the ghost slowly stalked along, as if encumbered with its chains, and, turning into the area of the house, suddenly vanished. athenodorus, being thus deserted, made a mark with some grass and leaves on the spot where the spirit left him. the next day he gave information to the magistrates, and advised them to order that spot to be dug up. this was accordingly done, and the skeleton of a man in chains was found there; for the body, having lain a considerable time in the ground, was putrefied and mouldered away from the fetters. the bones being collected together were publicly buried, and thus after the ghost was appeased by the proper ceremonies, the house was haunted no more. this story i believe upon the credit of others; what i am going to mention, i give you upon my own. i have a freedman named marcus, who is by no means illiterate. one night, as he and his younger brother were lying together, he fancied he saw somebody upon his bed, who took out a pair of scissors, and cut off the hair from the top part of his own head, and in the morning, it appeared his hair was actually cut, and the clippings lay scattered about the floor. a short time after this, an event of a similar nature contributed to give credit to the former story. a young lad of my family was sleeping in his apartment with the rest of his companions, when two persons clad in white came in, as he says, through the windows, cut off his hair as he lay, and then returned the same way they entered. the next morning it was found that this boy had been served just as the other, and there was the hair again, spread about the room. nothing remarkable indeed followed these events, unless perhaps that i escaped a prosecution, in which, if domitian (during whose reign this happened) had lived some time longer, i should certainly have been involved. for after the death of that emperor, articles of impeachment against me were found in his scrutore, which had been exhibited by carus. it may therefore be conjectured, since it is customary for persons under any public accusation to let their hair grow, this cutting off the hair of my servants was a sign i should escape the imminent danger that threatened me. let me desire you then to give this question your mature consideration. the subject deserves your examination; as, i trust, i am not myself altogether unworthy a participation in the abundance of your superior knowledge. and though you should, as usual, balance between two opinions, yet i hope you will lean more on one side than on the other, lest, whilst i consult you in order to have my doubt settled, you should dismiss me in the same suspense and indecision that occasioned you the present application. farewell. lxxxiv -- to septitius you tell me certain persons have blamed me in your company, as being upon all occasions too lavish in the praise i give my friends. i not only acknowledge the charge, but glory in it; for can there be a nobler error than an overflowing benevolence? but still, who are these, let me ask, that are better acquainted with my friends than i am myself? yet grant there are any such, why will they deny me the satisfaction of so pleasing a mistake? for supposing my friends not to deserve the highest encomiums i give them, yet i am happy in believing they do. let them recommend then this malignant zeal to those (and their number is not inconsiderable) who imagine they show their judgment when they indulge their censure upon their friends. as for myself, they will never be able to persuade me i can be guilty of an excess[ ] in friendship, farewell. lxxxv -- to tacitus i predict (and i am persuaded i shall not be deceived) that your histories will be immortal. i frankly own therefore i so much the more earnestly wish to find a place in them. if we are generally careful to have our faces taken by the best artists, ought we not to desire that our actions may be celebrated by an author of your distinguished abilities? i therefore call your attention to the following matter, which, though it cannot have escaped your notice, as it is mentioned in the public journals, still i call your attention to, that you may the more readily believe how agreeable it will be to me that this action, greatly heightened by the risk which attended it, should receive additional lustre from the testimony of a man of your powers. the senate appointed herennius senecio, and myself, counsel for the province of baetica, in their impeachment of boebius massa. he was condemned, and the house ordered his effects to be seized into the hands of the public officer. shortly after, senecio, having learnt that the consuls intended to sit to hear petitions, came and said to me, "let us go together, and petition them with the same unanimity in which we executed the office which had been enjoined us, not to suffer massa's effects to be dissipated by those who were appointed to preserve them." i answered, "as we were counsel in this affair by order of the senate, i recommend it to your consideration whether it would be proper for us, after sentence passed, to interpose any farther." "you are at liberty," said he, "to prescribe what bounds you please to yourself, who have no particular connections with the province, except what arise from your late services to them; but then i was born there, and enjoyed the post of quaestor among them." "if such," i replied, "is your determined resolution, i am ready to accompany you, that whatever resentment may be the consequence of this affair, it may not fall singly upon yourself." we accordingly proceeded to the consuls, where senecio said what was pertinent to the affair, and i added a few words to the same effect. scarcely had we ended when massa, complaining that senecio had not acted against him with the fidelity of an advocate, but the bitterness of an enemy, desired he might be at liberty to prosecute him for treason. this occasioned general consternation. whereupon i rose up; "most noble consuls," said i, "i am afraid it should seem that massa has tacitly charged me with having favoured him in this cause, since he did not think proper to join me with senecio in the desired prosecution." this short speech was immediately received with applause, and afterwards got much talked about everywhere. the late emperor nerva (who, though at that time in a private station, yet interested himself in every meritorious action performed in public) wrote a most impressive letter to me upon the occasion, in which he not only congratulated me, but the age which had produced an example so much in the spirit (as he was pleased to call it) of the good old days. but, whatever be the actual fact, it lies in your power to raise it into a grander and more conspicuously illustrious position, though i am far from desiring you in the least to exceed the bounds of reality. history ought to be guided by strict truth, and worthy actions require nothing more. farewell. lxxx vi -- to septitius i had a good journey here, excepting only that some of my servants were upset by the excessive heat. poor encolpius, my reader,[ ] who is so indispensable to me in my studies and amusements, was so affected with the dust that it brought on a spitting of blood: an accident which will prove no less unpleasant to me than unfortunate to himself, should he be thereby rendered unfit for the literary work in which he so greatly excels. if that should unhappily result, where shall i find one who will read my works so well, or appreciate them so thoroughly as he? whose tones will my ears drink in as they do his? but the gods seem to favour our better hopes, as the bleeding is stopped, and the pain abated. besides, he is extremely temperate; while no concern is wanting on my part or care on his physician's. this, together with the wholesomeness of the air, and the quiet of retirement, gives us reason to expect that the country will contribute as much to the restoration of his health as to his rest. farewell. lxxxvii -- to calvisius other people visit their estates in order to recruit their purses; whilst i go to mine only to return so much the poorer. i had sold my vintage to the merchants, who were extremely eager to purchase it, encouraged by the price it then bore, and what it was probable it would rise to: however they were disappointed in their expectations. upon this occasion to have made the same general abatement to all would have been much the easiest, though not so equitable a method. now i hold it particularly worthy of a man of honour to be governed by principles of strict equity in his domestic as well as public conduct; in little matters as in great ones; in his own concerns as well as in those of others. and if every deviation from rectitude is equally criminal,[ ] every approach to it must be equally praiseworthy. so accordingly i remitted to all in general one-eighth part of the price they had agreed to give me, that none might go away without some compensation: next, i particularly considered those who had advanced the largest sums towards their purchase, and done me so much the more service, and been greater sufferers themselves. to those, therefore, whose purchase amounted to more than ten thousand sesterces,[ ] i returned (over and above that which i may call the general and common eighth) a tenth part of what they had paid beyond that sum. i fear i do not express myself sufficiently clearly; i will endeavour to explain my meaning more fully: for instance, suppose a man had purchased of me to the value of fifteen thousand sesterces,[ ] i remitted to him one-eighth part of that whole sum, and likewise one-tenth of five thousand.[ ] besides this, as several had deposited, in different proportions, part of the price they had agreed to pay, whilst others had advanced nothing, i thought it would not be at all fair that all these should be favoured with the same undistinguished remission. to those, therefore, who had made any payments, i returned a tenth part upon the sums so paid. by this means i made a proper acknowledgment to each, according to their respective deserts, and likewise encouraged them, not only to deal with me for the future, but to be prompt in their payments. this instance of my good- nature or my judgment (call it which you please) was a considerable expense to me. however, i found my account in it; for all the country greatly approved both of the novelty of these abatements and the manner in which i regulated them. even those whom i did not "mete" (as they say) "by the same measure," but distinguished according to their several degrees, thought themselves obliged to me, in proportion to the probity of their principles, and went away pleased with having experienced that not with me "the brave and mean an equal honour find."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> farewell. lxxx viii -- to romanus have you ever seen the source of the river clitumnus? if you have not (and i hardly think you can have seen it yet, or you would have told me), go there as soon as possible. i saw it yesterday, and i blame myself for not having seen it sooner. at the foot of a little hill, well wooded with old cypress trees, a spring gushes out, which, breaking up into different and unequal streams, forms itself, after several windings, into a large, broad basin of water, so transparently clear that you may count the shining pebbles, and the little pieces of money thrown into it, as they lie at the bottom. from thence it is carried off not so much by the declivity of the ground as by its own weight and exuberance. a mere stream at its source, immediately, on quitting this, you find it expanded into a broad river, fit for large vessels even, allowing a free passage by each other, according as they sail with or against the stream. the current runs so strong, though the ground is level, that the large barges going down the river have no occasion to make use of their oars; while those going up find it difficult to make headway even with the assistance of oars and poles: and this alternate interchange of ease and toil, according as you turn, is exceedingly amusing when one sails up and down merely for pleasure. the banks are well covered with ash and poplar, the shape and colour of the trees being as clearly and distinctly reflected in the stream as if they were actually sunk in it. the water is cold as snow, and as white too. near it stands an ancient and venerable temple, in which is placed the river- god clitumnus clothed in the usual robe of state; and indeed the prophetic oracles here delivered sufficiently testify the immediate presence of that divinity. several little chapels are scattered round, dedicated to particular gods, distinguished each by his own peculiar name and form of worship, and some of them, too, presiding over different fountains. for, besides the principal spring, which is, as it were, the parent of all the rest, there are several other lesser streams, which, taking their rise from various sources, lose themselves in the river; over which a bridge is built that separates the sacred part from that which lies open to common use. vessels are allowed to come above this bridge, but no person is permitted to swim except below it. the hispellates, to whom augustus gave this place, furnish a public bath, and likewise entertain all strangers, at their own expense. several villas, attracted by the beauty of this river, stand about on its borders. in short, every surrounding object will afford you entertainment. you may also amuse yourself with numberless inscriptions upon the pillars and walls, by different persons, celebrating the virtues of the fountain, and the divinity that presides over it. many of them you will admire, while some will make you laugh; but i must correct myself when i say so; you are too humane, i know, to laugh upon such an occasion. farewell. lxxxix -- to aristo as you are no less acquainted with the political laws of your country (which include the customs and usages of the senate) than with the civil, i am particularly desirous to have your opinion whether i was mistaken in an affair which lately came before the house, or not. this i request, not with a view of being directed in my judgment as to what is passed (for that is now too late), but in order to know how to act in any possible future case of the kind. you will, ask, perhaps, "why do you apply for information concerning a point on which you ought to be well instructed?" because the tyranny of former reigns,[ ] as it introduced a neglect and ignorance of all other parts of useful knowledge, so particularly of what relates to the customs of the senate; for who is there so tamely industrious as to desire to learn what he can never have an opportunity of putting in practice? besides, it is not very easy to retain even the knowledge one has acquired where no opportunity of employing it occurs. hence it was that liberty, on her return[ ] found us totally ignorant and inexperienced; and thus in the warmth of our eagerness to taste her sweets, we are sometimes hurried off to action, ere we are well instructed how we ought to act. but by the institution of our ancestors, it was wisely provided that the young should learn from the old, not only by precept, but by their own observation, how to behave in that sphere in which they were one day themselves to move; while these, again, in their turn, transmitted the same mode of instruction to their children. upon this principle it was that the youth were sent early into the army, that by being taught to obey they might learn to command, and, whilst they followed others, might be trained by degrees to become leaders themselves. on the same principle, when they were candidates for any office, they were obliged to stand at the door of the senate-house, and were spectators of the public council before they became members of it. the father of each youth was his instructor upon these occasions, or if he had none, some person of years and dignity supplied the place of a father. thus they were taught by that surest method of discipline, example; how far the right of proposing any law to the senate extended; what privileges a senator had in delivering his opinion in the house; the power of the magistrates in that assembly, and the rights of the rest of the members; where it is proper to yield, and where to insist; when and how long to speak, and when to be silent; how to make necessary distinctions between contrary opinions, and how to improve upon a former motion: in a word, they learnt by this means every senatorial usage. as for myself, it is true indeed, i served in the army when i was a youth; but it was at a time when courage was suspected, and want of spirit rewarded; when generals were without authority, and soldiers without modesty; when there was neither discipline nor obedience, but all was riot, disorder, and confusion; in short, when it was happier to forget than to remember what one learnt. i attended likewise in my youth the senate, but a senate shrinking and speechless; where it was dangerous to utter one's opinion, and mean and pitiable to be silent. what pleasure was there in learning, or indeed what could be learnt, when the senate was convened either to do nothing whatever or to give their sanction to some consummate infamy! when they were assembled either for cruel or ridiculous purposes, and when their deliberations were never serious, though often sad! but i was not only a witness to this scene of wretchedness, as a spectator; i bore my share of it too as a senator, and both saw and suffered under it for many years; which so broke and damped my spirits that they have not even yet been able fully to recover themselves. it is within quite recently (for all time seems short in proportion to its happiness) that we could take any pleasure in knowing what relates to or in setting about the duties of our station. upon these considerations, therefore, i may the more reasonably entreat you, in the first place, to pardon my error (if i have been guilty of one), and, in the next, to lead me out of it by your superior knowledge: for you have always been diligent to examine into the constitution of your country, both with respect to its public and private, its ancient and modern, its general and special laws. i am persuaded indeed the point upon which i am going to consult you is such an unusual one that even those whose great experience in public business must have made them, one would have naturally supposed, acquainted with everything were either doubtful or absolutely ignorant upon it. i shall be more excusable, therefore, if i happen to have been mistaken; as you will earn the higher praise if you can set me right in an affair which it is not clear has ever yet fallen within your observation. the enquiry then before the house was concerning the freedmen of afranius dexter, who being found murdered, it was uncertain whether he fell by his own hands, or by those of his household; and if the latter, whether they committed the fact in obedience to the commands of afranius, or were prompted to it by their own villainy. after they had been put to the question, a certain senator (it is of no importance to mention his name, but if you are desirous to know, it was myself) was for acquitting them; another proposed that they should be banished for a limited time; and a third that they should suffer death. these several opinions were so extremely different that it was impossible either of them could stand with the other. for what have death and banishment in common with one another? why, no more than banishment and acquittal have together. though an acquittal approaches rather nearer a sentence of exile than a sentence of death does: for both the former agree at least in this that they spare life, whereas the latter takes it away. in the meanwhile, those senators who were for punishing with death, and those who proposed banishment, sat together on the same side of the house: and thus by a present appearance of unanimity suspended their real disagreement. i moved, therefore, that the votes for each of the three opinions should be separately taken, and that two of them should not, under favour of a short truce between themselves, join against the third. i insisted that such of the members who were for capital punishment should divide from the others who voted for banishment; and that these two distinct parties should not be permitted to form themselves into a body, in opposition to those who declared for acquittal, when they would immediately after disunite again: for it was not material that they agreed in disliking one proposal, since they differed with respect to the other two. it seemed very extraordinary that he who moved the freedmen should be banished, and the slaves suffer death, should not be allowed to join these two in one motion, but that each question should be ordered to be put to the house separately; and yet that the votes of one who was for inflicting capital punishment upon the freedmen should be taken together with that of one who was for banishing them. for if, in the former instance, it was reasonable that the motion should be divided, because it comprehended two distinct propositions, i could not see why, in the latter case, suffrages so extremely different should be thrown into the same scale. permit me, then, notwithstanding the point is already settled, to go over it again as if it were still undecided, and to lay before you those reasons at my ease, which i offered to the house in the midst of much interruption and clamour. let us suppose there had been only three judges appointed to hear this cause, one of whom was of opinion that the parties in question deserved death; the other that they should only be banished; and the third that they ought to be acquitted: should the two former unite their weight to overpower the latter, or should each be separately balanced? for the first and second are no more compatible than the second and third. they ought therefore in the same manner to be counted in the senate as contrary opinions, since they were delivered as different ones. suppose the same person had moved that they should both have been banished and put to death, could they possibly, in pursuance of this opinion, have suffered both punishments? or could it have been looked upon as one consistent motion when it united two such different decisions? why then should the same opinion, when delivered by distinct persons, be considered as one and entire, which would not be deemed so if it were proposed by a single man? does not the law manifestly imply that a distinction is to be made between those who are for a capital conviction, and those who are for banishment, in the very form of words made use of when the house is ordered to divide? you who are of such an opinion, come to this side; you who are of any other, go over to the side of him whose opinion you follow. let us examine this form, and weigh every sentence: you who are of this opinion: that is, for instance, you who are for banishment, come on this side; namely, on the side of him who moved for banishment. from whence it is clear he cannot remain on this side of those who are for death. you who are for any other: observe, the law is not content with barely saying another, but it adds any. now can there be a doubt as to whether they who declare for a capital conviction are of any other opinion than those who propose exile! go over to the side of him whose opinion you follow: does not the law seem, as it were, to call, compel, drive over, those who are of different opinions, to contrary sides? does not the consul himself point out, not only by this solemn form of words, but by his hand and gesture, the place in which every man is to remain, or to which he is to go over? "but," it is objected, "if this separation is made between those who vote for inflicting death, and those who are on the side of exile, the opinion for acquitting the prisoners must necessarily prevail." but how does that affect the parties who vote? certainly it does not become them to contend by every art, and urge every expedient, that the milder sentence may not take place. "still," say they, "those who are for condemning the accused either capitally or to banishment should be first set in opposition to those who are for acquitting them, and afterwards weighed against each other." thus, as, in certain public games, some particular combatant is set apart by lot and kept to engage with the conqueror; so, it seems, in the senate there is a first and second combat, and of two different opinions, the prevailing one has still a third to contend with. what? when any particular opinion is received, do not all the rest fall of course? is it reasonable, then, that one should be thrown into the scale merely to weigh down another? to express my meaning more plainly: unless the two parties who are respectively for capital punishment and exile immediately separate upon the first division of the house it would be to no purpose afterwards to dissent from those with whom they joined before. but i am dictating instead of receiving instruction. -- tell me then whether you think these votes should have been taken separately? my motion, it is true, prevailed; nevertheless i am desirous to know whether you think i ought to have insisted upon this point, or have yielded as that member did who declared for capital punishment? for convinced, i will not say of the legality, but at least of the equity of my proposal, he receded from his opinion, and went over to the party for exile: fearing perhaps, if the votes were taken separately (which he saw would be the case), the freedmen would be acquitted: for the numbers were far greater on that side than on either of the other two, separately counted. the consequence was that those who had been influenced by his authority, when they saw themselves forsaken by his going over to the other party, gave up a motion which they found abandoned by the first proposer, and deserted, as it were, with their leader. thus the three opinions were resolved at length into two; and of those two, one prevailed, and the other was rejected; while the third, as it was not powerful enough to conquer both the others, had only to choose to which of the two it would yield. farewell. xc -- to paternus the sickness lately in my family, which has carried off several of my servants, some of them, too, in the prime of their years, has been a great affliction to me. i have two consolations, however, which, though by no means equivalent to such a grief, still are consolations. one is, that as i have always readily manumitted my slaves, their death does not seem altogether immature, if they lived long enough to receive their freedom: the other, that i have allowed them to make a kind of will,[ ] which i observe as religiously as if they were legally entitled to that privilege. i receive and obey their last requests and injunctions as so many authoritative commands, suffering them to dispose of their effects to whom they please; with this single restriction, that they leave them to some one in my household, for to slaves the house they are in is a kind of state and commonwealth, so to speak. but though i endeavor to acquiesce under these reflections, yet the same tenderness which led me to show them these indulgences weakens and gets the better of me. however, i would not wish on that account to become harder: though the generality of the world, i know, look upon losses of this kind in no other view than as a diminution of their property, and fancy, by cherishing such an unfeeling temper, they show a superior fortitude and philosophy. their fortitude and philosophy i will not dispute. but humane, i am sure, they are not; for it is the very criterion of true manhood to feel those impressions of sorrow which it endeavors to resist, and to admit not to be above the want of consolation. but perhaps i have detained you too long upon this subject, though not so long as i would. there is a certain pleasure even in giving vent to one's grief; especially when we weep on the bosom of a friend who will approve, or, at least, pardon, our tears. farewell. xci -- to macrinus is the weather with you as rude and boisterous as it is with us? all here is in tempest and inundation. the tiber has swelled its channel, and overflowed its banks far and wide. though the wise precaution of the emperor had guarded against this evil, by cutting several outlets to the river, it has nevertheless flooded all the fields and valleys and entirely overspread the whole face of the flat country. it seems to have gone out to meet those rivers which it used to receive and carry off in one united stream, and has driven them back to deluge those countries it could not reach itself. that most delightful of rivers, the anio, which seems invited and detained in its course by the villas built along its banks, has almost entirely rooted up and carried away the woods which shaded its borders. it has overthrown whole mountains, and, in endeavouring to find a passage through the mass of ruins that obstructed its way, has forced down houses, and risen and spread over the desolation it has occasioned. the inhabitants of the hill countries, who are situated above the reach of this inundation, have been the melancholy spectators of its dreadful effects, having seen costly furniture, instruments of husbandry, ploughs, and oxen with their drivers, whole herds of cattle, together with the trunks of trees, and beams of the neighbouring villas, floating about in different parts. nor indeed have these higher places themselves, to which the waters could not reach up, escaped the calamity. a continued heavy rain and tempestuous hurricane, as destructive as the river itself, poured down upon them, and has destroyed all the enclosures which divided that fertile country. it has damaged likewise, and even overturned, some of the public buildings, by the fall of which great numbers have been maimed, smothered, bruised. and thus lamentation over the fate of friends has been added to losses. i am extremely uneasy lest this extensive ruin should have spread to you: i beg therefore, if it has not, you will immediately relieve my anxiety; and indeed i desire you would inform me though it should have done so; for the difference is not great between fearing a danger, and feeling it; except that the evil one feels has some bounds, whereas one's apprehensions have none. for we can suffer no more than what actually has happened but we fear all that possibly could happen. farewell. xcii -- to rufinus the common notion is certainly quite a false one, that a man's will is a kind of mirror in which we may clearly discern his real character, for domitius tullus appears a much better man since his death than he did during his lifetime. after having artfully encouraged the expectations of those who paid court to him, with a view to being his heirs, he has left his estate to his niece whom he adopted. he has given likewise several very considerable legacies among his grandchildren, and also to his great-grandson. in a word, he has shown himself a most kind relation throughout his whole will; which is so much the more to be admired as it was not expected of him. this affair has been very much talked about, and various opinions expressed: some call him false, ungrateful, and forgetful, and, while thus railing at him in this way as if they were actually disinherited kindred, betray their own dishonest designs: others, on the contrary, applaud him extremely for having disappointed the hopes of this infamous tribe of men, whom, considering the disposition of the times, it is but prudence to deceive. they add that he was not at liberty to make any other will, and that he cannot so properly be said to have bequeathed, as returned, his estate to his adopted daughter, since it was by her means it came to him. for curtilius mancia, whose daughter domitius lucanus, brother to this tullus, married, having taken a dislike to his son-in-law, made this young lady (who was the issue of that marriage) his heiress, upon condition that lucanus her father would emancipate her. he accordingly did so, but she being afterwards adopted by tullus, her uncle, the design of mancia's will was entirely frustrated. for these two brothers having never divided their patrimony, but living together as joint- tenants of one common estate, the daughter of lucanus, notwithstanding the act of emancipation, returned back again, together with her large fortune, under the dominion of her father, by means of this fraudulent adoption. it seems indeed to have been the fate of these two brothers to be enriched by those who had the greatest aversion to them. for domitius afer, by whom they were adopted, left a will in their favour, which he had made eighteen years before his death; though it was plain he had since altered his opinion with regard to the family, because he was instrumental in procuring the confiscation of their father's estate. there is something extremely singular in the resentment of afer, and the good fortune of the other two; as it was very extraordinary, on the one hand, that domitius should endeavour to extirpate from the privileges of society a man whose children he had adopted, and, on the other, that these brothers should find a parent in the very person that ruined their father. but tullus acted justly, after having been appointed sole heir by his brother, in prejudice to his own daughter, to make her amends by transferring to her this estate, which came to him from afer, as well as all the rest which he had gained in partnership with his brother. his will therefore deserves the higher praise, having been dictated by nature, justice, and sense of honour; in which he has returned his obligations to his several relations, according to their respective good offices towards him, not forgetting his wife, having bequeathed to that excellent woman, who patiently endured much for his sake, several delightful villas, besides a large sum of money. and indeed she deserved so much the more at his hands, in proportion to the displeasure she incurred on her marriage with him. it was thought unworthy a person of her birth and repute, so long left a widow by her former husband, by whom she had issue, to marry, in the decline of her life, an old man, merely for his wealth, and who was so sickly and infirm that, even had he passed the best years of his youth and health with her, she might well have been heartily tired of him. he had so entirely lost the use of all his limbs that he could not move himself in bed without assistance; and the only enjoyment he had of his riches was to contemplate them. he was even (sad and disgusting to relate) reduced to the necessity of having his teeth washed and scrubbed by others: in allusion to which he used frequently to say, when he was complaining of the indignities which his infirmities obliged him to suffer, that he was every day compelled to lick his servant's fingers. still, however, he lived on, and was willing to accept of life upon such terms. that he lived so long as he did was particularly owing, indeed, to the care of his wife, who, whatever reputation she might lose at first by her marriage, acquired great honour by her unwearied devotion as his wife. -- thus i have given you all the news of the town, where nothing is talked of but tullus. it is expected his curiosities will shortly be sold by auction. he had such an abundant collection of very old statues that he actually filled an extensive garden with them, the very same day he purchased it; not to mention numberless other antiques, lying neglected in his lumber-room. if you have anything worth telling me in return, i hope you will not refuse the trouble of writing to me: not only as we are all of us naturally fond, you know, of news, but because example has a very beneficial influence upon our own conduct. farewell. xciii -- to gallus those works of art or nature which are usually the motives of our travels are often overlooked and neglected if they lie within our reach: whether it be that we are naturally less inquisitive concerning those things which are near us, while our curiosity is excited by remote objects; or because the easiness of gratifying a desire is always sure to damp it; or, perhaps, that we put off from time to time going and seeing what we know we have an opportunity of seeing when we please. whatever the reason be, it is certain there are numberless curiosities in and near rome which we have not only never seen, but even never so much as heard of: and yet had they been the produce of greece, or egypt, or asia, or any other country which we admire as fertile and productive of belief in wonders, we should long since have heard of them, read of them, and enquired into them. for myself at least, i confess, i have lately been entertained with one of these curiosities, to which i was an entire stranger before. my wife's grandfather desired i would look over his estate near ameria.[ ] as i was walking over his grounds, was shown a lake that lies below them, called vadirnon,[ ] about which several very extraordinary things are told. i went up to this lake. it is perfectly circular in form, like a wheel lying on the ground; there is not the least curve or projection of the shore, but all is regular, even, and just as if it had been hollowed and cut out by the hand of art. the water is of a clear sky-blue, though with somewhat of a greenish tinge; its smell is sulphurous, and its flavour has medicinal properties, and is deemed of great efficacy in all fractures of the limbs, which it is supposed to heal. though of but moderate extent, yet the winds have a great effect upon it, throwing it into violent agitation. no vessels are suffered to sail here, as its waters are held sacred; but several floating islands swim about it, covered with reeds and rushes, and with whatever other plants the surrounding marshy ground and the edge itself of the lake produce in greater abundance. each island has its peculiar shape and size, but the edges of all of them are worn away by their frequent collision with the shore and one another. they are all of the same height and motion; as their respective roots, which are formed like the keel of a boat, may be seen hanging not very far down in the water, and at an equal depth, on whichever side you stand. sometimes they move in a cluster, and seem to form one entire little continent; sometimes they are dispersed into different quarters by the wind; at other times, when it is calm, they float up and down separately. you may frequently see one of the larger islands sailing along with a lesser joined to it, like a ship with its long boat; or, perhaps, seeming to strive which shall out-swim the other: then again they are all driven to the same spot, and by joining themselves to the shore, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, lessen or restore the size of the lake in this part or that, accordingly, till at last uniting in the centre they restore it to its usual size. the sheep which graze upon the borders of this lake frequently go upon these islands to feed, without perceiving that they have left the shore, until they are alarmed by finding themselves surrounded with water; as though they had been forcibly conveyed and placed there. afterwards, when the wind drives them back again, they as little perceive their return as their departure. this lake empties itself into a river, which, after running a little way, sinks under ground, and, if anything is thrown in, it brings it up again where the stream emerges.--i have given you this account because i imagined it would not be less new, nor less agreeable, to you than it was to me; as i know you take the same pleasure as myself in contemplating the works of nature. farewell. xciv -- to arrianus nothing, in my opinion, gives a more amiable and becoming grace to our studies, as well as manners, than to temper the serious with the gay, lest the former should degenerate into melancholy, and the latter run up into levity. upon this plan it is that i diversify my graver works with compositions of a lighter nature. i had chosen a convenient place and season for some productions of that sort to make their appearance in; and designing to accustom them early to the tables of the idle, i fixed upon the month of july, which is usually a time of vacation to the courts of justice, in order to read them to some of my friends i had collected together; and accordingly i placed a desk before each couch. but as i happened that morning to be unexpectedly called away to attend a cause, i took occasion to preface my recital with an apology. i entreated my audience not to impute it to me as any want of due regard for the business to which i had invited them that on the very day i had appointed for reading my performances to a small circle of my friends i did not refuse my services to others in their law affairs. i assured them i would observe the same rule in my writings, and should always give the preference to business, before pleasure; to serious engagements before amusing ones; and to my friends before myself. the poems i recited consisted of a variety of subjects in different metres. it is thus that we who dare not rely for much upon our abilities endeavour to avoid satiating our readers. in compliance with the earnest solicitation of my audience, i recited for two days successively; but not in the manner that several practise, by passing over the feebler passages, and making a merit of so doing: on the contrary, i omitted nothing, and freely confessed it. i read the whole, that i might correct the whole; which it is impossible those who only select particular passages can do. the latter method, indeed, may have more the appearance of modesty, and perhaps respect; but the former shows greater simplicity, as well as a more affectionate disposition towards the audience. for the belief that a man's friends have so much regard for him as not to be weary on these occasions, is a sure indication of the love he bears them. otherwise, what good do friends do you who assemble merely for their own amusement? he who had rather find his friend's performance correct, than make it so, is to be regarded as a stranger, or one who is too lackadaisical to give himself any trouble. your affection for me leaves me no room to doubt that you are impatient to read my book, even in its present very imperfect condition. and so you shall, but not until i have made those corrections which were the principal inducement of my recital. you are already acquainted with some parts of it; but even those, after they have been improved (or perhaps spoiled, as is sometimes the case by the delay of excessive revision) will seem quite new to you. for when a piece has undergone various changes, it gets to look new, even in those very parts which remain unaltered. farewell. xcv -- to maximus my affection for you obliges me, not indeed to direct you (for you are far above the want of a guide), but to admonish you carefully to observe and resolutely to put in practice what you already know, that is, in other words, to know it to better purpose. consider that you are sent to that noble province, achaia, the real and genuine greece, where politeness, learning, and even agriculture itself, are supposed to have taken their first rise; sent to regulate the condition of free cities; sent, that is, to a society of men who breathe the spirit of true manhood and liberty; who have maintained the rights they received from nature, by courage, by virtue, by alliances; in a word, by civil and religious faith. revere the gods their founders; their ancient glory, and even that very antiquity itself which, venerable in men, is sacred in states. honour them therefore for their deeds of old renown, nay, their very legendary traditions. grant to every one his full dignity, privileges, yes, and the indulgence of his very vanity. remember it was from this nation we derived our laws; that she did not receive ours by conquest, but gave us hers by favour. remember, it is athens to which you go; it is lacedaemon you govern; and to deprive such a people of the declining shadow, the remaining name of liberty, would be cruel, inhuman, barbarous. physicians, you see, though in sickness there is no difference between freedom and slavery, yet treat persons of the former rank with more tenderness than those of the latter. reflect what these cities once were; but so reflect as not to despise them for what they are now. far be pride and asperity from my friend; nor fear, by a proper condescension, to lay yourself open to contempt. can he who is vested with the power and bears the ensigns of authority, can he fail of meeting with respect, unless by pursuing base and sordid measures, and first breaking through that reverence he owes to himself? ill, believe me, is power proved by insult; ill can terror command veneration, and far more effectual is affection in obtaining one's purpose than fear. for terror operates no longer than its object is present, but love produces its effects with its object at a distance: and as absence changes the former into hatred, it raises the latter into respect. and therefore you ought (and i cannot but repeat it too often), you ought to well consider the nature of your office, and to represent to yourself how great and important the task is of governing a free state. for what can be better for society than such government, what can be more precious than freedom? how ignominious then must his conduct be who turns good government into anarchy, and liberty into slavery? to these considerations let me add, that you have an established reputation to maintain: the fame you acquired by the administration of the quaestorship in bithynia,[ ] the good opinion of the emperor, the credit you obtained when you were tribune and praetor, in a word, this very government, which may be looked upon as the reward of your former services, are all so many glorious weights which are incumbent upon you to support with suitable dignity. the more strenuously therefore you ought to endeavour that it may not be said you showed greater urbanity, integrity, and ability in a province remote from rome, than in one which lies so much nearer the capital; in the midst of a nation of slaves, than among a free people; that it may not be remarked, that it was chance, and not judgment, appointed you to this office; that your character was unknown and unexperienced, not tried and approved. for (and it is a maxim which your reading and conversation must have often suggested to you) it is a far greater disgrace losing the name one has once acquired than never to have attained it. i again beg you to be persuaded that i did not write this letter with a design of instruction, but of reminder. though indeed, if i had, it would have only been in consequence of the great affection i bear you: a sentiment which i am in no fear of carrying beyond its just bounds: for there can be no danger of excess where one cannot love too well. farewell. xcvi -- to paulinus others may think as they please; but the happiest man, in my opinion, is he who lives in the conscious anticipation of an honest and enduring name, and secure of future glory in the eyes of posterity. i confess, if i had not the reward of an immortal reputation in view, i should prefer a life of uninterrupted ease and indolent retirement to any other. there seems to be two points worthy every man's attention: endless fame, or the short duration of life. those who are actuated by the former motive ought to exert themselves to the very utmost of their power; while such as are influenced by the latter should quietly resign themselves to repose, and not wear out a short life in perishable pursuits, as we see so many doing--and then sink at last into utter self-contempt, in the midst of a wretched and fruitless course of false industry. these are my daily reflections, which i communicate to you, in order to renounce them if you do not agree with them; as undoubtedly you will, who are for ever meditating some glorious and immortal enterprise. farewell. xcvii -- to calvisius i have spent these several days past, in reading and writing, with the most pleasing tranquillity imaginable. you will ask, "how that can possibly be in the midst of rome?" it was the time of celebrating the circensian games; an entertainment for which i have not the least taste. they have no novelty, no variety to recommend them, nothing, in short, one would wish to see twice. it does the more surprise me therefore that so many thousand people should be possessed with the childish passion of desiring so often to see a parcel of horses gallop, and men standing upright in their chariots. if, indeed, it were the swiftness of the horses, or the skill of the men that attracted them, there might be some pretence of reason for it. but it is the dress[ ] they like; it is the dress that takes their fancy. and if, in the midst of the course and contest, the different parties were to change colours, their different partisans would change sides, and instantly desert the very same men and horses whom just before they were eagerly following with their eyes, as far as they could see, and shouting out their names with all their might. such mighty charms, such wondrous power reside in the colour of a paltry tunic! and this not only with the common crowd (more contemptible than the dress they espouse), but even with serious-thinking people. when i observe such men thus insatiably fond of so silly, so low, so uninteresting, so common an entertainment, i congratulate myself on my indifference to these pleasures: and am glad to employ the leisure of this season upon my books, which others throw away upon the most idle occupations. farewell. xcviii -- to romanus i am pleased to find by your letter that you are engaged in building; for i may now defend my own conduct by your example. i am myself employed in the same sort of work; and since i have you, who shall deny i have reason on my side? our situations too are not dissimilar; your buildings are carried on upon the sea-coast, mine are rising upon the side of the larian lake. i have several villas upon the borders of this lake, but there are two particularly in which, as i take most delight, so they give me most employment. they are both situated like those at baiae:[ ] one of them stands upon a rock, and overlooks the lake; the other actually touches it. the first, supported as it were by the lofty buskin,[ ] i call my tragic; the other, as resting upon the humble rock, my comic villa. each has its own peculiar charm, recommending it to its possessor so much more on account of this very difference. the former commands a wider, the latter enjoys a nearer view of the lake. one, by a gentle curve, embraces a little bay; the other, being built upon a greater height, forms two. here you have a strait walk extending itself along the banks of the lake; there, a spacious terrace that falls by a gentle descent towards it. the former does not feel the force of the waves; the latter breaks them; from that you see the fishing- vessels; from this you may fish yourself, and throw your line out of your room, and almost from your bed, as from off a boat. it is the beauties therefore these agreeable villas possess that tempt me to add to them those which are wanting.--but i need not assign a reason to you; who, undoubtedly, will think it a sufficient one that i follow your example. farewell. xcix -- to geminus your letter was particularly acceptable to me, as it mentioned your desire that i would send you something of mine, addressed to you, to insert in your works. i shall find a more appropriate occasion of complying with your request than that which you propose, the subject you point out to me being attended with some objections; and when you reconsider it, you will think so.--as i did not imagine there were any booksellers at lugdunum,[ ] i am so much the more pleased to learn that my works are sold there. i rejoice to find they maintain the character abroad which they raised at home, and i begin to flatter myself they have some merit, since persons of such distant countries are agreed in their opinion with regard to them. farewell. c -- to junior a certain friend of mine lately chastised his son, in my presence, for being somewhat too expensive in the matter of dogs and horses. "and pray," i asked him, when the youth had left us, "did you never commit a fault yourself which deserved your father's correction? did you never? i repeat. nay, are you not sometimes even now guilty of errors which your son, were he in your place, might with equal gravity reprove? are not all mankind subject to indiscretions? and have we not each of us our particular follies in which we fondly indulge ourselves?"[ ] the great affection i have for you induced me to set this instance of unreasonable severity before you--a caution not to treat your son with too much harshness and severity. consider, he is but a boy, and that there was a time when you were so too. in exerting, therefore, the authority of a father, remember always that you are a man, and the parent of a man. farewell. ci -- to quadratus the pleasure and attention with which you read the vindication i published of helvidius,[ ] has greatly raised your curiosity, it seems, to be informed of those particulars relating to that affair, which are not mentioned in the defence; as you were too young to be present yourself at that transaction. when domitian was assassinated, a glorious opportunity, i thought, offered itself to me of pursuing the guilty, vindicating the injured, and advancing my own reputation. but amidst an infinite variety of the blackest crimes, none appeared to me more atrocious than that a senator, of praetorian dignity, and invested with the sacred character of a judge, should, even in the very senate itself, lay violent hands upon a member[ ] of that body, one of consular rank, and who then stood arraigned before him. besides this general consideration, i also happened to be on terms of particular intimacy with helvidius, as far as this was possible with one who, through fear of the times, endeavoured to veil the lustre of his fame, and his virtues, in obscurity and retirement. arria likewise, and her daughter fannia, who was mother-in-law to helvidius, were in the number of my friends. but it was not so much private attachments as the honour of the public, a just indignation at the action, and the danger of the example if it should pass unpunished, that animated me upon the occasion. at the first restoration of liberty every man singled out his own particular enemy (though it must be confessed, those only of a lower rank), and, in the midst of much clamour and confusion, no sooner brought the charge than procured the condemnation. but for myself, i thought it would be more reasonable and more effectual, not to take advantage of the general resentment of the public, but to crush this criminal with the single weight of his own enormous guilt. when therefore the first heat of public indignation began to cool, and declining passion gave way to justice, though i was at that time under great affliction for the loss of my wife,[ ] i sent to anteia, the widow of helvidius, and desired her to come to me, as my late misfortune prevented me from appearing in public. when she arrived, i said to her, "i am resolved not to suffer the injuries your husband has received, to pass unrevenged; let arria and fannia" (who were just returned from exile) "know this; and consider together whether you would care to join with me in the prosecution. not that i want an associate, but i am not so jealous of my own glory as to refuse to share it with you in this affair." she accordingly carried this message; and they all agreed to the proposal without the least hesitation. it happened very opportunely that the senate was to meet within three days. it was a general rule with me to consult, in all my affairs, with corellius, a person of the greatest far-sightedness and wisdom this age has produced. however, in the present case, i relied entirely upon my own discretion, being apprehensive he would not approve of my design, as he was very cautious and deliberate. but though i did not previously take counsel with him (experience having taught me, never to do so with a person concerning a question we have already determined, where he has a right to expect that one shall be decided by his judgment), yet i could not forbear acquainting him with my resolution at the time i intended to carry it into execution. the senate being assembled, i came into the house, and begged i might have leave to make a motion; which i did in few words, and with general assent. when i began to touch upon the charge, and point out the person i intended to accuse (though as yet without mentioning him by name), i was attacked on all sides. "let us know," exclaims one, "who is the subject of this informal motion?" "who is it," (asked another) "that is thus accused, without acquainting the house with his name, and his crime?" "surely," (added a third) "we who have survived the late dangerous times may expect now, at least, to remain in security." i heard all this with perfect calmness, and without being in the least alarmed. such is the effect of conscious integrity; and so much difference is there with respect to inspiring confidence or fear, whether the world had only rather one should forbear a certain act, or absolutely condemn it. it would be too tedious to relate all that was advanced, by different parties, upon this occasion. at length the consul said, "you will be at liberty, secundus, to propose what you think proper when your turn comes to give your opinion upon the order of the day."[ ] i replied, "you must allow me a liberty which you never yet refused to any;" and so sat down: when immediately the house went upon another business. in the meanwhile, one of my consular friends took me aside, and, with great earnestness telling me he thought i had carried on this affair with more boldness than prudence, used every method of reproof and persuasion to prevail with me to desist; adding at the same time that i should certainly, if i persevered, render myself obnoxious to some future prince. "be it so," i returned, "should he prove a bad one." scarcely had he left me when a second came up: "whatever," said he, "are you attempting? why ever will you ruin yourself? do you consider the risks you expose yourself to? why will you presume too much on the present situation of public affairs, when it is so uncertain what turn they may hereafter take? you are attacking a man who is actually at the head of the treasury, and will shortly be consul. besides, recollect what credit he has, and with what powerful friendships he is supported?" upon which he named a certain person, who (not without several strong and suspicious rumours) was then at the head of a powerful army in the east. i replied, "'all i've foreseen, and oft in thought revolv'd;[ ] and am willing, if fate shall so decree, to suffer in an honest cause, provided i can draw vengeance down upon a most infamous one." the time for the members to give their opinions was now arrived. domitius apollinaris, the consul elect, spoke first; after him fabricius vejento, then fabius maximinus, vettius proculus next (who married my wife's mother, and who was the colleague of publicius certus, the person on whom the debate turned), and last of all ammius flaccus. they all defended certus, as if i had named him (though i had not yet so much as once mentioned him), and entered upon his justification as if i had exhibited a specific charge. it is not necessary to repeat in this place what they respectively said, having given it all at length in their words in the speech above- mentioned. avidius quietus and cornutus tertullus answered them. the former observed, "that it was extremely unjust not to hear the complaints of those who thought themselves injured, and therefore that arria and fannia ought not to be denied the privilege of laying their grievances before the house; and that the point for the consideration of the senate was not the rank of the person, but the merit of the cause." then cornutus rose up and acquainted the house, "that, as he was appointed guardian to the daughter of helvidius by the consuls, upon the petition of her mother and her father-in-law, he felt himself compelled to fulfil the duty of his trust. in the execution of which, however, he would endeavour to set some bounds to his indignation by following that great example of moderation which those excellent women[ ] had set, who contented themselves with barely informing the senate of the cruelties which certus committed in order to carry on his infamous adulation; and therefore," he said, "he would move only that, if a punishment due to a crime so notoriously known should be remitted, certus might at least be branded with some mark of the displeasure of that august assembly." satrius rufus spoke next, and, meaning to steer a middle course, expressed himself with considerable ambiguity. "i am of opinion," said he, "that great injustice will be done to certus if he is not acquitted (for i do not scruple to mention his name, since the friends of arria and fannia, as well as his own, have done so too), nor indeed have we any occasion for anxiety upon this account. we who think well of the man shall judge him with the same impartiality as the rest; but if he is innocent, as i hope he is, and shall be glad to find, i think this house may very justly deny the present motion till some charge has been proved against him." thus, according to the respective order in which they were called upon, they delivered their several opinions. when it came to my turn, i rose up, and, using the same introduction to my speech as i have published in the defence, i replied to them severally. it is surprising with what attention, what clamorous applause i was heard, even by those who just before were loudest against me: such a wonderful change was wrought either by the importance of the affair, the successful progress of the speech, or the resolution of the advocate. after i had finished, vejento attempted to reply; but the general clamour raised against him not permitting him to go on, "i entreat you, conscript fathers,"[ ] said he, "not to oblige me to implore the assistance of the tribunes."[ ] immediately the tribune murena cried out, "you have my permission, most illustrious vejento, to go on." but still the clamour was renewed. in the interval, the consul ordered the house to divide, and having counted the voices, dismissed the senate, leaving vejento in the midst, still attempting to speak. he made great complaints of this affront (as he called it), applying the following lines of homer to himself: "great perils, father, wait the unequal fight; those younger champions will thy strength o'ercome."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> there was hardly a man in the senate that did not embrace and kiss me, and all strove who should applaud me most, for having, at the cost of private enmities, revived a custom so long disused, of freely consulting the senate upon affairs that concern the honour of the public; in a word, for having wiped off that reproach which was thrown upon it by other orders in the state, "that the senators mutually favoured the members of their own body, while they were very severe in animadverting upon the rest of their fellow-citizens." all this was transacted in the absence of certus; who kept out of the way either because he suspected something of this nature was intended to be moved, or (as was alleged in his excuse) that he was really unwell. cæsar, however, did not refer the examination of this matter to the senate. but i succeeded, nevertheless, in my aim, another person being appointed to succeed certus in the consulship, while the election of his colleague to that office was confirmed. and thus, the wish with which i concluded my speech, was actually accomplished: "may he be obliged," said i, "to renounce, under a virtuous prince,[ ] that reward he received from an infamous one!"[ ] some time after i recollected, as well as i could, the speech i had made upon this occasion; to which i made several additions. it happened (though indeed it had the appearance of being something more than casual) that a few days after i had published this piece, certus was taken ill and died. i was told that his imagination was continually haunted with this affair, and kept picturing me ever before his eyes, as a man pursuing him with a drawn sword. whether there was any truth in this rumour, i will not venture to assert; but, for the sake of example, however, i could wish it might gain credit. and now i have sent you a letter which (considering it is a letter) is as long as the defence you say you have read: but you must thank yourself for not being content with such information as that piece could afford you. farewell. cii -- to genitor i have received your letter, in which you complain of having been highly disgusted lately at a very splendid entertainment, by a set of buffoons, mummers, and wanton prostitutes, who were dancing about round the tables.[ ] but let me advise you to smooth your knitted brow somewhat. i confess, indeed, i admit nothing of this kind at my own house; however, i bear with it in others. "and why, then," you will be ready to ask, "not have them yourself?" the truth is, because the gestures of the wanton, the pleasantries of the buffoon, or the extravagancies of the mummer, give me no pleasure, as they give me no surprise. it is my particular taste, you see, not my judgment, that i plead against them. and indeed, what numbers are there who think the entertainments with which you and i are most delighted no better than impertinent follies! how many are there who, as soon as a reader, a lyrist, or a comedian is introduced, either take their leave of the company or, if they remain, show as much dislike to this sort of thing as you did to those monsters, as you call them! let us bear therefore, my friend, with others in their amusements, that they, in return, may show indulgence to ours. farewell. ciii -- to sabinianus your freedman, whom you lately mentioned to me with displeasure, has been with me, and threw himself at my feet with as much submission as he could have fallen at yours. he earnestly requested me with many tears, and even with all the eloquence of silent sorrow, to intercede for him; in short, he convinced me by his whole behaviour that he sincerely repents of his fault. i am persuaded he is thoroughly reformed, because he seems deeply sensible of his guilt. i know you are angry with him, and i know, too, it is not without reason; but clemency can never exert itself more laudably than when there is the most cause for resentment. you once had an affection for this man, and, i hope, will have again; meanwhile, let me only prevail with you to pardon him. if he should incur your displeasure hereafter, you will have so much the stronger plea in excuse for your anger as you show yourself more merciful to him now. concede something to his youth, to his tears, and to your own natural mildness of temper: do not make him uneasy any longer, and i will add too, do not make yourself so; for a man of your kindness of heart cannot be angry without feeling great uneasiness. i am afraid, were i to join my entreaties with his, i should seem rather to compel than request you to forgive him. yet i will not scruple even to write mine with his; and in so much the stronger terms as i have very sharply and severely reproved him, positively threatening never to interpose again in his behalf. but though it was proper to say this to him, in order to make him more fearful of offending, i do not say so to you. i may perhaps, again have occasion to entreat you upon this account, and again obtain your forgiveness; supposing, i mean, his fault should be such as may become me to intercede for, and you to pardon. farewell. civ -- to maximus it has frequently happened, as i have been pleading before the court of the hundred, that these venerable judges, after having preserved for a long period the gravity and solemnity suitable to their character, have suddenly, as though urged by irresistible impulse, risen up to a man and applauded me. i have often likewise gained as much glory in the senate as my utmost wishes could desire: but i never felt a more sensible pleasure than by an account which i lately received from cornelius tacitus. he informed me that, at the last circensian games, he sat next to a roman knight, who, after conversation had passed between them upon various points of learning, asked him, "are you an italian, or a provincial?" tacitus replied, "your acquaintance with literature must surely have informed you who i am." "pray, then, is it tacitus or pliny i am talking with?" i cannot express how highly i am pleased to find that our names are not so much the proper appellatives of men as a kind of distinction for learning herself; and that eloquence renders us known to those who would otherwise be ignorant of us. an accident of the same kind happened to me a few days ago. fabius rufinus, a person of distinguished merit, was placed next to me at table; and below him a countryman of his, who had just then come to rome for the first time. rufinus, calling his friend's attention to me, said to him, "you see this man?" and entered into a conversation upon the subject of my pursuits: to whom the other immediately replied, "this must undoubtedly be pliny." to confess the truth, i look upon these instances as a very considerable recompense of my labours. if demosthenes had reason to be pleased with the old woman of athens crying out, "this is demosthenes!" may not i, then, be allowed to congratulate myself upon the celebrity my name has acquired? yes, my friend, i will rejoice in it, and without scruple admit that i do. as i only mention the judgment of others, not my own, i am not afraid of incurring the censure of vanity; especially from you, who, whilst envying no man's reputation, are particularly zealous for mine. farewell. cv -- to sabinianus i greatly approve of your having, in compliance with my letter,[ ] received again into your favour and family a discarded freedman, who you once admitted into a share of your affection. this will afford you, i doubt not, great satisfaction. it certainly has me, both as a proof that your passion can be controlled, and as an instance of your paying so much regard to me, as either to yield to my authority or to comply with my request. let me, therefore, at once both praise and thank you. at the same time i must advise you to be disposed for the future to pardon the faults of your people, though there should be none to intercede in their behalf. farewell. cvi -- to lupercus i said once (and, i think, not inaptly) of a certain orator of the present age, whose compositions are extremely regular and correct, but deficient in grandeur and embellishment, "his only fault is that he has none." whereas he, who is possessed of the true spirit of oratory, should be bold and elevated, and sometimes even flame out, be hurried away, and frequently tread upon the brink of a precipice: for danger is generally near whatever is towering and exalted. the plain, it is true, affords a safer, but for that reason a more humble and inglorious, path: they who run are more likely to stumble than they who creep; but the latter gain no honour by not slipping, while the former even fall with glory. it is with eloquence as with some other arts; she is never more pleasing than when she risks most. have you not observed what acclamations our rope-dancers excite at the instant of imminent danger? whatever is most entirely unexpected, or as the greeks more strongly express it, whatever is most perilous, most excites our admiration. the pilot's skill is by no means equally proved in a calm as in a storm: in the former case he tamely enters the port, unnoticed and unapplauded; but when the cordage cracks, the mast bends, and the rudder groans, then it is that he shines out in all his glory, and is hailed as little inferior to a sea-god. the reason of my making this observation is, because, if i mistake not, you have marked some passages in my writings for being tumid, exuberant, and over-wrought, which, in my estimation, are but adequate to the thought, or boldly sublime. but it is material to consider whether your criticism turns upon such points as are real faults, or only striking and remarkable expressions. whatever is elevated is sure to be observed; but it requires a very nice judgment to distinguish the bounds between true and false grandeur; between loftiness and exaggeration. to give an instance out of homer, the author who can, with the greatest propriety, fly from one extreme of style to another. "heav'n in loud thunder bids the trumpet sound; and wide beneath them groans the rending ground."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> again, "reclin'd on clouds his steed and armour lay."<a href="#linknote- " name="linknoteref- " id="linknoteref- ">[ ]</a> so in this passage: "as torrents roll, increas'd by numerous rills, with rage impetuous down their echoing hills, rush to the vales, and pour'd along the plain, roar through a thousand channels to the main." it requires, i say, the nicest balance to poise these metaphors, and determine whether they are incredible and meaningless, or majestic and sublime. not that i think anything which i have written, or can write, admits of comparison with these. i am not quite so foolish; but what i would be understood to contend for is, that we should give eloquence free rein, and not restrain the force and impetuosity of genius within too narrow a compass. but it will be said, perhaps, that one law applies to orators, another to poets. as if, in truth, marc tully were not as bold in his metaphors as any of the poets! but not to mention particular instances from him, in a point where, i imagine, there can be no dispute; does demosthenes[ ] himself, that model and standard of true oratory, does demosthenes check and repress the fire of his indignation, in that well-known passage which begins thus: "these wicked men, these flatterers, and these destroyers of mankind," &c. and again: "it is neither with stones nor bricks that i have fortified this city," &c. -- and afterwards: "i have thrown up these out-works before attica, and pointed out to you all the resources which human prudence can suggest," &c.--and in another place: "o athenians, i swear by the immortal gods that he is intoxicated with the grandeur of his own actions," &c.[ ] - - but what can be more daring and beautiful than that long digression, which begins in this manner: "a terrible disease?" -- the following passage likewise, though somewhat shorter, is equally boldly conceived: -- "then it was i rose up in opposition to the daring pytho, who poured forth a torrent of menaces against you," &c.[ ] -- the subsequent stricture is of the same stamp: "when a man has strengthened himself, as philip has, in avarice and wickedness, the first pretence, the first false step, be it ever so inconsiderable, has overthrown and destroyed all," &c.[ ]--so in the same style with the foregoing is this: -- "railed off, as it were, from the privileges of society, by the concurrent and just judgments of the three tribunals in the city." -- and in the same place: "o aristogiton! you have betrayed that mercy which used to be shown to offences of this nature, or rather, indeed, you have wholly destroyed it. in vain then would you fly for refuge to a port, which you have shut up, and encompassed with rocks."--he has said before: "i am afraid, therefore, you should appear in the judgment of some, to have erected a public seminary of faction: for there is a weakness in all wickedness which renders it apt to betray itself!" -- and a little lower: "i see none of these resources open to him; but all is precipice gulf, and profound abyss."--and again: "nor do i imagine that our ancestors erected those courts of judicature that men of his character should be planted there, but on the contrary', eradicated, that none may emulate their evil actions."--and afterwards: "if he is then the artificer of every wickedness, if he only makes it his trade and traffic," &c.--and a thousand other passages which i might cite to the same purpose; not to mention those expressions which aeschines calls not words, but wonders.--you will tell me, perhaps, i have unwarily mentioned aeschines, since demosthenes is condemned even by him, for running into these figurative expressions. but observe, i entreat you, how far superior the former orator is to his critic, and superior too in the very passage to which he objects; for in others, the force of his genius, in those above quoted, its loftiness, makes itself manifest. but does aeschines himself avoid those errors which he reproves in demosthenes? "the orator," says he, "athenians, and the law, ought to speak the same language; but when the voice of the law declares one thing, and that of the orator another we should give our vote to the justice of the law, not to the impudence of the orator."[ ]--and in another place: "he afterwards manifestly discovered the design he had, of concealing his fraud under cover of the decree, having expressly declared therein that the ambassadors sent to the oretae gave the five talents, not to you, but to callias. and that you may be convinced of the truth of what i say (after having stripped the decree of its gallies, its trim, and its arrogant ostentation) the clause itself." -- and in another part: "suffer him not to break cover and escape out of the limits of the question." a metaphor he is so fond of that he repeats it again. "but remaining firm and confident in the assembly, drive him into the merits of the question, and observe well how he doubles."--is his style more reserved and simple when he says: "but you are ever wounding our ears, and are more concerned in the success of your daily harangues than for the salvation of the city?"--what follows is conceived in a yet higher strain of metaphor: "will you not expel this man as the common calamity of greece? will you not seize and punish this pirate of the state, who sails about in quest of favourable conjunctures," &c.--with many other passages of a similar nature. and now i expect you will make the same attacks upon certain expressions in this letter as you did upon those i have been endeavouring to defend. the rudder that groans, and the pilot compared to a sea-god, will not, i imagine, escape your criticism: for i perceive, while i am suing for indulgence to my former style, i have fallen into the same kind of figurative diction which you condemn. but attack them if you please provided you will immediately appoint a day when we may meet to discuss these matters in person: you will then either teach me to be less daring or i shall teach you to be more bold. farewell. cvii -- to caninius i have met with a story, which, although authenticated by undoubted evidence, looks very like fable, and would afford a worthy field for the exercise of so exuberant, lofty, and truly poetical a genius as your own. it was related to me the other day over the dinner table, where the conversation happened to run upon various kinds of marvels. the person who told the story was a man of unsuspected veracity:--but what has a poet to do with truth? however, you might venture to rely upon his testimony, even though you had the character of a faithful historian to support. there is in africa a town called hippo, situated not far from the sea-coast: it stands upon a navigable lake, communicating with an estuary in the form of a river, which alternately flows into the lake, or into the ocean, according to the ebb and flow of the tide. people of all ages amuse themselves here with fishing, sailing, or swimming; especially boys, whom love of play brings to the spot. with these it is a fine and manly achievement to be able to swim the farthest; and he that leaves the shore and his companions at the greatest distance gains the victory. it happened, in one of these trials of skill, that a certain boy, bolder than the rest, launched out towards the opposite shore. he was met by a dolphin, who sometimes swam before him, and sometimes behind him, then played round him, and at last took him upon his back, and set him down, and afterwards took him up again; and thus he carried the poor frightened fellow out into the deepest part; when immediately he turns back again to the shore, and lands him among his companions. the fame of this remarkable accident spread through the town, and crowds of people flocked round the boy (whom they viewed as a kind of prodigy) to ask him questions and hear him relate the story. the next day the shore was thronged with spectators, all attentively watching the ocean, and (what indeed is almost itself an ocean) the lake. meanwhile the boys swam as usual, and among the rest, the boy i am speaking of went into the lake, but with more caution than before. the dolphin appeared again and came to the boy, who, together with his companions, swam away with the utmost precipitation. the dolphin, as though to invite and call them back, leaped and dived up and down, in a series of circular movements. this he practised the next day, the day after, and for several days together, till the people (accustomed from their infancy to the sea) began to be ashamed of their timidity. they ventured, therefore, to advance nearer, playing with him and calling him to them, while he, in return, suffered himself to be touched and stroked. use rendered them courageous. the boy, in particular, who first made the experiment, swam by the side of him, and, leaping upon his back, was carried backwards and forwards in that manner, and thought the dolphin knew him and was fond of him, while he too had grown fond of the dolphin. there seemed, now, indeed, to be no fear on either side, the confidence of the one and tameness of the other mutually increasing; the rest of the boys, in the meanwhile, surrounding and encouraging their companion. it is very remarkable that this dolphin was followed by a second, which seemed only as a spectator and attendant on the former; for he did not at all submit to the same familiarities as the first, but only escorted him backwards and forwards, as the boys did their comrade. but what is further surprising, and no less true than what i have already related, is that this dolphin, who thus played with the boys and carried them upon his back, would come upon the shore, dry himself in the sand, and, as soon as he grew warm, roll back into the sea. it is a fact that octavius avitus, deputy governor of the province, actuated by an absurd piece of superstition, poured some ointment[ ] over him as he lay on the shore: the novelty and smell of which made him retire into the ocean, and it was not till several days after that he was seen again, when he appeared dull and languid; however, he recovered his strength and continued his usual playful tricks. all the magistrates round flocked hither to view this sight, whose arrival, and prolonged stay, was an additional expense, which the slender finances of this little community would ill afford; besides, the quiet and retirement of the place was utterly destroyed. it was thought proper, therefore, to remove the occasion of this concourse, by privately killing the poor dolphin. and now, with what a flow of tenderness will you describe this affecting catastrophe![ ] and how will your genius adorn and heighten this moving story! though, indeed, the subject does not require any fictitious embellishments; it will be sufficient to describe the actual facts of the case without suppression or diminution. farewell. cviii -- to fuscus you want to know how i portion out my day, in my summer villa at tuscum? i get up just when i please; generally about sunrise, often earlier, but seldom later than this. i keep the shutters closed, as darkness and silence wonderfully promote meditation. thus free and abstracted from these outward objects which dissipate attention, i am left to my own thoughts; nor suffer my mind to wander with my eyes, but keep my eyes in subjection to my mind, which, when they are not distracted by a multiplicity of external objects, see nothing but what the imagination represents to them. if i have any work in hand, this is the time i choose for thinking it out, word for word, even to the minutest accuracy of expression. in this way i compose more or less, according as the subject is more or less difficult, and i find myself able to retain it. i then call my secretary, and, opening the shutters, dictate to him what i have put into shape, after which i dismiss him, then call him in again, and again dismiss him. about ten or eleven o'clock (for i do not observe one fixed hour), according to the weather, i either walk upon my terrace or in the covered portico, and there i continue to meditate or dictate what remains upon the subject in which i am engaged. this completed, i get into my chariot, where i employ myself as before, when i was walking, or in my study; and find this change of scene refreshes and keeps up my attention. on my return home, i take a little nap, then a walk, and after that repeat out loud and distinctly some greek or latin speech, not so much for the sake of strengthening my voice as my digestion;[ ] though indeed the voice at the same time is strengthened by this practice. i then take another walk, am anointed, do my exercises, and go into the bath. at supper, if i have only my wife or a few friends with me, some author is read to us; and after supper we are entertained either with music or an interlude. when that is finished, i take my walk with my family, among whom i am not without some scholars. thus we pass our evenings in varied conversation; and the day, even when at the longest, steals imperceptibly away. upon some occasions i change the order in certain of the articles abovementioned. for instance, if i have studied longer or walked more than usual, after my second sleep, and reading a speech or two aloud, instead of using my chariot i get on horseback; by which means i ensure as much exercise and lose less time. the visits of my friends from the neighbouring villages claim some part of the day; and sometimes, by an agreeable interruption, they come in very seasonably to relieve me when i am feeling tired. i now and then amuse myself with hunting, but always take my tablets into the field, that, if i should meet with no game, i may at least bring home something. part of my time too (though not so much as they desire) is allotted to my tenants; whose rustic complaints, along with these city occupations, make my literary studies still more delightful to me. farewell. -- cix -- to paulinus as you are not of a disposition to expect from your friends the ordinary ceremonial observances of society when they cannot observe them without inconvenience to themselves, so i love you too steadfastly to be apprehensive of your taking otherwise than i wish you should my not waiting upon you on the first day of your entrance upon the consular office, especially as i am detained here by the necessity of letting my farms upon long leases. i am obliged to enter upon an entirely new plan with my tenants: for under the former leases, though i made them very considerable abatements, they have run greatly in arrear. for this reason several of them have not only taken no sort of care to lessen a debt which they found themselves incapable of wholly discharging, but have even seized and consumed all the produce of the land, in the belief that it would now be of no advantage to themselves to spare it. i must therefore obviate this increasing evil, and endeavour to find out some remedy against it. the only one i can think of is, not to reserve my rent in money, but in kind, and so place some of my servants to overlook the tillage, and guard the stock; as indeed there is no sort of revenue more agreeable to reason than what arises from the bounty of the soil, the seasons, and the climate. it is true, this method will require great honesty, sharp eyes, and many hands. however, i must risk the experiment, and, as in an inveterate complaint, try every change of remedy. you see, it is not any pleasurable indulgence that prevents my attending you on the first day of your consulship. i shall celebrate it nevertheless, as much as if i were present, and pay my vows for you here, with all the warmest tokens of joy and congratulation. farewell. cx -- to fuscus you are much pleased, i find, with the account i gave you in my former letter of how i spend the summer season at tuscum, and desire to know what alteration i make in my method when i am at laurentum in the winter. none at all, except abridging myself of my sleep at noon, and borrowing a good piece of the night before daybreak and after sunset for study: and if business is very urgent (which in winter very frequently happens), instead of having interludes or music after supper, i reconsider whatever i have previously dictated, and improve my memory at the same time by this frequent mental revision. thus i have given you a general sketch of my mode of life in summer and winter; to which you may add the intermediate seasons of spring and autumn, in which, while losing nothing out of the day, i gain but little from the night. farewell. ] footnotes to the letters of pliny] (return) [ a pupil and intimate friend of paetus thrasea, the distinguished stoic philosopher. arulenus was put to death by domitian for writing a panegyric upon thrasea.] (return) [ the impropriety of this expression, in the original, seems to be in the word stigmosum, which regulus, probably either coined through affectation or used through ignorance. it is a word, at least, which does not occur in any author of authority: the translator has endeavoured, therefore, to preserve the same sort of impropriety, by using an expression of like unwarranted stamp in his own tongue. m.] (return) [ an allusion to a wound he had received in the war between vitellius and vespasian.] (return) [ a brother of piso galba's adopted son. he was put to death by nero.] (return) [ sulpicius camerinus, put to death by the same emperor, upon some frivolous charge.] (return) [ a select body of men who formed a court of judicature, called the centurnviral court. their jurisdiction extended chiefly, if not entirely, to questions of wills and intestate estates. their number, it would seem, amounted to . m.] (return) [ junius mauricus, the brother of rusticus arulenus. both brothers were sentenced on the same day, arulenue to execution and mauricui to banishment.] (return) [ there seems to have been a cast of uncommon blackness in the character of this regulus; otherwise the benevolent pliny would scarcely have singled him out, as he has in this and some following letters, for the subject of his warmest contempt and indignation. yet, infamous as he was, he had his flatterers and admirers; and a contemporary poet frequently represents him as one of the most finished characters of the age, both in eloquence and virtue. m.] (return) [ the decurii were a sort of senators in the municipal or corporate cities of italy. m.] (return) [ "euphrates was a native of tyre, or, according to others, of byzantium. he belonged to the stoic school of philosophy. in his old age he became tired of life, and asked and obtained from hadrian permission to put an end to himself by poison." smith's dict. of greek and roman biog.] (return) [ a pleader and historian of some distinction, mentioned by tacitus, ann. xiv. , and by quintilian, x, i, .] (return) [ padua.] (return) [ domitian] (return) [ iliad, xii. . pope.] (return) [ equal to about $ , of our money. after the reign of augustus the value of the sesterces.] (return) [ "the equestrian dignity, or that order of the roman people which we commonly call knights, had nothing in it analogous to any order of modern knighthood, but depended entirely upon a valuation of their estates; and every citizen, whose entire fortune amounted to , sesterces, that is, to about $ , of our money, was enrolled, of course, in the list of knights, who were considered as a middle order between the senators and common people, yet, without any other distinction than the privilege of wearing a gold ring, which was the peculiar badge of their order." life of cicero, vol. i. iii. in note. m.] (return) [ an elegant attic orator, remarkable for the grace and lucidity of his style, also for his vivid and accurate delineations of character.] (return) [ a graceful and powerful orator, and friend of densosthenes.] (return) [ a roman orator of the augustan age. he was a poet and historian as well, but gained most distinction as an orator.] (return) [ a man of considerable taste, talent, and eloquence, but profligate and extravagant. he was on terms of some intimacy with cicero.] (return) [ the praetor was assisted by ten assessors, five of whom were senators, and the rest knights. with these he was obliged to consult before he pronounced sentence. m.] (return) [ a contemporary and rival of aristophanes.] (return) [ aristophanes, ach. ] (return) [ thersites. iliad, ii. v. .] (return) [ ulysses. iliad, iii. v. .] (return) [ menelaua. iliad, iii. v. .] (return) [ great-grandfather of the emperor m. aurelius.] (return) [ an eminent lawyer of trajan's reign.] (return) [ the philosophers used to hold their disputations in the gymnasia and porticoes, being places of the most public resort for walking, &c. m.] (return) [ "verginius rufus was governor of upper germany at the time of the revolt of julius vindex in gaul. a.d. . the soldiers of verginius wished to raise him to the empire, but he refused the honour, and marched against vindex, who perished before vesontio. after the death of nero, verginius supported the claims of galba, and accompanied him to rome. upon otho's death, the soldiers again attempted to proclaim verginius emperor, and in consequence of his refusal of the honour, he narrowly escaped with his life." (see smith's dict. of greek and rom. biog., &c.)] (return) [ nerva.] (return) [ the historian,] (return) [ namely, of augurs. "this college, as regulated by sylla, consisted of fifteen, who were all persons of the first distinction in rome; it was a priesthood for life, of a character indelible, which no crime or forfeiture could efface; it was necessary that every candidate should be nominated to the people by two augurs, who gave a solemn testimony upon, oath of his dignity and fitness for that office." middleton's life of cicero, i. . m.] (return) [ the ancient greeks and romans did not sit up at the table as we do, but reclined round it on couches, three and sometimes even four occupying one conch, at least this latter was the custom among the romans. each guest lay flat upon his chest while eating, reaching out his hand from time to time to the table, for what he might require. as soon as he had made a sufficient meal, he turned over upon his left side, leaning on the elbow.] (return) [ a people of germany.] (return) [ "any roman priest devoted to the service of one particular god was designated flamen, receiving a distinguishing epithet from the deity to whom he ministered. the office was understood to last for life; but a flamen might be compelled to resign for a breach of duty, or even on account of the occurrence of an ill-omened accident while discharging his functions." smith's dictionary of antiquities.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ by a law passed a. d. , it was enacted that every citizen of rome who had three children should be excused from all troublesome offices where he lived. this privilege the emperors sometimes extended to those who were not legally entitled to it.] (return) [ about cents.] (return) [ avenue] (return) [ "windows made of a transparent stone called lapis specularis (mica), which was first found in hispania citerior, and afterwards in cyprus, cappadocia, sicily, and africa; but the best caine from spain and cappadocia. it was easily split into the thinnest sheets. windows, made of this stone were called specularia." smith's dictionary of antiquities.] (return) [ a feast held in honour of the god saturn, which began on the th of december, and continued as some say, for seven days. it was a time of general rejoicing, particularly among the slaves, who had at this season the privilege of taking great liberties with their masters. m.] (return) [ cicero and quintilian have laid down rules how far, and in what instances, this liberty was allowable, and both agree it ought to be used with great sagacity and judgment. the latter of these excellent critics mentions a witticism of flavius virginius, who asked one of these orators, "quot nillia assuum deciamassett." how many miles he had declaimed. m.] (return) [ this was an act of great ceremony; and if aurelia's dress was of the kind which some of the roman ladies used, the legacy must have been considerable which regulus had the impudence to ask. m.] (return) [ $ , , .] (return) [ a poet to whom quintilian assigns the highest rank, as a writer of tragedies, among his contemporaries (book x. c. i. ). tacitus also speaks of him in terms of high appreciation (annals, v. ).] (return) [ stepson of augustus and brother to tiberius. an amiable and popular prince. he died at the close of his third campaign, from a fracture received by falling from his horse.] (return) [ a historian under augustus and tiberius. he wrote part of a history of rome, which was continued by the elder pliny; also an account of the german war, to which quintilian makes allusion (inst. x. ), pronouncing him, as a historian, "estimable in all respects, yet in some things failing to do himself justice."] (return) [ the distribution of time among the romans was very different from ours. they divided the night into four equal parts, which they called watches, each three hours in length; and part of these they devoted either to the pleasures of the table or to study. the natural day they divided into twelve hours, the first beginning with sunrise, and the last ending with sunset; by which means their hours were of unequal length, varying according to the different seasons of the year. the time for business began with sunrise, and continued to the fifth hour, being that of dinner, which with them was only a slight repast. from thence to the seventh hour was a time of repose; a custom which still prevails in italy. the eighth hour was employed in bodily exercises; after which they constantly bathed, and from thence went to supper. m.] (return) [ $ , .] (return) [ born about a. d. . he acquired some distinction as an advocate. the only poem of his which has come down to us is a heavy prosaic performance in seventeen books, entitled "tunica," and containing an account of the events of the second punic war, from the capture of saguntum to the triumph of scipio africanus. see smith's dict. of gr. and roin. biog.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ spurinna's wife.] (return) [ domitian banished the philosophers not only from rome, but italy, as suetonius (dom. c. x.) and aulus gellius (noct. att. b. xv. cxi. , , ) inform us among these was the celebrated epictetus. m.] (return) [ the following is the story, as related by several of the ancient historians. paetus, having joined scribonianus, who was in arms, in illyria, against claudius, was taken after the death of scribonianus, and condemned to death. arria having, in vain, solicited his life, persuaded him to destroy himself, rather than suffer the ignominy of falling by the executioner's hands; and, in order to encourage him to an act, to which, it seems, he was not particularly inclined, she set him the example in the manner pliny relates. m.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ the roman, used to employ their criminals in the lower ones of husbandry, such as ploughing, &c. pun. h. n. . , . m.] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ one of the famous seven hills upon which rome was situated.] (return) [ mart. lx. .] (return) [ calpurnia, pliny's wife.] (return) [ now citta di castello.] (return) [ the romans had an absolute power over their children, of which no age or station of the latter deprived them.] (return) [ their business was to interpret dreams, oracles, prodigies, &c., and to foretell whether any action should be fortunate or prejudicial, to particular persons, or to the whole commonwealth. upon this account, they very often occasioned the displacing of magistrates, the deferring of public assemblies, &c. kennet's ron,. antig. m.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ a slave was incapable of property; and, therefore, whatever he acquired became the right of his master. m.] (return) [ "their office was to attend upon the rites of vests, the chief part of which was the preservation of the holy fire. if this fire happened to go out, it was considered impiety to light it at any common flame, but they made use of the pure and unpolluted rays of the sun for that purpose. there were various other duties besides connected with their office. the chief rules prescribed them were, to vow the strictest chastity, for the space of thirty years. after this term was completed, they had liberty to leave the order. if they broke their vow of virginity, they were buried alive in a place allotted to that peculiar use." kennet's antiq. their reputation for sanctity was so high that livy mentions the fact of two of those virgins having violated their vows, as a prodigy that, threatened destruction to the roman state. lib. xxii. c. . and suetonius inform, us that augiastus had so high an opinion of this religious order, that he consigned the care of his will to the vestal virgins. suet, in vit. aug. c. xci. m.] (return) [ it was usual with domitian to triumph, not only without a victory, but even after a defeat, m.] (return) [ euripides' hecuba,] (return) [ the punishment inflicted upon the violators of vestal chastity was to be scourged to death. m.] (return) [ calpurnia, pliny's wife.] (return) [ gratilla was the wife of rusticus: rusticus was put to death by domitian, and gratilla banished. it was sufficient crime in the reign of that execrable prince to be even a friend of those who were obnoxious to him. m.] (return) [ in the original, scrinium, box for holding mss.] (return) [ the hippodromus, in its proper signification, was a place, among the grecians, set apart for horse-racing and other exercises of that kind. but it seems here to be nothing more than a particular walk, to which pliny perhaps gave that name, from its bearing some resemblance in its form to the public places so called. m.] (return) [ now called frascati, tivoli, and palestrina, all of them situated in the campagna di roma, and at no great distance from rome. m.] (return) [ "this is said in allusion to the idea of nemesis supposed to threaten excessive prosperity." (church and brodribb.)] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ none had the right of using family pictures or statues but those whose ancestors or themselves had borne some of the highest dignities. so that the jus imaginis was much the same thing among the romans as the right of bearing a coat of arms among us. ken. antiq. m.] (return) [ the roman physicians used to send their patients in consumptive cases into egypt, particularly to alexandria. m.] (return) [ frejus, in provence, the southern part of france. m.] (return) [ a court of justice erected by julius cæsar in the forum, and opposite to the basilica aemilia.] (return) [ the deceniviri seem to have been magistrates for the administration of justice, subordinate to the praetors, who (to give the english reader a general notion of their office) may be termed lords chief justices, as the judges here mentioned were something in the nature of our juries. m.] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ this silly piece of superstition seems to have been peculiar to regulus, and not of any general practice; at least it is a custom of which we find no other mention in antiquity. m.] (return) [ "we gather from martial that the wearing of these was not an unusual practice with fops and dandies." see epig. ii. , in which he ridicules a certain rufus, and hints that if you were to "strip off the 'splenia (plasters)' from his face, you would find out that he was a branded runaway slave." (church and brodribb.)] (return) [ his wife.] (return) [ hom. ii. lib, i. v. .] (return) [ now alzia, not far from corno.] (return) [ nevertheless, javolentis priscus was one of the most eminent lawyers of his time, and is frequently quoted in the digesta of justinian.] (return) [ in the bay of naples.] (return) [ the romans used to lie or walk naked in the sun, after anointing their bodies with oil, which was esteemed as greatly contributing to health, and therefore daily practised by them. this custom, however, of anointing themselves, is inveighed against by the satirists as in the number of their luxurious indulgences: but since we find the elder pliny here, and the amiable spurinna in a former letter, practising this method, we can not suppose the thing itself was esteemed unmanly, but only when it was attended with some particular circumstances of an over-refined delicacy. m.] (return) [ now called castelamare, in the bay of naples. m.] (return) [ the stoic and epicurean philosophers held that the world was to be destroyed by fire, and all things fall again into original chaos; not excepting even the national gods themselves from the destruction of this general conflagration. m.] (return) [ the lake larius.] (return) [ those families were styled patrician whose ancestors had been members of the senate in the earliest times of the regal or consular government. m.] (return) [ trajan] (return) [ the consuls, though they were chosen in august, did not enter upon their office till the first of january, during which interval they were styled consules designati, consuls elect. it was usual for them upon that occasion to compliment the emperor, by whose appointment, after the dissolution of the republican government, they were chosen. m.] (return) [ so called, because it formerly belonged to camillus. m.] (return) [ civita vecchia.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ an officer in the roman legions, answering in some sort to a captain in our companies. m.] (return) [ this law was made by augustus cæsar; but it nowhere clearly appears what was the peculiar punishment it inflicted. m.] (return) [ an officer employed by the emperor to receive and regulate the public revenue in the provinces. m.] (return) [ comprehending transylvania, moldavia, and walaehia. m.] (return) [ polycletus was a freedman, and great favourite of nero. m.] (return) [ memmius, or rhemmius (the critics are not agreed which), was author of a law by which it was enacted that whosoever was convicted of calumny and false accusation should be stigmatised with a mark in his forehead; and by the law of the twelve tables, false accusers were to suffer the same punishment as would have been inflicted upon the person unjustly accused if the crime had been proved. m.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ unction was much esteemed and prescribed by the ancients. celsus expressly recommends it in the remission of acute distempers: "ungi leniterque pertractari corpus, etiam in acutic et recentibus niorbis opartet; us rernissione fumen," &c. celsi med. ed. aliucloveen, p. . m.] (return) [ his wife.] (return) [ see book v. letter xx.] (return) [ trajan.] (return) [ one of the bithynians employed to manage the trial. m.] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ there is a kind of witticism in this expression, which will be lost to the mere english reader unless he be informed that the romans had a privilege, confirmed to them by several laws which passed in the earlier ages of the republic, of appealing from the decisions of the magistrates to the general assembly of the people: and they did so in the form of words which pomponius here applies to a different purpose. m.] (return) [ the priests, as well as other magistrates, exhibited public games to the people when they entered upon their office. m.] (return) [ a famous lawyer who flourished in the reign of the emperor claudius: those who followed his opinions were said to be cassians, or of the school of cassius. m.] (return) [ a stoic philosopher and native of tarsus. he was tutor for some time to octavius, afterwards augustus, cæsar.] (return) [ balzac very prettily observes: "il y a des riviere: qui ne font jamais tact de bien que quand elles se dibordent; de eneme, l'amitie n'a mealleur quo l'exces." m.] (return) [ persons of rank and literature among the romans retained in their families a domestic whose sole business was to read to them. m.] (return) [ it was a doctrine maintained by the stoics that all crimes are equal m.] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ hom. ii. lib. ix. v. .] (return) [ those of nero and domitian. m.] (return) [ when nerva and trajan received the empire. m.] (return) [ a slave could acquire no property, and consequently was incapable bylaw of making a will. m.] (return) [ now called amelia, a town in ombria. m.] (return) [ now laghetto di bassano. m.] (return) [ a province in anatolia, or asia minor. m.] (return) [ the performers at these games were divided into companies, distinguished by the particular colour of their habits; the principal of which were the white, the red, the blue, and the green. accordingly the spectators favoured one or the other colour, as humour and caprice inclined them. in the reign of justinian a tumult arose in constantinople, occasioned merely by a contention among the partisans of these several colours, wherein no less than , men lost their lives. m.] (return) [ now called castello di baia, in terra di lavoro. it was the place the romans chose for their winter retreat; and which they frequented upon account of its warm baths. some few ruins of the beautiful villas that once covered this delightful coast still remain; and nothing can give one a higher idea of the prodigious expense and magnificence of the romans in their private buildings than the manner in which some of these were situated. it appears from this letter, as well as from several other passages in the classic writers, that they actually projected into the sea, being erected upon vast piles, sunk for that purpose.] (return) [ the buskin was a kind of high shoe worn upon the stage by the actors of tragedy, in order to give them a more heroical elevation of stature; as the sock was something between a shoe and stocking, it was appropriated to the comic players. m.] (return) [ lyons.] (return) [ he was accused of treason, under pretence that in a dramatic piece which he composed he had, in the characters of paris and oenone, reflected upon domitian for divorcing his wife domitia. suet, in vit. domit. c. . m.] (return) [ helvidius.] (return) [ upon the accession of nerva to the empire, after the death of domitian. m.] (return) [ our authors first wife; of whom we have no particular account. after her death, he married his favourite calpurnia. m.] (return) [ it is very remarkable that, when any senator was asked his opinion in the house, he had the privilege of speaking as long as he pleased upon any other affair before he came to the point in question. aul. gell. iv. c. . m.] (return) [ aeneid, lib. vi. v. .] (return) [ arria and fannia.] (return) [ the appellation by which the senate was addressed. m.] (return) [ the tribunes were magistrates chosen at first out of the body of the commons, for the defence of their liberties, and to interpose in all grievances offered by their superiors. their authority extended even to the deliberations of the senate. m.] (return) [ diomed's speech to nestor, advising him to retire from the field of battle. iliad, viii. . pope. m.] (return) [ nerva.] (return) [ domitian; by whom he had been appointed consul elect, though he had not yet entered upon that office. m.] (return) [ these persons were introduced at most of the tables of the great, for the purposes of mirth and gaiety, and constituted an essential part in all polite entertainments among the romans. it is surprising how soon this great people fell off from their original severity of manners, and were tainted with the stale refinements of foreign luxury. livy dates the rise of this and other unmanly delicacies from the conquest of scipio asiaticus over antiochus; that is when the roman name had scarce subsisted above a hundred and threescore years. "luxuriae peregrinae origio," says he, "exercitu asiatico in urbem invecta est." this triumphant army caught, it seems, the contagious softness of the people it subdued; and, on its return to rome, spread an infection among their countrymen, which worked by slow degrees, till it effected their total destruction. thus did eastern luxury revenge itself on roman arms. it may be wondered that pliny should keep his own temper, and check the indignation of his friends at a scene which was fit only for the dissolute revels of the infamous trimalchio. but it will not, perhaps, be doing justice to our author to take an estimate of his real sentiments upon this point from the letter before us. genitor, it seems, was a man of strict, but rather of too austere morals for the free turn of the age: "emendatus et gravis: paulo etiam horridior et durior ut in hac licentia teniporuni" (ep. iii. . ). but as there is a certain seasonable accommodation to the manners of the times, not only extremely consistent with, but highly conducive to, the interests of virtue, pliny, probably, may affect a greater latitude than he in general approved, in order to draw off his friend from that stiffness and unyielding disposition which might prejudice those of a gayer turn against him, and consequently lessen the beneficial influence of his virtues upon the world. m.] (return) [ see letter ciii.] (return) [ iliad, xxi. . pope. m.] (return) [ iliad, v. , speaking of mars. m.; iliad, iv. . pope.] (return) [ the design of pliny in this letter is to justify the figurative expressions he had employed, probably, in same oration, by instances of the same warmth of colouring from those great masters of eloquence, demosthenes and his rival aesehines. but the force of the passages which he produces from those orators must necessarily be greatly weakened to a mere modern reader, some of them being only hinted at, as generally well known; and the metaphors in several of the others have either lost much of their original spirit and boldness, by being introduced and received in common language, or cannot, perhaps, he preserved in an english translation. m.] (return) [ see st philippic.] (return) [ see demosthenes' speech in defence of cteisphon.] (return) [ see end olynthiac.] (return) [ see aesehines' speech against ctesiphon.] (return) [ it was a religious ceremony practised by the ancients to pour precious ointments upon the statues of their gods: avitus, it is probable, imagined this dolphin was some sea-divinity, and therefore expressed his veneration of him by the solemnity of a sacred unction. m.] (return) [ the overflowing humanity of pliny's temper breaks out upon all occasions, but he discovers it in nothing more strongly than by the impression which this little story appears to have made upon him. true benevolence, indeed, extends itself through the whole compass of existence, and sympathises with the distress of every creature of sensation. little minds may be apt to consider a compassion of this inferior kind as an instance of weakness; but it is undoubtedly the evidence of a noble nature. homer thought it not unbecoming the character even of a hero to melt into tears at a distress of this sort, and has given us a most amiable and affecting picture of ulysses weeping over his faithful dog argus, when he expires at his feet: "soft pity touch'd the mighty master's soul; adown his cheek the tear unbidden stole, stole unperceived; he turn'd his head and dry'd the drop humane.". (odyss. xvii. pope.) m.] (return) [ by the regimen which pliny here follows, one would imagine, if he had not told us who were his physicians, that the celebrated celsus was in the number. that author expressly recommends reading aloud, and afterwards walking, as beneficial in disorders of the stomach: "si quis stomacho laborat, leqere clare debet; post lectionem ambulare," &c. celsi medic. . i. c. . m.] correspondence with the emperor trajan i -- to the emperor trajan[ ] the pious affection you bore, most sacred emperor, to your august father induced you to wish it might be late ere you succeeded him. but the immortal gods thought proper to hasten the advancement of those virtues to the helm of the commonwealth which had already shared in the steerage.[ ] may you then, and the world through your means, enjoy every prosperity worthy of your reign: to which let me add my wishes, most excellent emperor, upon a private as well as public account, that your health and spirits may be preserved firm and unbroken. ii -- to the emperor trajan you have occasioned me, sir, an inexpressible pleasure in deeming me worthy of enjoying the privilege which the laws confer on those who have three children. for although it was from an indulgence to the request of the excellent julius servianus, your own most devoted servant, that you granted this favour, yet i have the satisfaction to find by the words of your rescript that you complied the more willingly as his application was in my behalf. i cannot but look upon myself as in possession of my utmost wish, after having thus received, at the beginning of your most auspicious reign, so distinguishing a mark of your peculiar favour; at the same time that it considerably heightens my desire of leaving a family behind me. i was not entirely without this desire even in the late most unhappy times: as my two marriages will induce you to believe. but the gods decreed it better, by reserving every valuable privilege to the bounty of your generous dispensations. and indeed the pleasure of being a father will be so much more acceptable to me now, that i can enjoy it in full security and happiness. iii -- to the emperor trajan the experience, most excellent emperor, i have had of your unbounded generosity to me, in my own person, encourages me to hope i may be yet farther obliged to it, in that of my friends. voconius romanus (who was my schoolfellow and companion from our earliest years) claims the first rank in that number; in consequence of which i petitioned your sacred father to promote him to the dignity of the senatorial order. but the completion of my request is reserved to your goodness; for his mother had not then advanced, in the manner the law directs, the liberal gift[ ] of four hundred thousand sesterces, which she engaged to give him, in her letter to the late emperor, your father. this, however, by my advice she has since done, having made over certain estates to him, as well as completed every other act necessary to make the conveyance valid. the difficulties therefore being removed which deferred the gratification of our wishes, it is with full confidence i venture to assure you of the worth of my friend romanus, heightened and adorned as it is not only by liberal culture, but by his extraordinary tenderness to his parents as well. it is to that virtue he owes the present liberality of his mother; as well as his immediate succession to his late father's estate, and his adoption by his father-in-law. to these personal qualifications, the wealth and rank of his family give additional lustre; and i persuade myself it will be some further recommendation that i solicit in his behalf. let me, then, entreat you, sir, to enable me to congratulate romanus on so desirable an occasion, and at the same time to indulge an eager and, i hope, laudable ambition, of having it in my power to boast that your favourable regards are extended not only to myself, but also to my friend. iv -- to the emperor trajan when by your gracious indulgence, sir, i was appointed to preside at the treasury of saturn, i immediately renounced all engagements of the bar (as indeed i never blended business of that kind with the functions of the state), that no avocations might call off my attention from the post to which i was appointed. for this reason, when the province of africa petitioned the senate that i might undertake their cause against marius priscus, i excused myself from that office; and my excuse was allowed. but when afterwards the consul elect proposed that the senate should apply to us again, and endeavour to prevail with us to yield to its inclinations, and suffer our names to be thrown into the urn, i thought it most agreeable to that tranquillity and good order which so happily distinguishes your times not to oppose (especially in so reasonable an instance) the will of that august assembly. and, as i am desirous that all my words and actions may receive the sanction of your exemplary virtue, i hope you approve of my compliance. v -- trajan to pliny you acted as became a good citizen and a worthy senator, by paying obedience to the just requisition of that august assembly: and i have full confidence you will faithfully discharge the business you have undertaken. vi -- to the emperor trajan having been attacked last year by a very severe and dangerous illness, i employed a physician, whose care and diligence, sir, i cannot sufficiently reward, but by your gracious assistance. i entreat you therefore to make him a denizen of rome; for as he is the freedman of a foreign lady, he is, consequently, himself also a foreigner. his name is harpocras; his patroness (who has been dead a considerable time) was thermuthis, the daughter of theon. i further entreat you to bestow the full privileges of a roman citizen upon hedia and antonia harmeris, the freedwomen of antonia maximilla, a lady of great merit. it is at her desire i make this request. vii -- to the emperor trajan i return you thanks, sir, for your ready compliance with my desire, in granting the complete privileges of a roman to the freedwomen of a lady to whom i am allied and also for making harpocras, my physician, a denizen of rome. but when, agreeably to your directions, i gave in an account of his age, and estate, i was informed by those who are better skilled in the affairs than i pretend to be that, as he is an egyptian, i ought first to have obtained for him the freedom of alexandria before he was made free of rome. i confess, indeed, as i was ignorant of any difference in this case between those of egypt and other countries, i contented myself with only acquainting you that he had been manumitted by a foreign lady long since deceased. however, it is an ignorance i cannot regret, since it affords me an opportunity of receiving from you a double obligation in favour of the same person. that i may legally therefore enjoy the benefit of your goodness, i beg you would be pleased to grant him the freedom of the city of alexandria, as well as that of rome. and that your gracious intentions may not meet with any further obstacles, i have taken care, as you directed, to send an account to your freedman of his age and possessions. viii -- trajan to pliny it is my resolution, in pursuance of the maxim observed by the princes my predecessors, to be extremely cautious in granting the freedom of the city of alexandria: however, since you have obtained of me the freedom of rome for your physician harpocras, i cannot refuse you this other request. you must let me know to what district he belongs, that i may give you a letter to my friend pompeius planta, governor of egypt. ix -- to the emperor trajan i cannot express, sir, the pleasure your letter gave me, by which i am informed that you have made my physician harpocras a denizen of alexandria; notwithstanding your resolution to follow the maxim of your predecessors in this point, by being extremely cautious in granting that privilege. agreeably to your directions, i acquaint you that harpocras belongs to the district of memphis.[ ] i entreat you then, most gracious emperor, to send me, as you promised, a letter to your friend pompeius planta, governor of egypt. as i purpose (in order to have the earliest enjoyment of your presence, so ardently wished for here) to come to meet you, i beg, sir, you would permit me to extend my journey as far as possible. x -- to the emperor trajan i was greatly obliged, sir, in my late illness, to posthumius marinus, my physician; and i cannot make him a suitable return, but by the assistance of your wonted gracious indulgence. i entreat you then to make chrysippus mithridates and his wife stratonica (who are related to marinus) denizens of rome. i entreat likewise the same privilege in favour of epigonus and mithridates, the two sons of chrysippus; but with this restriction [ ] that they may remain under the dominion of their father, and yet reserve their right of patronage over their own freedmen. i further entreat you to grant the full privileges of a roman to l. satrius abascantius, p. caesius phosphorus, and pancharia soteris. this request i make with the consent of their patrons.[ ] xi -- to the emperor trajan after your late sacred father, sir, had, in a noble speech, as well as by his own generous example, exhorted and encouraged the public to acts of munificence, i implored his permission to remove the several statues which i had of the former emperors to my corporation, and at the same time requested permission to add his own to the number. for as i had hitherto let them remain in the respective places in which they stood when they were left to me by several different inheritances, they were dispersed in distant parts of my estate. he was pleased to grant my request, and at the same time to give me a very ample testimony of his approbation. i immediately, therefore, wrote to the decurii, to desire they would allot a piece of ground, upon which i might build a temple at my own expense; and they, as a mark of honour to my design, offered me the choice of any site i might think proper. however, my own ill-health in the first place, and later that of your father, together with the duties of that employment which you were both pleased to entrust me, prevented my proceeding with that design. but i have now, i think, a convenient opportunity of making an excursion for the purpose, as my monthly attendances ends on the st of september, and there are several festivals in the month following. my first request, then, is that you would permit me to adorn the temple i am going to erect with your statue, and next (in order to the execution of my design with all the expedition possible) that you would indulge me with leave of absence. it would ill become the sincerity i profess, were i to dissemble that your goodness in complying with this desire will at the same time be extremely serviceable to me in my own private affairs. it is absolutely necessary i should not defer any longer the letting of my lands in that province; for, besides that they amount to above four hundred thousand sesterces,[ ] the time for dressing the vineyards is approaching, and that business must fall upon my new tenants.[ ] the unfruitfulness of the seasons besides, for several years past, obliges me to think of making some abatements in my rents; which i cannot possibly settle unless i am present. i shall be indebted then to your indulgence, sir, for the expedition of my work of piety, and the settlement of my own private affairs, if you will be pleased to grant me leave of absence[ ] for thirty days. i cannot give myself a shorter time, as the town and the estate of which i am speaking lie above a hundred and fifty miles from rome. xii -- trajan to pliny you have given me many private reasons, and every public one, why you desire leave of absence; but i need no other than that it is your desire: and i doubt not of your returning as soon as possible to the duty of an office which so much requires your attendance. as i would not seem to check any instance of your affection towards me, i shall not oppose your erecting my statue in the place you desire; though in general i am extremely cautious in giving any encouragement to honours of that kind. xiii -- to the emperor trajan [ ] as i am sensible, sir, that the highest applause my actions can receive is to be distinguished by so excellent a prince, i beg you would be graciously pleased to add either the office of augur or septemvir [ ] (both which are now vacant) to the dignity i already enjoy by your indulgence; that i may have the satisfaction of publicly offering up those vows for your prosperity, from the duty of my office, which i daily prefer to the gods in private, from the affection of my heart. xiv -- to the emperor trajan having safely passed the promontory of malea, i am arrived at ephesus with all my retinue, notwithstanding i was detained for some time by contrary winds: a piece of information, sir, in which, i trust, you will feel yourself concerned. i propose pursuing the remainder of my journey to the province[ ] partly in light vessels, and partly in post- chaises: for as the excessive heats will prevent my travelling altogether by land, so the etesian winds,[ ] which are now set in, will not permit me to proceed entirely by sea. xv -- trajan to pliny your information, my dear pliny, was extremely agreeable to mc, as it does concern me to know in what manner you arrive at your province. it is a wise intention of yours to travel either by sea or land, as you shall find most convenient. xvi -- to the emperor trajan as i had a very favourable voyage to ephesus, so in travelling by post- chaise from thence i was extremely troubled by the heats, and also by some slight feverish attacks, which kept me some time at pergamus. from there, sir, i got on board a coasting vessel, but, being again detained by contrary winds, did not arrive at bithynia so soon as i had hoped. however, i have no reason to complain of this delay, since (which indeed was the most auspicious circumstance that could attend me) i reached the province in time to celebrate your birthday. i am at present engaged in examining the finances of the prusenses,[ ] their expenses, revenues, and credits; and the farther i proceed in this work, the more i am convinced of the necessity of my enquiry. several large sums of money are owing to the city from private persons, which they neglect to pay upon various pretences; as, on the other hand, i find the public funds are, in some instances, very unwarrantably applied. this, sir, i write to you immediately on my arrival. i entered this province on the th of september,[ ] and found in it that obedience and loyalty towards yourself which you justly merit from all mankind. you will consider, sir, whether it would not be proper to send a surveyor here; for i am inclined to think much might be deducted from what is charged by those who have the conduct of the public works if a faithful admeasurement were to be taken: at least i am of that opinion from what i have already seen of the accounts of this city, which i am now going into as fully as is possible. xvii -- trajan to pliny i should have rejoiced to have heard that you arrived at bithynia without the smallest inconvenience to yourself or any of your retinue, and that your journey from ephesus had been as easy as your voyage to that place was favourable. for the rest, your letter informs me, my dearest secundus, on what day you reached bithynia. the people of that province will be convinced, i persuade myself, that i am attentive to their interest: as your conduct towards them will make it manifest that i could have chosen no more proper person to supply my place. the examination of the public accounts ought certainly to be your first employment, as they are evidently in great disorder. i have scarcely surveyors sufficient to inspect those works[ ] which i am carrying on at rome, and in the neighbourhood; but persons of integrity and skill in this art may be found, most certainly, in every province, so that they will not fail you if only you will make due enquiry. xviii -- to the emperor trajan though i am well assured, sir, that you, who never omit any opportunity of exerting your generosity, are not unmindful of the request i lately made to you, yet, as you have often indulged me in this manner, give me leave to remind and earnestly entreat you to bestow the praetorship now vacant upon attius sura. though his ambition is extremely moderate, yet the quality of his birth, the inflexible integrity he has preserved in a very narrow fortune, and, more than all, the felicity of your times, which encourages conscious virtue to claim your favour, induce him to hope he may experience it in the present instance. xix -- to the emperor trajan i congratulate both you and the public, most excellent emperor, upon the great and glorious victory you have obtained; so agreeable to the heroism of ancient rome. may the immortal gods grant the same happy success to all your designs, that, under the administration of so many princely virtues, the splendour of the empire may shine out, not only in its former, but with additional lustre.[ ] xx -- to the emperor trajan mv lieutenant, servilius pudens, came to nicomedia,[ ] sir, on the th of november, and by his arrival freed me, at length, from the anxiety of a very uneasy expectation. xxi -- to the emperor trajan your generosity to me, sir, was the occasion of uniting me to rosianus geminus, by the strongest ties; for he was my quaestor when i was consul. his behaviour to me during the continuance of our offices was highly respectful, and he has treated me ever since with so peculiar a regard that, besides the many obligations i owe him upon a public account, i am indebted to him for the strongest pledges of private friendship. i entreat you, then, to comply with my request for the advancement of one whom (if my recommendation has any weight) you will even distinguish with your particular favour; and whatever trust you shall repose in him, he will endeavour to show himself still deserving of an higher. but i am the more sparing in my praises of him, being persuaded his integrity, his probity, and his vigilance are well known to you, not only from those high posts which he has exercised in rome within your immediate inspection, but from his behaviour when he served under you in the army. one thing, however, my affection for him inclines me to think, i have not yet sufficiently done; and therefore, sir, i repeat my entreaties that you will give me the pleasure, as early as possible, of rejoicing in the advancement of my quaestor, or, in other words, of receiving an addition to my own honours, in the person of my friend. xxii -- to the emperor trajan it is not easy, sir, to express the joy i received when i heard you had, in compliance with the request of my mother-in-law and myself, granted coelius clemens the proconsulship of this province after the expiration of his consular office; as it is from thence i learn the full extent of your goodness towards me, which thus graciously extends itself through my whole family. as i dare not pretend to make an equal return to those obligations i so justly owe you, i can only have recourse to vows, and ardently implore the gods that i may not be found unworthy of those favours which you are repeatedly conferring upon me. xxiii -- to the emperor trajan i received, sir, a dispatch from your freedman, lycormas, desiring me, if any embassy from bosporus[ ] should come here on the way to rome, that i would detain it till his arrival. none has yet arrived, at least in the city[ ] where i now am. but a courier passing through this place from the king of sarmatia,[ ] i embrace the opportunity which accidentally offers itself, of sending with him the messenger which lycormas despatched hither, that you might be informed by both their letters of what, perhaps, it may be expedient you should be acquainted with at one and the same time. xxiv -- to the emperor trajan i am informed by a letter from the king of sarmatia that there are certain affairs of which you ought to be informed as soon as possible. in order, therefore, to hasten the despatches which his courier was charged with to you, i granted him an order to make use of the public post.[ ] xxv -- to the emperor trajan the ambassador from the king of sarmatia having remained two days, by his own choice, at nicea, i did not think it reasonable, sir, to detain him any longer: because, in the first place, it was still uncertain when your freedman, lycormas, would arrive, and then again some indispensable affairs require my presence in a different part of the province. of this i thought it necessary that you should be informed, because i lately acquainted you in a letter that lycormas had desired, if any embassy should come this way from bosporus, that i would detain it till his arrival. but i saw no plausible pretext for keeping him back any longer, especially as the despatches from lycormas, which (as i mentioned before) i was not willing to detain, would probably reach you some days sooner than this ambassador. xxvi -- to the emperor trajan i received a letter, sir, from apuleius, a military man, belonging to the garrison at nicomedia, informing me that one callidromus, being arrested by maximus and dionysius (two bakers, to whom he had hired himself), fled for refuge to your statue;[ ] that, being brought before a magistrate, he declared he, was formerly slave to laberius maximus, but being taken prisoner by susagus[ ] in moesia,[ ] he was sent as a present from decebalus to pacorus, king of parthia, in whose service he continued several years, from whence he made his escape, and came to nicomedia. when he was examined before me, he confirmed this account, for which reason i thought it necessary to send[ ] him to you. this i should have done sooner, but i delayed his journey in order to make an inquiry concerning a seal ring which he said was taken from him, upon which was engraven the figure of pacorus in his royal robes; i was desirous (if it could have been found) of transmitting this curiosity to you, with a small gold nugget which he says he brought from out of the parthian mines. i have affixed my seal to it, the impression of which is a chariot drawn by four horses. xxvii -- to the emperor trajan your freedman and procurator,[ ] maximus, behaved, sir, during all the time we were together, with great probity, attention, and diligence; as one strongly attached to your interest, and strictly observant of discipline. this testimony i willingly give him; and i give it with all the fidelity i owe you. xxviii -- to the emperor trajan after having experienced, sir, in gabius bassus, who commands on the pontic[ ] coast, the greatest integrity, honour, and diligence, as well as the most particular respect to myself, i cannot refuse him my best wishes and suffrage; and i give them to him with all that fidelity which is due to you. i have found him abundantly qualified by having served in the army under you; and it is owing to the advantages of your discipline that he has learned to merit your favour. the soldiery and the people here, who have had full experience of his justice and humanity, rival each other in that glorious testimony they give of his conduct, both in public and in private; and i certify this with all the sincerity you have a right to expect from me. xxix -- to the emperor trajan nymphidius lupus,[ ] sir, and myself, served in the army together; he commanded a body of the auxiliary forces at the same time that i was military tribune; and it was from thence my affection for him began. a long acquaintance has since mutually endeared and strengthened our friendship. for this reason i did violence to his repose, and insisted upon his attending me into bithynia, as my assessor in council. he most readily granted me this proof of his friendship; and without any regard to the plea of age, or the ease of retirement, he shared, and continues to share, with me, the fatigue of public business. i consider his relations, therefore, as my own; in which number nymphidius lupus, his son, claims my particular regard. he is a youth of great merit and indefatigable application, and in every respect well worthy of so excellent a father. the early proof he gave of his merit, when he commanded a regiment of foot, shows him to be equal to any honour you may think proper to confer upon him; and it gained him the strongest testimony of approbation from those most illustrious personages, julius ferox and fuscus salinator. and i will add, sir, that i shall rejoice in any accession of dignity which he shall receive as an occasion of particular satisfaction to myself. xxx -- to the emperor trajan i beg your determination, sir, on a point i am exceedingly doubtful about: it is whether i should place the public slaves[ ] as sentries round the prisons of the several cities in this province (as has been hitherto the practice) or employ a party of soldiers for that purpose? on the one hand, i am afraid the public slaves will not attend this duty with the fidelity they ought; and on the other, that it will engage too large a body of the soldiery. in the meanwhile i have joined a few of the latter with the former. i am apprehensive, however, there may be some danger that this method will occasion a general neglect of duty, as it will afford them a mutual opportunity of throwing the blame upon each other. xxxi -- trajan to pliny there is no occasion, my dearest secundus, to draw off any soldiers in order to guard the prisons. let us rather persevere in the ancient customs observed in this province, of employing the public slaves for that purpose; and the fidelity with which they shall execute their duty will depend much upon your care and strict discipline. it is greatly to be feared, as you observe, if the soldiers should be mixed with the public slaves, they will mutually trust to each other, and by that means grow so much the more negligent. but my principal objection is that as few soldiers as possible should be withdrawn from their standard. xxxii -- to the emperor trajan gabius bassus, who commands upon the frontiers of pontica, in a manner suitable to the respect and duty which he owes you, came to me, and has been with me, sir, for several days. as far as i could observe, he is a person of great merit and worthy of your favour. i acquainted him it was your order that he should retain only ten beneficiary[ ] soldiers, two horse-guards, and one centurion out of the troops which you were pleased to assign to my command. he assured me those would not be sufficient, and that he would write to you accordingly; for which reason i thought it proper not immediately to recall his supernumeraries. xxxiii -- trajan to pliny i have received from gabius bassus the letter you mention, acquainting me that the number of soldiers i had ordered him was not sufficient; and for your information i have directed my answer to be hereunto annexed. it is very material to distinguish between what the exigency of affairs requires and what an ambitious desire of extending power may think necessary. as for ourselves, the public welfare must be our only guide: accordingly it is incumbent upon us to take all possible care that the soldiers shall not be absent from their standard. xxxiv -- to the emperor trajan the prusenses, sir, having an ancient bath which lies in a ruinous state, desire your leave to repair it; but, upon examination, i am of opinion it ought to be rebuilt. i think, therefore, you may indulge them in this request, as there will be a sufficient fund for that purpose, partly from those debts which are due from private persons to the public which i am now collecting in; and partly from what they raise among themselves towards furnishing the bath with oil, which they are willing to apply to the carrying on of this building; a work which the dignity of the city and the splendour of your times seem to demand. xxxv -- trajan to pliny if the erecting a public bath will not be too great a charge upon the prusenses, we may comply with their request; provided, however, that no new tax be levied for this purpose, nor any of those taken off which are appropriated to necessary services. xxxvi -- to the emperor trajan i am assured, sir, by your freedman and receiver-general maximus, that it is necessary he should have a party of soldiers assigned to him, over and besides the beneficiarii, which by your orders i allotted to the very worthy gemellinus. those therefore which i found in his service, i thought proper he should retain, especially as he was going into paphlagonia,[ ] in order to procure corn. for his better protection likewise, and because it was his request, i added two of the cavalry. but i beg you would inform me, in your next despatches, what method you would have me observe for the future in points of this nature. xxx vii -- trajan to pliny as my freedman maximus was going upon an extraordinary commission to procure corn, i approve of your having supplied him with a file of soldiers. but when he shall return to the duties of his former post, i think two from you and as many from his coadjutor, my receiver-general virdius gemelhinus, will be sufficient. xxxviii to the emperor trajan the very excellent young man sempronius caelianus, having discovered two slaves[ ] among the recruits, has sent them to me. but i deferred passing sentence till i had consulted you, the restorer and upholder of military discipline, concerning the punishment proper to be inflicted upon them. my principal doubt is that, whether, although they have taken the military oath, they are yet entered into any particular legion. i request you therefore, sir, to inform me what course i should pursue in this affair, especially as it concerns example. xxxix -- trajan to pliny sempronius caelinus has acted agreeably to my orders, in sending such persons to be tried before you as appear to deserve capital punishment. it is material however, in the case in question, to inquire whether these slaves in-listed themselves voluntarily, or were chosen by the officers, or presented as substitutes for others. if they were chosen, the officer is guilty; if they are substitutes, the blame rests with those who deputed them; but if, conscious of the legal inabilities of their station, they presented themselves voluntarily, the punishment must fall upon their own heads. that they are not yet entered into any legion, makes no great difference in their case; for they ought to have given a true account of themselves immediately, upon their being approved as fit for the service. xl -- to the emperor trajan as i have your permission, sir, to address myself to you in all my doubts, you will not consider it beneath your dignity to descend to those humbler affairs which concern my administration of this province. i find there are in several cities, particularly those of nicomedia and nicea, certain persons who take upon themselves to act as public slaves, and receive an annual stipend accordingly; notwithstanding they have been condemned either to the mines, the public games,[ ] or other punishments of the like nature. having received information of this abuse i have been long debating with myself what i ought to do. on the one hand, to send them back again to their respective punishments (many of them being now grown old, and behaving, as i am assured, with sobriety and modesty) would, i thought, be proceeding against them too severely; on the other, to retain convicted criminals in the public service, seemed not altogether decent. i considered at the same time to support these people in idleness would be an useless expense to the public; and to leave them to starve would be dangerous. i was obliged therefore to suspend the determination of this matter till i could consult with you. you will be desirous, perhaps, to be informed how it happened that these persons escaped the punishments to which they were condemned. this enquiry i have also made, but cannot return you any satisfactory answer. the decrees against them were indeed produced; but no record appears of their having ever been reversed. it was asserted, however, that these people were pardoned upon their petition to the proconsuls, or their lieutenants; which seems likely to be the truth, as it is improbable any person would have dared to set them at liberty without authority. xli -- trajan to pliny you will remember you were sent into bithynia for the particular purpose of correcting those many abuses which appeared in need of reform. now none stands more so than that of criminals who have been sentenced to punishment should not only be set at liberty (as your letter informs me) without authority; but even appointed to employments which ought only to be exercised by persons whose characters are irreproachable. those therefore among them who have been convicted within these ten years, and whose sentence has not been reversed by proper authority, must be sent back again to their respective punishments: but where more than ten years have elapsed since their conviction, and they are grown old and infirm, let them he disposed of in such employments as are but few degrees removed from the punishments to which they were sentenced; that is, either to attend upon the public baths, cleanse the common sewers, or repair the streets and highways, the usual offices assigned to such persons. xlii -- to the emperor trajan while i was making a progress in a different part of the province, a most extensive fire broke out at nicomedia, which not only consumed several private houses, but also two public buildings; the town-house and the temple of isis, though they stood on contrary sides of the street. the occasion of its spreading thus far was partly owing to the violence of the wind, and partly to the indolence of the people, who, manifestly, stood idle and motionless spectators of this terrible calamity. the truth is the city was not furnished with either engines, [ ]buckets, or any single instrument suitable for extinguishing fires; which i have now however given directions to have prepared. you will consider, sir, whether it may not be advisable to institute a company of fire-men, consisting only of one hundred and fifty members. i will take care none but those of that business shall be admitted into it, and that the privileges granted them shall not be applied to any other purpose. as this corporate body will be restricted to so small a number of members, it will be easy to keep them under proper regulation. xliii -- trajan to pliny you are of opinion it would be proper to establish a company of firemen in nicomedia, agreeably to what has been practised in several other cities. but it is to be remembered that societies of this sort have greatly disturbed the peace of the province in general, and of those cities in particular. whatever name we give them, and for whatever purposes they may be founded, they will not fail to form themselves into factious assemblies, however short their meetings may be. it will therefore be safer to provide such machines as are of service in extinguishing fires, enjoining the owners of houses to assist in preventing the mischief from spreading, and, if it should be necessary, to call in the aid of the populace. xliv -- to the emperor trajan we have acquitted, sir, and renewed our annual vows[ ] for your prosperity, in which that of the empire is essentially involved, imploring the gods to grant us ever thus to pay and thus to repeat them. xlv -- trajan to pliny i received the satisfaction, my dearest secundus, of being informed by your letter that you, together with the people under your government, have both discharged and renewed your vows to the immortal gods for my health and happiness. xlvi -- to the emperor trajan the citizens of nicomedia, sir, have expended three millions three hundred and twenty-nine sesterces[ ] in building an aqueduct; but, not being able to finish it, the works are entirely falling to ruin. they made a second attempt in another place, where they laid out two millions.[ ] but this likewise is discontinued; so that, after having been at an immense charge to no purpose, they must still be at a further expense, in order to be accommodated with water. i have examined a fine spring from whence the water may be conveyed over arches (as was attempted in their first design) in such a manner that the higher as well as level and low parts of the city may be supplied. there are still remaining a very few of the old arches; and the square stones, however, employed in the former building, may be used in turning the new arches. i am of opinion part should be raised with brick, as that will be the easier and cheaper material. but that this work may not meet with the same ill-success as the former, it will be necessary to send here an architect, or some one skilled in the construction of this kind of waterworks. and i will venture to say, from the beauty and usefulness of the design, it will be an erection well worthy the splendour of your times. xlvii -- trajan to pliny care must be taken to supply the city of nicomedia with water; and that business, i am well persuaded, you will perform with all the diligence you ought. but really it is no less incumbent upon you to examine by whose misconduct it has happened that such large sums have been thrown away upon this, lest they apply the money to private purposes, and the aqueduct in question, like the preceding, should be begun, and afterwards left unfinished. you will let me know the result of your inquiry. xlviii -- to the emperor trajan the citizens of nicea, sir; are building a theatre, which, though it is not yet finished, has already exhausted, as i am informed (for i have not examined the account myself), above ten millions of sesterces;[ ] and, what is worse, i fear to no purpose. for either from the foundation being laid in soft, marshy ground, or that the stone itself is light and crumbling, the walls are sinking, and cracked from top to bottom. it deserves your consideration, therefore, whether it would be best to carry on this work, or entirely discontinue it, or rather, perhaps, whether it would not be most prudent absolutely to destroy it: for the buttresses and foundations by means of which it is from time to time kept up appear to me more expensive than solid. several private persons have undertaken to build the compartment of this theatre at their own expense, some engaging to erect the portico, others the galleries over the pit:[ ] but this design cannot be executed, as the principal building which ought first to be completed is now at a stand. this city is also rebuilding, upon a far more enlarged plan, the gymnasium,[ ] which was burnt down before my arrival in the province. they have already been at some (and, i rather fear, a fruitless) expense. the structure is not only irregular and ill-proportioned, but the present architect (who, it must be owned, is a rival to the person who was first employed) asserts that the walls, although twenty-two feet[ ] in thickness, are not strong enough to support the superstructure, as the interstices are filled up with quarrystones, and the walls are not overlaid with brickwork. also the inhabitants of claudiopolis[ ] are sinking (i cannot call it erecting) a large public bath, upon a low spot of ground which lies at the foot of a mountain. the fund appropriated for the carrying on of this work arises from the money which those honorary members you were pleased to add to the senate paid (or, at least, are ready to pay whenever i call upon them) for their admission.[ ] as i am afraid, therefore, the public money in the city of nicea, and (what is infinitely more valuable than any pecuniary consideration) your bounty in that of nicopolis, should be ill applied, i must desire you to send hither an architect to inspect, not only the theatre, but the bath; in order to consider whether, after all the expense which has already been laid out, it will be better to finish them upon the present plan, or alter the one, and remove the other, in as far as may seem necessary: for otherwise we may perhaps throw away our future cost in endeavoring not to lose what we have already expended. xlix -- trajan to pliny you, who are upon the spot, will best be able to consider and determine what is proper to be done concerning the theatre which the inhabitants of nicea are building; as for myself, it will be sufficient if you let me know your determination. with respect to the particular parts of this theatre which are to be raised at a private charge, you will see those engagements fulfilled when the body of the building to which they are to be annexed shall be finished. -- these paltry greeks[ ] are, i know, immoderately fond of gymnastic diversions, and therefore, perhaps, the citizens of nicea have planned a more magnificent building for this purpose than is necessary; however, they must be content with such as will be sufficient to answer the purpose for which it is intended. i leave it entirely to you to persuade the claudiopolitani as you shall think proper with regard to their bath, which they have placed, it seems, in a very improper situation. as there is no province that is not furnished with men of skill and ingenuity, you cannot possibly want architects; unless you think it the shortest way to procure them from rome, when it is generally from greece that they come to us. l -- to the emperor trajan when i reflect upon the splendour of your exalted station, and the magnanimity of your spirit, nothing, i am persuaded, can be more suitable to both than to point out to you such works as are worthy of your glorious and immortal name, as being no less useful than magnificent. bordering upon the territories of the city of nicomedia is a most extensive lake; over which marbles, fruits, woods, and all kinds of materials, the commodities of the country, are brought over in boats up to the high-road, at little trouble and expense, but from thence are conveyed in carriages to the sea-side, at a much greater charge and with great labour. to remedy this inconvenience, many hands will be in request; but upon such an occasion they cannot be wanting: for the country, and particularly the city, is exceedingly populous; and one may assuredly hope that every person will readily engage in a work which will be of universal benefit. it only remains then to send hither, if you shall think proper, a surveyor or an architect, in order to examine whether the lake lies above the level of the sea; the engineers of this province being of opinion that the former is higher by forty cubits,[ ] i find there is in the neighbourhood of this place a large canal, which was cut by a king of this country; but as it is left unfinished, it is uncertain whether it was for the purpose of draining the adjacent fields, or making a communication between the lake and the river. it is equally doubtful too whether the death of the king, or the despair of being able to accomplish the design, prevented the completion of it. if this was the reason, i am so much the more eager and warmly desirous, for the sake of your illustrious character (and i hope you will pardon me the ambition), that you may have the glory of executing what kings could only attempt. li -- trajan to pliny there is something in the scheme you propose of opening a communication between the lake and the sea, which may, perhaps, tempt me to consent. but you must first carefully examine the situation of this body of water, what quantity it contains, and from whence it is supplied; lest, by giving it an opening into the sea, it should be totally drained. you may apply to calpurnius macer for an engineer, and i will also send you from hence some one skilled in works of this nature. lii -- to the emperor trajan upon examining into the public expenses of the city of byzantium, which, i find, are extremely great, i was informed, sir, that the appointments of the ambassador whom they send yearly to you with their homage, and the decree which passes in the senate upon that occasion, amount to twelve thousand sesterces.[ ] but knowing the generous maxims of your government, i thought proper to send the decree without the ambassador, that, at the same time they discharged their public duty to you, their expense incurred in the manner of paying it might be lightened. this city is likewise taxed with the sum of three thousand sesterces[ ] towards defraying the expense of an envoy, whom they annually send to compliment the governor of moesia: this expense i have also directed to be spared. i beg, sir, you would deign either to confirm my judgment or correct my error in these points, by acquainting me with your sentiments. liii -- trajan to pliny i entirely approve, my dearest secundus, of your having excused the byzantines that expense of twelve thousand sesterces in sending an ambassador to me. i shall esteem their duty as sufficiently paid, though i only receive the act of their senate through your hands. the governor of moesia must likewise excuse them if they compliment him at a less expense. liv -- to the emperor trajan i beg, sir, you would settle a doubt i have concerning your diplomas;[ ] whether you think proper that those diplomas the dates of which are expired shall continue in force, and for how long? for i am apprehensive i may, through ignorance, either confirm such of these instruments as are illegal or prevent the effect of those which are necessary. lv -- trajan to pliny the diplomas whose dates are expired must by no means be made use of. for which reason it is an inviolable rule with me to send new instruments of this kind into all the provinces before they are immediately wanted. lvi -- to the emperor trajan upon intimating, sir, my intention to the city of apamea,[ ] of examining into the state of their public dues, their revenue and expenses, they told me they were all extremely willing i should inspect their accounts, but that no proconsul had ever yet looked them over, as they had a privilege (and that of a very ancient date) of administering the affairs of their corporation in the manner they thought proper. i required them to draw up a memorial of what they then asserted, which i transmit to you precisely as i received it; though i am sensible it contains several things foreign to the question. i beg you will deign to instruct me as to how i am to act in this affair, for i should be extremely sorry either to exceed or fall short of the duties of my commission. lvii -- trajan to pliny the memorial of the apanieans annexed to your letter has saved me the necessity of considering the reasons they suggest why the former proconsuls forbore to inspect their accounts, since they are willing to submit them to your examination. their honest compliance deserves to be rewarded; and they may be assured the enquiry you are to make in pursuance of my orders shall be with a full reserve to their privileges. lviii -- to the emperor trajan the nicomedians, sir, before my arrival in this province, had begun to build a new forum adjoining their former, in a corner of which stands an ancient temple dedicated to the mother of the gods.[ ] this fabric must either be repaired or removed, and for this reason chiefly, because it is a much lower building than that very lofty one which is now in process of erection. upon enquiry whether this temple had been consecrated, i was informed that their ceremonies of dedication differ from ours. you will be pleased therefore, sir, to consider whether a temple which has not been consecrated according to our rites may be removed,[ b] consistently with the reverence due to religion: for, if there should be no objection from that quarter, the removal in every other respect would be extremely convenient. lix -- trajan to pliny you may without scruple, my dearest secundus, if the situation requires it, remove the temple of the mother of the gods, from the place where it now stands, to any other spot more convenient. you need be under no difficulty with respect to the act of dedication; for the ground of a foreign city [ b] is not capable of receiving that kind of consecration which is sanctified by our laws. lx -- to the emperor trajan we have celebrated, sir (with those sentiments of joy your virtues so justly merit), the day of your accession to the empire, which was also its preservation, imploring the gods to preserve you in health and prosperity; for upon your welfare the security and repose of the world depends. i renewed at the same time the oath of allegiance at the head of the army, which repeated it after me in the usual form, the people of the province zealously concurring in the same oath. lxi -- trajan to pliny your letter, my dearest secundus, was extremely acceptable, as it informed me of the zeal and affection with which you, together with the army and the provincials, solemnised the day of my accession to the empire. lxii -- to the emperor trajan the debts which we are owing to the public are, by the prudence, sir, of your counsels, and the care of my administration, either actually paid in or now being collected: but i am afraid the money must lie unemployed. for as on one side there are few or no opportunities of purchasing land, so, on the other, one cannot meet with any person who is willing to borrow of the public [ b] (especially at per cent, interest) when they can raise money upon the same terms from private sources. you will consider then, sir, whether it may not be advisable, in order to invite responsible persons to take this money, to lower the interest; or if that scheme should not succeed, to place it in the hands of the decurii, upon their giving sufficient security to the public. and though they should not be willing to receive it, yet as the rate of interest will be diminished, the hardship will be so much the less. lxiii -- trajan to pliny i agree with you, my dear pliny, that there seems to be no other method of facilitating the placing out of the public money than by lowering the interest; the measure of which you will determine according to the number of the borrowers. but to compel persons to receive it who are not disposed to do so, when possibly they themselves may have no opportunity of employing it, is by no means consistent with the justice of my government. lxiv -- to the emperor trajan i return you my warmest acknowledgments, sir, that, among the many important occupations in which you are engaged you have condescended to be my guide on those points on which i have consulted you: a favour which i must now again beseech you to grant me. a certain person presented himself with a complaint that his adversaries, who had been banished for three years by the illustrious servilius calvus, still remained in the province: they, on the contrary, affirmed that calvus had revoked their sentence, and produced his edict to that effect. i thought it necessary therefore to refer the whole affair to you. for as i have your express orders not to restore any person who has been sentenced to banishment either by myself or others so i have no directions with respect to those who, having been banished by some of my predecessors in this government, have by them also been restored. it is necessary for me, therefore, to beg you would inform me, sir, how i am to act with regard to the above- mentioned persons, as well as others, who, after having been condemned to perpetual banishment, have been found in the province without permission to return; for cases of that nature have likewise fallen under my cognisance. a person was brought before me who had been sentenced to perpetual exile by the proconsul julius bassus, but knowing that the acts of bassus, during his administration, had been rescinded, and that the senate had granted leave to all those who had fallen under his condemnation of appealing from his decision at any time within the space of two years, i enquired of this man whether he had, accordingly, stated his case to the proconsul. he replied he had not. i beg then you would inform me whether you would have him sent back into exile or whether you think some more severe and what kind of punishment should be inflicted upon him, and such others who may hereafter be found under the same circumstances. i have annexed to my letter the decree of calvus, and the edict by which the persons above-mentioned were restored, as also the decree of bassus. lxv -- trajan to pliny i will let you know my determination concerning those exiles which were banished for three years by the proconsul p. servilius calvus, and soon afterwards restored to the province by his edict, when i shall have informed myself from him of the reasons of this proceeding. with respect to that person who was sentenced to perpetual banishment by julius bassus, yet continued to remain in the province, without making his appeal if he thought himself aggrieved (though he had two years given him for that purpose), i would have sent in chains to my praetorian prefects: [ b] for, only to remand him back to a punishment which he has contumaciously eluded will by no means be a sufficient punishment. lxvi -- to the emperor trajan when i cited the judges, sir, to attend me at a sessions [ b] which i was going to hold, flavius archippus claimed the privilege of being excused as exercising the profession of a philosopher. [ b] it was alleged by some who were present that he ought not only to be excused from that office, but even struck out of the rolls of judges, and remanded back to the punishment from which he had escaped, by breaking his chains. at the same time a sentence of the proconsul velius paullus was read, by which it appeared that archippus had been condemned to the mines for forgery. he had nothing to produce in proof of this sentence having ever been reversed. he alleged, however, in favour of his restitution, a petition which he presented to domitian, together with a letter from that prince, and a decree of the prusensians in his honour. to these he subjoined a letter which he had received from you; as also an edict and a letter of your august father confirming the grants which had been made to him by domitian. for these reasons, notwithstandng crimes of so atrocious a nature were laid to his charge, i did not think proper to determine anything concerning him, without first consulting with you, as it is an affair which seems to merit your particular decision. i have transmitted to you, with this letter, the several allegations on both sides. domitian's letter to terentius maximus "flavius archippus the philosopher has prevailed with me to give an order that six hundred thousand sesterces [ b] be laid out in the purchase of an estate for the support of him and his family, in the neighbourhood of prusias, [ b] his native country. let this be accordingly done; and place that sum to the account of my benefactions." from the same to l. appius maximus "i recommend, my dear maximus, to your protection that worthy philosopher archippus; a person whose moral conduct is agreeable to the principles of the philosophy he professes; and i would have you pay entire regard to whatever he shall reasonably request." the edict of the emperor nerva "there are some points no doubt, quirites, concerning which the happy tenour of my government is a sufficient indication of my sentiments; and a good prince need not give an express declaration in matters wherein his intention cannot but be clearly understood. every citizen in the empire will bear me witness that i gave up my private repose to the security of the public, and in order that i might have the pleasure of dispensing new bounties of my own, as also of confirming those which had been granted by predecessors. but lest the memory of him [ b] who conferred these grants, or the diffidence of those who received them, should occasion any interruption to the public joy, i thought it as necessary as it is agreeable to me to obviate these suspicions by assuring them of my indulgence. i do not wish any man who has obtained a private or a public privilege from one of the former emperors to imagine he is to be deprived of such a privilege, merely that he may owe the restoration of it to me; nor need any who have received the gratifications of imperial favour petition me to have them confirmed. rather let them leave me at leisure for conferring new grants, under the assurance that i am only to be solicited for those bounties which have not already been obtained, and which the happier fortune of the empire has put it in my power to bestow." from the same to tullius justus "since i have publicly decreed that all acts begun and accomplished in former reigns should be confirmed, the letters of domitian must remain valid." lxvii -- to the emperor trajan flavius archippus has conjured me, by all my vows for your prosperity, and by your immortal glory, that i would transmit to you the memorial which he presented to me. i could not refuse a request couched in such terms; however, i acquainted the prosecutrix with this my intention, from whom i have also received a memorial on her part. i have annexed them both to this letter; that by hearing, as it were, each party, you may the better be enabled to decide. lx viii -- trajan to pliny it is possible that domitian might have been ignorant of the circumstances in which archippus was when he wrote the letter so much to that philosopher's credit. however, it is more agreeable to my disposition to suppose that prince designed he should be restored to his former situation; especially since he so often had the honour of a statue decreed to him by those who could not be ignorant of the sentence pronounced against him by the proconsul paullus. but i do not mean to intimate, my dear pliny, that if any new charge should be brought against him, you should be the less disposed to hear his accusers. i have examined the memorial of his prosecutrix, furia prima, as well as that of archippus himself, which you sent with your last letter. lxix -- to the emperor trajan the apprehensions you express, sir, that the lake will be in danger of being entirely drained if a communication should be opened between that and the sea, by means of the river, are agreeable to that prudence and forethought you so eminently possess; but i think i have found a method to obviate that inconvenience. a channel may be cut from the lake up to the river so as not quite to join them, leaving just a narrow strip of land between, preserving the lake; by this means it will not only be kept quite separate from the river, but all the same purposes will be answered as if they were united: for it will be extremely easy to convey over that little intervening ridge whatever goods shall be brought down by the canal. this is a scheme which may be pursued, if it should be found necessary; but i hope there will be no occasion to have recourse to it. for, in the first place, the lake itself is pretty deep; and in the next, by damming up the river which runs from it on the opposite side and turning its course as we shall find expedient, the same quantity of water may be retained. besides, there are several brooks near the place where it is proposed the channel shall be cut which, if skilfully collected, will supply the lake with water in proportion to what it shall discharge. but if you should rather approve of the channel's being extended farther and cut narrower, and so conveyed directly into the sea, without running into the river, the reflux of the tide will return whatever it receives from the lake. after all, if the nature of the place should not admit of any of these schemes, the course of the water may be checked by sluices. these, however, and many other particulars, will be more skilfully examined into by the engineer, whom, indeed, sir, you ought to send, according to your promise, for it is an enterprise well worthy of your attention and magnificence. in the meanwhile, i have written to the illustrious calpurnius macer, in pursuance of your orders, to send me the most skilful engineer to be had. lxx -- trajan to pliny it is evident, my dearest secundus, that neither your prudence nor your care has been wanting in this affair of the lake, since, in order to render it of more general benefit, you have provided so many expedients against the danger of its being drained. i leave it to your own choice to pursue whichever of the schemes shall be thought most proper. calpurnius macer will furnish you, no doubt, with an engineer, as artificers of that kind are not wanting in his province. lxxi -- to the emperor trajan a very considerable question, sir, in which the whole province is interested, has been lately started, concerning the state [ b] and maintenance of deserted children.[ ] i have examined the constitutions of former princes upon this head, but not finding anything in them relating, either in general or particular, to the bithynians, i thought it necessary to apply to you for your directions: for in a point which seems to require the special interposition of your authority, i could not content myself with following precedents. an edict of the emperor augustus (as pretended) was read to me, concerning one annia; as also a letter from vespasian to the lacedaemonians, and another from titus to the same, with one likewise from him to the achaeans, also some letters from domitian, directed to the proconsuls avidius nigrinus and armenius brocchus, together with one from that prince to the lacedaemonians: but i have not transmitted them to you, as they were not correct (and some of them too of doubtful authenticity), and also because i imagine the true copies are preserved in your archives. lxxii trajan to pliny the question concerning children who were exposed by their parents, and afterwards preserved by others, and educated in a state of servitude, though born free, has been frequently discussed; but i do not find in the constitutions of the princes my predecessors any general regulation upon this head, extending to all the provinces. there are, indeed, some rescripts of domitian to avidius nigrinus and armenhis brocchus, which ought to be observed; but bithynia is not comprehended in the provinces therein mentioned. i am of opinion therefore that the claims of those who assert their right of freedom upon this footing should be allowed; without obliging them to purchase their liberty by repaying the money advanced for their maintenance.[ ] lxxiii -- to the emperor trajan having been petitioned by some persons to grant them the liberty (agreeably to the practice of former proconsuls) of removing the relics of their deceased relations, upon the suggestion that either their monuments were decayed by age or ruined by the inundations of the river, or for other reasons of the same kind, i thought proper, sir, knowing that in cases of this nature it is usual at rome to apply to the college of priests, to consult you, who are the sovereign of that sacred order, as to how you would have me act in this case. lxx iv -- trajan to pliny it will be a hardship upon the provincials to oblige them to address themselves to the college of priests whenever they may have just reasons for removing the ashes of their ancestors. in this case, therefore, it will be better you should follow the example of the governors your predecessors, and grant or deny them this liberty as you shall see reasonable. lxxv -- to the emperor trajan i have enquired, sir, at prusa, for a proper place on which to erect the bath you were pleased to allow that city to build, and i have found one to my satisfaction. it is upon the site where formerly, i am told, stood a very beautiful mansion, but which is now entirely fallen into ruins. by fixing upon that spot, we shall gain the advantage of ornamenting the city in a part which at present is exceedingly deformed, and enlarging it at the same time without removing any of the buildings; only restoring one which is fallen to decay. there are some circumstances attending this structure of which it is proper i should inform you. claudius polyaenus bequeathed it to the emperor claudius cæsar, with directions that a temple should be erected to that prince in a colonnade-court, and that the remainder of the house should be let in apartments. the city received the rents for a considerable time; but partly by its having been plundered, and partly by its being neglected, the whole house, colonnade-court, and all, is entirely gone to ruin, and there is now scarcely anything remaining of it but the ground upon which it stood. if you shall think proper, sir, either to give or sell this spot of ground to the city, as it lies so conveniently for their purpose, they will receive it as a most particular favour. i intend, with your permission, to place the bath in the vacant area, and to extend a range of porticoes with seats in that part where the former edifice stood. this new erection i purpose dedicating to you, by whose bounty it will rise with all the elegance and magnificence worthy of your glorious name. i have sent you a copy of the will, by which, though it is inaccurate, you will see that polyaenus left several articles of ornament for the embellishment of this house; but these also are lost with all the rest: i will, however, make the strictest enquiry after them that i am able. lxxvi -- trajan to pliny have no objection to the prusenses making use of the ruined court and house, which you say are untenanted, for the erection of their bath. but it is not sufficiently clear by your letter whether the temple in the centre of the colonnade-court was actually dedicated to claudius or not; for if it were, it is still consecrated ground.[ ] lxxvii -- to the emperor trajan i have been pressed by some persons to take upon myself the enquiry of causes relating to claims of freedom by birth-right, agreeably to a rescript of domitian's to minucius rufus, and the practice of former proconsuls. but upon casting my eye on the decree of the senate concerning cases of this nature, i find it only mentions the proconsular provinces.[ ] i have therefore, sir, deferred interfering in this affair, till i shall receive your instructions as to how you would have me proceed. lxxviii -- trajan to pliny if you will send me the decree of the senate, which occasioned your doubt, i shall be able to judge whether it is proper you should take upon yourself the enquiry of causes relating to claims of freedom by birth-right. lxxix -- to the emperor trajan julius largus, of ponus[ ] (a person whom i never saw nor indeed ever heard his name till lately), in confidence, sir, of your distinguishing judgment in my favour, has entrusted me with the execution of the last instance of his loyalty towards you. he has left me, by his will, his estate upon trust, in the first place to receive out of it fifty thousand sesterces[ ] for my own use, and to apply the remainder for the benefit of the cities of heraclea and tios,[ ] either by erecting some public edifice dedicated to your honour or instituting athletic games, according as i shall judge proper. these games are to be celebrated every five years, and to be called trajan's games. my principal reason for acquainting you with this bequest is that i may receive your directions which of the respective alternatives to choose. lxxx -- trajan to pliny by the prudent choice julius largus has made of a trustee, one would imagine he had known you perfectly well. you will consider then what will most tend to perpetuate his memory, under the circumstances of the respective cities, and make your option accordingly. lxxxi -- to the emperor trajan you acted agreeably, sir, to your usual prudence and foresight in ordering the illustrious calpurnius macer to send a legionary centurion to byzantium: you will consider whether the city of juliopolis' does not deserve the same regard, which, though it is extremely small, sustains very great burthens, and is so much the more exposed to injuries as it is less capable of resisting them. whatever benefits you shall confer upon that city will in effect be advantageous to the whole country; for it is situated at the entrance of bithynia, and is the town through which all who travel into this province generally pass. lxxxii -- trajan to pliny the circumstances of the city of byzantium are such, by the great confluence of strangers to it, that i held it incumbent upon me, and consistent with the customs of former reigns, to send thither a legionary centurion's guard to preserve the privileges of that state. but if we should distinguish the city of juliopolis[ ] in the same way, it will be introducing a precedent for many others, whose claim to that favour will rise in proportion to their want of strength. i have so much confidence, however, in your administration as to believe you will omit no method of protecting them from injuries. if any persons shall act contrary to the discipline i have enjoined, let them be instantly corrected; or if they happen to be soldiers, and their crimes should be too enormous for immediate chastisement, i would have them sent to their officers, with an account of the particular misdemeanour you shall find they have been guilty of; but if the delinquents should be on their way to rome, inform me by letter. lxxxiii -- to the emperor trajan by a law of pompey's[ ] concerning the bithynians, it is enacted, sir, that no person shall be a magistrate, or be chosen into the senate, under the age of thirty. by the same law it is declared that those who have exercised the office of magistrate are qualified to be members of the senate. subsequent to this law, the emperor augustus published an edict, by which it was ordained that persons of the age of twenty-two should be capable of being magistrates. the question therefore is whether those who have exercised the functions of a magistrate before the age of thirty may be legally chosen into the senate by the censors?[ ] and if so, whether, by the same kind of construction, they may be elected senators, at the age which entitles them to be magistrates, though they should not actually have borne any office? a custom which, it seems, has hitherto been observed, and is said to be expedient, as it is rather better that persons of noble birth should be admitted into the senate than those of plebeian rank. the censors elect having desired my sentiments upon this point, i was of opinion that both by the law of pompey and the edict of augustus those who had exercised the magistracy before the age of thirty might be chosen into the senate; and for this reason, because the edict allows the office of magistrate to be undertaken before thirty; and the law declares that whoever has been a magistrate should be eligible for the senate. but with respect to those who never discharged any office in the state, though they were of the age required for that purpose, i had some doubt: and therefore, sir, i apply to you for your directions. i have subjoined to this letter the heads of the law, together with the edict of augustus. lxxxiv -- trajan to pliny i agree with you, my dearest secundus, in your construction, and am of opinion that the law of pompey is so far repealed by the edict of the emperor augustus that those persons who are not less than twenty-two years of age may execute the office of magistrates, and, when they have, may be received into the senate of their respective cities. but i think that they who are under thirty years of age, and have not discharged the function of a magistrate, cannot, upon pretence that in point of years they were competent to the office, legally be elected into the senate of their several communities. lxxxv -- to the emperor trajan whilst i was despatching some public affairs, sir, at my apartments in prusa, at the foot of olympus, with the intention of leaving that city the same day, the magistrate asclepiades informed me that eumolpus had appealed to me from a motion which cocceianus dion made in their senate. dion, it seems, having been appointed supervisor of a public building, desired that it might be assigned[ ] to the city in form. eumolpus, who was counsel for flavius archippus, insisted that dion should first be required to deliver in his accounts relating to this work, before it was assigned to the corporation; suggesting that he had not acted in the manner he ought. he added, at the same time, that in this building, in which your statue is erected, the bodies of dion's wife and son are entombed,[ ] and urged me to hear this cause in the public court of judicature. upon my at once assenting to his request, and deferring my journey for that purpose, he desired a longer day in order to prepare matters for hearing, and that i would try this cause in some other city. i appointed the city of nicea; where, when i had taken my seat, the same eumolpus, pretending not to be yet sufficiently instructed, moved that the trial might be again put off: dion, on the contrary, insisted it should be heard. they debated this point very fully on both sides, and entered a little into the merits of the cause; when being of opinion that it was reasonable it should be adjourned, and thinking it proper to consult with you in an affair which was of consequence in point of precedent, i directed them to exhibit the articles of their respective allegations in writing; for i was desirous you should judge from their own representations of the state of the question between them. dion promised to comply with this direction and eumolpus also assured me he would draw up a memorial of what he had to allege on the part of the community. but he added that, being only concerned as advocate on behalf of archippus, whose instructions he had laid before me, he had no charge to bring with respect to the sepulchres. archippus, however, for whom eulnolpus was counsel here, as at prusa, assured me he would himself present a charge in form upon this head. but neither eumolpus nor archippus (though i have waited several days for that purpose) have yet performed their engagement: dion indeed has; and i have annexed his memorial to this letter. i have inspected the buildings in question, where i find your statue is placed in a library, and as to the edifice in which the bodies of dion's wife and son are said to be deposited, it stands in the middle of a court, which is enclosed with a colonnade. deign, therefore, i entreat you, sir, to direct my judgment in the determination of this cause above all others as it is a point to which the public is greatly attentive, and necessarily so, since the fact is not only acknowledged, but countenanced by many precedents. lxxxvi -- trajan to pliny you well know, my dearest secundus, that it is my standing maxim not to create an awe of my person by severe and rigorous measures, and by construing every slight offence into an act of treason; you had no reason, therefore, to hesitate a moment upon the point concerning which you thought proper to consult me. without entering therefore into the merits of that question (to which i would by no means give any attention, though there were ever so many instances of the same kind), i recommend to your care the examination of dion's accounts relating to the public works which he has finished; as it is a case in which the interest of the city is concerned, and as dion neither ought nor, it seems, does refuse to submit to the examination. lxxxvii -- to the emperor trajan the niceans having, in the name of their community, conjured me, sir, by all my hopes and wishes for your prosperity and immortal glory (an adjuration which is and ought to be most sacred to me), to present to you their petition, i did not think myself at liberty to refuse them: i have therefore annexed it to this letter. lxxxviii -- trajan to pliny the niceans i find, claim a right, by an edict of augustus, to the estate of every citizen who dies intestate. you will therefore summon the several parties interested in this question, and, examining these pretensions, with the assistance of the procurators virdius gemellinus, and epimachus, my freedman (having duly weighed every argument that shall be alleged against the claim), determine as shall appear most equitable. lxxxix -- to the emperor trajan may this and many succeeding birthdays be attended, sir, with the highest felicity to you; and may you, in the midst of an uninterrupted course of health and prosperity, be still adding to the increase of that immortal glory which your virtues justly merit! xc -- trajan to pliny your wishes, my dearest secundus, for my enjoyment of many happy birthdays amidst the glory and prosperity of the republic were extremely agreeable to me. xci -- to the emperor trajan the inhabitants of sinope[ ] are ill supplied, sir, with water, which however may be brought thither from about sixteen miles' distance in great plenty and perfection. the ground, indeed, near the source of this spring is, for rather over a mile, of a very suspicious and marshy nature; but i have directed an examination to be made (which will be effected at a small expense) whether it is sufficiently firm to support any superstructure. i have taken care to provide a sufficient fund for this purpose, if you should approve, sir, of a work so conducive to the health and enjoyment of this colony, greatly distressed by a scarcity of water. xcii -- trajan to pliny i would have you proceed, my dearest secundus, in carefully examining whether the ground you suspect is firm enough to support an aqueduct. for i have no manner of doubt that the sinopian colony ought to be supplied with water; provided their finances will bear the expense of a work so conducive to their health and pleasure. xciii -- to the emperor trajan the free and confederate city of the amiseni[ ] enjoys, by your indulgence, the privilege of its own laws. a memorial being presented to me there, concerning a charitable institution,[ ] i have subjoined it to this letter, that you may consider, sir, whether, and how far, this society ought to be licensed or prohibited. xciv -- trajan to pliny if the petition of the amiseni which you have transmitted to me, concerning the establishment of a charitable society, be agreeable to their own laws, which by the articles of alliance it is stipulated they shall enjoy, i shall not oppose it; especially if these contributions are employed, not for the purpose of riot and faction, but for the support of the indigent. in other cities, however, which are subject to our laws, i would have all assemblies of this nature prohibited. xcv -- to the emperor trajan suetonius tranquillus, sir, is a most excellent, honour-able, and learned man. i was so much pleased with his tastes and disposition that i have long since invited him into my family, as my constant guest and domestic friend; and my affection for him increased the more i knew of him. two reasons concur to render the privileges which the law grants to those who have three children particularly necessary to him; i mean the bounty of his friends, and the ill-success of his marriage. those advantages, therefore, which nature has denied to him, he hopes to obtain from your goodness, by my intercession. i am thoroughly sensible, sir, of the value of the privilege i am asking; but i know, too, i am asking it from one whose gracious compliance with all my desires i have amply experienced. how passionately i wish to do so in the present instance, you will judge by my thus requesting it in my absence; which i would not, had it not been a favour which i am more than ordinarily anxious to obtain.[ ] xcvi -- trajan to pliny you cannot but be sensible, my dearest secundus, how reserved i am in granting favours of the kind you desire; having frequently declared in the senate that i had not exceeded the number of which i assured that illustrious order i would be contented with. i have yielded, however, to your request, and have directed an article to be inserted in my register, that i have conferred upon tranquillus, on my usual conditions, the privilege which the law grants to these who have three children. xcvii to the emperor trajan[ ] it is my invariable rule, sir, to refer to you in all matters where i feel doubtful; for who is more capable of removing my scruples, or informing my ignorance? having never been present at any trials concerning those who profess christianity, i am unacquainted not only with the nature of their crimes, or the measure of their punishment, but how far it is proper to enter into an examination concerning them. whether, therefore, any difference is usually made with respect to ages, or no distinction is to be observed between the young and the adult; whether repentance entitles them to a pardon; or if a man has been once a christian, it avails nothing to desist from his error; whether the very profession of christianity, unattended with any criminal act, or only the crimes themselves inherent in the profession are punishable; on all these points i am in great doubt. in the meanwhile, the method i have observed towards those who have been brought before me as christians is this: i asked them whether they were christians; if they admitted it, i repeated the question twice, and threatened them with punishment; if they persisted, i ordered them to be at once punished: for i was persuaded, whatever the nature of their opinions might be, a contumacious and inflexible obstinacy certainly deserved correction. there were others also brought before me possessed with the same infatuation, but being roman citizens,[ ] i directed them to be sent to rome. but this crime spreading (as is usually the case) while it was actually under prosecution, several instances of the same nature occurred. an anonymous information was laid before me containing a charge against several persons, who upon examination denied they were christians, or had ever been so. they repeated after me an invocation to the gods, and offered religious rites with wine and incense before your statue (which for that purpose i had ordered to be brought, together with those of the gods), and even reviled the name of christ: whereas there is no forcing, it is said, those who are really christians into any of these compliances: i thought it proper, therefore, to discharge them. some among those who were accused by a witness in person at first confessed themselves christians, but immediately after denied it; the rest owned indeed that they had been of that number formerly, but had now (some above three, others more, and a few above twenty years ago) renounced that error. they all worshipped your statue and the images of the gods, uttering imprecations at the same time against the name of christ. they affirmed the whole of their guilt, or their error, was, that they met on a stated day before it was light, and addressed a form of prayer to christ, as to a divinity, binding themselves by a solemn oath, not for the purposes of any wicked design, but never to commit any fraud, theft, or adultery, never to falsify their word, nor deny a trust when they should be called upon to deliver it up; after which it was their custom to separate, and then reassemble, to eat in common a harmless meal. from this custom, however, they desisted after the publication of my edict, by which, according to your commands, i forbade the meeting of any assemblies. after receiving this account, i judged it so much the more necessary to endeavor to extort the real truth, by putting two female slaves to the torture, who were said to officiate' in their religious rites: but all i could discover was evidence of an absurd and extravagant superstition. i deemed it expedient, therefore, to adjourn all further proceedings, in order to consult you. for it appears to be a matter highly deserving your consideration, more especially as great numbers must be involved in the danger of these prosecutions, which have already extended, and are still likely to extend, to persons of all ranks and ages, and even of both sexes. in fact, this contagious superstition is not confined to the cities only, but has spread its infection among the neighbouring villages and country. nevertheless, it still seems possible to restrain its progress. the temples, at least, which were once almost deserted, begin now to be frequented; and the sacred rites, after a long intermission, are again revived; while there is a general demand for the victims, which till lately found very few purchasers. from all this it is easy to conjecture what numbers might be reclaimed if a general pardon were granted to those who shall repent of their error.[ ] xcviii -- trajan to pliny you have adopted the right course, my dearest secundtis, in investigating the charges against the christians who were brought before you. it is not possible to lay down any general rule for all such cases. do not go out of your way to look for them. if indeed they should be brought before you, and the crime is proved, they must be punished;[ ] with the restriction, however, that where the party denies he is a christian, and shall make it evident that he is not, by invoking our gods, let him (notwithstanding any former suspicion) be pardoned upon his repentance. anonymous informations ought not to be received in any sort of prosecution. it is introducing a very dangerous precedent, and is quite foreign to the spirit of our age. xcix -- to the emperor trajan the elegant and beautiful city of amastris,[ ] sir, has, among other principal constructions, a very fine street and of considerable length, on one entire side of which runs what is called indeed a river, but in fact is no other than a vile common sewer, extremely offensive to the eye, and at the same time very pestilential on account of its noxious smell. it will be advantageous, therefore, in point of health, as well as decency, to have it covered; which shall be done with your permission: as i will take care, on my part, that money be not wanting for executing so noble and necessary a work. c -- trajan to pliny it is highly reasonable, my dearest secundus, if the water which runs through the city of amastris is prejudicial, while uncovered, to the health of the inhabitants, that it should be covered up. i am well assured you will, with your usual application, take care that the money necessary for this work shall not be wanting. ci to the emperor trajan we have celebrated, sir, with great joy and festivity, those votive soleninities which were publicly proclaimed as formerly, and renewed them the present year, accompanied by the soldiers and provincials, who zealously joined with us in imploring the gods that they would be graciously pleased to preserve you and the republic in that state of prosperity which your many and great virtues, particularly your piety and reverence towards them, so justly merit. cii -- trajan to pliny it was agreeable to me to learn by your letter that the army and the provincials seconded you, with the most joyful unanimity, in those vows which you paid and renewed to the immortal gods for my preservation and prosperity. ciii -- to the emperor trajan we have celebrated, with all the warmth of that pious zeal we justly ought, the day on which, by a most happy succession, the protection of mankind was committed over into your hands; recommending to the gods, from whom you received the empire, the object of your public vows and congratulations. civ -- trajan to pliny i was extremely well pleased to be informed by your letter that you had, at the head of the soldiers and the provincials, solemnised my accession to the empire with all due joy and zeal. cv -- to the emperor trajan valerius paulinus, sir, having bequeathed to me the right of patronage[ ] over all his freedmen, except one, i intreat you to grant the freedom of rome to three of them. to desire you to extend this favour to all of them would, i fear, be too unreasonable a trespass upon your indulgence; which, in proportion as i have amply experienced, i ought to be so much the more cautious in troubling. the persons for whom i make this request are c. valerius astraeus, c. valerius dionysius, and c. valerius aper. cvi -- trajan to pliny you act most generously in so early soliciting in favour of those whom valerius paulinus has confided to your trust. i have accordingly granted the freedom of the city to such of his freedmen for whom you requested it, and have directed the patent to be registered: i am ready to confer the same on the rest, whenever you shall desire me. cvii -- to the emperor trajan p. attius aquila, a centurion of the sixth equestrian cohort, requested me, sir, to transmit his petition to you, in favour of his daughter. i thought it would be unkind to refuse him this service, knowing, as i do, with what patience and kindness you attend to the petitions of the soldiers. cviii -- trajan to pliny i have read the petition of p. attius aquila, centurion of the sixth equestrian cohort, which you sent to me; and in compliance with his request, i have conferred upon his daughter the freedom of the city of rome. i send you at the same time the patent, which you will deliver to him. cix -- to the emperor trajan i request, sir, your directions with respect to the recovering those debts which are due to the cities of bithynia and pontus, either for rent, or goods sold, or upon any other consideration. i find they have a privilege conceded to them by several proconsuls, of being preferred to other creditors; and this custom has prevailed as if it had been established by law. your prudence, i imagine, will think it necessary to enact some settled rule, by which their rights may always be secured. for the edicts of others, how wisely however founded, are but feeble and temporary ordinances, unless confirmed and sanctioned by your authority. cx -- trajan to pliny the right which the cities either of pontus or bithynia claim relating to the recovery of debts of whatever kind, due to their several communities, must be determined agreeably to their respective laws. where any of these communities enjoy the privilege of being preferred to other creditors, it must be maintained; but, where no such privilege prevails, it is not just i should establish one, in prejudice of private property. cxi -- to the emperor trajan the solicitor to the treasury of the city of amisis instituted a claim, sir, before me against julius piso of about forty thousand denarii,[ ] presented to him by the public above twenty years ago, with the consent of the general council and assembly of the city: and he founded his demand upon certain of your edicts, by which donations of this kind are prohibited. piso, on the other hand, asserted that he had conferred large sums of money upon the community, and, indeed, had thereby expended almost the whole of his estate. he insisted upon the length of time which had intervened since this donation, and hoped that he should not be compelled, to the ruin of the remainder of his fortunes, to refund a present which had been granted him long since, in return for many good offices he had done the city. for this reason, sir, i thought it necessary to suspend giving any judgment in this cause till i shall receive your directions. cxii -- trajan to pliny though by my edicts i have ordained that no largesses shall be given out of the public money, yet, that numberless private persons may not be disturbed in the secure possession of their fortunes, those donations which have been made long since ought not to be called in question or revoked. we will not therefore enquire into anything that has been transacted in this affair so long ago as twenty years; for i would be no less attentive to secure the repose of every private man than to preserve the treasure of every public community. cxiii -- to the emperor trajan the pompeian law, sir, which is observed in pontus and bithynia, does not direct that any money for their admission shall be paid in by those who are elected into the senate by the censors. it has, however, been usual for such members as have been admitted into those assemblies, in pursuance of the privilege which you were pleased to grant to some particular cities, of receiving above their legal number, to pay one[ ] or two thousand denarii[ ] on their election. subsequent to this, the proconsul anicius maximus ordained (though indeed his edict related to some few cities only) that those who were elected by the censors should also pay into the treasury a certain sum, which varied in different places. it remains, therefore, for your consideration whether it would not be proper to settle a certain sum for each member who is elected into the councils to pay upon his entrance; for it well becomes you, whose every word and action deserves to be immortalized, to establish laws that shall endure for ever. cxiv -- trajan to pliny i can give no general directions applicable to all the cities of bithynia, in relation to those who are elected members of their respective councils, whether they shall pay an honorary fee upon their admittance or not. i think that the safest method which can be pursued is to follow the particular laws of each city; and i also think that the censors ought to make the sum less for those who are chosen into the senate contrary to their inclinations than for the rest. cxv -- to the emperor trajan the pompeian law, sir, allows the bithynians to give the freedom of their respective cities to any person they think proper, provided he is not a foreigner, but native of some of the cities of this province. the same law specifies the particular causes for which the censors may expel any member of the senate, but makes no mention of foreigners. certain of the censors therefore have desired my opinion whether they ought to expel a member if he should happen to be a foreigner. but i thought it necessary to receive your instructions in this case; not only because the law, though it forbids foreigners to be admitted citizens, does not direct that a senator shall be expelled for the same reason, but because i am informed that in every city in the province a great number of the senators are foreigners. if, therefore, this clause of the law, which seems to be antiquated by a long custom to the contrary, should be enforced, many cities, as well as private persons, must be injured by it. i have annexed the heads of this law to my letter. cxvi -- trajan to pliny you might well be doubtful, my dearest secundus, what reply to give to the censors, who consulted you concerning their right to elect into the senate foreign citizens, though of the same province. the authority of the law on one side, and long custom prevailing against it on the other, might justly occasion you to hesitate, the proper mean to observe in this case will be to make no change in what is past, but to allow those senators who are already elected, though contrary to law, to keep their seats, to whatever city they may belong; in all future elections, however, to pursue the directions of the pompeian law: for to give it a retrospective operation would necessarily introduce great confusion. cxvii -- to the emperor trajan it is customary here upon any person taking the manly robe, solemnising his marriage, entering upon the office of a magistrate, or dedicating any public work, to invite the whole senate, together with a considerable part of the commonalty, and distribute to each of the company one or two denarii.[ ] i request you to inform me whether you think proper this ceremony should be observed, or how far you approve of it. for myself, though i am of opinion that upon some occasions, especially those of public festivals, this kind of invitation may be permitted, yet, when carried so far as to draw together a thousand persons, and sometimes more, it seems to be going beyond a reasonable number, and has somewhat the appearance of ambitious largesses. cxviii -- trajan to pliny you very justly apprehended that those public invitations which extend to an immoderate number of people, and where the dole is distributed, not singly to a few acquaintances, but, as it were, to whole collective bodies, may be turned to the factious purposes of ambition. but i appointed you to your present government, fully relying upon your prudence, and in the persuasion that you would take proper measures for regulating the manners and settling the peace of the province. cxix -- to the emperor trajan the athletic victors, sir, in the iselastic[ ] games, conceive that the stipend you have established for the conquerors becomes due from the day they are crowned: for it is not at all material, they say, what time they were triumphantly conducted into their country, but when they merited that honour. on the contrary, when i consider the meaning of the term iselastic, i am strongly inclined to think that it is intended the stipend should commence from the time of their public entry. they likewise petition to be allowed the treat you give at those combats which you have converted into iselastic, though they were conquerors before the appointment of that institution: for it is but reasonable, they assert, that they should receive the reward in this instance, as they are deprived of it at those games which have been divested of the honour of being iselastic, since their victory. but i am very doubtful, whether a retrospect should be admitted in the case in question, and a reward given, to which the claimants had no right at the time they obtained the victory. i beg, therefore, you would be pleased to direct my judgment in these points, by explaining the intention of your own benefactions. cxx -- trajan to pliny the stipend appointed for the conqueror in the iselastic games ought not, i think, to commence till he makes his triumphant entry into his city. nor are the prizes, at those combats which i thought proper to make iselastic, to be extended backwards to those who were victors before that alteration took place. with regard to the plea which these athletic combatants urge, that they ought to receive the iselastic prize at those combats which have been made iselastic subsequent to their conquests, as they are denied it in the same case where the games have ceased to be so, it proves nothing in their favour; for notwithstanding any new arrangements which has been made relating to these games, they are not called upon to return the recompense which they received prior to such alteration. cxxi -- to the emperor trajan i have hitherto never, sir, granted an order for post-chaises to any person, or upon any occasion, but in affairs that relate to your administration. i find myself, however, at present under a sort of necessity of breaking through this fixed rule. my wife having received an account of her grandfather's death, and being desirous to wait upon her aunt with all possible expedition, i thought it would be unkind to deny her the use of this privilege; as the grace of so tender an office consists in the early discharge of it, and as i well knew a journey which was founded in filial piety could not fail of your approbation. i should think myself highly ungrateful therefore, were i not to acknowledge that, among other great obligations which i owe to your indulgence, i have this in particular, that, in confidence of your favour, i have ventured to do, without consulting you, what would have been too late had i waited for your consent. cxxii -- trajan to pliny you did me justice, my dearest secundus, in confiding in my affection towards you. without doubt, if you had waited for my consent to forward your wife in her journey by means of those warrants which i have entrusted to your care, the use of them would not have answered your purpose; since it was proper this visit to her aunt should have the additional recommendation of being paid with all possible expedition. footnotes to the correspondence with the emperor trajan (return) [ the greater part of the following letters were written by pliny during his administration in the province of bithynia. they are of a style and character extremely different from those in the preceding collection; whence some critics have injudiciously inferred that they are the production of another hand: not considering that the occasion necessarily required a different manner. in letters of business, as these chiefly are, turn and sentiment would be foreign and impertinent; politeness and elegance of expression being the essentials that constitute perfection in this kind: and in that view, though they may be less entertaining, they have not less merit than the former. but besides their particular excellence as letters, they have a farther recommendation as so many valuable pieces of history, by throwing a strong light upon the character of one of the most amiable and glorious princes in the roman annals. trajan appears throughout in the most striking attitude that majesty can be placed in; in the exertion of power to the godlike purposes of justice and benevolence: and what one of the ancient historians has said of him is here clearly verified, that "he rather chose to be loved than flattered by his people." to have been distinguished by the favour and friendship of a monarch of so exalted a character is an honour that reflects the brightest lustre upon our author; as to have been served and celebrated by a courtier of pliny's genius and virtues is the noblest monunient of glory that could have been raised to trajan. m.] (return) [ nerva, who succeeded domitian, reigned but sixteen months and a few days. before his death he not only adopted trajan, and named him for his successor, but actually admitted him into a share of the government; giving him the titles of cæsar, germanicus and imperator. vid. plin. paneg. m.] (return) [ $ , .] (return) [ one of the four governments of lower egypt. m.] (return) [ the extensive power of paternal authority was (as has been observed in the notes above) peculiar to the romans. but after chrysippus was made a denizen of rome, he was not, it would seem, consequentially entitled to that privilege over those children which were born before his denization. on the other hand, if it was expressly granted him, his children could not preserve their right of patronage over their own freedmen, because that right would of course devolve to their father, by means of this acquired dominion over them. the denization therefore of his children is as expressly solicited as his own. but both parties becoming quirites, the children by this creation, and not pleading in right of their father, would be patres fam. to prevent which the clause is added, "ita ut sint in patris potestate:" as there is another to save to them their rights of patronage over their freedmen, though they were reduced in patriam potestate. m.] (return) [ pliny enjoyed the office of treasurer in conjunction with cornutus tertullus. it was the custom at rome for those who had colleagues to administer the duties of their posts by monthly turns. buchner. m.] (return) [ about $ , ; the annual income of pliny's estate in tuscany. he mentions another near comum in milan, the yearly value of which does not appear. we find him likewise meditating the purchase of an estate, for which he was to give about $ , of our money; but whether he ever completed that purchase is uncertain. this, however, we are sure of, that his fortunes were but moderate, considering his high station and necessary expenses: and yet, by the advantage of a judicious economy, we have seen him in the course of these letters, exercising a liberality of which after ages have furnished no parallel. m.] (return) [ the senators were not allowed to go from rome into the provinces without having first obtained leave of the emperor. sicily, however, had the privilege to be excepted out of that law; as gallia narbonensis afterwards was, by claudius cæsar. tacit. ann. xii. c. . m.] (return) [ one of the seven priests who presided over the feasts appointed in honour of jupiter and the other gods, an office, as appears, of high dignity, since pliny ranks it with the augurship.] (return) [ bithynia, a province in anatolia, or asia minor, of which pliny was appointed governor by trajan, in the sixth year of his reign, a. d. , not as an ordinary proconsul, but as that emperor's own lieutenant, with powers extraordinary. (see dio.) the following letters were written during his administration of that province. m.] (return) [ a north wind in the grecian seas, which rises yearly some time in july, and continues to the end of august; though others extend it to the middle of september. they blow only in the day-time. varenius's geogr. v.i. p. . m.] (return) [ the inhabitants of prusa (brusa), a principal city of bithynia.] (return) [ in the sixth year of trajan's reign, a. d. , and the st of our author's age: he continued in this province about eighteen months. vid. mass, in vit. phin. . m.] (return) [ among other noble works which this glorious emperor executed, the forum or square which went by his name seems to have been the most magnificent. it was built with the foreign spoils he had taken in war. the covering of this edifice was all brass, the porticoes exceedingly beautiful and magnificent, with pillars of more than ordinary height and dimensions. in the centre of this forum was erected the famous pillar which has been already described.] (return) [ it is probable the victory here alluded to was that famous one which trajan gained over the daciaiss; some account of which has been given in the notes above. it is certain, at least, pliny lived to see his wish accomplished, this emperor having carried the roman splendour to its highest pitch, and extended the dominions of the empire farther than any of his predecessors; as after his death it began to decline. m.] (return) [ the capital of bithynia; its modern name is izmid.] (return) [ the town of panticapoeum, also called bosporus, standing on the european side of the cimmerian bosporus (straits of kaffa), in the modern crimea.] (return) [ nicea (as appears by the th letter of this book), a city in bithynia, now called iznik. m.] (return) [ sarmatia was divided into european, asiatic, and german sarmatia. it is not exactly known what bounds the ancients gave to this extensive region; however, in general, it comprehended the northern part of russia, and the greater part of poland, &c. m.] (return) [ the first invention of public couriers is ascribed to cyrus, who, in order to receive the earliest intelligence from the governors of the several provinces, erected post-houses throughout the kingdom of persia, at equal distances, which supplied men and horses to forward the public despatches. augustus was the first who introduced this most useful institution among the romans, by employing post- chaises, disposed at convenient distances, for the purpose of political intelligence. the magistrates of every city were obliged to furnish horses for these messengers, upon producing a diploma, or a kind of warrant, either from the emperor himself or from those who had that authority under him. sometimes, though upon very extraordinary occasions, persons who travelled upon their private affairs, were allowed the use of these post-chaises. it is surprising they were not sooner used for the purposes of commerce and private communication. louis xi. first established them in france, in the year ; but it was not till later (date uncertain) that the post-office was settled in england by act of parliament, m.] (return) [ particular temples, altars, and statues were allowed among the romans as places of privilege and sanctuary to slaves, debtors and malefactors. this custom was introduced by romulus, who borrowed it probably from the greeks; but during the free state of rome, few of these asylums were permitted. this custom prevailed most under the emperors, till it grew so scandalous that the emperor pius found it necessary to restrain those privileged places by an edict. see lipsii excurs. ad taeiti ann. iii, c. , m.] (return) [ general under deeebalus, king of the dacians. m.] (return) [ a province in daeia, comprehending the southern parts of servia and part of bulgaria. m.] (return) [ the second expedition of trajan against decebalus was undertaken the same year that pliny went governor into this province; the reason therefore why pliny sent this calhidromus to the emperor seems to be that some use might possibly be made of him in favour of that design, m.] (return) [ receiver of the finances. m.] (return) [ the coast round the black sea.] (return) [ the text calls him primipilarem, that is, one who had been prirnipilus, in officer in the army, whose post was both highly honourable and profitable; among other parts of his office he had the care of the eagle, or chief standard of the legion. m.] (return) [ slaves who were purchased by the public. m.] (return) [ the most probable conjecture (for it is a point of a good deal of obscurity) concerning the beneficiary seems to be that they were a certain number of soldiers exempted from the usual duty of their office, in order to be employed as a sort of body-guards to the general. these were probably foot; as the equites here mentioned were perhaps of the same nature, only that they served on horseback. equites singulares cæsaris augusti, &c., are frequently met with upon ancient inscriptions, and are generally supposed to mean the bodyguards of the emperor. m.] (return) [ a province in asia minor, bounded by the black sea on the north, bithynia on the west, pontus on the east, and phrygia on the south.] (return) [ the roman policy excluded slaves from entering into military service, and it was death if they did so. however, upon cases of great necessity, this maxim was dispensed with; but then they were first made free before they were received into the army, excepting only (as servius in his notes upon virgil) observes after the fatal battle of cannae; when the public distress was so great that the romans recruited their army with their slaves, though they had not time to give them their freedom. one reason, perhaps, of this policy might be that they did not think it safe to arm so considerable a body of men, whose numbers, in the times when the roman luxury was at its highest, we may have some idea of by the instance which pun the naturalist mentions of claudius isodorus, who at the time of his death was possessed of no less than , slaves, notwithstanding he had lost great numbers in the civil wars. pun. hist. nat. xxxiii. . m.] (return) [ a punishment among the romans, usually inflicted upon slaves, by which they were to engage with wild beasts, or perform the part of gladiators, in the public shows. m.] (return) [ it has been generally imagined that the ancients had not the art of raising water by engines; but this passage seems to favour the contrary opinion. the word in the original is sipho, which hesychius explains (as one of the commentators observes) "instrumentuns ad jaculandas aquas adversas incendia; an instrument to throw up water against fires." but there is a passage in seneca which seems to put this matter beyond conjecture, though none of the critics upon this place have taken notice of it: "solemiss," says he, "duabus manibus inter se junctis aguam concipere, et com pressa utrinque palma in modum ciphonis exprimere" (q. n. . ii. ) where we plainly see the use of this sipho was to throw up water, and consequently the romans were acquainted with that art. the account which pliny gives of his fountains at tuscum is likewise another evident proof. m.] (return) [ this was an anniversary custom observed throughout the empire on the th of december. m.] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ , . to those who are not acquainted with the immense riches of the ancients, it may seem incredible that a city, and not the capital one either, of a conquered province should expend so large a sum of money upon only the shell (as it appears to be) of a theatre: but asia was esteemed the most considerable part of the world for wealth; its fertility and exportations (as tully observes) exceeding that of all other countries. m.] (return) [ the word carte, in the original, comprehends more than what we call the pit in our theatres, as at means the whole space lit which the spectators sat. these theatres being open at the top, the galleries here mentioned were for the convenience of retiring in bad weather. m.] (return) [ a place in which the athletic exercises were performed, and where the philosophers also used to read their lectures. m.] (return) [ the roman foot consisted of . inches of our standard, m.] (return) [ a colony in the district of cataonia, in cappadocia.] (return) [ the honorary senators, that is, such who were not received into the council of the city by election, but by the appointment of the emperor, paid a certain sum of money upon their admission into the senate. m.] (return) [ "graeculi. even under the empire, with its relaxed morality and luxurious tone, the romans continued to apply this contemptuous designation to people to whom they owed what taste for art and culture they possessed." church and brodribb.] (return) [ a roman cubit is equal to a foot . inches of our measure. arbuthanot's tab. m.] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ a diploma is properly a grant of certain privileges either to particular places or persons. it signifies also grants of other kinds; and it sometimes means post-warrants, as, perhaps, it does in this place. m.] (return) [ a city in bithynia. m.] (return) [ cybele, rhea, or ops, as she is otherwise called; from whom, according to the pagan creed, the rest of the gods are supposed to have descended. m.] b (return) [ whatever was legally consecrated was ever afterwards unapplicable to profane uses. m.] b (return) [ that is, a city not admitted to enjoy the laws and privileges of rome. m.] b (return) [ the reason why they did not choose to borrow of the public at the same rate of interest which they paid to private persons was (as one of the commentators observes) because in the former instance they were obliged to give security, whereas in the latter they could raise money upon their personal credit. m.] b (return) [ these, in the original institution as settled by augustus, were only commanders of his body-guards; but in the later times of the roman empire they were next in authority under the emperor, to whom they seem to have acted as a sort of prime ministers. m.] b (return) [ the provinces were divided into, a kind of circuits called conventus, whither the proconsuls used to go in order to administer justice. the judges here mentioned must not be understood to mean the same sort of judicial officers as with us: they rather answered to our juries. m.] b (return) [ by the imperial constitutions the philosophers were exempted from all public functions. catariscus. m.] b (return) [ about $ , .] b (return) [ geographers are not agreed where to place this city; cellarius conjectures it may possibly be the same with prusa ad olympum, prusa at the foot of mount olympus in mysia.] b (return) [ domitian.] b (return) [ that is, whether they should be considered in a state of freedom or slavery. m.] (return) [ "parents throughout the entire ancient world had the right to expose their children and leave them to their fate. hence would sometimes arise the question whether such a child, if found and brought up by another, was entitled to his freedom, whether also the person thus adopting him must grant him his freedom without repayment for the cost of maintenance." church and brodribb.] (return) [ "this decision of trajan, the effect of which would be that persons would be slow to adopt an abandoned child which, when brought up, its natural parents could claim back without any compensation for its nurture, seems harsh, and we find that it was disregarded by the later emperors in their legal decisions on the subject." church and brodribb.] (return) [ and consequently by the roman laws unapplicable to any other purpose. m.] (return) [ the roman provinces in the times of the emperors were of two sorts: those which were distinguished by the name of the provinciae cæsaris and the provinciae senatus. the provinciae cæsaris, or imperial provinces, were such as the emperor, for reasons of policy, reserved to his own immediate administration, or of those whom he thought proper to appoint: the provinciae senatus, or proconsular provinces, were such as he left to the government of proconsuls or praetors, chosen in the ordinary method of election. (vid. suet, in aug. v. .) of the former kind was bithynis, at the time when our author presided there. (vid. masson. vit. plin. p. .) m.] (return) [ a province in asia, bordering upon the black sea, and by some ancient geographers considered as one province with bithynia. m.] (return) [ about $ , . m.] (return) [ cities of pontus near the euxine or black sea. m.] (return) [ gordium, the old capital of phrygia. it afterwards, in the reign of the emperor augustus, received the name of juliopolis. (see smith's classical diet.)] (return) [ pompey the great having subdued mithridates, and by that means enlarged the roman empire, passed several laws relating to the newly conquered provinces, and, among others, that which is here mentioned. m.] (return) [ the right of electing senators did not originally belong to the censors, who were only, as cicero somewhere calls them, guardians of the discipline and manners of the city; but in process of time they engrossed the whole privilege of conferring that honour. m.] (return) [ this, probably, was some act whereby the city was to ratify and confirm the proceedings of dion under the commission assigned to him.] (return) [ it was a notion which generally prevailed with the ancients, in the jewish as well as heathen world, that there was a pollution in the contact of dead bodies, and this they extended to the very house in which the corpse lay, and even to the uncovered vessels that stood in the same room. (vid. pot. antiq. v. ii. .) from some such opinion as this it is probable that the circumstance, here mentioned, of placing trajan's statue where these bodies were deposited, was esteemed as a mark of disrespect to his person.] (return) [ a thriving greek colony in the territory of sinopis, on the euxine.] (return) [ a colony of athenians in the province of pontus. their town, amisus, on the coast, was one of the residences of mithridates.] (return) [ casaubon, in his observations upon theophrastus (as cited by one of the commentators) informs us that there were at athens and other cities of greece certain fraternities which paid into a common chest a monthly contribution towards the support of such of their members who had fallen into misfortunes; upon condition that, if ever they arrived to more prosperous circumstances, they should repay into the general fund the money so advanced. m.] (return) [ by the law for encouragement of matrimony (some account of which has already been given in the notes above), as a penalty upon those who lived bachelors, they were declared incapable of inheriting any legacy by will; so likewise, if being married, they had no children, they could not claim the full advantage of benefactions of that kind.] (return) [ this letter is esteemed as almost the only genuine monument of ecclesiastical antiquity relating to the times immediately succeeding the apostles, it being written at most not above forty years after the death of st. paul. it was preserved by the christians themselves as a clear and unsuspicious evidence of the purity of their doctrines, and is frequently appealed to by the early writers of the church against the calumnies of their adversaries. m.] (return) [ it was one of the privileges of a roman citizen, secured by the semprorian law, that he could not be capitally convicted but by the suffrage of the people; which seems to have been still so far in force as to make it necessary to send the persons here mentioned to rome. m.] (return) [ these women, it is supposed, exercised the same office as phoebe mentioned by st. paul, whom he styles deaconess of the church of cenchrea. their business was to tend the poor and sick, and other charitable offices; as also to assist at the ceremony of female baptism, for the more decent performance of that rite: as vossius observes upon this passage. m.] (return) [ if we impartially examine this prosecution of the christians, we shall find it to have been grounded on the ancient constitution of the state, and not to have proceeded from a cruel or arbitrary temper in trajan. the roman legislature appears to have been early jealous of any innovation in point of public worship; and we find the magistrates, during the old republic frequently interposing in cases of that nature. valerius maximus has collected some instances to that purpose (l. i. c. ), and livy mentions it as an established principle of the earlier ages of the commonwealth, to guard against the introduction of foreign ceremonies of religion. it was an old and fixed maxim likewise of the roman government not to suffer any unlicensed assemblies of the people. from hence it seems evident that the christians had rendered themselves obnoxious not so much to trajan as to the ancient and settled laws of the state, by introducing a foreign worship, and assembling themselves without authority. m.] (return) [ on the coast of paphlagonia.] (return) [ by the papian law, which passed in the consulship of m. papius mutilus and q. poppeas secundus, u. c. , if a freedman died worth a hundred thousand sesterces (or about $ , of our money), leaving only one child, his patron (that is, the master from whom he received his liberty) was entitled to half his estate; if he left two children, to one-third; but if more than two, then the patron was absolutely excluded. this was afterwards altered by justinian, inst. . iii. tit. . m.] (return) [ about $ , .] (return) [ about $ ] (return) [ about $ .] (return) [ the denarius= cents. the sum total, then, distributed among one thousand persons at the rate of, say, two denara a piece would amount to about $ .] (return) [ these games are called iselastic from the greek word invehor, because the victors, drawn by white horses, and wearing crowns on their heads, were conducted with great pomp into their respective cities, which they entered through a breach in the walls made for that purpose; intimating, as plutarch observes, that a city which produced such able and victorious citizens, had little occasion for the defence of walls (catanaeus). they received also annually a certain honourable stipend from the public. m.] none produced from images generously made available by the library of congress) charles clinton nourse [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ photogravure by elson, boston from photograph by edinger] autobiography of charles clinton nourse prepared for use of members of the family containing the incidents of more than fifty years' practice at the bar in the state of iowa privately printed mcmxi copyright by charles clinton nourse the torch press cedar rapids, iowa contents i ancestry and early life ii early experiences in iowa iii removed to des moines iv resumes the practice of law v some important law suits vi visits virginia relatives vii pleasure trip to colorado viii centennial address ix temperance and prohibition x regulation of freight and passenger tariffs xi des moines river land titles xii a. o. u. w. controversy xiii important events in career xiv the brown impeachment case xv more law cases xvi birth of a son and personal incidents xvii breeder of short horn cattle xviii b. f. allen bankruptcy xix about prohibition xx personal incidents chapter i ancestry and early life des moines, iowa, may, to master joseph chamberlain, dear joe: i promised your father that i would write you a long letter containing in detail something of a biography of myself. he assures me it is not intended for publication, but only for your perusal and for such friends of the family as may now or hereafter deem it interesting to know something of those of the family who have preceded them. in washington county, in the state of maryland, near the little stream of antietam creek, where was fought one of the memorable battles of our civil war, there is located a quaint, old fashioned village called sharpsburg. the inhabitants of the village and neighborhood were in a large part germans or of german descent. on one corner of the public square there still remains, in fairly good repair, an old fashioned stone dwelling house. in this house on the first day of april, a.d. , i was born, as were also my two older brothers, joseph gabriel and john daniel, born respectively june , , and november , . this stone house at one time belonged to my grandfather, gabriel nourse, who was the son of james nourse. the ancestors of the latter are given in a book now in the possession of your mother, entitled _james nourse and his descendants_. in the basement or first story of this stone building my father taught school about the time of the birth of his three boys, given above. at that early day the people of the village and surrounding country were not supposed to be very highly educated. if children were taught to read and write indifferently and something of arithmetic, at least as far as the single rule of three, their education was supposed to be sufficient for the practical purposes of life. my father has related to me that when he first commenced teaching in the village, in the presence of such a company as usually assembles around a country store, a wise man of the village explained to his admiring hearers that the cause of the changes of the moon resulted from the fact that the earth came between the sun and the moon and hence obstructed the light in such a way as to produce the new moon and the various changes until the full moon. my father rashly attempted to suggest that the wise man was mistaken, for the obvious reason that the moon in its first quarter could be seen in the heavens at the same time as the sun could be observed, and it was impossible that the moon could be partially darkened by the shadow of the earth. the wise man was rather mortified by this exposure of his ignorance, but did not acknowledge his error, but angrily reproved a young man for presuming to differ with him. in this stone building also my grandfather, gabriel, died in april, , and was buried in the village churchyard. this stone house is still standing at the date of this writing, and the basement room where my father taught school is occupied as a store-room for vending relics and curiosities gathered from the battle-fields of the neighborhood. three miles from the village of sharpsburg, on the virginia side of the potomac river, there is another quaint, old fashioned village called shepherdstown. here my mother, susan cameron, was born october , , and was married to my father, charles nourse, june , . here in this village my mother died october , . there is still standing in this town the old methodist church, surrounded by a village churchyard, where will be found modest tombstones marking the graves of my mother, and of many of her brothers and sisters, and also her mother, susan cameron, who died at shepherdstown, virginia, july , . my mother's father's name was daniel cameron, born in scotland, october, . his wife was also of scotch descent. her family name was clinton, which name was bestowed upon me, and in honor of my grandmother and to please her i have always been known in the family by the name of clinton, my first name being charles, so named after my father. my father, charles nourse, was born at frankfort, kentucky, april , . several years before my mother's death my father had removed from sharpsburg to frederick city, maryland, where he taught school for several years, and while living there, to-wit, august , , your mother's mother was born. my recollections of my mother are not very distinct, as i was only six years old at the time of her death. only one incident of my early childhood i call to mind very clearly. i had been induced by my older brothers and some neighbor boys, whilst playing in the market square at frederick city, to attempt to imitate them in the use of chewing tobacco, which resulted in making me very sick. whilst lying upon the trundle bed in the room upstairs of the house where we resided, i vomited very freely, and as i lay back upon my pillow, pale and weak from the effort, i remember a kind face of one stooping over me and sympathizing deeply, not knowing the cause of my illness, and i remember how guilty i felt at being the object of so much undeserved sympathy. the last two years of our residence in maryland we lived at a little village at the foot of the blue ridge mountains called burkettsville, and during part of these two years my grandmother cameron kept house for us and had charge of her four grandchildren. i remember her very distinctly, the most affectionate and patient woman it was ever my fortune to know. in february, , my father, with his four children then living, took the old fashioned stage-coach at boonesboro, maryland, crossing the allegheny mountains, coming on to wheeling, crossing the ohio river, and thence via zanesville and somerset, ohio, to the little village of east rushville in fairfield county, ohio. after teaching school in east rushville during the summer of that year, my father with myself and sister susan removed to lancaster, the county seat of fairfield county, ohio, leaving my two older brothers as heavy clerks in country stores--my brother joseph with a man named clayton and my brother john with a man named paden, in two separate villages in the county of fairfield. my father taught school in lancaster, ohio, for four years, i think most of the time for a compensation of $ a year. as this sum was hardly sufficient to support him and his two children at a respectable boarding house, it became necessary for me to relieve the situation and to start out in the world for myself. my first attempt was in a country store at east rushville with a man by the name of coulson. after four months heavy clerking with this man, he failed in business and sold out his stock of remnants, and i returned to lancaster to my father. after a few months i again attempted to do business in support of myself, and i hired out to another village store-keeper, without any fixed compensation further than that i was to have my board and clothes for my services. my duties consisted of weighing out groceries, taking in eggs, butter, and feathers, and packing and preparing for shipment the butter and eggs, for which there was not sufficient local market. i also sold goods through business hours, made fires both in the store and for the family, sawed wood, milked the cow, and in the fall and winter fed, curried, and cared for a half dozen horses that were shipped in the spring for the eastern market. at the end of sixteen months of this kind of service my employer advised me and also my father that i would never make a merchant. i had positively refused to conform to his instructions in doing business in the manner in which he thought was most for his interest. he was engaged also at that time in buying leaf tobacco that was raised in the hocking hills, for which he paid about one-third cash, one-third on short time, and one-third in goods out of the store. he had three prices or more for nearly everything he had to sell, depending, of course, on the character of his customer and the kind of pay he was to receive. for instance: his cash customers, of whom there were very few, received four pounds of coffee for a dollar. his long credit customers, of whom there were many, received three pounds of coffee for a dollar, whilst his trade customers, especially those who took goods out of the store for tobacco, received two and a half pounds of coffee for a dollar. it was not easy for a young boy, or as young a boy as i was at that time, always to understand the exact standing of the customers, and it was necessary to watch carefully the old man who was proprietor of the store, who indicated by signs upon his fingers, which i too frequently misunderstood, just exactly how much coffee for a dollar a customer was entitled to. one remarkable incident of the manner in which my employer did business i remember very distinctly. during the day our little store was crowded with customers who had sold tobacco to our employer and had to take their pay in part out of the store. a young man by the name of johnnie, who was a year or two older than myself and a favorite with the proprietor of the store, had during the day sold to a german woman a large red and yellow cotton handkerchief for the sum of thirty-seven and a half cents that was marked twelve and a half cents and had cost us eight and a third cents. the next day she returned with one of her neighbors who also had to take her pay out of the store for tobacco, and she wanted another of those red and yellow cotton handkerchiefs, which johnnie sold her of course at the same price. in the evening johnnie and myself had to go over to the old gentleman's residence before we retired for the night and attend family prayers. during the evening the old gentleman recited johnnie's exploits in selling those cotton handkerchiefs for three times the marked price, and then chuckled gleefully, praising johnnie for his success and how he would make a merchant, but that i would never learn; and then turning to his eldest daughter he said: "hand me the bible, dear, we will have prayers." whilst living with this old gentleman i became thoroughly disgusted with mercantile life, as i then saw it and witnessed it, and cast about in my own mind seriously to know what i should do for the future. i realized that i neglected my opportunities whilst attending school under my father's instructions, and i resolved, as far as i could under the circumstances, to supply the omission. i got out my old kirkham's grammar and my arithmetic and algebra, and spent many of my nights after the store closed in study. at the end of sixteen months of this life i returned again to my father, who was still at lancaster. during the last year that i lived at lancaster i assisted my father in his school, teaching the younger children, and still to a limited extent pursuing my own studies. in the fall of my father determined to remove to kentucky, leaving my sister susan, your mother's mother, with mrs. catherine sumner, a most excellent presbyterian lady with whom my father had boarded for several years during his stay in lancaster. my father first stopped at millersburg, bourbon county, and took up school, but only remained there a few months, having in the meantime heard of a vacancy in the position of principal of the public school in lexington. having secured this position at a salary then of only $ a year, we removed to lexington in the early part of . i became one of the assistant teachers in this school at a salary of twenty dollars a month for the first year, but subsequently was promoted to the position of first assistant at a salary of thirty dollars per month, and continued to occupy that position until the fall of , when i secured, by courtesy of the city council of the city of lexington, the favor of entering the law school of transylvania university, the city having a number of scholarships in that institution at its gratuitous disposal. during the four years that i taught school as an assistant in the city school, i still pursued my own private studies at night, reciting to my father in the morning before school hours, until about the year , when i had saved money enough from my meager salary to procure some text books of the law, and commenced reading law. in the meantime i had formed the acquaintance of a young lawyer, abraham s. drake, who became a very devoted friend of mine and superintended my reading, giving me such instructions as were necessary. my situation as a teacher in the public school in lexington was very trying upon my health. i had an average of about fifty small children in a small room not more than twenty feet square, about six hours a day except saturday, and had to occupy myself with my private studies when i ought to have had the privilege of and needed exercise in the open air. i had some satisfaction, however, in the success of my scholars, making it a specialty to teach them the art of reading well and reading aloud, an art which in the subsequent years i have found our public schools are sadly neglecting. i hope, dear joe, you will succeed while you are going to school in learning to read, that being a neglected and almost a lost art in this day and generation. in august, , my father returned to lancaster, ohio, and married miss hetty herron, an adopted child of mrs. catherine sumner's with whom my sister susan had been living. returning to lexington, he continued teaching until , when he removed to millersburg, kentucky. in the fall of i entered the senior class of the law department of transylvania university, and in march, , graduated and received my diploma from that school. my preceptors were two very able judges of the supreme court of kentucky, to-wit, judge robinson and judge marshall. i had first taken up the idea of becoming a lawyer during my residence in lancaster, ohio, where i frequently spent my saturdays in attendance upon the courts, listening with great interest to the speeches and discussions of the eminent men who constituted the bar at that place, among them henry stansbury, afterwards attorney general of the united states, thomas ewing, afterwards secretary of the treasury of the united states during general harrison's administration, hocking h. hunter, afterwards one of the judges of the supreme court of ohio. whilst residing in lexington, kentucky, i pursued the same course, visiting the courts whenever opportunity offered, hearing such men as henry clay and thomas f. marshall, and other distinguished lawyers of kentucky, arguing their cases. in the meantime i had joined the methodist episcopal church on probation, and made the acquaintance of miss rebecca a. mcmeekin. in the spring of , after my graduation in the law department of transylvania university, i determined to visit ohio. i had some idea of settling in that state, as my two brothers who remained in ohio were then in business in fairfield county, my oldest brother joseph having commenced the mercantile business on his own account at new salem, ohio, and my brother john had commenced the practice of medicine in the village of new baltimore in the same county. before leaving lexington, however, i felt it due to myself and to miss mcmeekin to explain to her my frequent visits to her house. i wrote her a letter telling her of my hopeless condition financially and of the uncertain prospects of my success in my profession, but protesting my affection for her and my good faith in the attentions that i had paid her, and asking her to decide our future for herself. she made no reply in writing, but in my next visit to her she simply expressed her faith in my ultimate success in my profession, and her entire willingness to risk the future, so that when i left lexington for ohio, which i did in april, , i was simply engaged to be married. when i arrived at lancaster i entered the office of john d. martin, an eminent lawyer of that place, in pursuance of a previous correspondence with him. he had been a particular friend of my father and an assistant to him in his school during my father's residence in lancaster in - . he already had his nephew, charles martin, as an assistant in his office and could not offer me any compensation or any work. after two months i found it necessary to do something to replenish my exhausted finances. i first took a select school in millersport a small town on the canal a few miles north of new baltimore. after teaching here for three months i took the winter school in new baltimore at a salary of $ a month. in the meantime, through the acquaintances of my brother joseph, located at new salem, and my brother john, located at new baltimore, i became known throughout that part of the country as an embryo lawyer. although not admitted regularly to the practice of law, in the courts of record, i had the right to practice before the justices of the peace of the county, and during that summer i tried some seventeen cases before these inferior courts. i still continued my studies of the law, using very frequently a book known there as _swan's treatise_, compiled for the benefit of the justices of the peace of the state by judge swan, of ohio. this book also contained many references to the supreme court decisions of the state, and i was accustomed after school hours to walk to lancaster and borrow these reports from my friend, mr. martin, frequently taking them home and using them upon the trial of my cases, which always occurred on saturdays when i had no school. during my stay in ohio, i read carefully and with much profit to myself, the daily reports of the proceedings of the state convention that was then forming a new constitution for that state. many eminent lawyers were members of the convention, among them mr. stansbury, afterwards attorney general of the united states, and mr. raney, afterwards judge of the supreme court of the state of ohio. occasionally the learned men of the convention indulged their sense of humor, and among other incidents of the debates i recall the following: among other members of the convention there was an uneducated man by the name of sawyer. mr. stansbury, of the committee on the judiciary, reported a provision relating to the powers of certain courts, authorizing them to issue writ of habeas corpus, procedendo, quo warranto, and mandamus. mr. sawyer objected to these latin terms being in the constitution on the ground that many of his constituents could not understand the meaning of such terms and he wanted the committee to put the words into english language, and also asked for an explanation of the meaning of these words. mr. stansbury very courteously explained that the difficulty was not in the use of the terms proposed, but it was because his friend did not understand the nature of these writs. for the benefit of mr. sawyer he explained their meaning, but suggested that the use of any english terms or words would not make the character of the writs any better understood to those who are not familiar with the law. he said that the literal meaning of the words "habeas corpus" was to have the body, and the writ was issued in case any one complained of being illegally imprisoned, or restrained of their personal liberty, and was intended for the purpose of having the body of the person in whose behalf the writ was issued brought before the court, in order that the cause of his restraint or imprisonment might be inquired into and its legality or illegality be determined; that to call the writ, a writ to have the body, would not make the term any more intelligent than to use the words "habeas corpus." that the word "procedendo" simply meant to proceed or go ahead, and was a name of a writ that was issued by the appellate court to an inferior tribunal, authorizing them to proceed in accordance with the opinion of the appellate court. out of respect to the character of a man who had become famous in the west, of an early day, he would suggest to his friend sawyer that this writ might be called a writ of "david crocket," as it was a favorite motto of that individual to "be sure you are right and then go ahead." that the literal meaning of the words "quo warranto" was, "why do you do it?" it was a writ issued by some superior court to an inferior court or tribunal, corporation or officer, to ascertain by what authority they exercised certain powers; that the only term in english that would express the particular character of the writ would be the words, "why do you do it?" the writ of "mandamus" was a writ issued by the court commanding some inferior tribunal or officer to do and perform certain duties which were required by law and which he had refused to perform. that the only words in the english language that would properly define the character of this writ would be, "do it, damn you." it is not necessary to add that mr. sawyer gave the convention no further trouble in regard to the latin names of these writs. chapter ii early experiences in iowa in the spring of i had determined to seek a location for the practice of law in some western state. i first thought of migrating to oregon, but gave up that idea for the reason that i feared if i traveled that far from my intended i might never have the means to go back to kentucky to claim her. so, finally, i fixed upon the idea of removing to iowa. before deciding this important question, however, i wrote to my intended wife explaining to her the situation and again calling her attention to the uncertainties of the future. as she was two years older than myself i felt that it was hardly justice to her to insist upon our engagement if she felt that my future was too uncertain. i received in answer to this letter a kind assurance that her faith would not fail, and she cited that beautiful passage of scripture containing the answer of ruth to naomi: "entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god: where thou diest, will i die, and there will i be buried: the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." the spring of i returned to kentucky for a short visit, my brother joseph having loaned me fifty dollars in money and trusted me for a new suit of clothes. in the meantime my father had removed to millersburg, kentucky, and commenced teaching there, a branch of what i think was known as johnson's military academy, the principal school being at blue licks, kentucky, in charge of james g. blaine, afterwards a republican candidate for president of the united states. the lady he afterwards married also assisted my father, and received visits from mr. blaine on saturdays and sundays. it was whilst residing here that my sister susan became acquainted with your grandfather, william vimont, whom she married in january, . [illustration: _old stone house on public square, sharpsburg, md._ birthplace of charles clinton nourse] it was the latter part of may, , when i started west "to grow up with the country." we had then no railroads reaching the mississippi river from the east, and i took the steamer at louisville, kentucky, for st. louis, missouri. at st. louis i took the steamer for iowa, not yet determined as to my landing. the waters of the river were at flood tide, and on our passage up we saw frame houses floating past us. i landed in burlington the last day of may, and stopped at the barrett house. i was not acquainted with a single person in the state of iowa, had no relative, kindred, or friend to whom i could apply for advice or assistance. after a hearty dinner i retired to my room, took a chair, put my feet up on my trunk, and held a consultation with myself. the question before the house was, what to do next. i had with me a general letter of recommendation from professor dodd, then president of transylvania university, and a particular friend of my father, and another from dr. t. o. edwards of lancaster, ohio, an ex-member of congress from that state, and also my letter as a member of the methodist episcopal church, and my diploma signed by the law faculty and trustees of transylvania university. after proper consideration i inquired of the landlord of the hotel where i could find a methodist preacher, as i was satisfied there must be such a person in the city. he directed me to the parsonage. i called upon the minister and made his acquaintance, the reverend mr. dennis, who afterwards obtained some notoriety as a pastor in kansas at the time of the kansas troubles. he was a tall, white haired man of pleasant countenance and affable manners. i showed him my papers and told him my object in calling upon him was, through him, to make the acquaintance of some of the leading lawyers of the city from whom i could obtain information and determine what part of the state i would attempt to locate in. at that time the supreme court of the state of iowa was in session in burlington, consisting of joseph williams, chief justice, george greene and john f. kinney, justices. mr. dennis informed me that the judges were boarding at the same hotel, the barrett house, and he made an appointment to go with me to their consultation room that afternoon and introduce me. we made the visit and i found the judges of the court very cordial, and at their request i produced my diploma from the law school, told them who i was and where i was from, and that i desired some information in regard to the best possible location for a young attorney. they requested me to call at their courtroom the next morning at the opening of the court, and they would have me admitted to the practice of law in their court and throughout the state. the next morning i went to the court, and at the request of judge kinney, mr. dickson, of keokuk, who was then in attendance at the court, made a motion for my admission to the bar, and suggested the appointment of a committee to examine me as to my qualifications. the chief justice announced that an examination was unnecessary--the court had already examined the applicant and was entirely satisfied with his qualifications, and requested me to come forward and take the oath of office, which i did. i made the acquaintance of the clerk of the court, then "old timber," as we afterwards called him, his real name being james woods. that evening judge kinney asked me to take a walk with him, and told me he had a brother-in-law, augustus hall, living at keosauqua, iowa, who was desirous of having a young lawyer associated with him in his office, and if i would go to keosauqua he would give me a letter of introduction. i ascertained that the stage fare to keosauqua would be six dollars. upon taking an inventory of my pocket-book i found i only had about eight dollars left of the money my brother had loaned me. i had with me two trunks, one full of my law books, the other containing my clothing, etc. i interviewed the landlord and told him my situation financially, and proposed to him that i would leave my books in his custody as i was still uncertain where i should settle, and leave my bill unpaid, if agreeable to him, until such time as i could send for my books. he readily agreed to the arrangement, but proposed that i should take my books and he would risk my sending the amount of my bill, which, however, i declined to do. the next morning judge kinney called me to one side, kindly suggesting that it was not unusual for young men to visit iowa for the purpose of locating who were short of funds, and he would be glad to loan me a small amount if i would accept it. this kindness i also declined. i had no doubt that he had been advised by the landlord of my situation, and he was kind enough to attempt to help me. the next morning i took the stage-coach for keosauqua, but owing to the condition of the roads, and particularly of skunk river, i was taken to keokuk where i had to stay all night. after paying my bill the next morning i found i had only twenty cents left. the next day the stage-coach took me to the divide, as we called it, as far as utica postoffice in van buren county, and there left me. the hack that should have taken me from there to keosauqua had already gone before our arrival. i could not stay here all night because i had no money to pay any bill, so i left my one trunk in charge of the postoffice to be sent to keosauqua the next day on the hack, and i started to walk, then about ten miles, to reach keosauqua. i had not walked far before i found that i had sprained my ankle slightly in jumping from the coach that morning. the walking became very painful, but i managed to reach keosauqua about sundown that evening. the first building that looked like a hotel or public house was a frame building that stood southeast of the court house. the high waters of the des moines river had flooded the lower part of the town, and i found this house was a boarding house, at that time full of guests. i inquired for the lady of the house and took my seat on a bench on the porch near the front door. presently the lady of the house appeared, and looking at me very inquiringly wanted to know who i was, where i was from, what was my business, and where i was going. i was a sorry looking subject, having waded through the mud for ten miles, and i presume i looked as i felt--very tired. i gave her my real name, told her i had no business, that i did not know where i was going, and that i had come from keokuk that day. she told me her house was full and she did not believe she could accommodate me with a night's lodging. i then asked her very politely for permission to remain upon the porch until i was sufficiently rested so i could go further down town and obtain lodging, but i asked her about the town, its population, and about the high waters. the lady turned out to be mrs. obed stannard, the mother of ed stannard, afterwards lieutenant governor of missouri, and a very successful business man of st. louis. she was a good talker, and after conversing with her about twenty minutes i got up to leave, thanking her very cordially for her kindness in permitting me to rest on the porch. she relented and told me she thought if i would stay that she could find accommodations for me. i told her no, that i could not put a lady to any inconvenience when it was unnecessary and i must go, so i left and went down to the front street in the town to the keosauqua house, kept then by "father shepherd," as we always called him, with whom i boarded until after i was married in . keosauqua, at that time, as indeed it has been ever since, was a small town of about , inhabitants, the county seat of van buren county, located on the des moines river. it possessed one of the best bars of the state, and among its inhabitants were men who afterwards became distinguished in the history of the state. the men more actively engaged in practice were george g. wright, for many years afterwards a judge of the supreme court of the state, joseph c. knapp, judge of the district court of that district and afterwards united states district attorney, and augustus hall, afterwards a member of congress from that district and appointed by mr. buchanan united states district judge in nebraska. the courts of this county were also visited by j. c. hall, afterwards one of the judges of the supreme court. the pastor of the methodist church at that time was henry clay dean, who afterwards became chaplain of the united states senate, and a notorious political orator. one of his converts was delizon smith, who had been an infidel lecturer and prominent politician in the state, and was afterwards elected for a short term to the united states senate from the state of oregon. the next year after i settled in keosauqua, henry clay caldwell, then a student in the law office of judge wright, was admitted to the bar, and after the civil war was appointed united states district judge and afterwards united states circuit judge, being located during his official career as judge at little rock, arkansas, now retired by reason of age and continued service, and residing at los angeles, california. the state of iowa at that time in its politics was democratic, and the democratic party numbered a majority of about two hundred in van buren county. delizon smith, however, had failed to obtain a nomination by his party for the office of governor, and had organized what was called "the young democracy of van buren county," numbering about two hundred voters. this left the party badly demoralized in the county, and in august, , i had so far succeeded in making the acquaintance of the people of the county that i was elected on an independent ticket to the office of county attorney, which then paid a salary of about three hundred dollars a year. after i had boarded with father shepherd for a few weeks i received from my brother joseph a small remittance. i sent for my books that i had left at burlington and took father shepherd, the landlord, into my confidence, told him my situation financially, and paid my bill up to that date. father shepherd at that time was himself a justice of the peace, and his hotel was the stopping place of most of the people who acted as guardians and administrators, and who attended once a month sessions of the county court that then had jurisdiction in probate matters. i told father shepherd of my desire to make the acquaintance of these officials as they visited his hotel from time to time, and that his pay for my board depended largely upon my success in business, and i asked him to be my friend, and at least let people know why i was there and what my proposed business was. he became my fast friend and helped me to make very many valuable acquaintances. father shepherd was the father-in-law of delizon smith, and a leader of the faction known as the "young democrats" of that county. early in the spring of i received a letter from my then intended wife, suggesting that my success in business she thought gave sufficient promise for the future, and that it was not necessary for us to wait longer. accordingly i got together one hundred dollars in money, made a trip around the river to louisville, kentucky, and thence via rail to lexington for the purpose of realizing something of the deferred hope. we were married on the th of april of that year, my father in the meantime having removed from millersburg to winchester, kentucky. i made him a visit in company with my bride and had the pleasure of meeting there my sister susan and her husband, william vimont, your mother's father and mother. before going to kentucky and claiming my bride i purchased from the reverend daniel lane a house and two lots in keosauqua at the price of three hundred and fifty dollars, and borrowed fifty dollars from thomas devon to make the first payment. i had also attended several auction sales and bought some chairs and tables, a cook stove and a few dishes. my wife's mother had packed a feather bed, some pillows and bed clothes, and quilts of the old style in a store box, and we returned to iowa the latter part of april, . the expense of my trip and marriage left me only two dollars of the one hundred dollars i had when i started for my bride. we arrived in keosauqua on sunday in a slight april shower. on monday we proceeded to the house i had purchased, which was in need of repair. we whitewashed the walls and my wife washed the windows. the next day we made a bill of about forty dollars at the store for additional house-keeping facilities. i bought a sack of flour and a ham of meat, and on tuesday evening we took tea at home. it was the first home i had had (in the proper sense of the term) since we left maryland, and when we sat down at our own table to drink our cup of tea and eat the new made biscuit baked by my own wife, i could not repress the tears that came to my eyes, and i thanked god for the mercy that he had bestowed upon us. in the fall of i made a trip west through the southern tier of counties, attending the courts at davis, appanoose, wayne, and decatur counties. i made the trip on horseback with a pair of saddle-bags that contained my necessary baggage. from bloomfield i was accompanied by several attorneys of that bar, and at centerville two or three additional lawyers joined our party. the counties west of centerville were very sparsely settled and the road consisted merely of two paths worn by the horses and wagon wheels on the prairie grass. in wayne county we applied at one settler's house for accommodations for the night, but the housewife informed us that her husband was away from home, had gone to mill, and that she had nothing in the house to eat save a little bacon. she said if we would remain she would entertain us with such accommodations as the place afforded. the corn was hardly yet ripe enough to feed our horses, but she told us if we would select the ripest and use some salt in feeding we were welcome to do so. we also, at her request, plucked some of the softer ears of the corn, and these she grated upon a large tin grater, and frying some of the bacon in her skillet she made cakes of the grated corn and fried them in the fat. she also gave us a cup of good coffee, and with the appetites we had acquired in our day's travel we made a very hearty and palatable meal. when bedtime came she made some kind of a bed upon the floor. the next morning we had a breakfast of the same corn and bacon and coffee. the lady made a very reasonable charge for our entertainment, and she had no reason to doubt the sincerity of our compliments upon our fare, as the avidity with which we had eaten what she had supplied gave full evidence that we had appreciated our entertainment. the next morning we rode into corydon, the county seat of wayne county. the only hotel in the place was a small one and one-half story frame house, with a shed addition for kitchen and dining hall. our bed room was the upstairs, and our beds were in two rows, with our heads under the eaves and our feet touching each other in the center of the room. we had no separate apartment or separate beds, our wearing apparel furnishing the pillows. the court was held in a frame school house on the public square. the boundaries of the public square were ascertained by a lot of wooden stakes or pegs. there was no general store in the place for the sale of goods. an enterprising peddler with two large peddling wagons came through with us from centerville and erected a large tent in the center of the square for the display and sale of his goods, and whenever the court was not in actual session his store was opened for business. judge townsend, of monroe county, was the judge of the court. from wayne county we went to decatur, the peddler also keeping us company with his itinerant dry goods establishment. during this trip i made the acquaintance of very many young men who afterwards became distinguished as lawyers, legislators, and judges. the only lawsuit in which i was consulted was a slander case tried in wayne county. the suit was brought in behalf of a young woman for damages because of words spoken against her reputation by the defendant. amos harris, a lawyer from centerville, was engaged as attorney for the defendant. when the case was about to be called for trial harris expressed his wish to have my advice in regard to the course to be pursued, and at his request i retired with him to the shady side of the school house for consultation. he told me that his client was a man of some property and that the plaintiff had some witnesses who would testify clearly and positively to the slanderous words spoken by the defendant of and concerning the young lady. he said his client really had not injured the reputation of the young woman at all because nobody believed any thing that he said as he had a very bad reputation for veracity. he said they could make no defense whatever, as the girl's character was good, and he was afraid of a large verdict for damages against his client, and asked me if i could think of any way that he could help his client out of the difficulty. i asked him if he could prove that nobody believed what his client said on account of his bad character. he said yes, there were plenty of persons that would testify to that, but he could not see how that was any defense. i told him it was no defense against the slander, but it might be proved with advantage in mitigation of damages, provided his client would be willing that he should undertake to do so. he called his client out and explained to him the situation as i had advised, and asked him if he was willing to save his money at the expense of his reputation. the fellow winced, but finally consented that harris might make the proof. i suggested that as the plaintiff's witnesses were all friendly to the young lady harris might on cross-examination prove by them that they did not at the time or ever believe the slander that the defendant had uttered against the plaintiff, and that they had never repeated it to anyone except accompanied by their statement of their belief that it was all false, and harris introduced several other witnesses to prove the bad reputation of his client for truth and veracity. the plaintiff's attorneys objected and the court first hesitated to allow the witnesses to so testify, but upon the suggestion that it was the best thing for the plaintiff's reputation, and that as nearly the whole population of the county was there upon attendance of the court, it was better to clear up her reputation by this testimony than to give her money to heal her wounded feelings, the court finally took this view of the case and permitted the evidence to go to the jury in mitigation of damages. the jury found a verdict in favor of the plaintiff against the defendant for the sum of only twenty dollars. the young woman went home with her character thoroughly vindicated and her reputation restored, and the only one unhappy over the result of the trial appeared to be the attorney for the plaintiff, who was undoubtedly expecting a handsome recovery as the only means of compensating him for his professional work. from decatur county i returned home, having learned much of the country and its people, and having made many interesting acquaintances among the members of the bar. and now i must tell you something of my political career, which properly begins at about this date. i had been made chairman of the county committee of the fast dissolving organization known as the whig party. in the fall of i was a candidate for re-election as county attorney. we had nominated a county ticket of two candidates for the state senate and four representatives, what we then called the anti-nebraska whigs. james w. grimes was the candidate for governor of the state. the democratic party had passed what was called the "kansas-nebraska bill," containing a clause repealing the missouri compromise measure, adopted in , that prohibited slavery and involuntary servitude north of thirty-six degrees and thirty minutes of north latitude in the territories of the united states, acquired by the louisiana purchase. this had resulted in the partial disorganization of the democratic party throughout many of the northern states. i had left kentucky because of my opposition to slavery, and especially to what i regarded as the baleful influence of that institution upon the white population. i had settled in iowa because it was a free state and because i felt that the opportunities for success in life would be greater than in a slave state. i had observed whilst in kentucky that fixed conditions of political, social, and business life made the success of the young man, depending only on his own energies and abilities, always doubtful and difficult. upon my defeat as prosecuting attorney in , at the suggestion of the members elected to the legislature from van buren county i went to iowa city in their company at the beginning of the session, and through their influence i was elected clerk of the house of representatives of the state of iowa. i found this position of great advantage and help, not only pecuniarily, but i made the acquaintance of public men of all parties during the session. afterwards in - i was elected secretary of the senate of the state. in , at the dissolution of the old whig party there existed a political organization in many of the states of the union called "the know-nothings." it was a secret political organization, having for its principal doctrines opposition to the roman catholics and to the foreign-born citizens of the united states. i refused to affiliate with this "know-nothing" organization for the reason that i did not believe in secret political societies or organizations in this country, and i did not believe in making the religious faith or affiliations of any man a test for office, neither did i believe that anyone should be excluded from the confidence and respect of his fellow men because of the place of his birth. as county chairman of the expiring whig party i issued to the people of van buren county a circular stating my position and declining to call any convention to coöperate with the "know-nothing" organization. i did this for the further reason that the opposition to the extension of slavery into the territories was becoming every day more and more pronounced in the northern states of the union, and the nucleus of what was afterwards the republican party had already been formed in many of the northern states. it may be interesting to you to have the history of how henry clay dean became a democrat, and how a little thing may change the destiny and fortune of a man in this life. in the fall of the methodist annual conference for iowa met at the city of dubuque. it was the custom at that early day for the members of the conference to become guests of the citizens of the locality where the conference had its meetings. dean was then a member of the conference, and had been receiving and filling regular appointments as a pastor. at dubuque resided honorable george w. jones, then a democratic united states senator from iowa. jones maintained a good table and was a good liver, and his wife an excellent, hospitable lady. in assigning the members of the conference to the different citizens, dean was assigned as the guest of senator jones and his wife. after the conference had been in session a few days, the "know-nothings" having been secretly organized in the city of dubuque became very active in obtaining the names of the methodist ministers attending the conference, and in initiating them into their order. among other names presented and favorably acted upon was that of henry clay dean, my former pastor and friend. after he had been elected and the time appointed for his initiation a few nights hence, one of the over zealous ministers represented to brother dean that as he had now been elected a member of the "know-nothing" organization it was not proper for him to continue to be the guest of and accept of the hospitality of the wife of george w. jones, who was a roman catholic. dean was an enormous eater, and the suggestion that he should give up his nice boarding place greatly offended him, and he denounced the suggestion as bigotry and presumption inexcusable. he at once went to senator jones and told him of the proposition that had been made to him and the cause of it, and denounced the "know-nothing" organization in most uncompromising terms. the senator was pleased with brother dean's zeal in the matter, and induced him on the succeeding sabbath to preach a sermon on "know-nothingism" and to denounce it from the pulpit. dean was a man of more than ordinary ability, with a wonderful command of language. upon the adjournment of the conference senator jones wrote to judge knapp at keosauqua stating the situation and suggesting that dean be employed in the political canvass against the "know-nothings" that fall, and be encouraged in his opposition to that order. dean returned to keosauqua, and i had a long conference with him upon this matter. i knew that he had been engaged several years before that in collecting the most learned and effective arguments in favor of protective tariff as delivered in congress from time to time, especially from whig members from the state of pennsylvania. i also knew that he had preached some of the bitterest sermons against human slavery that i had ever heard from the pulpit or from any source, and i urged upon him that he could not consistently coöperate with the democratic party because of his views in regard to the tariff and because of his opposition to slavery. i pointed out to him that the organization of the republican party was then proceeding in most of the states and that his feelings, sentiments, and views would be better expressed by the position of that organization; that the "know-nothing" party was a mere temporary passion and would effervesce and disappear in a short time, and that his efforts in opposition to them would be wholly unnecessary and gratuitous. but he was too wroth and anxious for his revenge against those who suggested that he decline the hospitality and good dinners of senator jones. he accordingly entered the canvass, and that fall there being the election in virginia in which henry a. wise was a democratic candidate for governor and was opposed by the "know-nothings," dean with letters of recommendation from jones and senator dodge and other leading democrats of iowa went to virginia and entered the political canvass in favor of wise and in opposition to the "know-nothings." wise was elected, and dean then went to washington city. with the influence of dodge and jones and the virginia delegation he was elected chaplain of the united states senate, and thereafter, and especially during the civil war, he made himself notorious as a democratic orator. without observing the exact chronology of events, it would be well here to recite certain facts and incidents that had a material influence upon my mind, and determined my action in regard to the question of human slavery. while residing in kentucky and boarding in the family of my friend, abraham s. drake, i had frequent conversations with him in regard to the subject. he was at that time decidedly opposed to the institution, regarding it as morally wrong and detrimental in its effect upon the white as well as the slave population of the state. slavery at that time existed in kentucky in its most modified and humane condition, but the system itself and the law gave to the slave owner a power over the slave that was too frequently abused. one instance i recall that made a powerful impression upon my mind. on a beautiful sabbath morning in the early part of the summer i was taken sick, while in attendance upon religious services at the methodist episcopal church, and was compelled to leave the church and go home, soon after the singing of the opening hymn. on the way to my boarding house i passed near what was known as the "watch-house" or headquarters of the police, and was shocked to hear the cries of a negro woman who was maid to some wealthy mistress, who had become offended at her that morning, and had sent for the police and given orders that her servant be taken to the police quarters and given a certain number of lashes, administered in expiation of her offense. the contrast between the quiet worshipers at the church and their seeming devotion, and the horrible cries that filled the air from the unfortunate negro slave woman was a comment upon the injustice and brutality of the institution, that made an impression upon my mind that has never been erased. in when i went to kentucky for the purpose of being married i was the guest of my friend drake for several days. while sitting upon the veranda one evening one of his children was playing upon the lawn in front of the house, with a little negro tot two or three years of age. he called my attention to the colored child, stating that that was his "carriage driver" and that he was a child of one of the negro women that his wife had inherited a few years before, and he remarked that the child was worth then $ . i reminded him of our former conversation and discussion in regard to slavery and expressed my surprise that he would have any pleasure in calculating the money value of this child. he informed me that his views on the subject of slavery had undergone quite a change, and upon investigating the subject he was satisfied that the bible fully justified the institution of slavery, and he thought it was right morally as well as legally to own and enjoy the possession of such property. i said but little in response to these arguments, but could not but reflect and be convinced that it was pecuniary investment that had its baleful influence upon the conscience of my friend and perverted his moral sense, and this was only to me an additional reason for hating the institution. when returning from kentucky with my bride we stayed over a day at louisville, as my wife desired to visit some old friends and former neighbors who had resided near them in lexington. we accordingly made a call upon her friends, and while sitting in the parlor conversing about old times a colored woman about the age of my wife came into the room, and greeting us begged to inquire of my wife in regard to her husband, it appearing from her story the family had moved from lexington to louisville about two years before, and that the woman had been separated from her husband, who still resided in lexington and was the property of another party. in the meantime the slave woman had given birth to a child, and amid her tears told how she longed to see her husband and have him see her young babe. the interview was cut short when the slave woman was remanded to the kitchen, and the cheerful recall of pleasant reminiscences became rather sad. the family insisted upon my wife and myself remaining to dinner and pressed upon us with great earnestness their hospitality. my wife was disposed to accept of the invitation, but having only been married the week before, i was not prepared to accept of the hospitality of people who separated a husband and wife thus ruthlessly, and i retired with thanks, and we took our dinner at the hotel. after i settled in keosauqua, iowa, i became a subscriber to and a constant reader of the new york _tribune_, and in due time also read with much interest that wonderful book written by harriet beecher stowe, called _uncle tom's cabin_. during the winter of , whilst i was secretary of the state senate, i enjoyed the pleasure of hearing wendell phillips deliver his lecture upon the "lost arts." at the close of his lecture hon. j. b. grinnell, then a member of the state senate from poweshiek county, rose in the audience and requested mr. phillips to give us his views upon the subject of slavery, and especially called his attention to the fact that mr. phillips had been represented by the public press as favoring a dissolution of the american union. mr. phillips courteously complied with the request, and proceeded to say that when the constitution of the united states was formed it contained within its provisions, as he believed, the germ of human liberty. that the declaration of american independence had declared that all men were entitled to the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. he said that he was in favor of the development of this germ to its fullest extent; that the constitution of the united states might be compared to a box in which was planted an acorn; the acorn would grow in the very nature of things and become an oak, but whether or not the box in which the acorn was planted was sufficient to contain the development and growing germ, he could not say. he was not concerned in regard to the safety of the box, but he was anxious that the germ should develop and that the tree should grow. that whether or not the constitution of the united states could survive the development and growth of this germ of human liberty that had been planted therein, he could not say, and upon that question he did not feel any very great anxiety; all he had to say in regard to the matter was that he was in favor of the growth of the germ, and he believed that the acorn would grow and ought to grow. wendell phillips was one of the most eloquent and graceful public speakers it was ever my privilege to listen to. i had expected from his reputation as a reformer and abolitionist to hear a man with loud voice and vehement gesticulation, but instead he proved to be mild, quiet, self-possessed, delivering his utterances in the clearest, mildest, and most persuasive tones, commanding the respect of his audience and almost fascinating them with his words. during the same session i also had the pleasure of hearing at davenport, iowa, a lecture from horace greeley, the great editor of the new york _tribune_. i was greatly disappointed in mr. greeley's lecture. as a writer i knew him to be the clearest and most incisive in his utterances. his manner on the platform and his speech were those of a drony, sing-song, intonating episcopal minister, devoid of life and spirit. the general assembly of - elected george g. wright, then of van buren county, norman w. isbell, and wm. g. woodard, judges of the supreme court of the state to fill the vacancies caused by the expirations of the terms of judges williams, kinney and greene. at this session also occurred the first election of james harlan as united states senator. mr. harlan was not permitted to take his seat under this election, for the reason that at the adjourned joint session at which he was elected the senate as an organized body with their president, maturin l. fisher, had not participated in the election, but had previously adjourned the session of the state senate. mr. harlan was again elected in the session of - , and his right was recognized by the senate. in the summer of the year a republican convention was called for the state to be held at iowa city, for the organization of that party, in sympathy with other state organizations of like name and principles. as the sole surviving official of the old whig party of van buren county, i called a county convention to meet at keosauqua for the purpose of appointing delegates to the state convention to be held at iowa city. i wrote a letter to my friend, h. c. caldwell, asking him to write a letter to judge wright and urge upon him the propriety, as he could not be present at this county convention, of writing a letter endorsing and encouraging the movement. judge wright declined to write any such letter, and simply wrote to mr. caldwell that he hoped we were doing right in calling the county convention. i was present at the county convention and started the movement with such enthusiasm as we were able to awaken. delegates were duly appointed, but the attendance at iowa city required of them an overland trip of some seventy-five miles. i then owned what was called a "democrat wagon," having two seats, and a small gray mare and mustang pony. with this team and wagon, when the time came, i furnished the transportation for the delegation, and van buren county was represented in the state convention by abner h. mccrary, our state senator from van buren county, dr. william craig, george c. duffield, and myself. i had the honor also to be appointed one of the secretaries of this state convention. this was the first republican state convention held in the state, and was the beginning of the political organization that has ever since, with the exception of a period of four years, controlled the legislation and policy of the state of iowa. the first national republican convention met at philadelphia in the fall of and nominated general john c. fremont as its candidate for president. i took an active part in the campaign in iowa that ensued. at the request of the central committee of the state i spent several weeks in canvassing davis county. many of the settlers in the southern tier of townships, both in van buren and davis counties, instead of finding themselves in a slave state, in the state of missouri, were really citizens of the free state of iowa. it was much easier to ascertain the true southern boundary of our state than it was to remove the prejudices of the benighted citizens who had by mistake settled in iowa, so when i went into davis county in to make republican speeches opposed to the existence and extension of slavery in our free territory, i met with small encouragement. we were courteously called "black republicans," and frequently designated as "damn black republicans." at one point where i had an appointment to make a political speech i found an audience assembled that had armed themselves with rotten eggs, with the intention of driving me out of their locality. it so happened that the year before most of these men had been indicted for libel in accusing their school-master of burning down a school house in the township, notifying him publicly to leave the county or suffer mob violence. a civil suit was also instituted against them for damages. i had been employed by them and succeeded in getting them off with the reasonable sum of eight hundred dollars, for which they were truly grateful, and when they found that i was to be the "black republican" orator advertised for the occasion, they generously assured me that if it had been anybody else they would not have permitted him to speak, but as i had stood by them in their trouble i might go on and say just what i pleased. they were a warm-hearted, hot-headed, impulsive set of men. just how many converts i made during the two weeks that i was engaged in speaking in davis county i cannot say. we had no republican organization in the county, and the leading men who took any active part in politics in opposition to the democratic party were running bell and everett as their candidates. davis county, at the ensuing election, gave fremont electors only two hundred and fifty votes, and the vote in the state of iowa stood as follows: fremont, , ; buchanan, , ; fillmore, , . chapter iii removed to des moines the practice of law in van buren county did not prove very remunerative. the district court met only twice a year. the business of the term sometimes occupied only two or three days, seldom beyond one week, and never beyond two weeks. during the time i had continued to reside in van buren county one of the most important cases in which i was retained was a contest over the legality of a will in which the deceased had made a bequest of a small tract of land to the methodist episcopal church, organized out on what was called "utica prairie." the will provided that the land should be sold by the trustees of the church and a fund created out of which should be paid so much a year to the missionary cause and so much to the support of the minister. the remainder should be expended by the trustees in erecting a house of worship. the trustees of the church had not been incorporated, and the heirs sought to set aside the will on the ground that there was no legal capacity in the trustees to receive the bequest, and on the further ground of the uncertainty of the beneficiaries under the will. i was retained in the case in behalf of the trustees, and had them immediately adopt articles of incorporation and file the same as provided by the statutes of the state. i filed an answer in the case, setting forth with particularity the character of the methodist episcopal church's organization, with proper averments as to the certainty of the continued existence of the beneficiaries under the will. the case was tried upon demurrer to this answer, and upon appeal to the supreme court of iowa the will was sustained. the opinion of the court is fully reported in the case of johnson et al. vs. mayne et al., trustees, th iowa, . [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ from an air brush copy of an old photograph loaned by d. w. nourse, kenton, ohio.] i charged and received from the trustees the sum of $ for my services in the case, being the largest amount that i received in my practice from any one case during the seven years i remained in keosauqua. the railroad up the des moines valley from keokuk had been located some three or four miles north of the town of keosauqua, and i saw no immediate prospect of any improvement or growth in the town. added to these discouragements, my wife and myself in the fall of were both taken down with the fever and the ague. on advice of our physician we made a visit to kentucky and also to ohio to visit our relatives, hoping by some means to escape or shake off the dreaded disease, but the more we shook the stronger the ague kept its hold. i had during that year ( ) been employed by edwin manning, the commissioner of the des moines river improvement, to represent the interest of the state in certain suits commenced against him by the des moines navigation & railroad company, for the purpose of compelling him to certify to the company certain lands belonging to the state under the grant of congress, made for the purpose of aiding in the improvement of the navigation of the des moines river, the company claiming that they were entitled to certain of these lands at the rate of $ . per acre for moneys expended in the building of locks and dams upon the river, which expenditure had been certified by the state engineer. the general assembly of the state of iowa was to meet for the first time in the city of des moines on the first day of january, , and i went to des moines in company with mr. manning at that time for the two-fold purpose of calling the roll of senators upon the organization of the senate, that being my duty as the secretary of the past session, and also to look after the interest of the state in the settlement that was then to be made between the state and the des moines navigation company, the supreme court having decided the suit, to which i have referred, in our favor. i found des moines to be a thriving young city of something less than five thousand inhabitants, but with great expectation for the future as the permanent capital of the state of iowa. i was introduced after a few days' stay in the city to judge w. w. williamson, an old time lawyer with a good collecting business, who offered me a full partnership in his business, and i finally determined, after transacting the business i had in des moines, to return to keosauqua and dispose of my affairs there and remove to this city, which i finally did, and on the th day of march, , with my wife and household goods and the ague, we came to des moines. about a year or more before we left keosauqua i had traded off the house i had first purchased in the village for a very beautiful home that had been built by l. j. rose. it had about a full block of ground well planted with young fruit trees and vines and shrubbery and rose bushes. the house was well located on the hill in the northwest part of the village, and my wife as well as myself had become fondly attached to the place. during our five years of residence we had many friends in the town, and we found it hard to leave them. my wife shed many tears at the thought of leaving the place, but the largest amount that my practice had yielded in any one year whilst in keosauqua was $ , and i was satisfied that our best interests would be promoted by our new location. the location of the permanent capital of the state at des moines, and the fact that our supreme and united states courts would be located there, and that it would necessarily become a railroad center and build up and become one of the chief cities of the state, had attracted many other young men of the profession. within twelve months before the time i settled in des moines probably a dozen well educated, enterprising young lawyers had preceded me. the result was a fierce competition and struggle for business, every young man realizing that it was a question of the survival of the fittest, and that his success depended upon himself. before arriving in the city i had secured a small house of two rooms and a shed kitchen on sixth street, at a rental of twenty dollars per month. we moved our goods into this house on saturday, and on sunday morning after a light breakfast both my wife and myself went to bed with the ague. the chill was succeeded, of course, by the usual high fever, and in the middle of the afternoon we were delighted by a call from an old acquaintance, a girl that had been raised at keosauqua and who had married mr. r. l. tidrick, of des moines. she made us a cup of tea, and we came out of the fever encouraged and contented. the first two years of my practice in des moines were not remunerative. in addition to our earnings we spent $ in our living, having saved that amount from the proceeds of the property that we disposed of at keosauqua. in the fall of i took an active part in the political campaign that resulted in the election of samuel j. kirkwood for governor and the defeat of augustus ceasar dodge, former democratic senator from iowa. as i had become interested in and contemplated taking an active part in the politics of the state and nation, i occupied my leisure time in more serious and thoughtful consideration of the grave questions that were soon to confront the nation. i read with great interest and studied with great care the debates between stephen a. douglas and abraham lincoln that had taken place in the state of illinois, and the struggle between those parties for a seat in the united states senate. i also read with some care and great interest the great questions that had divided those who had framed the constitution of the united states. i became thoroughly grounded in the theory that our fathers in forming our national constitution had established a government with all the essential attributes of sovereignty. whilst there is a limitation upon the subjects over which the government should exercise jurisdiction, yet within the sphere over which it might exercise any power it was absolutely sovereign and supreme; that the constitution was not a compact or treaty between sovereign states, but that it was a government, deriving its powers directly from the people, with power to make its own laws and through its courts to interpret and administer its own laws, and through its executive and his appointees had the power to execute its own laws; that the relation between the national government and the individual was direct, with power over his person and his property so far as it was necessary to assert and maintain its jurisdiction; and that it collected and disbursed its own revenues, enlisted and maintained its own armies, built and maintained its own navies, and that its constitution and laws, by the very terms of its organization, constituted the supreme law of the land. that the assumption that it was a mere treaty between the sovereign states, from which any state might at any time secede at its pleasure, was an erroneous assumption, and inimical to our national existence and prosperity. i found upon examination of the decisions of the supreme court of the united states that these views of our national government and its powers had been fully sustained by the supreme court of the united states by the most eminent jurists of the land. particularly i studied with great care the decisions of the supreme court of the united states, and the opinions of the chief justice marshall of that court, delivered in the early history of our government. the same fall of i made a trip through warren, madison, dallas, guthrie, and union counties, at the request of the republican state central committee. they furnished me with a covered buggy and pair of horses, without any expense to myself, and loaded me down with a lot of political campaign documents which i undertook to distribute, making political speeches also at the county seats in each of the above named counties. in crossing from winterset over to redfield one afternoon i found the road becoming very obscure, and a smoke arising from some burning prairie northwest of me so darkened the way that i became apprehensive of losing my road. there was no settlement in sight and no one from whom i could inquire the way. while i was seriously pondering upon the difficulty, a half dozen or more fine short horn cows crossed my path ahead of my team and i thought the safest way out of the difficulty would be to follow the cows, as they probably knew better than i where we were going. i had not followed these cows more than a few hundred yards before the owner of them appeared. he was a young quaker about thirty years of age, named wilson. i told him who i was and what my business was and he cordially invited me to go home with him. he lived in a small board shanty, one large room and an attic, situated under the hill. after sheltering his cows in a shed-barn covered with hay he took me to his house. i thought the chances for accommodations rather meager, but i noticed that he had a small yard fenced in front of his house, with a path of flagstones from the gate to the door, and on either side was planted quite a show of flowers and rose bushes. as we neared the house a very handsome young quaker woman, his wife, with a little girl about three years of age, appeared at the door. inside it was neat and tidy. the little quaker wife prepared us a supper of snow-white biscuits and a plate of beautiful honey. she told me that they had attended the county fair that day and had taken a premium upon their honey. i spent a pleasant evening discussing politics with mr. wilson and supplying him with political speeches and documents, which i urged upon him to distribute among his neighbors. when bed-time came i climbed a ladder to the attic in which there was just room enough under the shingles for a clean sweet bed where i had a delightful night's rest. after a good breakfast in the morning, wilson accompanied me on my way. we soon came to a well-beaten road and i found i was on what was called "the quaker divide." near a large quaker meeting house we met one of mr. wilson's relatives, a fine looking old fashioned quaker gentleman, to whom he introduced me, and i stated my business. i had an interesting interview with the old quaker and also supplied him with a number of congressional speeches, and before i left him he looked at me very earnestly and asked, how much pay i received for the work i was doing. i told him nothing for my own services, but my team and buggy were furnished by the state central committee free of charge to myself. at first he appeared a little incredulous that i should be working for nothing and traveling at my own expense, but after further talk with him he seemed to have every confidence in me and remarked very earnestly, "thee must be a very good man to do this work without pay." i told him we must all "cast our bread upon the waters," and possibly it might return to us after many days; that this would indeed be a poor world if none of us were willing to make some sacrifices for the good of the country. i bid the two quakers an affectionate good-bye and went on my way much gratified. the prairie was dotted here and there with comfortable, well kept homes. it was a beautiful october morning, what we then and always called in iowa "indian summer." a slight haze rested upon the horizon, and here and there the ripening corn gave a glow and variety to the landscape. i was deeply impressed with the beauty and glory of my adopted state of iowa, and i thought then, as i afterwards expressed the thought in my centennial address at philadelphia. "when in the plentitude of his goodness the divine hand formed the great meadow between the mississippi and missouri, and the finger of divine love traced the streamlets and rivers that drain and fertilize its almost every acre, he designated it not for the place of strife, but for the home of peace and plenty, and intended that the ploughshare and pruning hook should here achieve their greatest triumphs." in the fall of the year , i bought from dr. william p. davis a quarter acre of ground just north of bird's addition in the city of des moines, having upon it an old square frame house without foundation or cellar, which i afterwards repaired and moved into with my family. my wife's sister julia had been with us during the summer and became engaged to be married to mr. john alexander woodard, a bachelor who had been engaged in the mercantile business and failed in the hard times of . he was then clerking and selling goods for mr. reuben sypher. i thought it prudent and made condition with mr. woodard that he should make it a part of the marriage contract with my sister-in-law that he would purchase from mr. sypher in part payment of his wages the lot on the corner of fourth street and crocker, and build them a house thereon. he readily agreed with this proposition, and the deed was made to julia e. mcmeekin, and the marriage took place on the first of december following, and a house was built on the lot the ensuing summer, where they had their home for many years free from any annoyance from his creditors. when the bankrupt law took effect after that, i obtained for him a discharge in bankruptcy from his old debts. in i was chosen by the republican state convention of iowa one of the thirty-two delegates that represented our state in the great national convention that met at chicago and nominated abraham lincoln as its candidate for president. i attended that convention and had the honor of being one of the eight original lincoln men of the delegation, and voted for mr. lincoln on every ballot. that convention was perhaps the greatest and most important that was ever convened in the history of our nation. the entire new york delegation was urging the nomination of william h. seward. i was opposed to mr. seward's nomination, first, because i preferred mr. lincoln and had the most unbounded confidence in his honesty and patriotism, and secondly, because i disliked many of the men who were urging mr. seward's nomination. the reputation of thurlow weed and that class of new york politicians created in my mind a distrust, and i felt that we had arrived at a crisis in our national history where we should take no chances. after the nomination of mr. lincoln at chicago the republican state convention met at iowa city. i was a candidate before the convention for nomination for the office of attorney general of the state. only three of the delegates from my own county voted for me in that contest. my principal opponent was john a. kasson of des moines. he had been chairman of the republican central committee of the state for the current year, and without my knowledge had been secretly corresponding with various republicans of the state, soliciting their support for the nomination, and secretly hiding the fact from me, and professing to be my friend and in favor of my nomination. mr. h. m. hoxie, also one of the delegates of that convention from polk county, had been a secretary of the state committee and was also secretly working for and with mr. kasson for my defeat. i had many warm friends and supporters in the convention, particularly from lee and van buren counties and the southern part of the state, and many from other parts of the state with whom i had formed a personal acquaintance whilst filling the offices respectively of clerk of the house and secretary of the senate. there were three other candidates for the nomination besides mr. kasson and myself, and i received the nomination on the third ballot. after my return home i arranged my affairs so as to make an extensive canvass of the state. i exchanged a small tract of land i had in the western part of van buren county with mr. manning for a covered buggy and harness and a pair of horses, and in the latter part of september arranged a series of appointments, the first of which was at newton, in jasper county. as my team was somewhat unaccustomed to the road i started one sunday afternoon and drove east as far as mitchellville, and stayed all night with my friend thomas mitchell of that place. on monday morning i started early for newton. i filled my satchel with political documents and occupied my time during the drive in trying to arrange my speech. i never wrote out my speeches or attempted to commit anything to memory. my plan was to study the subject thoroughly that i proposed discussing, and simply arrange the order of its presentation. while absorbed in this work i reached skunk river, drove up on the causeway to the bridge, which at the entrance of the bridge was about six feet above the level of the surface of the ground. as my off horse put his foot upon the first plank of the bridge it proved to be loose and the plank flew up, striking the shin of the other horse. at this my team became frightened and commenced backing to the south of the causeway, and for a moment i apprehended that i should be precipitated over the causeway with the horses and buggy falling upon me. i collected the reins hastily in my left hand, seized the whip, yelled to the horses, struck the off horse violently with the whip, using my left hand at the same time to draw them around onto the road so that they would not take me over to the other side of the causeway. i felt the near hind wheel of the buggy falling over the embankment, but the horses sprang forward, unfortunately breaking the axle, and as i brought them around into the road i stepped out of the buggy, threw the lines onto the wheel, and let them run. they did not run more than one or two hundred yards before the lines, which had caught in the wheel, wound them up, and the lines being strong it stopped them. i followed hastily, detaching the horses from the buggy, tied them to the trees, then walked about two miles to a farm house where i engaged a farmer with his farm wagon to take my buggy to newton and to lend me a saddle upon which i rode one horse and led the other. in this way i reached newton for late dinner, and taking my broken buggy to a blacksmith engaged for its immediate repair, as it was necessary for me to take the road again early next morning to meet my next appointment, which was at grinnell, in poweshiek county. i had a small audience that afternoon at two o'clock in the court house, and made them a short speech, appointing another meeting for : that night. the next morning my vehicle was in good order and i took the road, reaching grinnell in good time for my meeting, which was at night. in arranging my appointments i reached the mississippi river at clinton. crossing the river i drove over to mt. carroll, illinois, for the purpose of a day's rest and to visit my relatives at that place. i found there my aunt, ann austin, and her two boys, also her oldest daughter, married to a man by the name of william brotherton. mr. brotherton and the two boys were ardent republicans, and being advised of my coming, they had advertised me for a speech on saturday night. i spoke to a crowded house for nearly three hours amid great enthusiasm. the next day, sunday, the county central committee waited on me and insisted that i should arrange a week with them and speak at various points in their county, which i necessarily declined to do. on sunday afternoon i drove north to a little mining village called elizabeth where my aunt, sarah nourse, a maiden sister of my father, was then living and teaching school. i stayed all night at this town of elizabeth, and my aunt entertained me during the evening until nearly eleven o'clock with an account of the various propositions of marriage she had had from some half dozen bachelors and widowers, all of which she had declined, giving as an all-sufficient reason for it that her suitors were not men of education and sufficient intelligence to make companions for her, and she suspected them of wanting what little money and property she had. the next day, monday afternoon, i drove to galena where i remained all night and heard the cheering news of the result of the state elections of ohio and indiana, both states giving handsome republican majorities. this really assured the success of mr. lincoln at the approaching november election. the next morning, tuesday, i crossed the mississippi river at dubuque, having had an appointment to speak in dubuque that day. it so happened that the democrats had prepared for a grand democratic rally that day, at which mr. douglas, their candidate for president, expected to be present. at the suggestion of my friends i stayed over until the next day. i was anxious to hear mr. douglas, and attended his meeting, which was well attended by his followers and friends. i could not but feel sorry for and have some sympathy with the man when he came upon the platform to speak. he had of course heard the news of the result of the elections in ohio and indiana, and knew that the hopes and aspirations of his life were forever blighted. douglas was called "the little giant," and he truly was a brave man. he stood before the audience, knowing that his fate as a candidate for the presidency was forever sealed, but he never flinched or gave any evidence whatever of his disappointment. i wished to hear mr. douglas, not because i expected to hear anything new, for i had studied well his speeches and knew his views upon the subjects about which he was to talk, but i wished to study his method and manner, for i knew he was an experienced man upon the platform. he never spoke a sentence without first inhaling a full breath. he made his sentences short and never uttered a word when his lungs were exhausted. he always expressed himself in clear and concise language, and i think never changed the construction of his sentences or attempted their construction after he had commenced their utterance; hence there was no confusion, no hesitancy, and no exertion of the voice beyond what he anticipated when he began his utterances. i learned much from his manner of speaking, and after that tried to practice his art and skill in the management of my voice, and i think with some success, for during that canvass i frequently met our republican speakers with their throats inflamed and bandaged and so hoarse that they scarcely could be heard, whilst during the seven weeks that i was engaged in speaking, i spoke on an average once or twice a day without any difficulty or hoarseness or inflammation in my throat. i frequently relieved my voice by dropping into a conversational tone, finding this much easier for myself and much more agreeable to my hearers. i indulged frequently in anecdotes and amusing illustrations, and endeavored not only to convince the people by arguments but at the same time to entertain them. i remained at dubuque and spoke in the german theater on wednesday night. the republicans, of course, were enthusiastic and joyous. the result of the elections in ohio and indiana had aroused and confirmed their hopes of success. i spoke from the stage of the theater for three long hours. i interspersed my remarks with frequent anecdotes that were received by the audience with shouts of applause. at one time after the general applause had partially subsided, some gentleman near the orchestra box was seized with a second paroxysm of laughter, and actually rolled off his seat to the floor shouting and screaming with delight. the entire audience arose to their feet, looking over the heads of those in front to see what had happened. i beckoned to them to please be seated, that it was only one of the new converts that was shoutingly happy. this awakened another round of laughter and applause, and i think everyone, unless it might have been some disappointed democrat present, was uproariously happy. it would not be profitable to undertake to give an account of my many meetings during that canvass. i traveled about fifteen hundred miles, spoke in more than fifty counties of the state, continuing my labors up to the night before the november election. one incident i recall that probably is worth recording: i spoke at glenwood, in mills county, to a large audience of ladies and gentlemen, and after discussing the political issues of the day i told them that there was a matter of a personal nature that i had not yet mentioned and that i would communicate to them in confidence: that i had been nominated by the republican state convention as their candidate for attorney general of the state, that after my nomination i was somewhat doubtful as to the course i ought to pursue, whether or not it would be best to stay at home and trust to the strength of my party, or whether i ought to go over the state and discuss the political questions of the day and let the people know and hear for themselves what manner of man i was, that they might judge for themselves as to my competency to fill the important office for which i was a candidate. that in all cases of doubt or difficulty i had made it a rule to consult my wife, and i laid the matter before her, asking her advice as to what she thought it was best for me to do; that she immediately decided that i must go and speak to the people and let them see and hear me, adding that i could trust the people, that the people of iowa beyond question knew and appreciated a good man when they could see and hear him. the audience shouted their applause at this conclusion of my address, and when i came down from the platform many friends came and shook hands with me, and especially the ladies, assuring me that the decision of my wife was correct. the result of the election is a matter of history. mr. lincoln received the electoral vote of iowa by some fifteen thousand majority, as did also every candidate on the republican ticket, including myself. at the close of my first term i was renominated and re-elected without opposition. the duties of my office as attorney general of the state consisted in advising the governor and state officers when called upon by either of them for my opinion, and also when requested by that body to give my opinion to the general assembly, also to represent the state in all criminal cases appealed to the supreme court of the state. our supreme court at that time met twice a year; to-wit, in april and october, in the city of davenport, iowa, and my duties required me to attend there during the sessions of the court. the judges of the court, a reporter, and myself, and most of the attorneys visiting the court from time to time, boarded at the burtis house, an excellent hotel kept by dr. burtis at that time. it made up a pleasant party, and it was rather a pleasant episode in my professional life. the only important opinion i was called upon to give to the general assembly was as to the constitutionality of the proposed law providing for the soldiers' vote. the supreme court of pennsylvania had held a similar statute under their constitution to be unconstitutional and void. i examined the question carefully, because it was one of great importance. so many of our loyal voters in the state were absent from the state as soldiers in the civil war, and there was a great danger that those who sought to embarrass the prosecution of the war might place in control of our state affairs men inimical to the cause of the union and nation. i gave an opinion to the legislature that the proposed law was constitutional. it was passed and afterwards sustained by the unanimous opinion of the judges of our supreme court, and from that time forward there was no question about the political status and conduct either of our state legislatures or our representatives in the national congress. soon after the opening of the civil war the legislature of iowa was called together in extra session, and enacted a law providing for the issuing of $ , of war defense bonds to be sold for the purpose of providing means to equip and muster into service the troops to be furnished by iowa for the national cause. it also provided for three state commissioners with authority to put these bonds upon the market and sell the same at the best rate they could obtain. a number of other states in the union had also provided for the issuing of bonds and the raising of means to arm and equip their soldiers. hence when these commissioners went to new york for the purpose of putting our bonds upon the market, no desirable bids could be obtained. our secretary of state, elijah sells, had been ordered or requested by governor kirkwood to take these bonds to new york in order that they might be ready for delivery in case of sale. there was danger to be apprehended that the commissioners might attempt to hypothecate these bonds, or pledge them for a loan of money. the bonds bore eight per cent interest per annum, and they would constitute a great prize if the money sharks could get hold of them and sell them at any price they might bring in a money market then flooded with similar paper. being advised of the situation, i accompanied the secretary of state to new york, at my own instance and expense, for the purpose of advising the governor and commissioners that under the law they had no authority to pledge or hypothecate these bonds, but could only sell them in the manner expressly provided by the statute. i had an opportunity of giving this advice, which i did very readily in new york, and i had the satisfaction of seeing the bonds brought back to our state and sold at a fair price to our own people. my salary as attorney general was one thousand dollars a year and a contingent fund of four hundred dollars additional each year. my official duties occupied about one-half of my time, and i continued in the general practice, except as to criminal cases, which yielded me about fourteen hundred dollars additional, making my income during these four years about twenty-eight hundred dollars which was rather more than any state officer or even judge of the supreme court received at that time. upon the inauguration of mr. lincoln in john a. kasson, the man whom i had defeated for the nomination of attorney general of the state, went to washington city and secured the appointment as second assistant postmaster general, which position he held until the fall of the year , when he secured the nomination for congress from the republican congressional convention of this, the then fifth congressional district. upon the election of mr. lincoln in for his second term, i became an applicant for the position of united states district attorney, putting my application in the hands of senator harlan. i also had letters from all of our members of congress and from senator grimes favoring my appointment. mr. kasson claimed that the appointment fell in his congressional district and he was entitled by courtesy to nominate the person who should receive it. mr. withrow, who was still a personal and political friend of mr. kasson, came to me personally and stated that if i would write to mr. kasson and signify my willingness to receive the appointment as coming through him, that mr. kasson would have the appointment made. i accordingly wrote to mr. kasson, stating that if he was disposed to recommend my appointment upon considerations of my fitness for the office and without reference to any supposed personal obligations to favor his political aspirations for the future, that i would be willing so to receive it. upon receiving this letter, mr. kasson immediately went to the president and presented to him the name of caleb baldwin, of council bluffs, stating that senator harlan had been consulted and had agreed to mr. baldwin's appointment. mr. harlan, upon being advised of what mr. kasson had done, immediately went to the president, and at his request the appointment was suspended. on the th day of april ensuing, mr. lincoln was assassinated and andrew johnson, the vice president, succeeded to the presidency. i immediately requested mr. harlan to pursue the subject of my appointment to the office no farther, and there the controversy dropped. i have regarded my disappointment in this matter as rather fortunate than otherwise, as i was not in harmony with the administration of andrew johnson and should not have cared to have held office under his administration. pending the presidential election the people of iowa were fully advised as to the threats that were made that in case of mr. lincoln's election the southern states would secede from the union. they were also fully aware of the fact that the then national administration was doing all it could to encourage the southern politicians who were uttering these threats. the position of mr. buchanan's administration was that the constitution of the united states conferred on the national government no power to coerce a state, or, in plain terms, to preserve the nation and prevent its disintegration. the fact that civil war might be inaugurated and was threatened in case mr. lincoln was elected was well understood and duly considered. the people of iowa indulged in no feelings of hatred toward the people of any state or section of the union. there was, however, on the part of the majority a cool determination to consider and decide upon our national relations to the institution of slavery, uninfluenced by any threat of violence or civil war. after the election of mr. lincoln and the call for troops to aid in putting down the rebellion, i visited washington city for the first time in my life. the rebel troops occupied the entire country between richmond and manassas and menaced the national capital. on the saturday before the battle of bull run, so-called, i went in company with some friends in a carriage as far as fairfax court house. i saw there a number of union soldiers that had been wounded the day before in the artillery engagement with the rebel general, beauregard. i returned to washington saturday night and arranged with general curtis, then our member of congress from iowa, to go out in the morning by rail to the place of the anticipated battle. i remained at alexandria until after noon on sunday with the hope of getting transportation on the railway. we could hear the booming of the cannon during the afternoon. i remained in alexandria till about two o'clock. on finding the expected transportation on the railway delayed and doubtful, i returned to washington. about midnight we received news of the disastrous results of the engagement that day. the next morning, monday, i started home on an early train, as my professional engagements that week required my presence in des moines. during the great struggle that followed for the preservation of our nation i spent much of my time and all of my income in traveling over the state and attending public meetings, and made frequent addresses in behalf of the union cause. i did not enter the volunteer service as a soldier or officer of the union army for the reason that i was satisfied i could do more good to the cause in the position i then occupied as attorney general of the state. i did at one time apply to governor kirkwood for a military appointment as a major in the third iowa cavalry. he very bluntly told me that he did not think he could spare me from the place that i then filled, and he did not think it good policy to spoil a good lawyer for the sake of making a poor soldier. i had no military education and no knowledge of military affairs, and my health was such that i could not have been of any use to the service except in a position where i could take better care of myself than was possible as a soldier in the ranks. chapter iv resumes the practice of law at the close of my second term of office, to-wit, january, , i resumed the practice of law. the firm of williamson & nourse, which had existed since my settlement in des moines in , had taken into partnership jacob m. st. john, formerly of keosauqua, iowa. as i now had to depend entirely upon my practice for my income i dissolved partnership with messrs. williamson and st. john and commenced to practice alone. in the fall of judge gray, the judge of our district court, died, and governor william m. stone, without any solicitation upon my part, at the request of a number of the members of the bar of polk county, october , , appointed me to fill the unexpired term of judge gray, deceased. the salary of this position at that time was only $ a year, and i accepted of it after considerable hesitation. at the first term of court i held in the city of des moines it became my duty to try a number of cases for a violation of the laws of the state prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors, except beer or wine made from grapes or other fruit grown in this state. this wine and beer clause of the law had been adopted by the legislature by way of an amendment to what was called the maine law that had been enacted by the legislature at its session in - . a number of saloons had been established in des moines and licensed to sell native wine and beer, but in fact they all sold whiskey and other spirituous liquors. the grand jury had indicted some seventeen of these saloons as public nuisances under the law. the courts in iowa prior to this time had adopted the policy of imposing slight fines upon these saloons about once a year, thereby establishing the very worst and the most reprehensible kind of a license. the sheriff and other officers of the county, elected by the people from time to time, were largely under the influence of these saloons and their patrons. when i called the first of these cases for trial it became necessary to fill up the jury panel from the bystanders, and when the sheriff called the name of a person that he directed to take a place upon the jury, i accidentally noticed that the next case for trial was a case against a defendant of the same name of the person called into the jury-box. i privately called the sheriff to my side and asked him if the person that he had placed upon the jury was the same person as the defendant in the next case, accused of a like offense of the one we were to try. after some hesitation he said he thought he was the same person. i told him that was not a proper discharge of his duties, that he must fill up the panel of the jury with good, law-abiding citizens, and not from those who stood charged with crime on the records of the court. he suggested that i should excuse the juror. i told him no, the mistake was his and not mine, and that he must correct his own mistakes, that he should go to the juror himself and tell him and have him stand aside, and that he must be very careful whilst i presided in that court not to make any more such mistakes. the result was that he filled up the panel with good law-abiding citizens, and that defendant and sixteen others were tried and convicted within the next ten days. i did not pass sentence upon any of the defendants until all the trials were completed. in the meantime i was visited by a number of temperance men who felt anxious to know what character of sentence i was going to give to these persons. i told them it was not proper for me to receive any suggestions out of court, and if they had any to make it must be made in open court in the presence of the defendants themselves or their counsel. i did, however, give the matter very grave and serious consideration. this law in its spirit and in its letter was intended to prohibit the sale or establishing or keeping a place for the sale of intoxicating liquors, other than the wine and beer excepted by the provisions of the law. the slight fines that had theretofore been imposed for this offense had simply been tolerated, and amounted in practice to a system of licensing these violations of the law. i felt it my duty to do something that should prohibit what the law prohibited. after the trials were all over i had the defendants all brought into court and gave them my views concerning the law and concerning the duty of every good citizen to obey and observe the law strictly and in good faith; that this law existed upon the statute books by the same authority as the law that protected them in their persons and in their property, and that the disregard of it was simply to set at defiance the authority from which all our laws eminated. the man who kept the poorest and meanest of these saloons i fined only the sum of one hundred dollars, stating as a reason therefor that the witnesses upon the trial had said they were ashamed to be seen in his saloon and hurried away as soon as possible; that probably the class of men of whom he was making drunkards were not our most valuable citizens. i graded the fines against the others of the sixteen according to the class of persons i thought they were injuring, and the highest fine i imposed was five hundred dollars, against the man who had taken the trouble to prove in the trial that he kept a most respectable resort and that none but the very best citizens of the city were in the habit of drinking at his bar. this action upon my part not only created an excitement locally, but the news of it spread rapidly throughout the state and a number of our district judges followed my example. [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ from an air brush copy of an old photograph loaned by d. w. nourse, kenton, ohio] when i assumed the duties of judge of the district i found the dockets much crowded with cases that had been delayed, chiefly because of the unnecessary consumption of time by attorneys in the trial of their causes. for instance, one case in polk county that involved only the question of the identity of a calf worth three or four dollars had occupied two weeks of the time of the court in its former trial. when i called the case for trial a number of attorneys suggested to me that the case would probably consume the balance of the term, and they might as well dismiss their witnesses and continue their causes. i told them that they were probably mistaken as to the time that would be occupied in the trial of that case. the first witness in behalf of the plaintiff was a timid young girl about fourteen years of age, a daughter of the plaintiff. she told in a simple straightforward way what she knew about the marks on the calf that her father had claimed, and her belief that it was her father's calf. the attorney for the defendant unfortunately was somewhat under the influence of liquor, and putting both heels up on the trial table, he leaned back and in a very rude, aggressive manner addressed the young girl, saying, "i suppose you put in about all of your time examining the calves on your father's farm, don't you?" i immediately reproved the attorney and asked him if he had any questions to ask the witness in regard to the marks upon the calf or its identity. he replied in a haughty manner that he supposed he could examine the witness in his own way and ask his own questions. i immediately told the witness to stand aside and asked the plaintiff to call the next witness. the attorney then said he had not cross-examined the witness and wished to do so. i merely remarked that i had given him an opportunity to do so and he had not improved it, and he could save his strength for the next witness. the result of this kind of discipline was that the case was tried within two days instead of two weeks, and the great calf case was disposed of. i only give this as a specimen of the reforms that i tried to introduce into our courts. in the most of the counties of our district, which embraced seven at that time, we had no court houses. my first court in warren county had to be held in the old methodist church. it had been the custom to fill the aisles and the space about the altar with saw-dust, with one table as the trial table for the attorneys, and four or five rickety chairs. this saw-dust when it became heated, as it did in the winter time from the large stoves used in heating the room, filled the air with very fine particles of dust that often settled upon the lungs of the members of the bar and the court, and was itself injurious to health. after impaneling the grand jury on the first day of the term at indianola i announced that the court would adjourn until tuesday and that the sheriff would clean the room of this sawdust and furnish matting for the aisles and the place about the platform, and also furnish an additional table for the use of the attorneys and a dozen good substantial chairs. the sheriff informed me in open court that the board of supervisors had refused to furnish such conveniences, and probably would not allow the bills if he should purchase these articles. i advised him that it was his duty to obey the orders of the court, and to present his bill to the supervisors and if they failed to allow the bill to take his appeal to the district court and i would see that he recovered judgment and got his pay. sufficient to say that the next morning the matting was laid, the table and chairs were furnished in good order, and i never heard of any difficulty about the allowance of the bills by the board of supervisors. i pursued the same policy in madison and several other counties of the district, and never heard that i lost favor with anybody because i insisted on having a decent court. on the d of march, , at a subsequent term of the court held in warren county, mr. thomas f. withrow, an attorney of the polk county bar and my neighbor, came into court one morning just before noon in company with john a. kasson, then a representative in congress from this district and a resident of the city of des moines. mr. withrow filed with the clerk of the court a petition for divorce in behalf of mr. kasson's wife, and asking for a divorce on the grounds that mr. kasson had been guilty of adultery. to this petition mr. kasson filed an answer admitting his guilt, and both parties asked for an immediate hearing of the cause. i dismissed the jury then impaneled and announced that the court would not adjourn but remain open for business, asking the clerk and sheriff to remain, and that the bystanders and others were at liberty to retire. i read over the papers carefully and told mr. withrow that i could not grant the petition upon the answer; that if he had any evidence it must be produced in open court as i must be satisfied of the existence of the facts alleged in the petition. mr. withrow said he had the letters of the defendant written to his wife from time to time, fully acknowledging his guilt, and he would return to the hotel and get his satchel containing these letters and produce them in open court if i required it. mr. kasson then begged of mr. withrow not to produce those letters, and turning to me said he would himself be a witness as to the facts and thought that ought to be sufficient. i told him i could not grant a divorce that would have the appearance of being granted merely upon the consent of the parties, that i wished to be satisfied fully that there was no collusion in the matter between himself and wife, and that he was in fact guilty as charged. he assured me that there was no collusion, that the charge was actually true and that the facts actually existed as charged against him. at this he broke down and professed almost to cry, and i told mr. withrow to prepare the decree of divorce. it was accordingly prepared, reciting that it was granted upon evidence of the truth of the allegations of the petition, and i accordingly signed the decree. upon my return to des moines at the close of the session, the legislature then being in session, i was waited upon by one or more members of the general assembly, suggesting that there was a rumor that the divorce of mr. kasson's wife had been procured and granted simply by consent of parties, and they proposed to introduce a bill for an act to prevent such divorces in the future. i explained that the rumor was entirely unfounded and that the divorce had been granted upon satisfactory evidence offered in open court. i recite these facts at some detail because of their importance with reference to results, and what occurred that fall, . mr. kasson was a candidate for re-nomination to congress. the opposing candidate was general g. m. dodge, then a resident of council bluffs. i did not take any active part in this contest further than to express my preference for general dodge, and that i could not consistently, with my views of propriety, support mr. kasson under the circumstances. when the conventions were held that fall for nominating delegates to the convention that should nominate congressmen, district judge, and prosecuting attorney, the polk county convention, being under the control of kasson's friends, nominated the same set of delegates to attend both the congressional and the district conventions. after very heated contests in the convention for nomination of congressmen, mr. kasson was defeated, and i was informed by the delegation that they would not support me for the nomination for district judge because i had refused to help them in the matter of nominating mr. kasson. the next day when the convention met for the nomination of judge and district attorney i went before the convention in person and withdrew my name from the convention, stating as a reason therefor that i could not with propriety be a candidate before that convention without the support of the delegates from my own county. the convention nominated mr. maxwell, then district attorney, for judge. my office did not expire until the ensuing january, but i at once sent my resignation to the governor of the state, thus terminating my judicial career on august , . in this contest for congress, mr. h. m. hoxie and mr. thomas f. withrow, formerly warm friends and supporters of mr. kasson, had abandoned him and were active supporters of general dodge. upon my retirement from the bench, the members of the polk county bar had a meeting and adopted very complimentary resolutions which they had enrolled and were kind enough to present to me as a testimonial of their approval of the manner in which i had discharged my duties as judge of the court. the salary of judge of the district court at that time was the meager sum of thirteen hundred dollars a year, out of which i paid my own expenses on the district. during my term of office as attorney general i had spent a considerable part of my income in attending public meetings and traveling through the state, addressing public assemblies upon the issues growing out of the war. i had not accumulated sufficient means to pay for my homestead and i now determined, as far as practicable, to devote myself to my practice as an attorney and accumulate something for the future. during the administration of governor william m. stone, his private secretary had endorsed a number of warrants issued by the treasurer of the united states in favor of the state of iowa, known as "swamp land warrants." governor stone had entrusted the detail of the business of his office to his private secretary. these warrants came into the hands of the secretary and he assumed the responsibility of endorsing the governor's name upon them from time to time, and having them cashed at the second national bank. at first he paid this money over to the state treasurer, but as no inquiry was made as to the transactions and governor stone was paying but little attention to the details of business in the office, he cashed a number of these warrants and appropriated the money to his own use and purchased considerable real estate in his own name. on the first of january following, these transactions became public and the governor repudiated the authority of the secretary to make the endorsements upon the drafts. he procured from the secretary mortgages upon considerable of the property purchased by him to secure so much of the proceeds of these drafts as remained unaccounted for. the grand jury indicted the secretary for a number of these transactions for forging the governor's signature. this secretary applied to me through mr. withrow, about the time of my resignation as judge, to employ me as counsel to assist in his defense. the secretary had no money or means to pay me for my services and as he already had able and efficient counsel, i declined the employment. about the same time suits were brought to foreclose these mortgages given by the secretary, and also to hold the bank responsible for the moneys that had not come into the hands of the state treasurer. pending these suits of a civil character, by agreement of the parties and their counsel, the case was referred to me as referee. during the summer i occupied several weeks in taking the testimony carefully before a stenographer and reported the same with my conclusions of fact and law to the district court, which report was confirmed by the district court and upon appeal to the supreme court by the secretary, that court also affirmed my decision, and under these judgments the property was sold and the state partly remunerated for the loss. governor stone also solicited me to act as special prosecutor in prosecuting the indictments against the secretary for forgery, but in consideration of the fact that the secretary had failed to obtain my services in his defense because of his poverty, i declined to take any retainer or part in the prosecutions. i only recite these matters here because the secretary for his own purposes saw proper to make a number of virulent attacks upon me in various scurrilous articles that he published. as he was a man of no reputation and soon after left the state and died in obscurity and poverty, it is not necessary here to notice them. the indictments against the secretary were never tried, i think, for the reason that the trial would necessarily have exposed the fact of the governor's carelessness and inattention to the detail of his official duties. the governor was otherwise not to blame for these unfortunate results and was himself free from any taint of dishonesty or corruption. notwithstanding my determination to retire from politics and devote myself entirely to the practice of law, the republican state convention, in the fall of , without any procurement or solicitation upon my part, selected me as chairman of the state central committee. i conducted the canvass that resulted in the election of colonel samuel merrill. the entire cost of this canvass, including the employment of a secretary to the committee, was only the sum of $ , one-fourth of which the candidate for governor contributed. i make note of this, for the reason that in later years, and at the time of the present writing, these central committees of the states and of the nation, are expending thousands and hundreds of thousands of dollars upon the election of the candidate of their party. i also at the time i was chairman of the state central committee, furnished a team to messrs. thomas f. withrow and f. w. palmer, the latter then editor of the _register_, to make a political canvass through the western half of the state. the very next year, , mr. palmer became a candidate for congress in this district, mr. kasson being again a candidate for a seat in congress and again defeated in the nomination. i attended the congressional convention which was held at council bluffs that year, and was well satisfied with the result. in the summer of judge george g. wright, before that time one of the judges of the supreme court of the state of iowa, and who had removed from keosauqua and become a permanent citizen of des moines, called upon me to confer with me upon the subject of his election to the united states senate. he was fearful that mr. john a. kasson, who had been a member of the house of representatives of the state the last previous session, would be a candidate for the state senate. he expressed himself as having no confidence whatever in mr. kasson's friendship toward him, and he desired me to be a candidate and seek the nomination for the position of state senator. i peremptorily declined, for the reason that i did not want to engage in any political fight or difference with mr. kasson, and i could not afford at that time to leave my practice for a place in the state senate. judge wright insisted that he must have a friend in the senate from polk county upon whom he could rely, and urged me to name some one who could be nominated and elected. after canvassing the names of several gentlemen, i suggested the name of b. f. allen, then the leading banker in western iowa, giving as my reason for urging mr. allen's name that the friends of mr. kasson would not present mr. kasson's name in opposition to mr. allen at that time, and the further reason that the people of des moines would at the then coming session of the general assembly ask for an appropriation to commence the building of a permanent capitol, and that mr. allen by virtue of his influence through the western part of the state especially could probably do more than any other man to secure such an appropriation. judge wright replied that the name of mr. allen had been suggested, but that he was satisfied that that gentleman would not accept of the nomination because his business required his undivided attention. i suggested to judge wright that i thought i was better acquainted with mr. allen than himself, and that if a number of our friends would call upon mr. allen, one at a time, suggesting and urging him to be a candidate for the senate, in less than ten days he would not only be willing but anxious to receive the nomination. we accordingly pursued that course, and my prediction was verified. mr. allen became a candidate and received the nomination, but this did not prevent mr. kasson from again being a candidate for the nomination to the lower house. at the ensuing session of the legislature the desired appropriation for a permanent capitol at des moines was secured and judge wright was elected to the united states senate, defeating william b. allison who was then, for the first time, a candidate for that position. mr. kasson worked diligently to secure the appropriation for the capitol, as did also mr. allen in the senate and george w. jones, mr. kasson's colleague, in the house. the citizens of des moines were very deeply interested in this appropriation for the permanent capitol, and every one, including the ladies, brought to bear all proper influence upon the members to secure their votes for it. the great event of the winter socially was a grand party given by mr. allen in the splendid mansion which he had just finished, situated on terrace hill, now the property of mr. f. m. hubbell. the ladies of the town also gave an old fashioned concert at moore's hall, and an amateur theatrical performance at its close, of which i had the honor to be the author. the play was a farce illustrating the absurd features of a general assembly of the state of iowa whose members were one-half ladies and the other half gentlemen. the play represented a session of the general assembly of the state of iowa in the year . the old capitol building, then occupied by the legislature, was supposed to have fallen down and to have killed a number of the members of the sitting general assembly, and one of the bills discussed by the mock legislature was a proposed appropriation for the benefit of the surviving families of the members who had lost their lives in the destruction of the old capitol. the great discussion arose upon a motion to strike out the sum of sixty-two and one-half cents, and many of the speeches that had been made against the appropriation for the new capitol upon the question of economy were largely quoted from, by those opposed to the sixty-two and one-half cents. another point made in the play was that upon the question of woman's rights. dubuque county was supposed to be represented by a lady weighing over two hundred pounds, and her husband, a dwarf, then residing in the city, who weighed about seventy pounds. whenever a vote was taken upon any question respecting the rights of their sex the legislature divided, the men voting on the one side and the women always on the other. the lady who was supposed to be the wife of the dwarf, whenever a rising vote was taken upon a question of this nature, seized her supposed husband by the coat collar and tried to compel him to stand up and be counted on the side with the ladies. the frantic efforts of the little fellow to desist and to vote with those of his own sex created uproarious applause and amusement for the audience, as did also the following part of the play: the lady supposed to be the wife of the dwarf arose and addressed the speaker upon a question of privilege. she said she had just received a telegram from home, stating that her youngest child was taken suddenly ill, and she requested the house to grant leave of absence for her husband, as it was very desirable that he should return home and care for the sick child. another member of the house, a gentleman, arose and inquired whether the sick child was a boy or a girl. the lady responded with some acrimony that all her children were girls of whom she boasted she had seven, and was proud of it. the ladies of the city entered into this play with much spirit and performed their parts so admirably that it furnished a very rich entertainment for the winter. the bill making the appropriation for the erection of the permanent capitol finally became a law, and mr. kasson attempted to monopolize for himself all the glory of the achievement. he had a brass band serenade him at his house, and john p. irish of iowa city make a congratulatory speech to him as the hero that had accomplished so much for the city of des moines. in the year mr. kasson was again nominated as the republican candidate for congress and was successful in the election. in this contest he was opposed by the then editors of the _register_, a newspaper at that time published by the clarkson brothers. in the early part of september, , mr. j. c. savery, a citizen of des moines at that time, and for several years a client of mine, called upon me and showed me several letters in manuscript, relating to mr. kasson's conduct while a member of the legislature of iowa, and while a member of congress, and stated that he proposed to publish those letters as he was opposed to mr. kasson's election. he asked my advice as his attorney as to whether or not there was anything in the letters that would make him liable to a civil suit for damages in case of their publication. i advised him that if the letters were published and any suit was brought against him it would be necessary to show either the absolute truth of them or that they were published from proper motives and that he had a good reason to believe that the statements were true. as mr. savery had been my friend and client, and had not been at all prominent in political life, i advised him as a friend not to mix up in the contest and not to publish the letters, as he was a private citizen having no special interest in the question as to who would or would not be elected to congress. he, however, determined that the letters should be published and he gave them to the _register_ for publication. these letters were a very severe arraignment of mr. kasson's political career, and he thought proper to commence suit in the district court of polk county against mr. savery and the editors of the _register_ for libel. such a suit was brought october , . mr. savery requested me to meet mr. clarkson for the purpose of consultation and with a view to my employment, in connection with colonel gatch, to defend the suit. i stated to them that the trial of the cause would involve a good deal of labor and time, that in the then state of political excitement, it would be very difficult to obtain a favorable result as the partisans of mr. kasson, if they secured a place upon the jury, would hardly give much weight to the testimony that might be produced. i signified, however, that i was willing to take the employment, provided i was paid liberally for my professional services. to this mr. richard clarkson demurred very strongly, insisting that as mr. kasson was at least a political opponent and enemy of mine i ought to be willing to defend their case for an opportunity to ventilate the character of the plaintiff in the suit. i stated to mr. clarkson that if i engaged in that suit it would be for the purpose of performing my duty as an attorney and officer of the court, and that i should under no circumstances allow any personal matters of my own to influence what i might have to do or say in regard to the case; that the court room was not the place for a lawyer to gratify his personal feelings toward any of the parties to the litigation. this conference terminated without any agreement as to my employment. afterwards, mr. savery came to me to see me alone and stated that colonel gatch had named a very small sum that he was willing to accept as compensation for assisting in the trial of the case. mr. savery urged upon me that he was then in poor circumstances financially and not able to pay any large fee; that he had been my client and paid me considerable sums of money in times past and urged upon me that i ought to stand by him now in the time of his trouble; that if i would accept of a like amount that colonel gatch had agreed to take for his services, he, mr. savery would pay half, and the clarksons would pay the other half. i finally agreed to these terms. i tried the case. it consumed very considerable time in its preparation and trial. i copy here for information as to the character and scope of this case the opening statement that i made to the jury in regard to the issues involved, and the evidence that the defendants would offer in support of their defense. i always regarded the opening statement of a case as very important and that it should give to the jury a clear idea of the case they were to try, and of the facts upon which my client relied. i always believed strongly in the importance of first impressions, and i give this as a specimen of my skill in that behalf and for the further purpose of showing that it is utterly free from personal feeling or ill will toward the plaintiff. the following is the opening statement as made and reported and published at that time: with permission of the court, gentlemen: in a case like this, it is hard for jurors to divest themselves entirely of their relations, politically and socially, to parties, and come to the consideration of it as a dry question of fact under the instruction of the court. the petition that has been read to you selects from certain articles that were published during the political canvass last fall, three certain items of charges made against mr. kasson that it is supposed by mr. kasson and his friends cannot be proved. why those three particular charges out of quite a number should have been selected and the others passed by, i do not know. probably any one of the other charges damaged him as much as any one of these. but for some reason best known to the plaintiff, he has been willing to stand all the injury and all the damage they did; because he didn't care about having them investigated in court. (he has a right to pick out and say this one is not true, and the other is not true, i put you on the proof of this.) these three particular charges are set out, and they claim so much damages for saying these particular things about this particular individual. the answer i will read to you and then try to give you some idea of the evidence that will be introduced on the part of the defendants. [here mr. nourse read the answer relating to the first charge, and continued.] the facts are, these articles were written by mr. savery, and published in the _register_, which was conducted and published by the defendants, mr. r. p. clarkson and mr. j. s. clarkson. [reads from petition again, beginning with the words: "now, sir, this was the way you played your hand."] mr. nourse continued: that is the answer we make to the first charge, relating to what is called the smoky hill route. i will say, in order that you may understand the evidence, and the facts in reference to that business, that mr. kasson was our member of congress in , as will appear by the testimony, living and residing in this town, having for his colleagues messrs. price, wilson, allison, judge hubbard, and mr. grinnell. at that time one of the most vital questions to the people of iowa, especially to the people of this congressional district, was whether or not the roads running east and west through iowa should connect with, and become a part of the great pacific route, extending from the atlantic to the pacific ocean. prior to congress had passed a law to aid the construction of the pacific railway. that law provided for several iowa branches, and provided for a branch connecting with the st. louis roads through kansas, and provided that all these branches should unite at what is known as the one hundredth meridian, some distance west of omaha. and a further provision in that bill was that the union pacific railroad company should build from the one hundredth meridian westward, meeting the road that should be built from california eastward. that was the union pacific railroad proper. it will appear in evidence, gentlemen, that mr. kasson, up to the very moment, the very day and hour on which he gave this vote in congress, had publicly and privately expressed himself in favor of the omaha route, and delivered a public lecture against the smoky hill route, and explaining to the people of this locality the great advantages they were to derive from being upon the main line of this great thoroughfare. it will further appear in evidence, gentlemen, that the kansas company, with the pennsylvania central road--in combination with the st. louis interests--devised a scheme, in the winter of , whereby they proposed to make the kansas road, connecting with st. louis, the main branch of the pacific road, and thus entirely defeat the building of the roads westward to the hundredth meridian, connecting with the iowa roads. that was the scheme that was undertaken, and a bill having that object was rushed through the senate and came to the house of representatives, when thaddeus stevens took charge of it. the friends of the bill made a strong combination, refused to let it be referred to a committee, and refused even to allow it to be printed for the information of the house, and put it upon its passage under the spur and whip, crushed out debate, and crushed out explanation and discussion. mr. kasson was the only member of the house of representatives from iowa that was permitted by thaddeus stevens, who had the floor, to occupy the time of the house, and to the surprise of everyone mr. kasson was found to have gone over to the enemy. we have the depositions of hiram price and james f. wilson, and the _congressional globe_ that will explain to you his false position. mark the explanation mr. kasson attempted to make on the floor of congress. he based his defense simply on the claim that the kansas branch road would make a _rival road_ and afford competition. this, gentlemen, will appear in evidence when we come to investigate this matter. it does not answer the proposition and but for the fact that the money was speedily raised and the road built from omaha to reach the hundredth meridian, before the kansas branch got their road built there, we would have lost everything; we would have lost all that congress had granted to us, to build the road up the platte valley. this has been carefully concealed by mr. kasson in all his explanations and in all his discussions and he has, with his oily, deceptive subterfuges, tried to hide this enormity of his past life from his constituents. we hope, gentlemen, aided by the evidence of these members of congress, intelligent men, honest men, who have stood by the people of iowa--we hope, with their depositions and the circumstances, and the evidence contained in the _congressional globe_, to show this matter up to you. we will prove to you by men who were on the ground that no sufficient motive could honestly have induced that man to have cast his vote in the way he did; that it was a surprise upon every intelligent man that knew what his pledges and promises and professions had been up to that time. now, when this man offered himself as a candidate for congress last fall a year ago, one of the defendants in this case, who never was a candidate for office in his life, who had no interest in politics whatever, except as a citizen interested in our material interests, in our city, in our state, took the responsibility upon himself to ask mr. kasson through the public press to explain this, his extraordinary conduct and his treachery to his constituents; he got no answer except the insufficient one, the deceptive one, that mr. kasson wanted a rival railroad. again, gentlemen, it will further appear in evidence that this was an additional subsidy of lands, that instead of connecting with the main line at the one hundredth meridian, this kansas company was authorized to change its route and build the road to denver, from denver up to cheyenne, and receive all the lands on either side of whatever route they may fix upon, and not requiring them to unite with the main line until they got fifty miles west of denver. that they received on the line from denver to cheyenne the heart of the territory of colorado. that was a subsidy, and that the road got that subsidy, and that the parties who passed the bill undertook to deceive the members of congress in regard to it. now, gentlemen, this is all there is on this first matter. this publication was made, public attention was called to the fact that one of our members of congress, when asked how he would explain mr. kasson's vote, said he didn't know; but he could have taken twenty-five thousand dollars for his vote. that statement was made public by mr. savery in this communication to the citizens of this congressional district. now this is the first matter which mr. kasson has chosen to bring before you, and to make an issue, and claim for damages to his character. now we cannot prove--mr. kasson knows--we have no facilities for proving who was around there, or what money they had, or the means by which that bill was passed by congress. we can show you, gentlemen, only this one thing, that as a citizen of iowa and as a representative of iowa he betrayed his constituents wantonly; that he was in a scheme in which there was money; that is all; that this communication was made to the public, stating the bare facts at a time when it was necessary for the public to know them and by a man who had no interest in maligning mr. kasson, or injuring him. savery had no personal feeling, and had no personal animosity towards him, but he felt, as a citizen, some indignation towards the man for the course he had pursued in congress. so much, gentlemen, for the first charge that was made. you are to judge whether that communication at the time it was made, and under the circumstances it was made, was justifiable. you are to take all the facts, and all the testimony with regard to it. now as to the second matter that is set out in the answer. mr. barcroft: will you just tell the jury whether the bill that mr. kasson voted for under the iowa railroad were not built on the continuous line? mr. nourse: i have already stated, that but for the extraordinary efforts by which money was raised, and the road pushed to the hundredth meridian first and this scheme defeated, we would never have been on the main line. but no thanks to mr. kasson for it. we are on the main line because these men went to work with superhuman energy to get to the hundredth meridian first, and they got there first, and that is the reason we are on the main line. if we had not reached it before they did, we would not have had a dollar of money with which to have built our line, and the other would have been the main line. that is the fact as it will appear conclusively from the testimony in this case. gentlemen, i invite your special attention to the second charge, for if i can succeed in getting the jury to understand this question it is the end of the plaintiff's case. fortunately for us on this question we have pretty conclusive proof, and with all the gentleman's ingenuity and that of his counsel, he will not be able to escape. we will show you, gentlemen, that in the year the old des moines valley railroad company had forfeited her rights to the grant of lands that had been granted to her in the year , by reason of not building the road as the original act required. the people of boone county were dissatisfied because the des moines valley railroad company had surveyed their road west up by grand junction, instead of going up the des moines river. mr. orr introduced a bill called the resumption bill, no. , in the house of representatives. that bill was read the first and second times, was ordered to be printed, and was referred to the railroad committee, of which mr. kasson was a member. the railroad committee prepared a substitute for that bill, as is set out here, in which they provided for a release of the company from all forfeitures and still allow them to have the lands and to build their road upon certain terms and conditions, and reported that bill back to the house of representatives as a substitute for house file no. . that substitute, gentlemen, is in mr. kasson's own handwriting, and we will be able to produce it here and show you the bill as he reported it originally to the house of representatives. the records will show you, gentlemen, that after that bill came in, after this substitute was reported, wilson of tama county, with another gentleman constituting a minority of the committee on railroads, made a minority report in which they recommended what was called the "doud amendment," or the granger clause of that bill, in which they provided as set out in the answer: "that the company accepting the provisions of this act was at all times to be subject to legislative control." i will give you the very language of the amendment as it now appears in the law, so you may get the idea fully. [reads.] "the company accepting the provisions of this act shall at all times be subject to such rules, regulations and rates of tariff for transportation of freight and passengers as may from time to time be enacted by the general assembly of the state of iowa." the minority of the committee recommended that amendment, and it was adopted; and it was the only amendment that ever was adopted by the legislature. we will prove to you, gentlemen, that a forgery was committed, and the following words interpolated into that bill: "but the non-acceptance by the des moines valley railroad company of this act shall not prevent all the foregoing provisions thereof from having the same operation and effect as if the same had been accepted by said company;" and we will prove to you that these words were agreed upon between mr. kasson and the railroad company's attorney, in a private room in the savery house, and that he agreed to put them in the bill, and the attorney testifies that the provision escaped criticism. and this is the second charge: we charge him with so manipulating that bill as purposely to defeat the will of the legislature. that he did it fraudulently, and that he did it corruptly will be proved to you beyond a doubt; that this charge was made, honestly believing it to be true, in order that the people of this congressional district might know the character of the man that was asking for their suffrages. after he voted against wilson's amendment, and failed to honestly defeat it, we are prepared to show that by an agreement between him and the general attorney of the road, he undertook to get this nullifying clause into the bill, and that he did get it in the bill, and that he did not get it there by the vote of the house. mr. barcroft: you do claim that you have any such allegation in your answer? mr. nourse: i claim that what we charge kasson with was that he manipulated that proviso through the legislature, and we propose to prove it. we propose to prove that it came _from him_ and originated _with him_. we may have other evidence on this point more full and complete that it is not necessary now to take the time to detail. the third specification, gentlemen, relates to the vote of mr. kasson and his conduct with reference to the c., r.i. & p.r.r. co. and here, fortunately, i can say to you that we are not without direct and satisfactory testimony. we thought that we could prove that he had taken money on both sides from both parties in the case, but we haven't succeeded fully. we have evidence, however, of this state of facts: that mr. kasson in the early part of that session voted for a bill that had for its purpose and object the helping of tracy, who was then the president of the road, to retain his power and his place as president, and to complete the road from here to council bluffs; that a bill for that purpose was passed in the early part of the session and approved on the th of february, and that mr. kasson voted for it. thus far all was right. it will further appear by the evidence that the legislature had a recess of a few weeks after that, and that kasson disappeared from here and turned up in wall street, new york; that he was found in conference with the men connected with the northwestern railroad and who had bought up the stock of the rock island road, with a view of obtaining control of it, who were anxious to secure the repeal of the tracy bill. we will prove to you that kasson promised these men his influence to have that bill repealed; that he came back to des moines and was in conference with them, promising them his aid, that he subsequently changed his mind and abandoned them, that they didn't succeed; and that mr. tracy out of sheer gratitude, as kasson claims, offered him five hundred dollars in money; that he (kasson) took the money, but stipulated that it should be called a retainer. in his own deposition kasson swears he got the money. but he says he didn't get the money until after the legislature adjourned, and when it was offered to him as a present, he said he couldn't accept of it unless it was offered to him as a retainer; and that mr. b. f. allen, who offered him the money, went away and came back again, and said that he could take it as a retainer; and that he supposed that allen had seen mr. tracy. this is the way kasson gets out of this. we will prove to you by mr. tracy that he never had retained mr. kasson, or authorized anybody else to retain him for the company; that he never requested kasson to perform any professional services for that road; that he never performed any professional services for the road, and that he had been out of the practice of the law for years. it will further appear in evidence that mr. kasson has not practiced law since ; that this attempt to make it a retainer is simply a subterfuge to cover up the taking of pay for his services in the legislature, to a railroad corporation. now, this all came to the knowledge of these defendants, and they proposed, in good faith, to publish to the community the facts in regard to mr. kasson's conduct. it is said by plaintiff's attorney that they will show to you that the clarksons were the personal enemies of mr. kasson. i will say to you, gentlemen, that it is not true, and that i don't believe they will prove it; i don't believe in this community they can prove a thing that is not true. on the contrary, the clarksons never had any personal or political difficulty with mr. kasson whatever. every motive on earth that could induce men to act through favoritism was upon the other side of the question. mr. kasson had no desire to face his accusers, or subject himself to an examination before the jury. he was not present at the beginning of the trial and had taken the precaution to have his own deposition taken in new york upon interrogatories doubtless prepared carefully by himself, as the interrogatories disclosed nothing as to the explanation he had invented for the purpose of rebutting the testimony against him. this would avoid any cross-examination. after the defendant's testimony had been introduced in part, however, the evidence seemed to make quite an impression against the plaintiff's cause and his counsel in desperation telegraphed to him requiring him to come at once to des moines. after a few days, he put in his appearance and i immediately had a subpoena issued and served upon him, requiring his attendance as a witness. after we closed our evidence, mr. kasson disappeared between two days and we searched for him in vain in the state. his counsel, mr. barcroft, offered his deposition taken in new york, then as rebutting testimony, when the following colloquy occurred, which i here quote from the notes of the official reporter: judge nourse, for the defense, asked to have mr. kasson brought into court, stating that a subpoena had been issued for him, and as he was not present, asking an attachment for him. mr. barcroft replied: "whether he will be here or not, i don't know. i think he is out of the state. i don't know that he will be here, and i don't know that he will not, but think the probabilities are that he will not. we don't claim the right to read his deposition if he is present. he is not present, and is not in the state. i don't expect him to be here." the deposition was then read. as already anticipated, the jury could not agree upon a verdict. six of mr. kasson's political friends upon the jury insisted on finding in his favor, and six who were not his political supporters and friends, some being democrats and some republicans, insisted on not finding a verdict in his favor. the case went over the term and was afterwards compromised upon what terms i never understood, except that the plaintiff dismissed his suit and probably paid the costs, and mr. savery advised me that as part of the terms upon which the suit was to be dismissed, mr. kasson was to make a political speech at moore's opera house and colonel gatch and the clarksons were to occupy the platform as indicative of their friendly appreciation of that gentleman, and i also with mr. savery was entitled to a like honor. mr. savery did not appear upon the platform and i utterly refused to recognize the right of anyone to contract for my appearance there, and i was conspicuously absent. mr. savery paid me his half of the fee that i was to receive for my services, and upon presenting my bill for the other half to mr. richard clarkson, i found he had charged me up for printing the speech i had made to the jury, having at my request printed the revised copy of the speech in pamphlet form, and thus he squared the account, never paying me one cent for my services in the case. [illustration: _ fourth street, des moines_, for twenty-seven years the home of charles clinton nourse] chapter v some important law suits it is not within the scope or purpose of this writing to enter into or discuss the merits of the various suits in which i was employed. i cannot, however, give any idea of the fifty years of my life during which i was engaged in a number of important suits, without reference to their nature and character, and the management to which i attributed important results. in the latter part of the year , whilst in attendance at the supreme court at davenport, i was retained by the chicago & northwestern railroad company, in company with mr. thomas f. withrow, to assist the general counsel of that corporation in a suit, then recently brought in the united states circuit court for the southern district of iowa, enjoining the company and its agents and employees from putting a certain span of their bridge across the mississippi river at the town of clinton, iowa. mr. james grant of davenport and a mr. lincoln of cincinnati had been employed by the river interests to prevent the completion of this bridge on the ground that it would prove an obstruction to the navigation of the river. mr. withrow and myself spent a day in examining the alleged obstruction to navigation, the company furnishing us a steamboat in which we passed through the piers on which the drawbridge was to be placed. we returned to des moines late saturday evening. the united states circuit court at des moines met the following monday. on sunday mr. withrow went to his office and carefully examined the statutes of the united states relating to the powers of the court in granting injunctions. he sent for me in the afternoon. on examination we ascertained that the statute of the united states contained a peculiar provision, not known to the practice in our state courts. it provided that when an injunction was granted in vacation by the judge of the district court of the united states, it should remain in force only until the close of the ensuing term of the circuit court; that if the injunction was granted by one of the judges of the supreme court or a judge of the circuit court of the united states, it should remain in force until it was dissolved by the order of the court. we immediately opened telegraphic communication with general howe, who was then attorney of the chicago & northwestern railroad company, and had in charge the defense of the case. he and judge grant, it seems, had been engaged in taking depositions and procuring evidence with reference to the question of obstruction of the navigation by the existence of these piers in the river, and both general howe and mr. grant appeared to be acting upon the hypothesis that it was necessary for the defense to make a motion and showing for the dissolution of the injunction. we called the attention of general howe to the provisions of the united states statute, and as we were well acquainted with the peculiarities of judge grant we advised that if we did nothing upon the part of defense at the ensuing term of court, it was probable that grant would take no action in the matter and the injunction would stand dissolved at the close of the term by operation of law. on examination of the question general howe agreed with our conclusions, and we then arranged that he take the train on monday morning and come as far as ames, iowa, bringing with him all evidence, depositions, and papers that we might need in case there was to be any hearing before the court; that general howe should occupy a boxcar at ames and not subject himself to personal observation, whilst we would take charge of the interests of our client at des moines and do nothing save to let the law take its course, and we would advise general howe by telegram if judge grant woke up and attempted to obtain any order of court continuing the injunction. judge grant was in attendance upon the court, and several times inquired after general howe, stating that he was expecting him daily. day after day of the term passed and nothing was done. finally, the business of the term being disposed of, justice miller, then justice of the supreme court of the united states and presiding, announced that if there was no further business before the court the term would be adjourned. judge grant addressed the court and stated that he had been waiting during the entire term expecting the appearance of general howe; that he understood that messrs. nourse and withrow had been employed in behalf of the defendants, but no motion had been filed with reference to the injunction in the case against the bridge company or railroad company, and he wished to know whether or not we intended to do anything. mr. withrow looked at me and placed upon me the responsibility of replying to judge grant's remarks. i said that it was true that mr. withrow and myself had been employed in the case, but only as local counsel and the only authority we had was to act under the instructions of the general counsel of the railroad company, general howe; that we had no authority or direction to file any motion in the case, and i added very meekly that if any harm should come to our clients by reason of any neglect in the matter the responsibility would rest entirely with general howe and not with my brother withrow and myself. upon this judge grant announced that he had to go to washington city upon professional business immediately upon adjournment of the court, and he would not consent that any motion would be heard in regard to the injunction matter in vacation. this closed the event and the court adjourned sine die. as judge miller passed out of the court house down the stairs, judge grant having previously left the room, mr. withrow could hardly contain himself and burst into uproarious laughter and attracted the attention of judge miller, who looked over his shoulder and remarked good-naturedly that he supposed judge grant did not understand us. as previously arranged, the mechanics engaged in the bridge construction had carefully prepared their timber and every bolt necessary for the span that should make up the drawbridge between these two piers. judge grant went his way to washington, and upon his return to iowa three weeks afterwards he found the cars in operation crossing the bridge. he immediately went to judge love, and making the necessary affidavits for contempt of court, obtained warrants for the arrest of the parties engaged in constructing the bridge. without disclosing what our knowledge and view of the law was upon the subject, the parties at once gave bond and security for their appearance at the next term of court to answer the charge of contempt. when the next term of court convened, justice miller and judge love presiding, i made the necessary motion to discharge the defendants upon the ground that the injunction had been dissolved by operation of law immediately upon the adjournment of the prior term of court, and there being no injunction in force, the completion of the bridge did not constitute any contempt of court. the motion was sustained and the defendants discharged. judge howe and judge blodgett of chicago were so delighted with the result, that they telegraphed to chicago for a case of wines and inviting judge grant and mr. lincoln of cincinnati, who represented the plaintiffs in the case, into our room, we spent a very merry evening together and all seemed to enjoy the evening save judge grant who could hardly forgive himself for his over-confidence which had resulted fatally to his clients. during the evening many excellent anecdotes were indulged in: among others was one by judge blodgett for the benefit of plaintiff's counsel. he said in the early history of the lawyers who were in the habit of traveling the circuit in illinois, they had a gentleman come among them who would never admit that he had made a mistake. the attorneys were accustomed to amuse themselves in the evening at the hotel, and among other amusements they had a game called "kicking the slipper," which consisted in inducing some green victim to put a slipper upon one foot and attempt to throw it into the air and kick the slipper with the other foot before it reached the floor. one evening they induced the over confident attorney to undertake the experiment, with the result that he came flat upon the floor in the attempt to kick the slipper with the other foot. the other lawyers thereupon greeted him with a hearty round of laughter, but he sprang to his feet and said to them, "now, gentlemen, you needn't laugh, you needn't think you fooled me, for i want you to understand that i had no sooner struck the floor before i understood that it was a trick." mr. lincoln was a merry, good-natured man and enjoyed this anecdote at his expense very much, but judge grant hardly saw the application of judge blodgett's anecdote. at the next session of congress the railroad company obtained the passage of a law constituting the bridge a part of the mail route of the united states, and the court subsequently dismissed the plaintiff's case. thus we were successful in gaining our case by knowing when it was best to do nothing. the use of the bridge was invaluable to our clients, and the railroad company sent me a draft for two hundred dollars as compensation for the short speech i had made advising judge grant in the court that we had no instructions to do anything in the case, and the responsibility of our failure to do anything, if injurious to our client, would rest with general howe, attorney in chief of the road. whilst upon this question of management i will give you an account of another case of some importance that resulted in our complete success because we did something that we did not learn out of any of our law books. a certain young woman in the last stages of consumption had been turned out of the house of her near relatives, and compelled to take up her quarters in a second-class hotel in des moines during her last sickness. she had made a will in which she willed to the catholic priest of the city, father brazil, a valuable tract of land for the use and benefit of the catholic church. after her death her relatives, who had neglected her shamefully during her sickness, brought suit to contest the validity of this will upon the ground of undue influence on the part of father brazil, and mental incapacity on the part of the deceased. judge kavanaugh, a young bachelor then about thirty years of age and a member of the catholic church, and since then judge of the court in chicago, illinois, had been employed by father brazil to defend the suit, and he subsequently came to me and retained me to assist him in the trial of the cause. during the sickness of the deceased she had employed a professional nurse, a young woman about thirty years of age. we were informed before the trial came on that the relatives who were contesting the will had been very courteous and kind and generous toward this young nurse woman, and during the holidays had made her valuable presents in consideration of her kindness to the deceased. at the opening of the term i noticed this young woman came into court, receiving the courtesies and attention of judge cole, who was counsel for the relatives that were contesting the will. she was rather a handsome woman, evidently intelligent and quick-witted, rather fond of admiration, and as she was to be the star witness for the other side of the case, i at once made up my mind that the whole case must turn upon her testimony. as the deceased had been frequently under the influence of opiates, administered by the physician for the purpose of relieving her suffering from time to time, it would be a very easy matter for a young woman gifted as this one was with facility of speech, to make the most of the incoherent utterances of the patient while under the influence of opiates. i foresaw that it would not do to subject this young woman to a severe cross-examination or say anything that implied that we doubted her honesty or veracity, and yet something must be done or we were sure to lose our case. i took my young bachelor friend, judge kavanaugh, to one side and told him wherein we were in danger, and as he was a member of the same church and was himself an irishman, and had no doubt "kissed the blarney stone," it was absolutely necessary for him to cultivate the acquaintance of this witness, even to the very verge of proposing matrimony. i told him i could easily attend to the law of the case, the cross-examination of the witnesses, but this witness was outside my jurisdiction. he readily agreed to undertake the part of the case that i assigned to him. he accompanied the lady to and fro from her hotel at every adjournment or sitting in the court, and she evidently was very much pleased with his attentions. i cautioned him not to talk too much about the case, but talk of other things that he would find probably more agreeable subjects of conversation to the witness and to himself. he performed his part so admirably that when judge cole called upon his star witness she proved a flat failure upon his hands. she said yes in answer to his questions, that when the deceased was under the influence of her opiates she was a little flighty, but that amounted to nothing, that when the influence of the opiate was gone she was perfectly rational and capable of understanding what she was doing at all other times. the result was that the jury found a verdict in our favor and the will was sustained. judge given, however, who was a member of the presbyterian church, seemed to be disappointed at the result of the suit, and set aside the verdict and granted the parties a new trial. from this action of the court we took an appeal to the supreme court, and the supreme court reversed judge given's decision, holding that there was no evidence that would have justified the jury in finding against the validity of the will, and they remanded the cause with orders to the district court to render judgment in our favor. in conversation with father brazil after the case was over we were discussing the probable reasons that induced judge given to set aside the verdict of the jury. i suggested that perhaps he had been reading eugene sue's remarkable work called _the wandering jew_. i asked father brazil if he had ever read that book. he smiled pleasantly and said yes, and when i expressed my surprise that he should indulge in such literature, he remarked very calmly that he always thought best to know what the world was saying about his church and people. i will give here also next an account of the most important criminal case i ever defended. a man by the name of yard had shot and killed a party by the name of jones. he claimed that he pointed a shotgun over the shoulder of his wife at the time jones was approaching his wife about to commit an assault upon her for an illegal purpose, when he fired the gun and jones fell dead as a result. jones had come onto the premises where yard and his wife resided, having in each hand a bucket with which he was supposed to be intending to go to a well for water. the buckets were found some distance, probably twenty-five or thirty steps from the door, and the prosecution claimed that the buckets indicated the place at which the deceased was at the time he was fired upon and killed. yard and his wife were both in jail at the time i was sent for, and the first thing i did was to enjoin upon them the necessity of absolute silence and refusal to answer any questions or to communicate with any party or parties who might possibly thereafter testify against them. upon a preliminary trial before the justice i waived an examination of the case and had the defendants enter bail for their appearance at court. a man by the name of smith, who was the owner of the gun with which the deceased was shot and who had loaned it to yard only a few days before, was indicted with yard and his wife as accessory to the crime. as the defense in this case would depend entirely upon the testimony of yard and his wife i at once appreciated the absolute importance of having these parties tell the exact truth without equivocation or invention. my experience as a lawyer had taught me that persons deeply interested in the result of the trial, participating in a transaction such as the killing of another, are subject to such a state of nervous excitement that they frequently do not remember with any degree of accuracy the collateral facts and circumstances attending the more important events, and persons of ordinary intellect imagine it is important that they should be able to recollect and answer accurately every question that is made in regard to the collateral facts and circumstances attending the principal event, and almost invariably they invent answers to such questions and pretend to know what really they do not know and do not recollect. the result is that they involve themselves in contradictions and impossibilities, and let confusion destroy even the reliable and truthful parts of their evidence, and this was what i feared in this case. i was accused by some members of the bar and outsiders of training these parties as witnesses in their own behalf, and in one sense of the word it was true, but i only trained them to tell the truth, carefully eliminating from their story and had them eliminate everything that i was satisfied upon thorough examination was the result of their invention instead of their recollection. i first examined each of the parties separately and took down their statements carefully, and after comparing them tried to make up my mind as to what was absolutely true and as to what part of their story was invention. i then brought the parties together and discussed with them such parts of their story as i was satisfied had been supplied by them and had them admit and concede that they did not distinctly recollect the matter as stated. i repeated this process the third time. in some manners the man and his wife differed as to their recollections as to some things that had happened, and when i was satisfied that the difference was honest i made no effort to correct or to reconcile their statements, for my experience also taught me that absolute coincidence in every particular of their statements would tend rather to discredit than to confirm the truth of what they related. another difficulty in the trial of the case was the excitable temperament of mrs. yard, and what i feared most was that the prosecutor by severe cross-examination might make her angry and she would display some temper and make some statement that would injure her case. when she was upon the stand under cross-examination by judge given, who was then the prosecuting attorney, i kept my eye upon the woman carefully. she was under examination at least three hours, and only once did the prosecutor succeed in exciting her so that she developed any passion. he said to her in a very abrupt and preëmptory manner, "now please turn and face that jury and tell them that you removed those buckets from the doorstep to the place where they were found." as she turned in a passion to face the jury, flushed with excitement, i was fortunate enough in catching her eye and fixing her attention a moment, when her passion subsided, and in a very calm lady-like way she said, "gentlemen, i did remove those buckets from the doorstep and place them out in the yard just as i have heretofore related." she said this in such a calm lady-like way that i was satisfied we had gained our case. i proved, of course, the bad character of the deceased and that he was a bad and dangerous man, and also the good character and reputation of the husband, which indeed had been and was unimpeachable up to that time. i examined in this case over seventy witnesses in behalf of the defense. the jury retired and were only out an hour or less, when they returned a verdict of not guilty. in the latter part of the administration of cyrus carpenter as governor of the state, the state treasurer was also treasurer of the board of trustees of the agricultural college. the two offices had no legal connection, and it was merely an incident that the same man had been elected to both positions--the one by the people of the state, and the other by the board of trustees of the college. the trustees of the college in making their annual report to the legislature reported that their treasurer had proved a defaulter to the sum of about $ , , and that they had, in order to secure the college, taken from him deeds for all his real estate including his homestead--all of the property save his homestead having, as they understood, been purchased by their treasurer with funds belonging to the college. about nine o'clock one evening i received a visit from the deputy treasurer of state who informed me that the legislature, then in session, had passed a joint resolution, appointing a committee for the purpose of investigating the question as to what funds of the agricultural college had been used, and also as to the proper administration of the funds belonging to the state in the state treasury; that the treasurer of state and of the agricultural college, being the same person, was about to be examined the next day by this committee of investigation, and upon advice of his friends he wished to employ counsel, and wished that i would act as his counsel in the matter, and particularly the deputy wished me that night to go with him and have a consultation with the treasurer. i accordingly accompanied him to the house of the party. i found him to be an old man probably between sixty and seventy years of age, white hair and beard, blue eyes, a fine stalwart frame, but laboring under intense excitement. i listened carefully to his story, in which the deputy frequently interpolated or supplemented the statements. the care with which both parties persisted that the funds were not state funds, but it was only the funds of the agricultural college that had been wrongfully used or appropriated, made me fear that neither the principal nor his deputy were telling me all that they knew. i felt as shakespeare says in one of his plays, "methinks the person doth protest too much." we were standing in front of the fireplace and the light of the fire threw a peculiarly bright light upon the countenance of the treasurer, and the deputy remarked, "now you understand these funds were in the hands of the treasurer of the agricultural college, and that he did not use the state funds. if he was defaulter as treasurer of state he could be punished by imprisonment in the penitentiary, but if he was only defaulter as treasurer of the agricultural college that would be a different affair. is it not so?" the state treasurer was eyeing me very earnestly and watching carefully for my answer to the deputy's question. my answer was that i was not prepared to say that that was true, and the state treasurer turned still paler and more nervous because my answer was not satisfactory. my conference lasted until after midnight. i returned home feeling very anxious for the old man, but still satisfied in my own mind that i had not heard the entire truth. the next day the committee of investigation, consisting of members of the house and senate, convened, and i was present when the state treasurer was examined by them. the story was told very much as it was told to me the night before, some questions of a general nature were asked, but nobody seemed to understand the importance of knowing when and what particular fund had come into the hands of the treasurer as custodian of the funds of the college, or when or what particular amounts had been used or confiscated by him. the committee adjourned until next morning. that afternoon the house of representatives had passed a joint resolution requesting the attorney general to give an opinion as to whether or not a defalcation by the treasurer of the agricultural college funds constituted a crime, and also instructed him that in case it constituted an offense he should at once commence a prosecution against the party in question. fortunately, this action of the house of representatives offered me a good excuse or pretext at least, to have the treasurer refuse to answer any further questions by the investigating committee, and we accordingly withdrew him from the witness stand. within the next day or two the deputy came to me and showed me a lot of memoranda made on slips of paper in his handwriting, containing certain figures, the aggregate of which amounted to the sum for which it was claimed the treasurer of the agricultural college funds was in default. the deputy advised me that these slips had been kept in the state treasury vault and had been counted as cash items from time to time. within a few days after that i had an interview with dr. welch, the president of the agricultural college, and he stated to me that he was not satisfied that the funds that had been used by the treasurer were agricultural college funds at all, and that the loss was saddled onto the college very much to the embarrassment of that institution, as they now had to wait for their money until such time as the property which had been turned over to the trustees could be turned into cash. he said he had a letter in his possession written by the deputy stating that the treasurer was away from home at that date and that he had not drawn the $ , theretofore appropriated by the legislature for the benefit of the college, but that the treasurer would return in a short time and that he would advise the president on his return. at my request the president furnished me this letter and its date, and i found upon comparing it with the date of the warrant drawn in favor of the treasurer of the agricultural college for the $ , and the cancellation of that warrant; that is, when it was marked paid, that there was a wonderful correspondence between the date of the letter and the date when the warrant was marked paid. the deputy, at my request, had given me these slips of paper containing this memoranda and i had carefully locked them away in my iron safe, thinking that possibly they might be of future use. at the next term of the district court of polk county the grand jury found two indictments against the state treasurer, one as defaulter to the state of iowa as treasurer of state, and the other as defaulter to the state agricultural college, but examining the minutes of the grand jury, i found that there was no evidence whatever before the grand jury that the state treasurer had used any state funds at any time for any purpose, and the indictment of him as such a defaulter was not justified by any testimony taken by the grand jury. i immediately suspected that there was a secret hand at work intending that this old man should be convicted, if not of one offense, then of the other. upon investigation i found that there had been some informality and illegality in drawing and impaneling the grand jury that found these indictments. on proper motion in court i had both indictments quashed and the matter continued for the action of the grand jury at the succeeding term of court. at the next term of court a new grand jury was impaneled, the foreman of which was a personal friend of the treasurer and a very honorable gentleman. he took occasion to suggest to me that it was very painful to him to have to find indictments against my client, the treasurer, but that he should certainly perform his duty in that respect. i said to him that that was all right, but it was not right for a grand jury to find an indictment against any man without some evidence before it, tending to show he was guilty of the particular crime for which they found their indictment, and told him that the former grand jury had indicted my client for defalcation as treasurer of state without a particle of evidence, save and except that as treasurer of the agricultural college board he had made default as to that fund. the result was that this grand jury brought in an indictment only against my client as defaulter as treasurer of the agricultural college, and for unlawfully using and converting to his own use the funds of that institution. the case was continued from term to term for several years, and in the meantime the property that had been turned over to the trustees had been converted into money, and the loss of the state agricultural college had been made entirely good. still the indictment remained against my client and had to be tried and disposed of. the old man had given up his house and his home and there was much sympathy existing in the community for him, and a general impression got abroad that he was the victim of others who had unloaded some very unprofitable property upon him and induced him to invest in it with the expectation that it could be re-sold to advantage and the money refunded before it should be called for. whether this was true or not and who the parties were that had induced the old gentleman to betray his trust, i do not know and have never tried to ascertain. the time came finally that the man was to be put upon his trial. he came into my office the day before the case was to be called for trial, looking pale and haggard, told me he had bid his wife good-bye and his boys and that he was prepared for the worst, that he supposed there was no hope for him, that he could endure it but it was hard on the family at home. i invited him into my private room and seating him at the opposite side of my table i said to him that for the sake of his wife and children i had made up my mind that he should be acquitted. he looked at me incredulously and asked what i meant, and how it was possible for him to escape conviction. he said he had already confessed his fault and they had his confession all taken down in writing before the investigating committee. i stepped to my safe and took out the memoranda that i had obtained from his deputy and laid them down before him. looking him fully in the face, i said, "tell me what those papers mean?" he asked me where i got them, and said he supposed they had been destroyed long ago. i told him no, that i carefully preserved them because it might be, as i thought, for his interest at some time or other to tell the truth, that there had been enough lies told about the business, and now probably the truth might save him. he asked what i meant. i said to him, "here is a memoranda of the amounts that you took out of the safe that belonged to the state of iowa. they never were in your hands as treasurer of the agricultural college and you know it and you have known it all the time. you thought i was deceived, but i was not. i have known the truth and i hoped the time might come when the truth might benefit you more than the falsehood." i showed him the letter written by the deputy to president welch. i had a memoranda of the date of the cancellation of the $ , warrant issued to him as treasurer of the agricultural college. i looked him fully in the face and said, "you never had that money in your hands, you never received it, you were not at home when that warrant was cancelled, and you know it." he sighed deeply and said, "that is true, but i told a different story and now what am i to do?" i said to him, "all you have to do is to tell the truth." the old man took courage and told me that i had guessed the truth and it was true that he had never used a dollar of agricultural college funds. upon the trial i introduced in evidence the memoranda that had been kept in the safe of the state treasurer, i introduced the warrant that had been issued by the auditor to the treasurer for agricultural college funds, i proved by dr. welch the letter that had been written him by the deputy and the date of the transaction, and i satisfied the jury beyond a doubt that my client was not guilty of the only crime for which he then stood indicted, to-wit, defaulter to the agricultural college funds. judge leonard, then upon the district bench, had been former prosecutor in the district and did not listen with complaisance to any defense which tended to acquit an accused person, but after wrestling with him for quite awhile he finally admitted my defense and the testimony sustaining it, and instructed the jury flatly that the defendant was not on trial as defaulter to the funds of the state of iowa, but as defaulter as treasurer of the agricultural college funds, and they must find him guilty of the latter or they must acquit him, and the jury brought in a verdict of not guilty. this result created quite an excitement in the community and throughout the state, and i acquired some reputation as a criminal lawyer, but few persons understood the real nature of the defense that was made or how it was that the defendant was acquitted in the case, and attributed it to some extraordinary ability upon my part, whereas in truth and in fact i only gained my case by insisting upon my client telling and proving that which was true and abandoning a falsehood that i suspected then and have ever since believed was invented for him in order that other persons should not be suspected of any guilty knowledge of what had really occurred. my client returned to his home, to his wife and children, at least free from a record of conviction for a felony. chapter vi visits virginia relatives soon after the close of the civil war i went to washington, d.c., for the purpose of arguing a case then pending in the supreme court of the united states. the court made an order advancing some important cases in which i think the government was interested, and this necessarily delayed the hearing of the cause in which i was engaged and left on my hands a week or more of leisure. i determined to improve the opportunity by going to harper's ferry and to shepherdstown, west virginia, for the purpose of finding and visiting some of my mother's relatives. i had an uncle, charles cameron, who had lived at harper's ferry when we left maryland in . i took the train to harper's ferry, and upon my arrival there ascertained from the hotel clerk that my uncle charles had died a short time before the civil war and that his family had removed to washington. i asked the clerk if he could point out to me some old resident of the place from whom i could obtain information. whilst talking with him a man entered the office to whom he recommended me as a person that could tell me all about harper's ferry before the war. from this gentleman i learned that my uncle, john cameron, was living with a married daughter several miles over on the maryland side, just under maryland heights. i walked out to the place and had a most delightful visit with him and his daughter, and son-in-law and family. my uncle was a tall, splendidly framed man, a fine specimen of the old virginia gentleman, over six feet in height, with his faculties unimpared, a fine physique, and was then ninety-three years of age. he went with me the next day over to shepherdstown, west virginia, where we found still living and in fine health my uncle, daniel cameron, and wife, their daughter, their granddaughter, and their great-granddaughter, all living under the same roof. when sunday came i went with my cousin to church and she took me to the methodist church south. at dinner that day i asked my uncle john if he had been to church. he said, "certainly, sir." i asked him what church he attended. he answered, "the methodist church." i turned to my cousin susan and asked her if we had been to the methodist church. she said, "yes, _the_ methodist church south." i said to my uncle, "then you were at the methodist church north?" "i attended, sir, the methodist church of the united states of america." my cousin stepped upon my toes about this time under the table, from which i took the hint that the question of church north and _the_ methodist church was rather a delicate subject to discuss in the family. i was pleased to find that my relatives had all been true to the cause of the united states and were earnest union people, except the sons-in-law, who, being young men, were compelled to go into the rebel army. i visited some of the old places where my father had formerly resided and where he had taught school, and i also visited the grave of my mother and grandmother cameron in the village churchyard adjacent to the old brick building where i had attended sunday school when a child. i had arranged with a gentleman who had married my cousin, ann cameron, to go with him the next day by way of sharpsburg, over to boonesboro, maryland, but that evening i received a telegram from the clerk of the supreme court advising me that my case would probably be called monday or tuesday, and i hastened back to washington. after disposing of my business in washington i made a visit to my brothers at rushville, ohio. whilst here we received news of the nomination of general george b. mcclelland as democratic candidate for the presidency in opposition to mr. lincoln, who had been nominated for his second term. an old acquaintance, charles wiseman, who was postmaster at lancaster, came to see me at rushville and told me they had posted me for a political speech that night, and he compelled me to go with him and fill the appointment. i found in lancaster many old friends and acquaintances, boys who had been with me at school, and they gave me a hearty greeting. the old court house was filled to overflowing that night and i dispensed to them for over two hours the gospel of true republicanism and loyalty to the country. we had a very enthusiastic meeting, and my old friend, john d. martin, especially gave me a very hearty commendation. before my return home i also visited millersburg, kentucky, to see my sister susan and her family. her husband, william vimont, had suffered some during the war. his negro cook and her grown boy had been emancipated by their own will, the fugitive slave law being then practically inoperative. morgan, in his raid through the country, had also stolen vimont's fine horse, which served somewhat as an antidote for the wrong that he felt had been visited upon him by the union people. in passing over from his house to the village of millersburg two incidents occurred which served to illustrate the state of affairs at that time in kentucky. upon reaching the turnpike near mr. vimont's house we met one of his uncles riding in a buggy, just coming out of the gate which led to his residence, and he informed us with much feeling and passion that when he woke up that morning he discovered that there was not a nigger on his place, that he had no nigger at home to cook his breakfast for him, and that he had to "hitch up his own horse, sah." this last item appeared to be the culmination of his grief. a few hundred yards further we passed a blacksmith shop, and upon the large door that constituted the entrance to the shop we found in red chalk the image of a man drawn, and the door within the lines of this image was full of bullet holes. mr. vimont informed me that the blacksmith, who was a violent secessionist, had been accustomed to amuse himself by drawing upon the door of the shop the outline of a person, calling it lincoln, and then standing a short distance away, revolver in hand, gratifying his rebel heart by filling the image full of bullet holes. it was during this visit to my brother-in-law that i urged upon him the propriety of selling his little farm and purchasing land in some western state and removing his family thither, which he finally did a few years later, when he removed to tuscola, illinois. i attended religious services in the village on the sabbath, and was much interested in hearing a sermon from the text, "be not deceived, god is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap." the sermon that the minister preached was by no means the same as my thoughts framed from this text when i thought of the desolation that i had witnessed through this state, and the effects of the dark shadow that was just then lifting from one of the fairest lands that a benevolent creator had ever prepared for a people, but which the stupidity and cupidity of man had cursed with human slavery. the preacher appeared to be perfectly blind as to the crop that his audience had reaped from the fearful sowing of their fathers, or dared not mention even had he thought of it. chapter vii pleasure trip to colorado in the summer of i joined a party of friends for the purpose of visiting colorado. the party consisted of judge byron rice, doctor ward, alexander talbott, mr. weaver, a druggist, and monroe, a clothing merchant, and myself. we went by rail to denver. we took with us a tent cloth, some blankets, buffalo robes, and bedding. at denver we purchased a three-seated spring wagon and a pair of good mules. we also hired a teamster with another pair of mules and wagon, and bought a camping outfit, cooking utensils, and provisions. from denver we went south to colorado springs. our first camp south of denver was at a place called haystack ranch, so called because there had never been a haystack on the ranch, but three immense boulders bore a striking resemblance to three haystacks, in the vicinity of which a settler had erected his buildings. a small mountain stream supplied him with the facilities of irrigating his land. he had built a fine large milk house, paved with flagstones and so arranged that he could turn the mountain stream of ice cold water on the floor of the building and thus regulate its temperature. he also had built an overshot water wheel with a small trough or flume and through this trough he turned the water onto his wheel from time to time as he wished it, and utilized its power to churn his butter. he milked about thirty cows, which he told us were fed entirely upon the buffalo grass in the valley near by among the foothills, and that he sent his butter twice a week to the city of denver. the man was evidently living an easy, pleasant life, and getting rich without any severe toil or drudgery. the town of colorado springs was then a single street with a few straggling houses. within a few miles of it we found the newly laid out city of manitou. the surveyors were still at work surveying the streets. one large hotel was in course of erection and the valley up cheyenne canyon contained about two hundred tents filled with invalids and health seekers. in this canyon could be found mineral waters of any temperature and almost any ingredients; principally iron, sulphur, lime, and soda. on a beautiful plateau of ground near where the hotel was being erected we pitched our tent and made our camp for several days. we finally concluded to make the ascent of pike's peak. besides the two mules that we had bought, we hired some ponies accustomed to the trail, except that mr. monroe, one of our party, declared that he was able to walk, and refused to be provided with other transportation. we proposed to go up the mountain to the timber line the first day, and stay all night, and the next morning attempt to reach the summit by sunrise, for the purpose of enjoying what we were assured would be a most magnificent view of the country. judge rice and myself were a little late in procuring our ponies, and the other four of the party started in advance of us, monroe on foot. "halfway," as it was called, up the mountain, we stopped for rest and refreshment at a little log shanty erected by two enterprising young men, who there supplied luncheon and sleeping accommodations to the traveling public. the trail at that time was barely visible to the naked eye, and the climbing was difficult and somewhat dangerous even with our trained animals. several hundred yards before we reached the timber line, so-called, we found monroe lying in the path and apparently almost lifeless. the rare mountain air had scarcely left him oxygen enough to preserve life, and he had succumbed to the inevitable. we found near the timber line a shelving rock or rather a large cavity in the rock, where we took up our quarters for the night. carrying monroe to this place and wrapping him in blankets, we infused life into him by administering several doses of brandy, of which judge rice fortunately had a small flask. a large pine tree had fallen across the outer edge of this rock against which we could place our feet to prevent slipping over its edge, and here we all tried to sleep. a fearful thunder storm came up in the night, but fortunately the storm was below us. it was indeed a grand sight to see the forked lightnings darting through the clouds below us, without any apprehension of their finding our retreat. our sleep, however, was very indifferent. we had been in the territory only about ten days and our breathing apparatus had not adjusted itself to the necessities of a life in these altitudes. we fairly gasped for breath. in the morning when we awoke we found that we could take our ponies no farther on the trail, for there was none visible to the eye. the remainder of the journey to the top of the peak was necessarily a climbing over huge rocks scattered here and there without reference to the convenience of adventurers. we could walk or rather climb about one hundred feet between rests and then fall down under the shadow of a great rock to recuperate enough strength for a venture of perhaps a hundred feet more. after climbing about four or five hundred feet or more in this manner we each began to feel a roaring in the ears and a nausea of the stomach, and at last had the discretion to call council in which we unanimously concluded with old falstaff, one of shakespeare's heroes, that the better part of valor was discretion, and we concluded to return to the valley below and forego the magnificence of a sunrise view from the top of pike's peak. when we got back upon our way as far as the timber line where we had hitched our ponies, i found my pony had taken "french leave" and gone down on the trail without waiting for my valuable company. i was doubtful at first whether i should be able to walk to camp, which was then over eight miles from the place of our night's adventure, but i had not proceeded down the mountain a mile before my strength returned to me and my lungs filled with sufficient oxygen to restore my vigor. we all got back to camp safely, even including the dilapidated monroe, and the consensus of opinion was that we were glad we went up pike's peak, but were more satisfied with the reflection that we did not have to go again. after another day's rest we took to the road with our mule teams and wagons, passing over a beautiful mountain road up cheyenne canyon. every few hundred yards we passed some beautiful cascade or water fall, formed by the dashing waters of some mountain stream supplied from the eternal snows that crowned the mountain peaks around us. our road lay through the so-called south park. on the high table lands before we reached this park we passed through a forest of petrified wood. at one cabin, occupied by a gentleman who kept a small hotel, we found the foundation of his house made of this petrified timber, and his chimney and fireplace of the same material. we gathered a few specimens that we afterwards brought home with us. in south park we passed what was called the salt works. here some english capitalist had built an immense plant for manufacturing salt. a natural spring that threw a constant stream of salt water, probably ten or twelve inches in diameter, supplied the water from which the salt was to be made. large and commodious buildings with evaporating apparatus had been erected. an expenditure of probably fifty or one hundred thousand dollars had been made. there was only one difficulty about this utopian enterprise and that was that the salt had to be manufactured so far from civilization that it cost more to transport it than it would be worth when it reached the market, hence the enterprise had been an ignominious failure and had been abandoned. leaving this point we passed through the south pass of the rockies and on to the headwaters of the arkansas river. we went up this river to the town of granite, that had been a thriving mining village when placer mining in these parts was profitable; thence we went to twin lakes, two small beautiful lakes of water among the mountains, where we camped and supplied ourselves with mountain trout. on the way we frequently shot mountain grouse. with our breakfast bacon and most excellent flour and potatoes, and our own improvised cooking and our excellent appetites, we all fared sumptuously every day. we returned via another route, passing through fairplay. returning to denver we sold our team and wagon for just its original cost, and paid our teamster with his outfit four dollars a day. we had kept an accurate account of our expenditures and found that $ . a day for each of us had paid all of our expenses, including our transportation, for our three weeks' trip. we made a trip then by rail and stage line, going first over to idaho springs, visiting that beautiful little valley, and some of our party going as far as georgetown. returning to denver, we all came home by rail well satisfied with our trip, but when we struck the blue grass regions of iowa and its fields of ripening corn, with the memories of the homes that we were nearing our hearts were made glad that we lived in a land of civilization and plenty. chapter viii centennial address in the year the patriotic citizens of the state of pennsylvania, and especially of the old city of philadelphia, had conceived the idea of a world's fair to commemorate the great event of the world; to-wit, the declaration of the independence of the american colonies from the mother country. in planning this great exhibition the managers had invited the governors of the several states of the union to appoint, each, one of their citizens to deliver an address in behalf of their state, giving something of its history and settlement, its resources and possibilities. in pursuance of this plan governor samuel j. kirkwood of iowa did me the honor to appoint me to make the address in behalf of iowa. i prepared such an address with considerable care, and delivered the same upon the exposition grounds on the th day of september, . my cousin, henry clay cameron, who was then professor of greek at princeton university, did me the honor to visit me at philadelphia at this time and took luncheon with my wife and myself upon the exposition grounds; also samuel f. miller, justice of the supreme court of the united states came from washington and was present on that occasion, and many other distinguished men. among other gentlemen present were official representatives of a number of the governments and nations of europe. the legislature of iowa printed at the state expense some twenty thousand copies of this address, that were thereafter distributed among the people of the state. i have sent at their request to a number of the libraries in the different states printed copies of this address, and now the supply has been about exhausted and the document is about out of print, and i think i should give here a short synopsis of it. [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ from photograph by w. kurtz, madison square, new york, ] the following is the introductory matter, stating something of the discovery of the territory that now constitutes our state: mr. president, and ladies and gentlemen: on the th of may, a.d. , james marquette and louis joliet, under the direction of the french authorities of canada, started from the straits of mackinaw, in their frail bark canoes, with five boatmen, "to find out and explore the great river lying on the west of them, of which they had heard marvelous accounts from the indians about lake michigan." from the southern extremity of green bay they ascended the fox river, and thence carried their boats and provisions across to the wisconsin. descending that stream, they reached the mississippi on the th of june, and entered its majestic current, "realizing a joy," wrote marquette, "that they could not express." rapidly and easily they swept down to the solitudes below, and viewed on their journey the bold bluffs and beautiful meadows on the western bank of the stream, now revealed for the first time to the eyes of the white man. this was the discovery of iowa. the address then proceeds to give a short account of the first settlements in iowa at keokuk, burlington, davenport, and dubuque, and also the settlements afterwards made at council bluffs and sioux city, and cites the various treaties made from time to time between the government of the united states and the indians, extinguishing the indian title. it also gives something of the topography of the country, and in regard to its resources and the natural fertility of the soil it contains the following: we have now on exhibition in the centennial buildings , pounds of iowa soil, selected from forty-five different counties of our state. this exhibition shows a vertical section of the natural formation of the earth to the depth of six feet from the surface. the selection has been made from _five_ several _groups_ of _seven_ counties each. the counties have been classified according to their contiguity, or natural location, as the northwest, northeast, southwest, southeast, and central. these specimens of strata are exhibited just in the condition they existed in the earth. the strata, undisturbed, have been transferred to glass tubes six inches in diameter and six feet in length. these tubes are encased in black walnut, and each labeled with the name of the county from which the strata have been taken. the object has been in good faith to show the world what iowa really is, without exaggeration, and without room for cavil. here is the formation from nature's own laboratory. behold, what hath god wrought! the address also particularly gives an account of our school system, our state university and agricultural college, our benevolent institutions for the unfortunate classes, also the extent of our newspaper publications. it discusses to some extent the questions arising out of the civil war and the heroism of our troops. on this subject the address contains the following: it is impossible, in the reasonable length to which this paper should be limited, to write even a summary of the battles in which iowa soldiers took part. the history of her troops would be substantially a history of the war in the south and west. to recount a portion of those battles and sieges would be to give a partial history to the neglect of others, equally deserving of honorable mention. a task alike impossible would be to give here the names of the heroes, living and dead, who distinguished themselves by their courage and valor. our efficient adjutant general has preserved in the archives of his department, the material from which this glorious history will one day be written, for the honor of the state and the inspiration of the generations that shall come after us. in the adjutant's department at des moines are preserved the shot-riddled colors and standards of our regiments. upon them, by special authority, were inscribed, from time to time during the war, the names of the battle fields upon which these regiments gained distinction. these names constitute the geographical nomenclature of two-thirds of the territory lately in rebellion. from the des moines river to the gulf, from the mississippi to the atlantic, in the mountains of west virginia, and in the valley of the shenandoah, the iowa soldier made his presence known and felt, and maintained the honor of the state and the cause of the nation. they were with lyon at wilson's creek, with tuttle at donelson. they fought with siegel and with curtis at pea ridge; with crocker at champion hills; with reid at shiloh. they were with grant at the surrender of vicksburg. they fought above the clouds with hooker at lookout mountain. they were with sherman in his march to the sea, and were ready for battle when johnston surrendered. they were with sheridan in the valley of the shenandoah, and were in the veteran ranks of the nation's deliverers that stacked their arms in the national capital at the close of the war. the address concludes as follows: iowa hails with joy this centennial of our nation's birth. she renews her vows of devotion to our common country, and looks with hope to the future. the institution of slavery, that once rested as a shadow upon the land, that was fast producing a diverse civilization dangerous to our unity and nationality, has been forever abolished. this centennial exhibition of our national greatness and material progress must re-awaken in the mind and heart of every american emotions of profound love for his country, and of patriotic pride in her success. surely no american would consent that such a civilization as is evidenced here should perish in the throes of civil war. if there be anything in the history of iowa and its wonderful development to excite a just pride, the other, and especially the older states of the union may justly claim to share in it. such as we are, the emigration from the other states made us. our free soil, free labor, free schools, free speech, free press, free worship, free men and free women, were their free gift and contribution. iowa is the thirty-year old child of the republic that celebrates the first centennial of its birth. our state is simply the legitimate offspring of a civilization that has found its highest expression in building up sovereign states. iowa was not a colony planted by the oppressions of the parent government, and that threw off her allegiance as soon as she gained strength to assert her independence; but she was the outgrowth of the natural vitality and enterprise of the nation, begotten in obedience to the divine command to multiply and replenish--born a sovereign by the will and desire of the parent, and baptized at the font of liberty as a voluntary consecration of her political life. not a sovereign in that absolute sense that would make the federal government an impossibility, but sovereign within her sphere and over the objects and purposes of her jurisdiction, with such further limitations only upon her powers as render an abuse of them impossible, to the end that the personal liberty and private rights of the citizen should be more secure. this wonderful exhibition of mechanical skill, of cunning workmanship, and of the fruits of the earth, is but the evidence of the existence and character of the people that have produced them. the great ultimate fact that america would demonstrate is the existence of a people capable of attaining and preserving a superior civilization, with a government self-imposed, self-administered, and self-perpetuated. in this, her centennial year, america can exhibit nothing to the world of mankind more wonderful or more glorious than her new states--young empires, born of her own enterprise, and tutored at her own political hearthstone. well may she say to the monarchies of the old world, who look for evidences of her regal grandeur and state, "behold, these are my jewels." and may she never blush to add: "this one in the _center_ of the diadem is called iowa." chapter ix temperance and prohibition in giving a further account of the activities of subsequent years it will be almost impossible to preserve anything like a chronological order of events, and it will be necessary to take up certain subjects or topics that employed much of my time and energies, and probably as important as any other part of my life was my connection with the subject of temperance and prohibition. the code of iowa enacted in took effect july , . under the head of "intoxicating liquors" it enacted as follows: "the people of iowa will hereafter take no part in the profits of the sale of intoxicating liquors." it then provided that the establishment of any place for the sale of intoxicating liquors to be drank on or about the premises should constitute a public nuisance, and enacted penalties against the sale of intoxicating liquors to be drank on or about the premises, and provided for the abatement of such nuisances and the punishment of all persons violating the provisions of this statute. this code was very excellent in the principle upon which the law was based; to-wit, that the people and government ought not to be a party to or share the profits of the sale of that which was the cause of so much poverty and crime, and the statute aimed at the destruction of the places of resort where the habit of drinking such liquors was contracted and promoted; but in its practical operation the law itself and its provisions were a failure. the words, "to be drank on or about the premises," involved two uncertainties--first, as to the meaning of the words "on or about," and secondly, as to the guilty knowledge or intent of the vendor of the liquors when he made his sale, as to the manner and where the purchaser intended to drink. courts and juries gave very different and very liberal interpretation in the application of this law to different cases, and many of our judges and justices were not well educated in the idea that the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage was really a crime against the community and against humanity. as a result of these uncertainties of the law, the people of the state in elected a legislature, the majority of the members of which were pledged to enact a statute of absolute prohibition. such a statute passed both branches of the general assembly, and was approved by governor grimes. the settlements in the larger towns along the mississippi river and in several of the interior counties embraced very many germans and other persons of foreign birth, accustomed to the use, not only of intoxicating liquors, but to places of resort where the same could be drank at their leisure and pleasure. the result of this foreign demand was a fatal amendment to the statute of - known as the "wine and beer clause," which permitted the licensing and sale of beer and native wine made from the grapes or other fruits grown within the state. the practical result of this law was the establishment of the saloon in charge of keepers who paid no respect to the law and sold all kinds of intoxicating drinks under pretense of beer and native wine. during our civil war the people of the state were so absorbed in the progress of events that involved the existence of our nationality that they gave but little attention to local state and police legislation, but soon after the close of the war, the thought of the people was directed to the great curse of the licensed saloon and its effects upon the morals and habits of our people. in order that the policy of the state with reference to this matter might not be subjected to the caprice of political party conventions and elections, the people demanded and sought to enact an amendment to the constitution of the state that should embrace to its fullest extent a provision prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage within the state, including not only alcoholic liquors, but also malt liquors. in order to secure such a provision by way of amendment to the constitution it was necessary to secure the election of two successive general assemblies to pass upon such an amendment, and to secure a vote of the people endorsing and adopting the same at a subsequent election. the provisions of our constitution on the subject of amending the same were as follows: any amendment or amendments to this constitution may be proposed in either house of the general assembly; and if the same shall be agreed to by a majority of the members elected to each of the two houses, such proposed amendment shall be entered on their journals, with the yeas and nays taken thereon, and referred to the legislature to be chosen at the next general election, and shall be published, as provided by law, for three months previous to the time of making such choice; and if, in the general assembly so next chosen as aforesaid, such proposed amendment or amendments shall be agreed to by a majority of all the members elected to each house, then it shall be the duty of the general assembly to submit such proposed amendment to the people in such manner, and at such time as the general assembly shall provide; and if the people shall approve and ratify such amendment or amendments by a majority of the electors qualified to vote for members of the general assembly, voting thereon, such amendment or amendments shall become a part of the constitution of this state. in pursuance of the provisions of this constitution the eighteenth general assembly of the state of iowa, to-wit, in the year , adopted as an amendment to the constitution of the state the following: "no person shall manufacture for sale, or sell, or keep for sale as a beverage, any intoxicating liquors whatever, including ale, wine and beer. the general assembly shall by law prescribe regulations for the enforcement of the prohibition herein contained, and shall thereby provide suitable penalties for the violation of the provisions hereof." this amendment, by omission of the clerk of the house of representatives, was not entered in full upon the journals of that body. it was, however, embraced in a joint resolution of the two houses and fully identified by its title upon the journal of the house and senate, and the vote adopting the same was duly recorded by yeas and nays as required by the constitution. the publication of this action of the eighteenth general assembly was duly made in the newspapers prior to the election of the nineteenth general assembly, and at the session of that body another joint resolution was passed in both houses embracing the amendment and reciting the action of the eighteenth general assembly thereon, and this joint resolution passed both houses, and the yeas and nays were fully recorded, and proclamation was made by the governor of the state, and the people of the state at a subsequent election held on june , , after a vigorous canvass of the merits of the question, endorsed and adopted the amendment by nearly thirty thousand majority. on the th day of august, , a pretended suit was brought in the district court of scott county by a brewing establishment owned and operated by koehler & lange against a saloon keeper by the name of hill, in the city of davenport, upon an account for beer sold by the brewer to the saloon keeper, and the saloon keeper set up by way of defense that he bought the beer and it was sold to him for the purpose of being sold as a beverage and that the sale was unlawful and contrary to the provisions of the amendment to the constitution. that this suit was a mere conspiracy for the purpose of having the amendment to the constitution declared void there can be no question. the judge of the district court of scott county was opposed to the amendment personally and politically, as were also the attorneys that conducted these proceedings. the principal answer of the saloon keeper was to set up the constitutional amendment and the brewer replied stating that the constitutional amendment was not legally adopted, especially because the amendment had not been spread upon the journals of the house of representatives of the eighteenth general assembly verbatim, but that it had only been embraced in a certain joint resolution of the two houses. the judgment of the district court was against the brewer for the beer, and he took a pretended appeal therefrom to the supreme court of the state. when the case reached the supreme court j. a. harvey, esq., who had been an active man in the general assembly in favor of the amendment, and who was also an avowed prohibitionist and friend of the amendment, was employed by the women's temperance union of the state to appear in the case and argue the matter before the supreme court, involving the legality of the amendment. the women's temperance union also employed judge william e. miller, an ex-judge of the supreme court of our state, who prepared and filed in the case a printed argument. i was at that time absorbed in my own private practice and had a case on trial in the district court, and was unable to attend the session of the court at which the case was argued. i had been very active in the canvass pending the adoption of this amendment at the popular election, and had spent much time in making speeches before the people in its behalf. i had promised mr. harvey that if my other professional engagements would admit of it i would assist him in the oral argument before the supreme court. to my great surprise, and to the surprise and consternation of the people of the state, the majority of the judges of the supreme court decided that the amendment had not been legally adopted, giving as their chief reason therefor the failure of the eighteenth general assembly to have spread upon the house journal a verbatim copy of the constitutional amendment at the time it was adopted by that house. as soon as this decision was made known i prepared and filed in the supreme court of the state a petition for a re-hearing of the case. this re-hearing was granted. the governor of the state employed senator james f. wilson of fairfield, and hon. john f. duncombe, of fort dodge, to appear and make oral argument in behalf of the amendment. i also appeared in the case at my own request and upon my own motion and argued the case orally at davenport on the final hearing. two of the judges of the supreme court; judges seevers and rothrock, were not friends of the amendment, and i think, in sentiment, were opposed to it. judge day's action in the matter in agreeing with messrs. seevers and rothrock was a surprise to his friends, but i have no doubt his decision was honestly made. i think this re-hearing might possibly have resulted in a favorable opinion from a majority of the court had it not been for the intemperate zeal of a portion of the public press, particularly the des moines _register_ edited by the clarksons in which the majority opinion of the supreme court was denounced. the judges who constituted the majority of the court could scarcely be expected to change their views and opinions under the pressure of the brutal attacks that were made upon them through the press. judge beck, the fourth judge of the court, had delivered a very able dissenting opinion sustaining the constitutional amendment. that the decision of the supreme court upon this question was radically wrong, i have never entertained the least doubt in my own mind. the supreme court in its majority opinion recognized the fact that the only proper and legal evidence of the final action of the legislative body in the enactment of its laws must be found in its enrolled bills, duly certified by the presiding officers of the senate and house of representatives respectively. the authorities were uniform, and no court had ever before undertaken to examine the journals of a legislative assembly for the purpose of contradicting and falsifying the duly certified action of the legislature by its presiding officer. every bill that passes the general assembly of the state is duly enrolled by the clerk elected for that purpose by the house in which the bill originated. it is then supposed to be carefully examined by the committee on enrolled bills and reported in open session of the house, and is then presented by the clerk or secretary to the several presiding officers in open session for their signatures, and thence in the care of the proper committee on enrolled bills is presented to the governor for his approval. to go behind this official action of the two branches of the legislature and undertake to examine and criticise the action of the clerk in recording or failing to record any part of its proceedings, by the courts of the state, is simply to destroy the independence of the law-making power, and is nothing more or less than usurpation on the part of a coördinate branch of the government. the constitution of iowa in its provisions in regard to an amendment of that instrument selects, first, the two houses of the general assembly, secondly, the executive of the state, and thirdly, the people of the state, the source of all political power, and entrusts to them and them alone the power to amend its organic law. this amendment originated with and was carefully prepared by and approved by both branches of the eighteenth general assembly, and subsequently by the nineteenth general assembly, there can be no question; that it was then submitted to a vote of the people, voted and approved by the people by a large majority, was then proclaimed by the governor of the state in his proclamation as part of the organic law of the state, there was no question, and i do not hesitate to say, after years of thought and deliberation upon this matter, that the decision of the supreme court of the state in the case of koehler & lange against hill was simply usurpation. during the pendency of this re-hearing and before the final arguments in the case mr. hill, the saloon-keeper of davenport, attempted to defeat the re-hearing by asking the court to strike from the files the petition for rehearing and denying the authority of the attorneys who had filed the same to act in his name. the governor of the state, after the final disposition of the cause, appropriated $ to the three principal counsel engaged in the re-hearing, and sent me one-third of the amount; to-wit, $ for my services in the matter. the constitutional amendment thus attempted to be rendered null and void by the opinion of the supreme court in the case of koehler & lange against hill was really only an amendment to the constitution enjoining upon the legislature the duty of enacting a prohibitory liquor law, and forbidding the enactment of any statute authorizing the license and sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage. the immediate effect of the decision of the supreme court was to arouse the people of the state to an assertion of their rights in regard to these matters; consequently they elected a general assembly in the fall of , a large majority of whose members were pledged to give the people, by legislative enactment, a law such as the constitutional amendment required, and in pursuance of that purpose the twentieth general assembly enacted the prohibitory law, chapter , page of the laws of that session. this law was popularly known as the clark law, taking its name from the fact that it was introduced into the senate by senator clark of page county. he was not, however, the author of the law, and was only entitled to the credit of having introduced it as a member of the senate. some time before these events there had been organized in the state of iowa a temperance league, with its headquarters at des moines. mr. j. a. harvey, before referred to, and myself, with louis todhunter of indianola, had been appointed by the temperance league a committee to draft a prohibitory law and secure its passage by the twentieth general assembly. another effect of the decision of the supreme court in the koehler & lange case was the retirement of judge day from the supreme bench of the state, and the election of judge read of council bluffs in his stead. i was a delegate to the republican state convention from polk county. i did not sympathize with the idea of the defeat for renomination of a judge of the court on the simple ground that his decision or action as judge did not meet with the approval of the people, but i could not, with my ideas of right and justice, approve of the renomination of any judge of the court that had assumed the prerogative attempted to be exercised by the majority of judges in the koehler & lange case, and i cordially supported judge read for the nomination. i had assisted mr. harvey in framing the prohibitory law that was enacted by the twentieth general assembly, part of which was written by myself. i did not entirely agree with the committee, however, in providing as that statute does that the prosecuting witness or party filing informations for a violation of the law should take to his personal use any part of the fines or penalties provided for in the statute. i disliked that feature of the law for the reason that i anticipated that bad men, for the sake of personal profit and gain, would bring the law into disrepute. the state temperance league undertook to provide, to a greater or less extent, for the prosecution of offenders under this law of the twentieth general assembly. i was on the committee appointed by the league and was chairman of the committee that had advisory powers in regard to prosecutions undertaken or promoted by the officers of the league, and as chairman of that committee i had occasion, a number of times, to defeat the purposes and plans of those who sought to use the authority of the league for some ulterior purpose. the most serious case of this kind that arose during my administration related to the effort of a certain whiskey trust to use the prohibitory law as a means of destroying an industry established in des moines by invitation of its business men just prior to the taking effect of this prohibitory law of . one of the chief men in encouraging the establishment of the international distillery in des moines, so-called, was j. s. clarkson, editor-in-chief then of the des moines _register_. this international distillery was an alcohol manufactory, established by a man by the name of kidd. before he invested his money in the plant he had taken the precaution to consult with a number of prominent citizens and prohibitionists of the city of des moines, to know whether or not his enterprise would at all be affected by the constitutional amendment or the statute that might be passed in pursuance thereof. pending the action of the general assembly upon the constitutional amendment, the des moines _register_ had insisted upon some legislative interpretation of the meaning and effect of the proposed amendment upon the question of the manufacture of alcohol within the state as an article of commerce, for the purpose of shipping the same to the markets abroad and not to be sold within the state. in pursuance of the suggestion of the des moines _register_, the state senate of iowa in adopted the following explanatory resolution as to the meaning and intent of the amendment then pending, and thereafter to be voted upon by the people, as follows: whereas, doubts have been suggested as to the true intent and meaning of the joint resolution agreed to by the th general assembly, and by this general assembly, as proposing to amend the constitution of the state so as to prohibit the manufacture and sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage within this state; and whereas, it is desirable that such doubts should be removed as far as practicable before said proposed amendment is voted upon by the people; therefore, be it resolved by the senate, that said proposed amendment was and is designed and intended to prevent the manufacture within this state, for sale within this state, as a beverage, all intoxicating liquors, including ale, wine and beer, and to prohibit the selling of such liquors within this state for use as a beverage, and to prohibit the keeping of such liquors for sale as a beverage within this state; and was not designed to prohibit the manufacture for sale, or keeping for sale, of such liquors for any or all other purposes. a short time before this resolution was passed a meeting of the board of trade of the city of des moines was held with reference to the same matter. it was attended by many of the most prominent prohibitionists of the city, and all concurred in the view of the amendment afterward taken by the senate. the sense of the meeting was expressed by a resolution reported by a committee, consisting of t. s. wright, j. s. polk, and j. s. clarkson, and adopted with but one dissenting vote. the resolution is as follows: whereas, the agitation of the proposed amendment to the constitution of this state, prohibiting the manufacture of alcoholic liquors for sale, is creating doubt and uncertainty in the minds of capitalists proposing to invest a large amount of means in the manufacture of alcohol in this city; and whereas, we are satisfied the great majority of the people of the state do not construe such amendment as prohibiting the manufacture of alcohol for exportation, but that it simply prohibits its manufacture for sale as a beverage in the state, a view in which the leading friends and the most of the supporters of the amendment concur; and whereas, we are sure the people of the state would vote down overwhelmingly any amendment absolutely prohibiting the manufacture of alcohol; therefore be it resolved, that the des moines board of trade accept the interpretation of the leading friends and supporters of the amendment, that it intends only to prohibit the manufacture for sale of alcoholic liquors in the state as a beverage, pledges itself to the support and defense of capitalists investing in such manufacturing as against all doubts as to the real meaning of the amendment, and further, that we will lend our active influence toward securing such legislative expression as will put upon the amendment the construction that it will only prohibit the manufacture of such liquors for sale as a beverage in the state. this meeting of the board of trade, which was attended by many of the prominent prohibitionists of the city and of the state, i did not attend, though invited to be present. in pursuance of the encouragement thus given to mr. kidd, and prior to the taking effect of the prohibitory law of , mr. kidd expended several hundred thousand dollars in the building of his plant for the manufacture of alcohol at the city of des moines, iowa, and continued such manufacture without interruption until certain prosecutions were commenced against him at the instance of the western export association, a whisky trust organized by the distillers of the united states to prevent an excess of alcohol being manufactured, and by this means to regulate and keep up the price of the article. after the decision of the principal suit undertaken in this behalf, in which i. e. pearson and a man by the name of loughran were nominal plaintiffs and the international distillery and mr. kidd were defendants, a decision adverse to the distillery was obtained and the defendants took an appeal to the supreme court of the state. mr. kidd and his attorney called upon me and reminded me of the fact that our firm, consisting of b. f. kauffman and myself, had given them a written opinion to the effect that the law of did not make it unlawful to manufacture alcohol in this state as an article of merchandise, to be shipped and disposed of beyond the limits of the state, and mr. kidd appealed to me to know if i was willing to accept of a retainer to argue that question in the supreme court of the state on his appeal, suggesting that he thought it my duty to do so as a lawyer, and asked if i was afraid to perform my duty in that behalf. i told him that i was not afraid and accepted of the employment. as soon as this became known to the des moines _register_, its editors commenced a series of abusive articles against me, containing misrepresentations and insinuations, and for some reasons best known to the editors of that paper and of which i am not advised, they became very active in trying to promote the success of this prosecution against the distillery and to destroy the same. these articles of the state _register_ created, of course, quite an inquiry among the friends of prohibition in the state, and they wrote a number of letters to mrs. a. e. mcmurray, secretary of the state temperance league, making inquiry in regard to the matter of my employment. she accordingly wrote a letter to me upon the subject and i answered the same very fully, giving a history of the whole controversy, and particularly the motives of the men that were trying to destroy kidd and his enterprise. though the letter is somewhat in detail, yet, as it is a complete answer to all of the criticisms that have been made of my professional conduct in this matter, i give it here in full: des moines, iowa, march , . mrs. e. a. mcmurray, secretary of iowa state temperance alliance: i have your communication of the th inst., and appreciating the motives that have prompted it, i take pleasure in responding to your inquiries. the case of i. e. pearson and s. j. loughran against john s. kidd, now pending upon appeal in the supreme court of the state, and in which i have been retained for the defendant, involves only the question as to the right of the defendant to manufacture alcohol in this state, under the permit granted him by the board of supervisors of polk county, for the purpose of export. there is no pretense that mr. kidd, since the taking effect of our present statute, has ever sold any intoxicating liquors, or alcohol, within the state of iowa, for any purpose whatever. the only evidence offered to sustain the petition is contained in the official reports of mr. kidd to the auditor of the county, by which it appears that he has manufactured alcohol and shipped it out of the state. the article manufactured by mr. kidd and put upon the market is not itself a beverage, and is not and cannot be used as such in the form in which he has produced and sold it. the case was first tried in the circuit court of polk county, before judges given and henderson, upon an application for a preliminary injunction. in december last those two judges delivered an opinion in the case, deciding that mr. kidd had not in any manner violated the prohibitory law, and they refused an injunction. at the present term of the district court judge conrad, our newly-elected district judge, put a different construction upon the law and held, that by the amendment made to the prohibitory law by the legislation of it was unlawful to manufacture alcohol in the state for export; and this is the sole question to be determined by the supreme court upon the appeal. this answers the first inquiry in your letter, as to what is involved in the case. your next question is whether or not my employment in this case is consistent with my past record; and whether or not it is calculated to impair my influence and usefulness for the cause of prohibition in the future. i was one of the committee appointed by the state temperance alliance to prepare a bill to be presented to the legislature for its consideration, in , that should carry out the will of the people of iowa, as expressed in the amendment to the constitution, which amendment the supreme court of the state had then decided was not operative, by reason of the failure of the eighteenth general assembly to properly enter the same upon their journals. as early as the st of may, , i prepared and delivered before the methodist state convention that was held in des moines at that date an address on the legal phase of the prohibitory amendment. this address was afterwards printed in pamphlet form by the _prohibitionist_, and was circulated during the amendment campaign as a campaign document, and seemed to meet with the views of the friends of prohibition at that time. in that address i took occasion to discuss the meaning and scope of the proposed amendment, and in it occurs the following passage, defining my view of the legislation that would be required by that amendment, if adopted. i quote: we have, in regard to spirituous liquors, laws upon our statute books designed to prohibit their manufacture or sale, except for medicinal, mechanical, culinary and sacramental purposes. for these lawful purposes certain persons are authorized to sell. they must obtain a permit, give bonds, keep books, etc., and are subject to the supervision and control of the authorities. the manufacturer could be required to sell only to persons thus authorized to sell for lawful purposes; if sold _within the state_, otherwise than as permitted by the statute, the act could be punished by fine or confiscation. may , , i attended a meeting of the state bar association of iowa, the proceedings of which are reported in the des moines _register_ of may , . that meeting discussed the meaning and interpretation of the proposed prohibitory amendment to the constitution. mr. cummins, an attorney of this city, offered a resolution at that meeting as follows: resolved, that the proposed amendment prohibits the manufacture of intoxicating liquors within the state for sale as a beverage without the state. the _register's_ report says that "judge nourse arose and stated that iowa had no control over the liquor after it left the state." from the above it will appear that my interpretation of the constitutional amendment and of the efforts that we were about to make at that time to control the manufacture of intoxicating liquors within this state, did not contemplate any interference with the manufacture of alcohol for the purpose of export. that this view was in entire harmony with the views and opinions of the great mass of the people then favoring legislation upon this subject, is conclusively shown by the following extracts taken from the _iowa state register_ of the following dates: the amendment's meaning (_iowa state register_, february , ) nine-tenths of the mass of the supporters of the amendment that we know of hold the view that it is to deal with liquors only so far as forbidding their sale for use as a beverage in this state. so it is not a "des moines idea" at all, but the view of the great body of supporters of the amendment itself. the truth is, then, as shown by the records of the supporters of the submission of the amendment in the legislature, and by the testimony of nine-tenths of the supporters of it among the people who have publicly expressed themselves, that the amendment was not intended to prohibit manufactures for export. the state bar association at its last meeting discussed the meaning of it, and failed to agree upon it, opinion being about equally divided as to whether it means absolute and total prohibition or only as to manufacture and sale as a beverage in this state. we do not doubt that the original friends of the amendment intended to have it go no further than to make it deal with liquor as a beverage in iowa. nor do we doubt that the great body of them hold to the view now that it is intended to go no further than that. they know that the state has no power to go beyond that, and they realize that to attempt to carry the amendment, with the interpretation of total prohibition or manufacture given to it, it would be defeated. for the people of iowa will never consent, in our judgment, to prohibit the manufacture of their greatest staple into alcohol for export. in that form iowa corn can be sent into south america and to the ports of the mediterranean sea, while in its raw form it can only go there by taking from five to ten bushels to pay the freight on one. this alcohol trade must be supplied, and will be supplied, and iowa corn will inevitably supply a good deal of it, whether it is made up into alcohol for this purpose in iowa, to the profit of the iowa farmer, or whether it be shipped to chicago and st. louis, or elsewhere, at the loss of the iowa farmer, and made into form there. we do not ask that the amendment itself shall be tinkered with. but we do ask that the same majority which shall vote to submit it to the people shall put on record the true interpretation of its meaning. from this position we do not intend to be driven either by the ridicule of whisky rings or whisky papers, nor by the sneers of temperance papers, which have not yet examined into the question themselves, and would have every body else as stupid about it as they are themselves. the amendment's meaning (_iowa state register_, february , ) the truth is, and all who have watched the progress of this contest know that it was never intended to make this amendment aim to do more than it was possible to do, namely, to exercise police power in its own state, and not aim to attempt to stop inter-state commerce, nor try and prohibit the use of liquor in other states. (appended is a letter from hon. l. s. coffin, supporting the _register's_ view.) the amendment's meaning (_iowa state register_, february , ) we plainly told members of the convention before it met, in order that they might be warned in time, that thousands and thousands of voters were waiting for the true interpretation of the amendment before deciding as to their position toward it--_the register_ as a paper, among them. when they adjourned, evading and ignoring a question on which probably hung, and still hangs, the fate of the amendment at the polls, we held that the legislature should take some action to ascertain the real meaning of the amendment before ratifying it. this we held could be done by asking the attorney general, the lawyer and adviser of the state, to give his views as to its actual meaning. these stills, encouraged by the government laws and by the people of iowa, have begun their manufacture in the state. if iowa is ever to be anything of a manufacturing state, it can hope to be so mostly, and will be profited mostly by manufactures from its own staple crop. this can go into alcohol, and always be sold, and yet rarely if ever, be used as a beverage. for alcohol is used in thousands of mechanical ways. it is made into varnish by putting gums and resins with it. it is mixed with spirits of turpentine, and makes camphene and burning fluids in endless quantities, used all over south america and europe. it is made into cologne and other perfumed spirits by flavoring it with different kinds of oil, and all over europe, when fuel is scarce, it is used in vast quantities for cooking and heating stoves. millions and millions of gallons of it are used for other mechanical purposes. very little of it in this form is ever used for a beverage. to say that iowa corn should be made into this form in illinois, or in cincinnati, or new york, or liverpool, but not in iowa, is to still leave it to be so converted, and with iowa bearing the whole loss and reaping none of the gain. so we say, let us have the amendment's real meaning, so that it may be fully understood by the people, and voted up or down as it shall deserve to be. as a member of the committee appointed to prepare a bill for the action of the general assembly of , i can say that there was at no time any thought by the majority of that committee of asking any legislation that would prohibit the manufacture of intoxicating liquors for medicinal and mechanical purposes or for export and sale beyond the jurisdiction of our laws. that committee was composed of lawyers who fully understood that any legislation that we could obtain must be based upon the police power of the state to regulate the sale of intoxicating liquors within its jurisdiction. the utopian idea that the legislature of iowa could control the use to which intoxicating liquors, manufactured and sold as an article of commerce in the markets of the world, might be applied in another state, i do not think was at all entertained by the members of that committee, save perhaps one of them, mr. todhunter. the bill that was prepared by the committee and presented to the legislature was not enacted into a law in the form in which we originally presented it; but house file no. - / was reported by the committee as a substitute for that and other bills that had been introduced on the subject and was passed in both the house and the senate in the form in which it came from the committee, and constitutes chapter of the acts of the twentieth general assembly. and it is this law upon which judge conrad bases his opinion. that the friends of this law never intended or believed that it would prohibit the manufacture of alcohol in this state for export clearly appears from the record. pending the vote upon the passage of this bill in the house the friends of the bill indulged in very little speech-making, and governor carpenter and mr. kerr were the only members who undertook to reply to the assaults of its opponents. the first effort of the opponents of the bill was to try and load it down with amendments and thereby secure its defeat. an amendment was offered by mr. bolter, of harrison, making the bill an absolute prohibition of the manufacture of intoxicating liquors in this state, and this amendment came within one vote of being adopted. the vote stood fifty votes against the amendment and forty-nine for it. the entire fifty members that voted _against_ this amendment of mr. bolter, voted _for_ the passage of the bill the next day, while of the forty-nine that voted for mr. bolter's amendment nearly all of them voted against the passage of the bill. the _iowa state register_ the morning after this vote was taken contained the following leading editorial giving an account of this attempt to kill the bill. i quote from the _state register_ of february , , as follows: the house spent the day yesterday on the prohibition bill. our report in detail shows how desperately the democrats are fighting the inevitable. the spectacle of the democrats voting at one time yesterday, for dishonest purposes, for absolute prohibition, and next ranging themselves on the side of the low license or practically no temperance law at all, is a vivid illustration of the insincerity of that party on the temperance question. their attitude is insincerity itself, and they are ready to do anything to defeat honest temperance measures. the only test vote had yesterday was on the bolter absolute prohibition bill (amendment) which was defeated by forty-nine yeas to fifty nays; all the democrats and all the greenbackers and one republican, mr. schee, voting for the amendment. fifty republicans voted in the negative. during the pendency of the discussion the _register_ of the same date contains a report of the speeches of governor carpenter and mr. kerr in favor of the bill. the following is the full text of mr. kerr's speech as reported in the _register_ of february , . mr. kerr said: the opponents of the bill were wonderfully afraid it would not prohibit. there had never been any question as to the constitutionality of the amendment passed in . it was only the manner of its enactment by the nineteenth general assembly that had rendered it invalid. he agreed with mr. dabney that the manufacture of liquors for any purpose was wrong. what was it the people of the state wanted to prohibit? the saloons; those hot-beds of infamy that were constantly bringing disgrace upon the state and misery upon the people. any representative who fails to crystallize into form of law the will of the people fails to do his duty. how are we to know this sentiment, if not by the votes of the people? there is no better way. mr. bolter was eloquent in his denunciations of the evils of intoxication and he agreed with that gentleman and hoped when the time came the man from harrison would vote in accordance with that sentiment. there are no interests in the state, vested or otherwise, that are higher than the interests of the whole people of the state, and it was better for a few to lose a few dollars than to entail and fasten upon the state an industry that directly or indirectly injures every man in it. it is best for all to have the business wiped out. mr. merrill asked mr. kerr if the bill permitted the manufacture of liquors for export. mr. kerr replied that the bill had been prepared by its friends and it was not intended to have it loaded down by its enemies. _the intention of the law was not to prohibit the manufacture for exportation, as there were some doubts as to whether that could be done._ this law as it passed the house was published in full in the _register_ of the th of february, and on the th of february wehave this leading editorial in the same paper: the _iowa city press_ tries to prove the impossible thing that the proposed prohibitory law in iowa will discriminate against iowa brewers and in favor of iowa distillers. the same stale cry of the democratic campaign. we have heretofore shown that the proposed interdiction treats distillery and brewery alike _and leaves both free to manufacture for export_. as to the vineyards of johnson and other iowa counties, their products ought to be able to ship as far and sell as well as the product of the iowa distillers, and it will do so if it is a good article; if it is not a good article it will find no buyer at home now or abroad hereafter. i have quoted the above remarks of mr. kerr, for the reason that mr. kerr was one of the most staunch and extreme prohibitionists on that he was in favor of absolute prohibition; but at the same time he distinctly repudiates the idea that the legislation which he was then advocating was intended to accomplish any such end. the state temperance convention had simply demanded of the legislature that the will of the people of iowa as expressed in the vote upon the constitutional amendment should be embodied in a law of the state. or as mr. kerr very significantly remarks, should be "crystallized into law." it is well known as a part of the history of this temperance movement that the _iowa state register_, the leading journal of the state that advocated the constitutional amendment, demanded of the nineteenth general assembly, as one of the conditions upon which it would support the amendment, that it should adopt a joint resolution defining the meaning and intent of that proposed amendment, and that it should declare that it was not intended to prevent the manufacture of intoxicating liquors for the purpose of export and sale beyond the state boundaries. that resolution, with the vote by which it was adopted, is on page of the senate journal, , and is as follows: whereas, doubts have been suggested as to the true intent and meaning of the joint resolution proposing to amend the constitution of this state, etc.; therefore be it _resolved by the senate_, that said proposed amendment was and is designed and intended to prohibit the manufacture within this state _for sale within this state_ as a beverage, of all intoxicating liquors, including ale, wine and beer, and to prohibit the selling of such liquors _within this state_ for use as a beverage, and prohibit the keeping of such liquors, for sale as a beverage _within this state_; and was not designed to prohibit the manufacture, sale or keeping for sale of such liquors for any or all other purposes. the yeas were: senators abraham, arnold, boling, brown of keokuk, clark of page, cotton, dashiel, gillet, greenlee, huston, hartshorn, hemmingway, johnson, kamrar, logan, marshall, nichols of benton, nichols of guthrie, nichols of muscatine, parker, patrick, poyneer, prizer, russell of greene, russell of jones, sudlow, terrill, wall, whaley, wilson, wright-- . all republicans and all _prohibitionists_, except wall, who was a greenbacker. those who think that it is disloyalty to the cause in me to advocate this same doctrine now should reflect that clark of page, and hemmingway, and pliney nichols, are all in the same boat--to say nothing of the _iowa state register_, at whose special procurement this resolution was passed. the next morning after this resolution was adopted, march , , the _register_ contained the following editorial: the senate defined the meaning of the proposed prohibitory amendment and gave to it the beverage interpretation for which the _register_ has so steadily and persistently contended. so that now the people of iowa have the true definition of the amendment, which is, that it is to deal with liquors in manufacture and sale only as a beverage _in the state of iowa_. it was this interpretation that the _register_ asked for in order to support it. but the meaning of this law is, in my judgment, clear, from the text of the act itself without reference to this legislative history. this law left in full force section of the code, which defines the offense of keeping intoxicating liquors with intent to sell the same in the following terms: no person shall own and keep, or be in any way concerned, engaged or employed in owning or keeping intoxicating liquors _with intent to sell the same within this state_, or permit the same to be sold therein, in violation of the provisions hereof. this is in entire harmony with two decisions of our supreme court rendered prior to , declaring that alcohol was an article of commerce that might be lawfully held and owned and kept within this state and for sale and export beyond the state. the prohibition contained in this section, , against keeping intoxicating liquors with intent to sell the same within the state, is a clear declaration of the legislature that to keep or own the same with intent to sell it beyond the bounds of the state is not a violation of the law. and the amendment of in regard to the transportation of liquors, an amendment which i prepared myself and which was incorporated in the law in the very language in which i wrote it, prohibits any railroad company or common carrier from knowingly "bringing into the state" or "transporting intoxicating liquors between points within the state" without first having been furnished with a certificate from the county auditor certifying that the consignee or person for whom the liquor is to be transported is authorized to sell the same within the state. it is very evident, that if this provision of law, which is section , was intended to prohibit the export of intoxicating liquors, it would not have been so careful to limit the prohibition to importation and to transportation between points within the state. the section was written with express reference to the theory that the manufacture of intoxicating liquors in this state for purposes of export was not prohibited by law. after this law of took effect, it will be remembered, that we organized in iowa county alliances for the purpose of prosecuting offenders and enforcing its penalties. such an organization was effected in polk county, and i had the honor of being nominated as the chairman of the judiciary committee of such organization, which committee was charged with the duty of employing attorneys and enrolling prosecutions under the law. in may, , judge c. c. cole, of this city, received from the western export association of distillers in the united states a claim against the international distillery for $ , . , which it was claimed mr. kidd owed the pool, on account of over-production. it will be necessary to give some explanation of the character of this claim. the western export association is an association of the alcohol distillers of the united states, chiefly located at peoria, illinois, whereby they undertake to control the manufacture of alcohol and limit its production in relation to the demand, and thus control and keep up the price of the article. the entire scheme is an unlawful one as against public policy, in that it establishes a monopoly and prevents competition in the production of a legitimate article of commerce and sale. judge cole was too good a lawyer to go into court with a suit upon such a demand, and he conceived the idea of using the criminal processes of the law against mr. kidd for the purpose of extorting from him this demand of the whisky pool. in accordance with this purpose mr. j. s. clark, his partner and afterwards one of the plaintiffs in this present suit, mr. s. j. loughran, was induced to appear before the county alliance and offer the services of mr. cole free of any charge to the alliance, for the purpose of prosecuting the international distillery and harassing them with prosecutions upon alleged violation of the law, and asking that the secretary of our association, mr. littleton, give the use of his name for the purpose of filing complaints. the proposition was referred to the judiciary committee of the county alliance, of which i was chairman, and was duly presented to me by the secretary. it is hardly necessary for me to say that i refused to enter into such a conspiracy or to favor the use of the alliance for any such purpose. we had organized in good faith in this county for the purpose of enforcing the prohibitory law in the interest of the cause of temperance, and not for the purpose of collecting the illegal demands of the whisky pool and the distillers of illinois. the following is a literal copy of judge cole's letter to mr. john s. kidd, in relation to this claim: des moines, iowa, may , . john s. kidd, esq., president international distillery company, des moines, iowa. dear sir: the western export association has placed in my hands for collection by immediate suit a claim of $ , . against the international distillery company, and you as its president. my pleasant personal associations with you have prompted me to ask and obtain permission for my client to delay the actual bringing of the suit till noon of monday next, may th. i could not obtain leave for further delay because certain members of the association, who also have retained me to bring suit if this is not settled, claim that they are being further damaged to the extent of thousands of dollars daily, by the course of your company. hoping to see you and to receive payment of the claim before monday noon, i remain as ever very truly yours, c. c. cole to this very remarkable epistle mr. kidd made response of the same date as follows: permit me to suggest that you should not allow personal considerations to interfere with professional duties. this bit of advice is given gratis and by way of friendly return for the favor of your grace over sabbath on the modest demand you make. yours truly, john s. kidd it is unnecessary to say in this connection that judge cole never filed any petition in court on this modest demand. after the county alliance refused the use of its name or influence for the purpose of extorting this money out of mr. kidd, a clerk in judge cole's law office filed complaint against mr. kidd and procured warrants for the seizure of alcohol manufactured and shipped for export beyond the bounds of the state. all of these prosecutions proved ignominious failures. the present suit against mr. kidd was commenced in december, , lewis todhunter appearing of record as attorney for the plaintiff, and i. e. pearson and s. j. loughran as the nominal plaintiffs. in october, , mr. loughran, at a meeting of the county alliance, offered a resolution instructing its officers to commence suit against the international distillery, _provided evidence could be found against it_. i was not present at the meeting, and on motion of mr. lee the resolution was referred to the judiciary committee. upon inquiry of mr. harvey, the then president, and mr. littleton, the secretary, i found that neither of those officers had any information upon which a suit could be predicated, and neither would advise a prosecution. mr. loughran nor any one else ever approached the committee on the subject, or furnished the alliance any evidence. the statement has been made that i was at this time the attorney for mr. kidd. this is wholly untrue. it is true, however, that early in the firm of nourse & kauffman was called upon by mr. kidd, for a consultation with the attorneys, messrs. lehmann & park, in regard to his business affairs, and upon the matter of the construction of the act of , mr. kidd advising us at that time that he desired strictly to observe the law in the manufacture of alcohol. we gave him our opinion at the time, and he paid our firm a fee of fifty dollars. i have had no business connection with mr. kidd or the international distillery since that time, until my employment in this case, after the decision of judge conrad a few weeks ago. early in the year the secretary of the polk county alliance reported that the funds of the organization and the available subscriptions were exhausted, and that liabilities had been incurred that we were unable to meet. several unsuccessful efforts to have the subscriptions to our funds renewed were made. mr. harvey, on account of other engagements, declined a re-election as president of the county alliance in june, . it seemed impossible to get a responsible person to accept of the position. under these circumstances i. e. pearson succeeded to that office. though a gentleman of elegant leisure, he has never, since his election, been able, by his influence or exertions, to put a dollar into the treasury of the alliance. he has, however, been operating quite extensively on "his own hook," as he says. his principal enterprise, apart from his present suit against mr. kidd, has been to watch the incoming of the monthly reports that the law requires the druggist to make to the county auditor, and whenever, by any misadventure, their reports have been delayed a few days beyond the time fixed by the law, pearson has brought suit against them for the one hundred dollars penalty provided by the statute, and then compromised for the largest amount he could get out of the defendant. in this way he has made hundreds of dollars for himself and has been able to support such an improved style of personal appearance that it has attracted public attention and newspaper comment. in this new _role_ of "affidavit maker" to the _state register_ he has already attained distinction. whether this enterprise will prove a financial success i do not know, as i am not advised as to the terms of the new partnership. it is not yet known whether pearson has taken the _state register_ into partnership, or whether the _register_ has taken in pearson. it has always been my fortune in life to antagonize men of this stamp. if i have not as many friends as some men of less positive opinions, i have the consolation to know that i have reason to be proud of the character of my enemies. by what means he has induced eminent counsel, backed by the active influence of the _iowa state register_, to prosecute this case against mr. kidd, remains a mystery. to the oft-repeated inquiries of members of the alliance for information on this subject his answers have been evasive and entirely unsatisfactory. judge cole in his letter to mr. kidd mentions that certain members of the export association were being damaged "to the extent of thousands of dollars daily" by the course pursued by the international distillery. "thousands of dollars daily" is a large amount of money, and a very grave apprehension exists in the minds of many of the temperance men of this community that these "certain other individuals" are not idle spectators in this contest. when or how judge cole and mr. runnells or the _iowa state register_ came into the case i do not know--i only know that they "got there." "... he has no wings at all, but he gets there all the same." judge cole and mr. runnells are also defending hurlbut, hess & co., and the six thousand dollars of intoxicating liquors condemned by the jury in that case. they are also attorneys for rowe, the man who shot down constable logan. no one, i believe, has questioned their right to act as counsel for the defense in these matters or even suggested the impropriety of their employment. i certainly would not do so. the _iowa state register_ has besought the public to suspend any judgment as to the guilt or innocence of rowe, but to await the judicial investigation of the case. this is certainly commendable forbearance, but why the same spirit of fair play should not be manifested toward mr. kidd pending the judicial determination of his rights, i cannot understand. does it make any difference because mr. runnells is defending in the one case and prosecuting in the other? surely a man who has invested two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in manufacturing in our city, by the advice and encouragement of the _register_, is entitled to as much consideration as the man who takes the life of a public officer whilst in the discharge of an official duty. the statement that the state temperance alliance has ever favored or endorsed the prosecution of mr. kidd is wholly without foundation. i have now answered very fully all of the inquiries in your letter save, perhaps, the last, and that is as to the relation and effect of the present suit to the cause of prohibition in iowa. permit me to say to you, and through you to the true friends of prohibition in this state, that we have now upon our statute books a most excellent law, that is every day gaining favor with the people, and that has survived all open warfare upon it. in my humble judgment the most we now have to fear is not the open opposition of its enemies, but the follies and indiscretions of its friends. as i have already conclusively shown in this communication, we procured the enactment of this law by assuring the people of this state that we did not intend to interfere with the manufacture of alcohol or intoxicating liquors for medicinal or mechanical purposes, nor as an article of commerce for export. the question is, have we anything to gain by duplicity and insincerity, and by now claiming for this law what we did not claim for it when we procured its enactment by the general assembly? above all things, have we, as prohibitionists, anything to gain by entering into an alliance with the distillers of other states who are making war upon a productive industry in our own state, for the sole purpose of promoting their own pecuniary interests in destroying competition in their business? have we anything to gain by turning aside from the great work that we have undertaken of destroying the saloon as a place of resort where our young men are taught the habit of intoxication, and engaging in the utopian scheme of regulating the supply of alcohol in the markets of the world, the use of which it is impossible for us to control after it passes beyond the jurisdiction of our laws? there is another very grave and important question that the true friends of prohibition in iowa should stop to consider. the courts of the united states have more than intimated that if the prohibitory law of iowa does in fact destroy the value of property built for a use which was lawful at the time of its erection, that such a law is a violation of the constitution of the united states, unless it also makes provision for compensation to the owner. this international distillery was built and in full operation before the amendment of was enacted. by virtue of its provisions a limitation only, in my humble judgment, was placed upon the uses for which alcohol might be sold within the state. the answer to the position that our law is unconstitutional because it affects the value of this property is, that it does not prevent the manufacture of alcohol for export or for sale within the state for lawful purposes. but if we propose to destroy the value of this property by this new interpretation of our statute, and say that it is our purpose and intent to prevent its use for the manufacture of alcohol for export, then may we not seriously apprehend that our law will be held unconstitutional, and may we not, in attempting too much, lose all? the fable of the dog crossing the log over the stream, that dropped the meat from his mouth in order that he might grasp the shadow, i would recommend to the careful study and perusal of some of our pretended friends. but there is still another political phase of this question that we ought to carefully consider. heretofore we have put the opponents of this law upon the necessity of defending the saloon as an institution; we have made the suppression of these places of resort the war-cry of our campaign. is it the part of wisdom to change this issue and assume the affirmative of the proposition that the good order and peace of society requires that we should ship our corn to peoria to be manufactured into alcohol rather than have it manufactured in our own state, either for medicinal or mechanical purposes or for export? for one i fail to see any wisdom in such a proceeding. i am not prepared to join in or acquiesce in such a folly. in accepting a retainer from mr. kidd in the case now pending in the supreme court i did so because it was my plain duty, as a lawyer, to defend the legal rights as i believe them to be, of a man whose property was unjustly and illegally assailed. i was not employed in the case until after judge conrad's decision. that the temperance people of iowa will find any fault with me for presenting to the supreme court the question of law involved in this appeal i cannot well believe. how will these questions be answered? _first._ do they ask or desire that the property of any citizen shall be destroyed and condemned without a fair and full trial before the appellate court? _second._ does not a fair trial also involve the right of the citizen to have the aid of a counsel? _third._ if the defendant is to have the aid of counsel, can my employment be any more objectionable than the employment of one who is an enemy of the law? _fourth._ is it not true that the view of the statute that i propose to present to the court, is the view that we nearly all _pretended_ to have when we procured the passage of the law? the decision of judge conrad, though made no doubt with the utmost sincerity and good faith on his part, i regard as a mistake, and an unfortunate one for the cause of prohibition. in the interview published by the _register_ i said that neither the decisions of courts nor the conduct of lawyers or newspapers would defeat the ultimate triumph of prohibition. i still have faith in that proposition. if i have erred, or if the courts shall decide too much or too little, yet legal prohibition as a principle is right, and i believe will ultimately triumph. i do not believe the present prosecution of mr. kidd is justified by the law or the facts, and injustice and illegal prosecutions are not in my judgment the means of success in a good cause. whatever personal malice may originate of misrepresentation or abuse of me in this matter, gives me no concern. i am used to this kind of thing and have never turned aside from my professional duty because of attempted newspaper intimidations. i am now in the thirty-sixth year of my practice in iowa, and can afford, i think, to perform a plain professional duty. asking pardon for the extent of this communication, which i have necessarily made somewhat in detail in order that your questions might be fully answered, i remain as i have ever been, an earnest friend and co-worker in the cause of prohibition, and most truly your humble servant, c. c. nourse the case of pearson & loughran against the international distillery and j. s. kidd was submitted to the supreme court upon oral and printed argument at the june term, . the republican state convention that was to nominate a supreme judge met at des moines, august th of that year. the supreme court at that time consisted of w. h. seevers, joseph reed, jos. m. beck, james h. rothrock, and austin adams. the latter named judge's term expired the first of january, , and either his renomination or the nomination of some one in lieu of him came before the republican convention to be held in august. j. s. clarkson, the editor of the _register_, and mr. john runnells, esquire, the attorney of record nominally of pearson and loughran, but in fact acting for the whisky trust; to-wit, the western export association, secured their nomination as delegates to the republican state convention. during the sitting of the court and before any opinion was announced it was well understood in the community that judges seevers and reed had written an opinion reversing the decision of judge conrad, and that judges beck and rothrock had written an opinion affirming the case, and that the fifth judge; to-wit, judge adams, had not yet officially concurred in either opinion and that the result of the case would rest with judge adams as he might concur with one or the other of these opinions. j. s. clarkson and mr. john runnells, just prior to the meeting of the state convention, asked for a private interview with judge adams, which was accorded them. just what was said or done in that interview and what subjects were discussed between these gentlemen and judge adams i do not know. it is possible they talked about the weather and that the question of the renomination of judge adams, and his views and opinions or inclinations with reference to the distillery, may not have been mentioned between them. very considerable opposition to judge adams's renomination had developed throughout the state, principally upon the ground of his alleged favoritism to the railroad interests, and his renomination was in great doubt; indeed, when the convention met judge adams failed to get the nomination, and his friends, clarkson and runnells, only succeeded in controlling thirteen votes in his favor in the polk county delegation. after the convention and the defeat of judge adams, mr. clarkson wrote a very mournful howl over judge adams's defeat, exceedingly regretting the result. still there was no opinion filed in the distillery case until the night of the th day of september following, when judge adams's name appears as concurring in the opinion written by judge beck. these two opinions are very remarkable. the opinion written by judge beck and concurred in by rothrock and adams assumes the extraordinary position that inasmuch as the law in expressed terms permitted the manufacture of alcohol within the state for medicinal, mechanical, and sacramental purposes, and did not in terms provide for the manufacture within the state for export, therefore it was prohibited by the law. the opinion of the minority of the court written by judge seevers, and concurred in by judge reed, assumes the position that inasmuch as the manufacture for the purpose of export was not prohibited, therefore, it was lawful. the opinion of the majority of the court, it was claimed, was contrary to the language and decision of our supreme court in the cases theretofore decided by the court in niles v. fries, iowa, , and becker v. betten, iowa, . in the former case in iowa, judge beck himself in delivering the opinion of the court uses the following language: "intoxicating liquors in the possession of a citizen who holds them for the purpose of selling them lawfully, _within the state_, or for transporting them without the state for lawful traffic, are not, under the statute, subject to seizure." judge beck gets rid of the force and effect of his prior decision by saying that his language was "obiter dicta." when, however, the opinion comes to wrestle with the question as to confining the police power of the state, to matters that concern the good order of society and the health of the people of the state, but did not extend to the inhabitants of the other states of the union, judge beck gets rid of this suggestion by claiming that there is a sort of comity between the states by which the legislature of one state ought to consider the well being and happiness of the people of the other states. this suggestion is rather fanciful than otherwise, particularly as applied to this case, for that the other states, particularly new york to which this alcohol was exported, have never undertaken to control either the manufacture, sale, or use of alcoholic spirits. in the interpretation of all statutes and in case of doubt it is a well recognized rule of interpretation that the court must consider what evil it was existing prior to the enactment of the statute that the statute was intended to correct or remedy. the idea that the people of iowa were seized with a desire to limit the manufacture of alcohol in order to prevent it being taken to new york was simply utopian and had no real existence. the real parties that were attempting to limit the manufacture of alcohol in iowa for export was the whisky trust that desired to keep up the price of the article in the new york market, and this fact was well known to the supreme court and to the three judges that concurred in the opinion of the majority. judge beck's opinion, aside from the question of law involved, was a very excellent temperance speech against the use of alcohol as a beverage, but had no relation whatever to the case. i write thus freely upon this subject for the reason that mr. kauffman and myself had given a written opinion as to the reasonable construction of this law, relying upon the former decisions of our own supreme court and the language of judge beck himself. mr. kidd had made his investment in good faith in a manufacturing industry, manufacturing an article that was recognized as useful for many purposes, both as a medicine and for mechanical purposes, and there was nothing in the article itself to determine the use for which it was intended when it was manufactured. whilst it might be used for the purpose of making a beverage destructive to human life and happiness, yet, so far as the law was concerned, it was only by restricting the sale of it for the destructive uses to which it might be applied that any remedy could be made effectual. the effect of this decision politically, as a means of destroying the faith of the people in a law that the legislature had wisely passed, was soon made manifest. there was at this time in the city of des moines a young lawyer, then attorney for the chicago and rock island railroad company, ambitious for political preferment, by the name of a. b. cummins. his partner in business was mr. carroll wright, the son of ex-chief justice wright who was attorney for koehler & lange in securing the opinion of the supreme court that destroyed legally the constitutional amendment. a meeting of anti-prohibition republicans was called and held at the city council chamber in the city of des moines about august , , in which certain resolutions were adopted denouncing the prohibitory law and favoring local option and licensing of the sale of intoxicating liquors. the resolutions of that convention were signed by ninety-two nominal republicans, and they nominated as their candidates for the legislature a. b. cummins and adam baker. mr. cummins accepted the nomination in a letter dated august , , writing a letter joining in the denunciations against the prohibitory law of iowa and the fraudulent practices of the constables who had taken advantage of the law to make profit to their own use. in addition to this work of the enemies of prohibition in iowa, performed as its pretended friends and advocates, there were several other causes at work to weaken the confidence of the people in the statute. two constables of the city of des moines set about to make money out of the enforcement of the law. they entered into a conspiracy with the persons who were selling intoxicating liquors, inducing them to put one or two bottles of liquor in a convenient place in their establishments, and then filing information under the law against the place, procuring a search warrant, searching the place and finding these few bottles, prosecuting and destroying the two bottles, no one appearing to claim the same, and then having the costs of the proceedings all taxed up against the county. these bills ran up to hundreds of dollars, and the enemies of the law were loud in their denunciations of the statute, but had little to say against the criminal practices of those whose duty it was to observe and enforce the law. mr. cummins made a vigorous canvass of the county, receiving in addition to the nomination of these so-called republicans, the nomination of the democratic convention, and by the aid of the democratic party and the whisky interests of the county he succeeded in being elected a member of the next general assembly under his oft-repeated pledge during the canvass to secure if possible the repeal of the prohibitory law, and the enactment of the license law. with all these influences, however, operating against the law, the next general assembly made no serious attempt to repeal the act. by an act approved january , , the legislature had attempted to establish what was known as local option in iowa. the act of provided for the license and sale of intoxicating liquors in any county of the state where the people by majority vote of the electors adopted the same, and by such adoption that the provisions of the act of would stand repealed as to that county. our supreme court held this act of to be unconstitutional for the reason that our constitution required that all laws should be of uniform operation, and upon this subject of uniformity the court uses the following language: the sixth section of the bill of rights declares, that "all acts of a general nature shall have a uniform operation." constitution, article i. recognizing as we do the distinction between laws of a general nature and those of a special or local character, we understand by the "operation" of a law is meant its practical working and effect. it is not, in our opinion, a sufficient compliance with the requirements of the constitution, that under the provisions of the act of the th of january, , the question of licensing the sale of spirituous liquors is to be submitted to the vote of the qualified electors of all the counties of the state. something more is contemplated by the constitution, in the words "uniform operation." we must look further, and to the effect of such submission to the vote of the people, and to the consequences to result from the adoption of the law. the prohibitory liquor law is a law of a general nature, and its operation must be uniform throughout the state. can we say that such is the case, if it remains in full force in one county, while it is repealed in others by a vote of the people, and a license law adopted in its stead? and is the act of , if the effect of it is to bring about this want of uniformity in the operation of a law of a general nature, to be deemed constitutional and valid? we think not. the vote authorized to be taken upon the adoption of the act, while it is objectionable in a constitutional point of view, as transferring the law-making powers from the legislature to the people, is further objectionable in view of the possible, not to say the probable, result of such vote. we cannot undertake to determine, nor can it, under any circumstances, be foreseen, that the result of the vote will be uniform in all the counties of the state, either in favor of license or against it. in some of the counties the vote may not be taken; in others, the majority may be against license; while in others, the majority may be in its favor. unanimity of sentiment, either one way or the other, can hardly be reckoned upon. these views, we think, add weight to the argument against the constitutionality of submitting the act to a vote of the people. we do not, however, base wholly upon them our conclusion against the validity of the act in question, nor upon the fact that the result of the vote upon the question of adopting it may not be uniform throughout the state. upon this latter branch of the subject, the members of the court are not unanimous in opinion. the majority of the court are of the opinion, that while the act must without doubt be deemed to be a law of a general nature, it is liable to objection, as prescribing no uniform rule of civil conduct to the people of the state, and as not providing of itself for its uniform operation. the legislative power must command. it must not leave to the people the choice to obey or not to obey its requirements. it is not a law enacted according to the requirements of the constitution, if there is left to the action and choice of the people upon whom it is to operate the determination of a question which may result in a want of uniformity in the operation of a law of a general nature. i shall take occasion to refer to this decision of the supreme court hereafter when i come to notice the passage by the legislature of the miserable subterfuge now known as the "mulct law." chapter x regulation of freight and passenger tariffs leaving the subject of temperance and prohibition for the present, the next important question of a public nature in which i became interested professionally was the question of the regulation of freight and passenger tariffs by the general assembly of the state. the general assembly of enacted a law providing for the election of three railroad commissioners, and gave them authority to prepare schedules of rates that might be charged by the railroads of the state for the transportation of freight and passengers. [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ from photograph by pearson. des moines] under this statute the people elected as commissioners frank t. campbell, peter a. dey, and spencer smith. in pursuance of the authority of the statute these commissioners proceeded to formulate schedules of rates to be charged by the several railroads of the state. the law required the commissioners to publish for three successive weeks in certain newspapers the date at which these rates should take effect. before the third publication was made the attorneys of the northwestern railroad company telegraphed to the railroad commissioners requesting a change of the date of the taking effect of their proposed schedule of rates, and received from the secretary of the board, under the instructions of mr. dey, an answer that the time of the taking effect would be changed accordingly. a new advertisement was prepared and published, but before the three insertions were completed three of the principal railroad companies operating in the state; to-wit, the northwestern, chicago, burlington & quincy, and the milwaukee & st. paul filed their petitions with the circuit court of the united states for an injunction against the further publication of the notice, on the ground that the rates fixed by the railroad commissioners were not _compensatory_. the hearing of this application was had before justice brewer at his residence in leavenworth, kansas. i was employed by the railroad commissioners to appear in their behalf, and mr. james t. lain, of davenport, was employed by certain shippers of that place to appear with me in the case. we argued the case before justice brewer, and he granted the injunction on the th of july, . this injunction in large part was based upon the evidence of the complainants' general manager to the effect that the commissioners had adopted a classification known as the western classification, which, as compared with the classification known as the illinois classification made a difference against the railroads of fifty per cent. subsequent to the granting of these injunctions, upon complaint of certain shippers the railroad commissioners, after a hearing before them, proceeded to formulate new schedules, and in pursuance of what appeared to be the principal objection at the former hearing they adopted a classification more favorable to the railroad companies known as the illinois classification. immediately upon this action of the railroad commissioners the railroad companies filed a supplemental bill asking a further injunction to restrain the railroad commissioners from putting into effect these new rates with the new classification. mr. campbell of the railroad commissioners immediately waited on me asking my further appearance in the cause to argue the question of a further injunction as against their new schedules and classification. he expressed a doubt as to whether or not it was worth our efforts to defeat this new application as he was disposed to think that judge brewer would grant whatever the railroad companies might ask in this behalf. i told him that he had a duty to perform as a public officer, in my opinion, and if the commissioners did their duty in making the proper resistance to this new application, the responsibility would rest with judge brewer if he failed in his duty. we accordingly made the necessary preparation for a hearing, which was finally had at st. paul, minnesota. in the argument of this case the attorneys for the three railroads applying for the injunction made a very formidable array of distinguished counsel embracing the ablest lawyers of chicago and milwaukee. a. j. baker was then attorney general of the state of iowa and nominally appeared with me for the commissioners, but gave me no assistance whatever. we had for an audience in the argument of the case many leading men of minnesota, members of the state grange of that state, which association was then in session at st. paul. i took into the court-room a blackboard that i extemporized for the occasion and taking several copies of the official reports of the railroads in question, i put one copy in the hands of justice brewer, holding another copy in my hand and putting the figures upon the blackboard, showing the earnings of these railroads and what they were pleased to call their fixed charges, and demonstrating beyond question that the complaints made of the proposed railroad rates were without foundation. the same person who had made an affidavit in regard to the difference between the illinois and the western classification had made a new affidavit stating that there was an error in his former computation. i criticised with some severity the reliability of the affidavits in which mistakes occurred according to the convenience and exigencies of this litigation. i had not much confidence in the result, however, but i felt quite complimented when a number of the leading men of the minnesota grange, who were present at the argument, made me a complimentary visit at the hotel that evening. the attorney for the railroad company who was expected to make the closing argument in the case complained that he did not feel very well and only spoke about fifteen or twenty minutes in a general way, without going into the facts or figures in the case. my supposed assistant, the attorney general of the state of iowa, took no part in the argument, and on my way home that night i learned that he had been in conference with mr. stickney of the chicago great western railroad company, and had made an arrangement with that gentleman for employment as attorney for that corporation, to take effect at the close of his then official term which was to occur in a few months. on the nd day of the ensuing february, , justice brewer filed in the circuit court his opinion refusing the injunction on the supplemental bill and entering an order dissolving the injunctions theretofore granted, at the cost of the complainants. the railroad companies made no further fight against the action of the railroad commissioners but acquiesced therein, and found the earnings of their several roads "compensatory." concurrent with this proceeding on the part of the northwestern railroad company and the chicago, burlington & quincy, and milwaukee & st. paul, the chicago, rock island & pacific railroad company and the burlington, cedar rapids & northern applied to and obtained from judge fairall, of iowa city, district judge of johnson county, an injunction against the railroad commissioners to the same effect as that issued by justice brewer. i appeared with mr. lain before the district court and argued a motion to dissolve this injunction before judge fairall, which was refused, and from his order refusing to dissolve the injunction we at once took an appeal to the supreme court of iowa. this appeal was heard and submitted to the supreme court by both printed and oral argument, but after the action of justice brewer upon the supplemental bill in the federal court, the attorneys for the chicago, rock island & pacific railroad company and the burlington, cedar rapids & northern dismissed their suit in the district court of johnson county, and then applied to the supreme court for an order dismissing the appeal in that court. we resisted this application, but the court held that as the original suit was dismissed the injunction itself necessarily was dissolved, and as the appeal was only from an interlocutory order, the court had no occasion to deliver an opinion upon the merits of the controversy. the opinion of the court permitting these parties to dismiss their suit in this manner will be found in th iowa, . mr. a. b. cummins, since governor of the state of iowa, has lately been posing as the original friend of the people in this fight against railroad injustice. it would be well to state here that i do not know when he became a convert to the importance of regulating the action of railroads in justice to the people, but as the foregoing was the first great contest we had in iowa on this subject, i give here a speech delivered by that gentleman as late as december , , at a banquet of the railroad employees' club, as follows: it is the railroad, it is the spirit that has moved and stimulated that property which has made it possible to people in the valley of the mississippi, which has made it possible to create within the limits of the united states a greater wealth than has any other nation on the face of the earth. i speak of the transportation industry as limited to railways, and so limited, it is instructive to reflect that the railways of the earth are now of the value of something near $ , , , , an appalling sum that no human mind can appreciate, save when compared with some other species of property. the railways of the earth, without reckoning either "wind or water," are equal to one-tenth of all the property of the world. the railways represent substantially one-third of all the invested capital of mankind; and if all the currency of the civilized world and its gold and all its silver and its currency in paper; all its precious stones, its diamonds and rubies were heaped together in such places as would contain them, they would still represent less than one-half of the railway property of the world. the comparisons indicate in what a stupendous enterprise you are now engaged. i have no disposition, whatever, to convert a single sentiment suggested by my brother wallace, i do not recognize a conflict between the farmers of the nation or the state of iowa and the railways. no fair man ought to recognize any such conflict, but that the state of iowa or that her organized tribunals have done injustice to the railways and through them to the railway employees, no fair minded man can dispute. these systems grew up; they most naturally fall into the hands best adapted to organize and handle them, and i would be the last man in the world to claim that, as they grew up, as they were systemized and organized, that wrong was not done here or wrong was not done there. i know too well that there were grievous complaints justly made against the management of railways not only in this state, but in many others. but i beg the people of iowa to remember, and the railway employees to remember that, although railway managers and railway presidents may sometimes be unjust, that affords no excuse whatever for the sovereign power of the state of iowa in being unjust. the wrongs of capital produce, it is said, the anarchist--so it is with respect to the wrongs perpetrated by the railway companies, the railway organizations. they created a prejudice which, in its impetus, has carried the attack made upon the railway property far beyond what is justified by the sober second thought and judgment of those who instituted it, and far beyond the limits which the fair-minded people of iowa now justify. the constitution of the united states in express terms gives to the congress of the united states the power to regulate commerce between the states and with foreign nations. in pursuance of this power and duty imposed by the constitution, the congress of the united states in february, , enacted a statute defining the duties and obligations of common carriers engaged in the transportation of freight and passengers between the states, and by express terms gave to the people a right of action in the federal courts against any railroad company violating its duty as defined by the act. this right of action was by civil suit for such damages as inured to the party by reason of a wrongful act of a common carrier. the chicago & northwestern railroad company had a main line of road extending from chicago, in the state of illinois, located through the state of iowa to council bluffs on the missouri river. from the main line of this road at carroll, in carroll county, this company had constructed a number of branches running northwest from that point, known as the sac city branch and the sioux city and mapleton branch. during the year we brought a number of suits against the chicago & northwestern railroad company for unjust discrimination and overcharge for shipments of corn and oats from various points on these branch roads to chicago, and also a number of suits for shipments made at carroll and points west on the main line of its road. the cases for shipments on the branch lines of its road were settled by the company, and we collected for our clients about $ , . suits for shipments on the main line of its road were contested by the railroad company. we tried two of these cases before the united states circuit court at des moines, judge shiras presiding, and obtained verdicts and judgments in the causes. the railroad company took a writ of error to the united states court of appeals, and these causes were submitted to that court upon both oral and printed arguments at the may term, , of that court, sitting at st. louis, missouri. after the causes had been so submitted, judge n. m. hubbard who had made the argument in behalf of the railroad company, left st. louis and went to chicago for consultation with the general solicitor of that road, mr. goudy. after a few days, the court of appeals still being in session at st. louis, judge hubbard appeared before the court, without any notice to me, and had the order submitting the causes set aside and dismissed his appeal or writ of error. after a few weeks had elapsed he sued out another writ of error in the same cases to the united states court of appeals, which, according to the arrangements for the sitting of that court, would be held at st. paul in the state of minnesota, and justice brewer of the supreme court of the united states would be in attendance as the presiding judge of that court. it would be too long and too tedious a story to enter into particulars in regard to these suits, and the questions of fact and law involved in them. the unusual and unwarranted conduct of the attorneys for the northwestern road in getting these cases before justice brewer for his decision and determination was by no means a compliment to the judge for whom they manifested such a strong partiality. neither would i indulge in any surmise as to the grounds for their partiality. it is sufficient to say they were not disappointed in the result and that judge brewer reversed both of these judgments. i afterward determined if possible to obtain the opinion of the supreme court of the united states upon the questions of law involved in these cases. i accordingly brought another suit for another client; to-wit, one e. m. parsons, in a case involving an amount sufficient to entitle me to an appeal directly to the supreme court of the united states, having previously attempted to get the supreme court of the united states to review the decision of justice brewer in the former cases upon writs of certiorari, the same being denied by the supreme court. judge shiras, presiding in the circuit court at des moines, in view of the action of the circuit court of appeals in the other cases, sustained a demurrer pro forma to my amended petition filed in the parsons case, and it was upon demurrer admitting the averments and allegations in this petition that the case was heard before the supreme court of the united states. justice brewer delivered the opinion in the parsons case in which he held that the statements of the petition did not entitle the plaintiff to recovery. the opinion discloses the fact that judge brewer was somewhat offended at my attempt to have the supreme court pass upon the questions of law involved in the cases that he had disposed of as the presiding judge in the court or appeals. i had supposed that a judge of the supreme court of the united states would regard it rather as a compliment than otherwise to his sense of fairness to believe that he was capable of impartially and without prejudice, sitting with his brother judges, to review one of his own decisions, but the opinion shows plainly that i overestimated that distinguished jurist, and that he thought more of his infallibility than i did of his impartiality. this opinion of the court will be found in the case of parsons vs. the chicago & northwestern railroad company in volume , _united states reports_, . the court in this opinion asserts the very extraordinary position that the interstate commerce law in providing a remedy whereby a shipper of grain might recover his actual damages for a refusal of the railroad company to comply with the law which was enacted for his protection, was in the nature of a penal statute, and that the petition of the plaintiff in such a case must expressly aver and negative the existence of any possible excuse for the wrong committed by the railroad company. one great benefit to the public of these suits against the chicago & northwestern railroad company was to arouse public attention to the necessity of further legislation by congress in order to carry out the design of the original act for the protection of the public. congress had already by amendment to the act provided for penalties against any parties violating its provisions, but the suits that i brought were simply for actual damages and injuries, and not for any penalty whatever under the law. the penal clause in the act as amended march , , reads as follows: "that any common carrier subject to the provisions of this act, or, wherever such common carrier is a corporation, any director or other officer thereof, or any receiver, trustee, lessee, agent, or person, acting for or employed by such corporation, who, alone or with any other corporation, company, person, or party, shall willfully do or cause to be done, or shall willfully suffer or permit to be done, any act, matter, or thing in this act prohibited or declared to be unlawful, or who shall aid or abet therein, or shall willfully omit or fail to do any act, matter, or thing in this act required to be done, or shall cause or willfully suffer or permit any act, matter or thing so directed or required by this act to be done not to be so done, or shall aid or abet in such omission or failure, or shall be guilty of any infraction of this act, or shall aid or abet therein, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and shall, upon conviction thereof in any district court of the united states within the jurisdiction of which such offense was committed, be subject to a fine of not to exceed five thousand dollars for each offense: provided, that if the offense for which any person shall be convicted as aforesaid shall be an unlawful discrimination in rates, fares, charges, for transportation of passengers or property, such person shall, in addition to the fine herein provided for, be liable to imprisonment in the penitentiary for a term of not exceeding two years, or both such fine and imprisonment, in the discretion of the court." the charge of judge shiras to the jury in the two cases tried before the united states circuit court, before referred to, will be found in full in volume of the _federal reporter_, commencing on page , and the opinion of justice brewer, presiding in the circuit court of appeals, before referred to, in which he reverses these judgments, will be found in the u.s. court of appeals on page . it may be interesting to any law student and to anyone who desires to determine where right and justice should have prevailed, to compare the charge of judge shiras to the jury and the principles of law recognized by judge shiras, with the opinion of justice brewer. it is not within my purpose to re-argue any of my causes in this paper. it is sufficient to say that the supreme court held the provisions of the inter-state commerce law, that gave to shippers a remedy for unjust discrimination by a civil suit for damages, to be a penal statute upon the ground that if the railroad company discriminated by charging one person ten dollars for a particular service and charged another person twenty dollars for a like service, then a suit to recover back the ten dollars thus unjustly demanded and received by the railroad company was in the nature of a statute to recover a penalty. upon this mode of reasoning a suit against any person or corporation who unjustly and unlawfully gets possession of my money, for the purpose of recovering back what they illegally obtained, would come under the head of a suit to recover a penalty. the trouble with the supreme court of the united states has been that they have uniformly regarded this legislation by congress to protect the people against unjust charges and discriminations as intended to punish the railroad companies of the country, and the court has felt called upon to protect the railroads from legislation interfering with their absolute control over their freight and passenger traffic. the court has assumed the role of a conservative element in the government, intended for the protection of railroad property against the legislative power of the country. chapter xi des moines river land titles the next important litigation in which i was engaged during my professional career, of public interest, was my engagement by roswell s. burrows, one of the original stockholders of the des moines navigation company, in suits growing out of his ownership of certain lands belonging to the des moines river grants, so-called. i will not undertake in this paper to go into a detailed history of the des moines river titles, so-called. colonel c. h. gatch some years ago prepared for publication a series of articles that were published in the _annals of iowa_, volume i, that gives a detailed account and history of the land grant by congress, and the various decisions of the united states land department construing the original grant of , and also the decision of the supreme court of the united states in the numerous cases from time to time decided by that court. i deem this the most correct and just account of this important litigation that has ever been given to the public. honorable b. f. gue also published in his _history of iowa_ what purports to be an account of the various decisions and rulings of the land department and of the actions of the courts with reference to these lands. a part of his history is correct, but in treating of the rights of certain of the settlers he has done great injustice to the stockholders of the des moines navigation company who furnished the money to the company for the purchase of these lands. the first unwarranted statement contained in mr. gue's history is that persons who brought and maintained suits for possession of their lands against certain settlers were mere speculators who had bought a doubtful title to these lands for a song. the contract between the state of iowa and the des moines navigation company, whereby that company became interested in certain lands of this grant, was made in , after the state had disposed of the larger part of the lands lying below the raccoon fork of the des moines river, and was made at a time when there was no question as to the right of the state to the lands above the raccoon fork to the northern boundary of the state. under this contract the company paid to the state, upon the execution of the agreement, over $ , in cash for the purpose of enabling the state to pay the indebtedness that had been incurred by the board of public works up to that time. the contract provided that the company should continue the work under supervision of a state engineer and commissioner, chosen by the state of iowa, and should advance the money to pay, as the work progressed, a specific amount per cubic foot for stone work, excavation, timbers, and other material furnished in the construction of the locks and dams. estimates were to be made from time to time by the engineer of the work of the amount expended by the company at the prices named in the contract, and as fast as $ , was so expended the company was to receive lands at $ . per acre. at the time this contract was made it had been found impossible to sell and dispose of the lands by the state commissioners rapidly enough to get money to pay the contractors who theretofore had been doing the work under contracts with the commissioners. the only difference between the des moines navigation company and the contractors engaged in this work was that the former now agreed to furnish money in advance to pay off the old unpaid obligations of the commissioners, and agreed to advance money as it was needed and take the lands in gross at $ . per acre as fast as each additional $ , were advanced and expended on the work. in the summer of the company made a demand on mr. manning, commissioner of the des moines river improvement, to certify to them additional lands on certain estimates made by the engineer, which mr. manning refused. they accordingly brought suit against the commissioner asking of the court a writ of mandamus to compel him to certify the lands shown to be due them by the certificate of the engineer. i have already referred to this suit in the former part of this paper. i was employed by mr. manning and defended against it upon the ground chiefly that before the company could maintain suit for specific performance it was necessary for them to show that they had in all respects complied with their various contract obligations toward the state. the main provision of the contract that the commissioner claimed had not been complied with related to the progress of the work; that is to say, one-fourth of the entire contemplated improvement between the raccoon fork of the des moines river and the mississippi river had not been completed. the company, being defeated in this application for mandamus, ceased work upon the improvement, and in the winter of a settlement was made between the state and the company. this settlement was more especially brought about by those who had organized a railroad company for the purpose of building a railroad from keokuk up the valley of the des moines river. this organization was known as the keokuk, fort des moines & minnesota railroad company, and they desired a grant from the state of the remaining lands of the grant to aid them in the construction of their railroad. the basis of the settlement between the state and the des moines navigation company was simply that the company should receive a conveyance from the state for the lands that had been certified to the state under the grant up to that time, and that had not been heretofore disposed of by the state, or certified to the company, amounting to about , acres, and should pay to the state $ , in addition to the money already paid and expended on the improvement, and should surrender and cancel their contract and right to any further lands of the grant. (the terms of this settlement are contained in a joint resolution of the seventh general assembly, found on page of the acts of that session.) at the time of this settlement there was no question by anyone as to the extent of the grant and the validity of the title of the state to the alternate sections five miles on either side of the river up to the northern boundary of the state. in pursuance of the settlement proposed by the joint resolution which was accepted by the company, governor lowe on may , , executed fourteen deeds or patents to the navigation company, conveying by particular description the lands to which the company was entitled under the resolution of compromise; and on may , , a general deed conveying the same and any previously omitted lands by general description. another disturbing element in regard to the title to the lands arose under the grant of congress made in to the state of iowa, to aid in the construction of certain lines of railroad crossing the state and having their initial point at the mississippi river, and crossing the des moines river at various points between the raccoon fork and the northern boundary of the state. these railroad companies raised the question as to the validity of the title of the des moines navigation company to the lands they had purchased from the state north of the raccoon fork of the river. the dubuque & sioux city railroad company brought suit, or rather induced litchfield to bring suit against them for lands lying within the line of their grant under act of , or rather that would have been within their grant if not reserved from its operation or that had not been granted for the improvement of the des moines river. this suit was adroitly managed on the part of the railroad company so as to avoid testing any question of its title, and contained a stipulation that the company was in possession of the land under their grant and the court was only called upon to decide the extent of the grant under the act of to the state for the improvement of the river, and the supreme court of the united states decided that the act of did not grant to the state for the improvement of the river any lands north of the raccoon fork. this decision was made at the december term, , and is found reported in howard, s.c.u.s., page . the act of , making the grant to the state for the purpose of aiding in the construction of these railroads, in express terms reserved from the operation of the grant any lands that had been theretofore reserved by any competent authority under any other grant of congress. the announcement of this decision created considerable excitement in the des moines valley, and the river lands above the raccoon fork that had theretofore been deeded by the state to the des moines navigation company and had been by that company divided among its stockholders in consideration of the moneys that they had advanced to the company, and had been paid by the company to the state as before stated, were considered the lawful prey of every adventurer who could induce the local land offices to allow them to locate a land warrant upon any of these lands. another class of persons, however, were deeply interested in the question of this title. prior to the contract made with the des moines navigation company the state of iowa had sold some fifty thousand acres or more of these lands located above the raccoon fork of the river, and many of these lands were occupied by actual settlers who had made improvements thereon and had paid the state valuable considerations for their title. to avoid the hardships that must otherwise have resulted from the decision of the supreme court, congress on march , , passed the following joint resolution: "resolved, that all the title which the united states still retain in the tracts of land along the des moines river, above the mouth of the raccoon fork thereof, which have been certified to said state improperly by the department of the interior as a part of the grant by act of congress approved august , , and which are now held by bona fide purchasers under the state of iowa, be, and the same is hereby relinquished to the state of iowa." the congress of the united states further on the th of july, , passed an act in express terms extending the grant to the northern boundary of the state, and providing that such lands "be held and applied in accordance with the provisions of the original grant, except that the consent of congress is hereby given to the application of a portion thereof to aid in the construction of the keokuk, fort des moines & minnesota railroad, in accordance with the provisions of the act of the general assembly of the state of iowa, approved march , ." at the december term, , the supreme court of the united states, in the case of samuel wolcott vs. the des moines navigation company, reported in wallace, page , made a further decision confirming the title of the des moines navigation company under the acts of congress of - , to the lands that had been deeded to them by the state of iowa as before recited, and further deciding that the lands within the five mile limits of the des moines river had been reserved by competent authority for this work of internal improvement at the time of the passage of the railroad grant of . mr. gue in his history of iowa unfortunately attempts to disparage the title of the stockholders of the des moines navigation company by stating they were mere speculators who had purchased an impaired title, and were therefore entitled to no consideration. on the contrary, the men who received these deeds directly from the des moines navigation company were stockholders who had advanced their money in payment of their stock, which money had been paid over by that company directly to the state. soon after the decision of the supreme court in the litchfield case in , a suit was brought in the circuit court of the united states for the southern district of iowa, asking an injunction against the local united states land officers at fort dodge and at des moines, to prevent them from receiving and recognizing any location or purchase of these reserved lands. the reservation of the land affected not only the lands within the railroad grant, but affected the right of any person to locate upon or purchase these lands from the united states, as they were not lands subject to settlement or entry. justice miller heard this application for an injunction, and an argument was filed by the authorities in washington claiming that the proper officers of the land department had the sole authority to determine the question as to whether or not these lands were subject to location and entry, and that the question of the effect of such location and entry could only be decided by the courts, after entries were made and patents granted; that if the lands were not legally subject to entry as to any person claiming them, the action of the land officers would be void, and a court, if called upon by the owner, could cancel any patent or other evidence of title illegally issued. justice miller, after the full argument of the case, sustained this view of the case and held that the only remedy for parties claiming these lands under the act of , and the subsequent act of - , was to apply to the court for the cancellation of any titles wrongfully issued by the land department or by the president. in accordance with this view of the case a number of suits were brought by the grantees of the des moines navigation company, who received their titles from the company in consideration of the moneys they had advanced as stockholders, and the supreme court of the united states, upon appeal to that court, cancelled a number of entries and patents that had been wrongfully issued. an attempt was made to make a distinction between the des moines navigation company and individuals who had purchased the lands from the state of iowa, and settled thereon. mr. gue in his history of iowa claims that the act of congress of was only intended for the protection of those purchasers from the state who had actually settled upon their lands and made improvements thereon, and that congress in using the words "bona fide purchasers from the state of iowa" did not include in those words citizens or residents of the state of new york who had bought their lands in good faith from the state of iowa. the supreme court of the united states in the very purpose of its organization was intended by the constitution to organize a judicial body or tribunal before which all citizens of the united states should be equal before the law, without regard to the state in which they had their residence or location. there was no question about the fact that the des moines navigation company was a bona fide purchaser of these lands. at the time that they paid their money and took a conveyance from the state of iowa, the stockholders of that company honestly believed they were getting a good and perfect title and were paying out their money for same in the utmost good faith. the statement of mr. gue in his history before referred to, that the persons who received deeds for these lands from the des moines navigation company were mere speculators, purchasing for a song a doubtful and disputed title, is wholly without foundation and fact, and the denunciation of the supreme court of the united states because the court made no distinction between bona fide purchasers because of their location or residence, very greatly mars the reliability and impartiality that ought to have been characteristic of this history of iowa. mr. gue was a resident of fort dodge, where for years the atmosphere of that locality was permeated by the passion of men who had been disappointed in their attempt to secure a title to lands that they all knew before and at the time of the location and attempted entry on the same, had already been sold for a valuable consideration by the state of iowa. the opinion of the supreme court, delivered by justice miller in the case of williams vs. baker, reported in wallace, , contains an accurate and clear exposition of this entire controversy, which fortunately was settled by the supreme court of the united states, and to which they have continuously and consistently adhered. long after the diversion of the remaining lands of this grant to the keokuk, fort des moines & minnesota railroad company, the iowa homestead company, grantee of the dubuque & sioux city railroad company brought suit for a portion of these lands embraced in the river grant above the raccoon fork, and attempted to disturb the title. in the meantime the keokuk, fort des moines & minnesota railroad company had mortgaged these lands for the purpose of continuing their road from des moines to fort dodge. on the foreclosure of this mortgage these remaining lands were sold to a company known as the des moines & fort dodge railroad company, organized for the purpose of owning and operating that portion of the old des moines valley road that had been constructed between des moines and fort dodge. on the foreclosure of this mortgage i had represented martin flynn and a number of the other contractors, for whom i had filed a mechanics' lien for work done and material furnished in the construction of the road north of gowrie. i succeeded in obtaining a provision in the decree of foreclosure making these liens paramount to that of the mortgage, and when the road was purchased by the new organization called the des moines & fort dodge railroad company they were compelled to pay off flynn and these other lien holders in order to secure their title. this new railroad organization elected mr. charles whitehead, an attorney of new york city, its president, and i received from mr. whitehead a telegram asking if i could be retained as general attorney of their road. i replied that upon the receipt of a draft for five hundred dollars i would accept of the same as a general retainer. one object, i think, that the company had in desiring my services was to secure some one familiar with the question of the title of these des moines river lands that the new organization had bought in connection with this other part of the road. the last contest over the title was the case of the iowa homestead company claiming the title under the railroad grant of . it was the case of the iowa homestead vs. the des moines & fort dodge railroad company, reported in wallace, . mr. gue, in his history of iowa, makes a special point as to the hardship visited on one of the settlers by the name of crilley. i was attorney for mr. burrows in that case. mr. crilley first attempted to locate a warrant upon a tract of land near fort dodge prior to the decision of the supreme court of the united states in the striker case. he was refused permission to make any such location or entry and was distinctly informed by the local land officers that the lands belonged to the des moines river grant. after the decision in the striker case in and after the settlement between the state of iowa and the des moines navigation company and the payment of the last $ , of the consideration, and after the execution of the deeds and patents by the state to the des moines navigation company, crilley succeeded in inducing the local land officers to allow his location, and ultimately obtained a patent through their influence, signed by the president. the circuit court of the united states declared his patent void and decreed cancellation of the same. he took his appeal to the supreme court at washington and that court affirmed the decree. the judges of the circuit court at des moines permitted mr. crilley, by his attorney, then to file a claim for his improvements under the occupying claimant law of iowa. commissioners were appointed and his improvements were valued at a very liberal amount, far in excess of their real value or cost. mr. burrows paid the money into court and crilley received the same, but after he received pay for his improvements he still refused to vacate the land. a writ was issued to dispossess him, and upon the service of the writ by the united states marshal, mr. crilley presented a loaded revolver to the deputy marshal and threatened his life. the marshal thereupon returned to des moines and secured authority to arrest mr. crilley, which he did, and mr. crilley was actually detained in prison for several weeks and until he agreed peaceably to surrender possession of the land. this is the whole story of the inhumanity out of which mr. gue's history of iowa makes a case of such extreme cruelty and hardship. that this controversy over the title of the des moines river grant was a most unfortunate one, both for those who purchased the lands from the state and those who attempted to purchase them from the general government after the state had sold them, there can be no question. it was also very detrimental to the settlement of that part of the state. the squatters or settlers made very indifferent improvements and very indifferent cultivation of the land, and seldom if ever paid any taxes. after the title of the des moines navigation company and its stockholders and grantees had become fully settled, the counties where these lands were located levied taxes upon the same, and suits were brought against the des moines navigation company and its grantees. the supreme court of iowa held that from the date of the joint resolution of the title to these lands inured to and became perfect in those who had purchased and taken their deeds from the des moines navigation company, and held them liable for the taxes that had been assessed from the date of that joint resolution of . i continued to act as attorney for the des moines & fort dodge railroad company for about ten years. i was not, however, employed upon a salary, but only after my general retainer charged that company from time to time for services actually rendered, and charged them as i did any other client. chapter xii a. o. u. w. controversy one other case of some notoriety and public interest in which i was engaged in the latter years of my practice was the controversy between the two branches of the ancient order of united workmen. it seems that the grand lodge of this organization had adopted an amendment to their plan of organization by which in case of extraordinary loss and liability occurring in any locality, and within the jurisdiction of some subordinate state lodge, the members of lodges in other states might be assessed and required to contribute for the payment of such extraordinary losses. a portion of the members in the state of iowa refused to recognize this requisition and seceded from the organization as a national body, and organized another state lodge by the same name, ancient order of united workmen, and incorporated themselves under the general provisions of the law of iowa for the organization of benevolent societies, repudiating any connection with the national lodge. those who adhered to the national organization still continued, however, to do business by their old name and under their former organization as adherents of the national body. the new organization, relying upon their incorporation as giving them some special advantage, brought suit in the district court of dubuque county for an injunction against this old organization adhering to the national body, and sought to perpetually enjoin them from the use of the name "ancient order of united workmen," or the initials "a.o.u.w." upon the trial of this case on demurrer in the district court in dubuque, i sought to obtain a continuance of the hearing on the ground of my ill health, having been confined to my room and my bed for some three weeks. the judge of the district court granted a continuance only for a few days. i went to dubuque, however, and made a three hours' argument in the case, sitting in my chair, not having strength to stand upon my feet. the court granted a perpetual injunction against my client. an appeal was taken immediately to the supreme court and an interlocutory order obtained staying the injunction until the case could be heard in that court. on the final hearing and trial the injunction was dissolved, and the right of my client to use and do business under the title of "ancient order of united workmen" was successfully maintained. this decision is fully reported in supreme court reports, iowa, . chapter xiii important events in career it will be necessary now to go back a few years in order to record certain events important in my personal career. in the summer of james a. garfield received from the republican national convention at chicago the nomination as candidate for president of the united states. at that time the states of indiana and ohio continued to hold their state elections early in the month of october, and the result of the elections in those two states in october had a most important and almost controlling influence upon the result of the presidential contest at the ensuing november election. early in september of that year i received from the state central committee of the state of indiana an invitation to accompany ex-governor kirkwood of iowa in a canvassing tour of two weeks, which invitation i accepted. we had a very agreeable and enjoyable trip. governor kirkwood was a very companionable man and was received with much honor and enthusiasm, and our meetings were largely attended and were quite successful. part of the time we did not speak together at the same meetings, but had separate appointments assigned us. at one point where there existed a considerable manufacturing industry, the local committee waited upon us at our hotel before the speaking, and suggested that they desired us to especially discuss the tariff question and its effect upon our american manufacturers. after the committee had retired governor kirkwood walked the floor of the room for a few minutes, and turning suddenly upon me he said, "charlie, do you understand this tariff question?" i told him no, i knew very little about it. "well," he said, "i was raised a democrat and am not much of a tariff man anyhow, and i want you to take up this tariff question if either of us must." i told him that i could talk about the general effect of protecting american labor and the duty of the american congress to so arrange the tariff upon imports as to relieve our people from competition with the low wages paid in europe; that the american laborer must receive higher wages than the european laborer for he must educate his children and must enjoy better conditions in life, and as our free institutions were based upon the intelligence of the voter, we could not afford to allow the laboring man to occupy the position socially or politically of the european laborer; that i could talk along that line all they wanted, but when it came to discussing schedules or specific duties i should not venture upon any such discourse; in fact, i was satisfied that few people understood the subject sufficiently to discuss the detail of tariff duties with intelligence. i filled the bill accordingly, as governor kirkwood placed that part of the program in my charge, but he himself did not say "tariff" once. at indianapolis we attended a grand rally at which roscoe conkling, of new york, was the principal orator of the day. the managers had arranged for a grand parade, and the governor with myself and several other gentlemen were assigned to a carriage that was to take prominent part in the procession. conkling had arrived, it seems, early in the day, and the procession was delayed for over an hour waiting for that distinguished gentleman to complete his toilet before making his appearance in public. the streets and the balcony of the hotel were lined with ladies in their holiday attire, and as the procession passed by we heard frequent inquiries from the finely dressed maidens as to which was conkling, and when he was pointed out to them they were enthusiastic in their declarations that he was a handsome man. i was introduced to mr. conkling in the corridor of the hotel, after his speech, and was shocked and surprised at his want of courtesy and decent manners. he was there for the purpose of advocating the election of mr. garfield, and adding if possible enthusiasm to the occasion, and yet openly in the hearing of the crowd he was cursing the folly of the convention in nominating mr. garfield instead of renominating grant for the third term. a more arrogant and conceited public man it has never been my misfortune to meet. an incident occurred the following sunday morning more pleasant to record. i got up very early, and going down to the lower portico of the hotel i found a few persons astir. i felt somewhat lonesome and seeing a well dressed, intelligent looking colored man on the pavement, i entered into conversation with him in regard to the political situation, and asked him whether or not the colored men of the city would not all support mr. garfield, the republican nominee. to my surprise he said, "no, sah, some of them will vote the democratic ticket." i said to him, "how is it possible for a colored man to support the democratic ticket in view of the history of the past twenty-five years? the colored race have been emancipated and enfranchised and made equal before the law through the efforts of the republican party of the nation. how, then, can any of your people support the democratic party?" "well, sah," said he, "in some respects a colored man is very much like a white man." said i, "what do you mean by that?" "well, sah," said he, "i'll tell you. occasionally, sah, you will find a colored man that is a damn fool." i saw a twinkle in his eye and realized that he was intending his reply for a joke. i immediately offered him my hand and shook hands with him heartily, telling him that since there were so many white men of that kind i supposed it would be unreasonable not to expect occasionally a colored man that was a fool. upon my return to iowa after the october election in indiana i made a speech in the opera house at oskaloosa, iowa, and the gallery was filled with colored men, many of them from what cheer, a mining district near oskaloosa. i related to them the particulars of my interview with the colored gentleman of indianapolis. they enjoyed it hugely and gave me rounds of applause, and i told them i hoped that in some respects they would not be like the few that were back in indiana. after the election of mr. garfield, governor kirkwood was appointed secretary of the interior, and as i had official business before the supreme court that summer i visited washington city in company with my wife, and spent a pleasant two weeks admiring the wonders of the national capital. bishop andrews, of the methodist episcopal church, had been for a number of years a resident of des moines and our near neighbor on fourth street, and in company with his excellent wife mrs. nourse had a very enjoyable time. governor kirkwood also arranged that we should attend a private reception of the president and his wife, and mrs. nourse enjoyed the privilege of quite a tete a tete with the president's lady, officially known as the first lady of the land. when my wife bid her good evening she shook hands with her and expressed the hope that she would be very happy in her new position. mrs. garfield was rather a sad faced person and responded in a tone almost prophetic, "i hope so. we do not know." afterwards upon the assassination of mr. garfield i was called upon to take part in a meeting held in the baptist church in des moines, commemorating the memory of that excellent man. i found in my wife's scrap book some years afterwards a newspaper clipping containing a report of the remarks i made on that occasion which i here insert: for the past five days our nation has been in mourning and the christian civilization of the world has sympathized with us in our bereavement. by official proclamations, by public meetings and resolutions, by draping our homes and places of business and houses of worship with the emblems of mourning, we have sought to give expression to our sorrow and to testify our appreciation of our noble dead. tomorrow the whole nation is to attend upon his burial and the day is set apart as sacred to his memory. and yet with all this we cannot restore the life that has been so wantonly destroyed. death is inexorable, and we can do nothing for him who has gone out from the shores of time forever. but in a better sense of the word garfield is not dead. so long as we cherish the manly virtues of which his life was the exponent, so long as we remember the trials and sacrifices of his boyhood, the labors and successes of his riper years, the heroism, faith, fidelity of his life, and the calm triumphant heroism of his death, so long will he live to us and to the nation, and so long may we be profited by his life. i can think of no better text this morning for profitable consideration than one of the many rich gems of thought he has left us out of the storehouse of this great heart and intellect. at the graves of the fallen heroes of the late war he expressed this sentiment, "i love to believe that no heroic sacrifice is ever lost, that the characters of men are molded and inspired by what their fathers have done, that treasured up in american souls are all the unconscious influences of the great deeds of the anglo saxon race, from agincourt to bunker hill." in the oldest book of the book of books the patient man in his deep affliction asks the question, "if a man dies shall he live again?" this question refers primarily to man's immortality, but we may dwell upon it in its other meaning, this morning, as relating to the silent and unconscious power and influence of the life and example of the one whom we say is dead. and think what a treasure we have in the memory of this man. others have challenged the admiration of the world because of their great abilities. others have been brave in war and wise in counsel. others have been heroes and statesmen, and we have honored them and done homage to their greatness, but this man was not only great and wise and brave, but a good, true and pure man also, and the nation loved him. we give honor to his greatness, we give the tribute of praise to his great abilities and his great achievements, but we bring tears and heart throbs to the tomb where manly virtue, purity, and faith are to be enshrined. how much there is in the life of this man that we would wish to bring into the everyday life of our homes. here is the model of a life from which we would have our children mold their own future, no blemishes to record, nothing to apologize for, nothing to cover up--it stands out in its moral perfection and beauty--in its intellectual strength and greatness--in its religious faith and fervor, a fully developed manhood--a complete character--a perfect pattern. do you want an inspiration for your child? repeat to him the story of this man's youth, of his struggle with poverty and adversity, without influential friends or fortune. do you want to teach the young men of the nation the value of sincerity, honesty, earnestness, and truthfulness in the affairs of life? here is the demonstration and the proof that even in american politics and american statesmanship, dishonesty, deceit, and duplicity are not necessary to success. do you want to rebuke the conceit of the would-be learned who teach our young men that the religious faith that their mothers taught them is somehow a reproach to their intellectual progress--we have here a man of the broadest culture, of the strongest intellectual grasp and development, whose religious faith was the very basis and strength of his greatness and intellectual power. chapter xiv the brown impeachment case the discussion of law cases and the questions of fact and of law that they involved may be a little tedious to a non-professional reader, but they constituted so large a part in my life that it is impossible to give much of an account of myself and what i have been doing for so many years past, without at least a brief account of the nature of the suits in which i was engaged as counsel. probably the most important case in which i was engaged during my professional career was the celebrated impeachment case against john l. brown, auditor of the state of iowa. mr. brown was first elected to the office of auditor of state in october, , and took his office the following january. one of the important duties of this office was the duty of having the insurance companies, organized under the laws of iowa and doing business in the state, examined from time to time to ascertain if they complied strictly with the law, and if their reports made to his office were just and true, and their business conducted in such a manner as to insure their solvency and ability to pay the losses of their policy holders. there had been in the state of iowa for a number of years a number of failures of companies that were organized without capital and without experience or strict integrity upon the part of those who sought to insure the property of others, some of them having none of their own. i remember one insurance company organized in des moines by an enterprising young lawyer, without means, who obtained the names of a number of persons that he claimed had subscribed stock to his company. the law required twenty-five per cent of this stock to be paid up before the company was entitled to do business. the gentleman, of course, elected himself president of the company, and he drew his drafts upon the supposed subscribers to stock for the twenty-five per cent that the law required should be paid up, to constitute the capital of the company. he took these drafts to b. f. allen, then a prominent banker in western iowa and doing business in des moines, and deposited his drafts and obtained from allen a certificate of deposit for so much money. this he exhibited to the auditor of state, and upon the faith of this certificate of deposit obtained authority to transact business. his drafts were all dishonored so that he was proceeding to do business without any capital whatever, and actually issued some policies. it was only necessary to incur a loss to complete the bankruptcy of the concern. of course the foregoing is an extreme case, but it illustrates how easily the law was evaded and how absolutely necessary it was to have a strict supervision of these companies that could incorporate themselves under the general insurance company laws of the state. mr. brown had been a soldier in the civil war and had lost an arm in its service, was very upright, and a downright man, and did not depend upon his suavity of manner for his success in life. he was a man of quick temper and abrupt manners, but was sensitive of his honor and at all times conscious of his integrity of purpose. in pursuance of his official duty he felt the necessity of strict supervision and a thorough examination of the insurance companies of the state, that had sprung up in almost every important town and city in the state, and the officers and directors of the different companies were not paying much attention to the detail of the affairs of their companies and would generally entrust the business to the persons who had organized the company and become its president and secretary. in selecting a person who could make these examinations with fidelity and thoroughness he deemed it necessary to engage some one who was not a resident of the state and who would not probably be influenced by local or political consideration in the discharge of his duties. he employed as chief examiner of these companies a gentleman who resided in chicago, and whose reputation was beyond question as an expert, by the name of h. s. vail. this gentleman charged for his services twenty-five dollars a day for the time actually engaged, and in addition thereto some five to ten dollars for assistant accountants. the law provided that the expenses of these investigations should be approved by the auditor, and upon his certificate the several companies examined were required to pay the bill. these examinations proved to be very expensive in some cases, and perhaps in a few cases an unnecessary burden and expense to the companies, but the real cause of complaint was that the expert found many irregularities, and without fear or favor, reported them in writing to the auditor for his action. in one case the president of an insurance company had been electing his board of directors by stock issued to himself, upon which he had not paid a dollar into his treasury, and was paying himself out of the limited income of the company the handsome sum of ten thousand dollars a year as president, and his son-in-law three thousand dollars a year as attorney of the company. in a number of cases the president of the company was found to have issued to himself stock upon which he had not paid a dollar, and the auditor required all of these and many other like delinquencies to be corrected. he was visited by the friends and attorneys of these officers who were thus disturbed in their operations, and the auditor was not found to be a very complacent or accommodating individual, but on the contrary an outspoken, determined, and unyielding man in the discharge of what he conceived to be his duties. the last resource of these afflicted insurance officers was an appeal to buren r. sherman, then governor of iowa, formerly filling the office of auditor of state and under whose administration these insurance men had been undisturbed. he found mr. brown equally obdurate and unwilling to palliate or in any way overlook the delinquencies of these insurance companies, but he determined to afford his friends some relief, and upon the re-election of mr. brown as auditor of state in the fall of , he sought an excuse for refusing to approve of the official bond that mr. brown presented to him and which was necessary to the qualification of the auditor for his second term of office. the first pretense of sherman for refusing to approve the auditor's bond was that mr. brown had not complied with the law in making report to the treasurer of state as the law required of the fees of his office. as it turned out in the evidence on the trial, and as sherman well knew the fact to be, the fees of the office had been reported and accounted for as the statute required, save only that the aggregate amount of the fees as shown by the fee-book in the auditor's office had been reported and accounted for at the end of each month, and the details specifying from what source each item was received was not copied from the fee-book in the auditor's office and filed with the state treasurer. in addition to this the governor also obtained information from a discharged clerk in the auditor's office that the clerks in the office frequently received compensation of small sums for giving information and collecting statistical matter at the request of individuals where no official duty was enjoined by law upon the auditor or his assistants and no fee was prescribed. as no account was kept of these small sums of money and they were paid to the clerk who did the voluntary work for persons requesting it, no statement could be made of the amounts or dates, or the services rendered. in the meantime the controversy spread, the insurance companies through their officers and agents taking an active part as against mr. brown, and mr. sherman becoming more and more arrogant. he finally determined to remove mr. brown from office. we had upon the statute book a law whereby the governor of the state was authorized to suspend a subordinate officer, if indeed there was any such thing as a subordinate officer under our constitution, by appointing a commission to examine his books and papers and the affairs of his office, and if, upon making such report to the governor, it was apparent that the public safety required a suspension of the officer from official duties, he might issue such order of suspension. sherman found three men willing to do his bidding in this respect and appointed them commissioners to examine the affairs of all the state officers. the commissioners understood that this meant only brown and meant only that they should put into form sherman's side of his controversy with the auditor. the committee accordingly performed what was required of them and reported to the governor that the public safety and public good required the suspension of the auditor. they reported no facts in addition to those already recited in regard to the money received by the clerks in the office for matters outside of their official duties, save and except fees paid by certain banks for bank examinations under the law, for which no fee was provided by law, and which they advised the governor that the attorney general claimed did not belong to the state treasury, but were illegally charged and paid. they also informed the governor that in the year of , the correspondence notifying the auditor of the requirements of the insurance companies in regard to the appointment of agents had been destroyed. as all of these appointments were matters of record and the fees for their issuing were also regularly entered upon the books of the auditor, this was one of the extraordinary finds of this extraordinary committee. they also advised the governor in this report that the law required the reports of fees should be sworn to, and their interpretation of the law was that the auditor himself should have made the affidavit, and instead thereof it was made by a clerk in the office. upon this remarkable report of this remarkable commission sherman at once made an order, not suspending but removing mr. brown from office, and appointing j. w. cattell, formerly auditor of state, to take his place. mr. cattell was in no very great haste to do this, but after the order was served by the sheriff upon mr. brown he very wisely entered into a negotiation with brown to see if the difficulty could not in some way be adjusted, and have brown make such reports to the governor as would be satisfactory. mr. cattell was an honorable and honest man, and really desired that these matters should be satisfactorily arranged, but this was not the purpose of the governor as manifested by his conduct, and he determined to have his own way. he accordingly filed information before a justice of the peace accusing brown of a misdemeanor in holding the office after his order of suspension or removal, and upon this affidavit he obtained a warrant for the arrest of mr. brown. the constable served the warrant upon brown, and mr. brown was about to give bond for his appearance to answer the charge, when the governor, having previously ordered and arranged with the adjutant general so to do, appeared with an armed force of the governor's guards, so-called, who, with set bayonets and loaded muskets took charge of the auditor's office. hearing that something of an extraordinary nature was transpiring at the capitol, i left my office and went over to the state house to see what could be done for my client, and was proceeding to the auditor's office when i was stopped by two of the soldiers crossing bayonets in front of me, one of them cocking his rifle and threatening to shoot me if i proceeded any further. fortunately the captain commanding the squad had a little sense left and told the soldier to put up his gun, and so my life was saved. the governor in addition to the use of the militia as above recited, also employed ex-governor william m. stone to assist mr. galusha parsons, and they filed a petition in the name of jonathan w. cattell against john l. brown in the district court of polk county under the provision of the statute for proceedings in "quo warranto" by which the right and title to an office could be tested. we were fortunate in having for district judge at that time william connor, a good lawyer and an honest man. mr. parsons and governor stone attempted upon the presentation of their petition to get some peremptory order for the removal of mr. brown from office, but the court called their attention to the express provision of the statute that he had no authority to make any order in the premises until the final trial, and that the case must go upon the docket and be tried upon its merits before any order or removal could be made. upon the impeachment trial sherman under oath denied that he had employed counsel to commence this suit, and mr. cattell testified that he had nothing to do with the employment of any counsel to bring the suit. the suit was finally dismissed, nobody appearing to care about any investigation of the merits of the proceeding. we accordingly had mr. brown, who had given bail, surrender himself to his bondsmen, and we applied to the supreme court of the state, then sitting at davenport, for a writ of habeas corpus to test the constitutionality of the statute under which, without trial and without investigation and without hearing, the governor had attempted to deprive mr. brown of his office. the supreme court decided this case at the dubuque term in , seevers, judge, delivering a dissenting opinion, and beck, judge, taking no part in the decision as he was not present at the submission of the cause. adams, judge, delivered the opinion of the three remaining judges; to-wit, himself, rothrock, and reed. the majority of the court held that the law under which the governor acted did not authorize any removal from office, and that it was only constitutional upon the hypothesis that brown should have a hearing and trial. the dissenting opinion of judge seevers holds that as the law made no provision for any hearing or trial, and the suspension was for an indefinite time and might at the pleasure of the governor be perpetual, it was therefore void and did not authorize the proceedings. thus matters stood until the fall of the year , when the people elected william larrabee as governor instead of sherman, whose term of office would expire on the first of january ensuing. the presumption indulged in by the majority of the court in its opinion that mr. brown's removal from office was only a temporary suspension, and that the governor certainly would give him a hearing as to the matters complained of and found by the special commission, is made to appear more absurd by the subsequent action of mr. sherman himself, who, on the th of december, , made the following entry in the executive journal, and assumed to appoint j. w. cattell to fill what he was pleased to call a vacancy in the office of the auditor of state. the entry is as follows: december, , . whereas, at the general election held on the th day of november, , j. l. brown was re-elected to the office of auditor of state; and whereas, the said j. l. brown, re-elected as aforesaid, neglected and refused to qualify as such re-elected officer, and because thereof his official bond as such officer was not approved nor filed, and continued in such refusal until the rd day of march, , and unto this time, and on account thereof on the day last aforesaid jonathan w. cattell was duly appointed as auditor of state and immediately qualified by giving bond and taking the oath of office as required by law, which said bond was duly approved according to law; and whereas, at the general election held on the rd day of november, , there was no person elected to the said office of auditor of state, as ascertained by the official canvass this day concluded by the state board of canvassers; and whereas, it is incumbent upon me to fill the vacancy in said office now held under appointment; therefore jonathan w. cattell is hereby appointed auditor of state, to have and to hold the same until the next general election in november, ; and upon his qualifying thereto by giving bond and taking the oath of office, as required by law, he will be obeyed and respected accordingly. buren r. sherman a legislature was elected that fall, and as the only opportunity for a hearing and a vindication of mr. brown, he sent a communication to the house of representatives requesting an investigation and an impeachment, to the end that he might have a trial before the senate. the insurance agents of the state who had been wounded by the investigation of their affairs, sherman and his political adherents filled the lobbies of the legislature, and were anxious also for brown's impeachment. finally the house of representatives brought in articles of impeachment, containing thirty counts, and the senate ordered mr. brown arrested and brought before them for trial. as i had been mr. brown's counsel throughout all of these difficulties, he came to me for aid and wished me to act as his counsel. in the meantime he had received a number of letters from "tom, dick, and harry" throughout the state, lawyers who wished to do some cheap advertising of themselves, offering to attend to his case without compensation. i told mr. brown that i would undertake his case on condition that i might select my own assistants. i realized that the court, to-wit, the fifty senators then entitled to seats in the senate, was of rather peculiar construction. we had in the first place a large majority of republicans, but we also had a number of very able and influential democrats in the senate. we had some germans and some opposed to prohibition. it was necessary, in selecting attorneys, to consult the peculiar constitution of the senate and its make-up, and political partialities and proclivities. mr. brown agreed to my terms and i named mr. j. c. bills, of davenport, and mr. fred w. lehmann, of des moines, as the attorneys i desired to assist me in his defense. mr. lehmann was an excellent lawyer and a rising young man, very popular at that time with the democrats of the state. mr. bills was then nominally a republican, but had opposed the prohibitory law and stood well with that political element, besides being a good lawyer. acting upon my theory as to first impression, i made an opening statement to the senate giving them a very careful and detailed history of the case, and of the facts that we expected to prove upon the several counts of the indictment or impeachment. in addition to these two counsel we also had the assistance of e. s. huston, of burlington, a relative of s. f. stewart, the deputy auditor. mr. huston especially looked after and cared for the interests of the deputy during the trial. the managers upon the part of the house of representatives were messrs. s. m. weaver, john h. keatley, l. a. riley, g. w. ball, j. e. craig, r. g. cousins, e. c. roach. the trial continued about three months. i found i had made no mistake in selecting my assistant attorneys. we had a room set apart for us in the capitol, where we were in counsel arranging the program for the day's work before the senate, and assigning to each attorney his particular share of the work of the day. i always dreaded in coöperating with attorneys in the trial of causes, having some one to assist me who would be an annoyance and a drawback rather than a help, but i found in mr. lehmann and mr. bills two good lawyers and men of good judgment and discretion, and we had a most agreeable as well as a successful time of it on our side of the trial table. the trial had not progressed more than a few weeks before we were able to turn the tide of feeling and sentiment in our favor, or rather in favor of our client, and the case, instead of being a prosecution of john l. brown, actually became an exposure of the petty tyranny and foolishness of buren r. sherman, and the managers on the part of the house were forced into the position of recognizing sherman as their client and recognizing the necessity of defending his conduct rather than of convicting mr. brown of any serious offense against the law. it also was apparent before we had proceeded very far in the case that the managers of the prosecution did not entirely agree from time to time between themselves as to the part that each should take in the proceedings. some of the men had evidently hoped to make a great reputation for themselves as lawyers, and were being disappointed in the result as to that particular. we had one serious hindrance and drawback in our case. f. s. stewart, the deputy auditor, proved a very heavy load to carry. he had many winning ways by which he made no friends, and his conduct proved him to be a greedy, grasping man, and if the impeachment had been against him instead of mr. brown we should have found "jordan a hard road to travel." in addition to his regular salary he had drawn a very considerable sum of money for extra pay and compensation for work he had done in the auditor's office, as he claimed, out of regular hours. he had also collected as bank examiner from the various banks he examined a considerable amount of fees for which there was no provision or warrant of law, and had taken the money to his own use. the only serious charge against mr. brown and the only one from which we apprehended any danger, grew out of the examination of the bremer county bank, situated in waverly, bremer county, iowa. that bank had for its rival another bank in the locality, that probably would have profited by having it go out of business, and they were entirely disappointed and dissatisfied because the examination of the bank by mr. brown in person and by an assistant proved the bank to be a solvent concern. after the examination of the bank and after mr. brown had given in for publication a certificate of their solvency, and without any previous request for compensation or suggestion of payment from any source, the cashier of the bank had paid to mr. brown voluntarily the sum of one hundred dollars as compensation for his extra services and expenses during the investigation of the affairs of the bank. the charge in the articles of impeachment was that this was a bribe to mr. brown that had induced him to certify fraudulently and falsely to the solvency of the bank. we proved beyond controversy that the bank was solvent and continued to be so for several years after the investigation, and that the certificate of solvency given to it was just and right and proper, and there was no foundation for the charge that it was given from any corrupt motive. this matter of the bremer county bank did not constitute any part of the original trouble or accusation against brown by the governor, but it was trumped up by brown's enemies and was soon gathered in by the governor's "muck-rake." after all the evidence had been put in, both upon the part of the prosecution and the defense, there remained one important question for us to decide--as to whether or not we would put mr. brown upon the stand as a witness in his own case. the only thing we had to fear from our client as a witness was his sensitiveness and pride and his determination to resent any insult or imputation against his honesty and integrity in office. we knew he had some enemies in the senate who were at the same time his judges and were to vote upon the question of his guilt, and these senators had the right to ask him any questions upon cross-examination they might see proper. it would not do for his counsel to object to the relevancy or propriety of any questions that might be asked, as it might appear if we did so that we had something to hide or from which to shield our client. we had a long conference with mr. brown before we decided what course to pursue upon this question of making him a witness. he continued to vow to us that he would not consent to submit to any insulting interrogatories, no matter from whom they came, and that he would talk back if any such were propounded. i finally had a private conference with mr. brown and urged upon him the absolute necessity that if he went upon the stand as a witness, of being perfectly cool and dispassionate and not manifesting any passion or resentment toward any of the senators who might question him. after a long conference upon this point, he finally promised me that he would do his best to suppress his indignation and his feelings, and would quietly answer any questions that might be asked him. the next day we put mr. brown upon the stand as a witness, and to his credit it may be said that he behaved himself most admirably, and won the respect and esteem of the senate by his dignified and courteous behavior. the constitution of the state required, in order to convict the defendant, a vote of guilty by two-thirds of the members of the senate. instead of this the highest vote against the defendant upon any article was fifteen votes, or less than one-third, and upon the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth articles that embraced the original controversy with governor sherman, upon which he refused to approve the auditor's bond and appointed his subservient commission, there was not a single vote of guilty against the auditor, but he was unanimously acquitted. upon several of the articles it appears that some of the senators voted "guilty" upon a very slim and unwarranted basis. for instance one of the articles of impeachment was against the auditor for drawing a warrant in behalf of his clerk for the month's salary, the warrant specifying the particular section and chapter of the law that made an appropriation for the purpose of paying this clerk. the fact of the service being within the personal knowledge of the auditor, and the receipt of the clerk being upon the stub of the warrant issued, and yet the managers insisted that there ought to have been a paper filed stating the account as between the clerk and the auditor, and because it was not drawn out and filed among the papers of the office, six of the senators voted to find him guilty and to impeach him. it was a mere technicality, extremely, finely drawn out, and showed a disposition to try and ruin a man and his reputation without conscience or any regard to their duty as men and their oath as senators. the vote of fifteen upon the bremer county bank question against the auditor may be justified upon the theory that a public officer situated as the auditor was, having an important duty to perform, should not accept of any gift or favor or money that might be construed as something he had hoped for or expected when he performed his official duty. the act of receiving the money under the circumstances, though not criminal, was one of those acts of doubtful propriety that could scarcely be justified in a public officer. the acquittal of mr. brown was beyond question a righteous and just act. governor larrabee, the newly elected governor, had already restored mr. brown to his office and discharged the appointee to fill the created vacancy, and the people of the state retired mr. sherman from public employment permanently. after retiring from office he engaged in managing an insurance company at his former place of residence in the state, in which he was unsuccessful. the state of iowa paid to the attorneys in the case selected by mr. brown the sum of six dollars a day. i charged mr. brown, however, one thousand dollars for my entire services in connection with his impeachment, and he gave me his note for the balance, deducting the amount i had received from the state. this note was signed by s. f. stewart. some months afterwards i received from stewart's wife a very remarkable letter, full of tears and sympathy for brown, begging me to remit the amount on the note as mr. brown was poor and had been much wronged and abused. i ascertained that stewart at or about the time he signed the note, had obtained from mr. brown a transfer to some valuable stock in the _iowa homestead_ newspaper at much less than the real value of the stock, and that they had counted the amount due me on this note as part of the consideration of the transfer. estimating mrs. stewart's sympathy for mr. brown at its true value, i insisted on my note being paid in full, which mr. brown cheerfully did. mr. brown was further vindicated by the subsequent action of the general assembly of the state in making a reasonable appropriation to reimburse him for his expenses and attorney's fees paid out in making his defense against the articles of impeachment. the result of the investigation before the senate also had a very beneficial effect upon the home insurance companies in that it gave public confidence as to their solvency, and gave assurance that the proper department of state would make the investigation of their transactions from time to time thorough and real, and not as before merely nominal. chapter xv more law cases in the summer of the city of des moines was thrown into a state of considerable excitement by the fact of finding the body of a murdered man on the sidewalk near the corner of walnut and second street. there was a house of bad repute in the vicinity, and the coroner's jury made a thorough investigation, seemingly as far as practicable, as to the cause and origin of the death. the inhabitants of the house referred to were examined under oath, and the women who boarded there denied any knowledge whatever of the cause of the man's death. the governor of the state offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the discovery and conviction of the murderer. at the next session of the grand jury of polk county two of the women boarders at the house of bad repute referred to, and who had denied all knowledge of the murder, appeared before the grand jury and testified with much detail that charles howard, a man who had frequented their house, had been guilty of the murder and had carried out the dead body and laid it upon the sidewalk. the grand jury indicted howard accordingly for murder in the first degree. the trial came on at the december term of the polk county district court, and in view of the public excitement, which was largely kept alive by the daily press, howard, by his attorney, made a motion for a change of venue on the ground of prejudice of the inhabitants of the county. under the peculiar provisions of our statute, counter affidavits were permitted for the purpose of showing that there was no feeling in the community that would prevent howard from receiving a fair trial. the sheriff informed me that in walking two squares from the court house he had met two hundred men who were willing to sign such counter affidavits, and had obtained a large number of them, which were filed accordingly. the district judge, h. w. maxwell, overruled the motion for a change of venue, and the trial proceeded. the only testimony introduced in the conviction of howard was that of the two bad women who had testified before the coroner's jury that they had no knowledge whatever in regard to the killing of johnson. i was not personally engaged in any way as an attorney in this case, but about ten o 'clock at night after the jury had retired to consider their verdict, judge maxwell sent for me to come to the court house for consultation. i found he had also sent for a like purpose for mr. d. o. finch, one of the oldest members of the polk county bar. the judge advised us that the jury had not agreed upon their verdict, but that some one had through the bailiff sent a note in to the jury room threatening the jury with violence in case they failed to convict the defendant. judge maxwell was much excited and asked mr. finch and myself what he ought to do under the circumstances. we advised him by all means to have the defendant conveyed for safe keeping to some place outside of the county, in charge of the sheriff, and to have it done secretly and immediately lest the mob might seize the accused and commit violence. we also advised him to discharge the jury from a further consideration of the case, as their verdict found under the influence of threats would be worthless, and that he ought also in vindication of his own court to thoroughly investigate the question as to who was guilty in sending or permitting a threat to be communicated to the jury. instead of being influenced by our advice judge maxwell had the jury brought into the courtroom for further instructions, and told them that great excitement and feeling prevailed in the community in regard to the case, and that it was important that the jury should not disagree but should find a verdict in the case. the next morning the jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and the defendant waiving time for sentence, judge maxwell had the prisoner brought into court. the courtroom was crowded by an excited mob, and the judge took occasion to harangue the prisoner, denouncing his conduct in the most vehement manner. he then sentenced the prisoner to imprisonment in the penitentiary for life. that night the excited mob broke open the jail, took the prisoner from his cell with a rope tied around his neck, and hung him to a lamp post in the court house square. the opinion of most of the persons who paid any attention to this trial was that there was no reliable evidence of howard's guilt, and that the probabilities were that the whole case was manufactured for the purpose of securing the reward offered for his conviction. whether or not the reward was ever paid i have not been able to ascertain, but certain it is that the cowardice of the court and the indiscretion of the public press were responsible for the murder of a man who, to say the least of it, was never proved guilty by any competent evidence. we had among the distinguished judges that acted as teachers in our law school at transylvania university a very eminent jurist who sometimes when he felt merry treated the class to that which was not only instructive but also entertaining. on one occasion he delivered to the class the following: young gentlemen: you will find that the general principles of the law are few and easily comprehended, but in their application to the ever-varying transactions of human life the best of minds will differ, hence arises what we denominate the glorious uncertainties of the law whereby we have our bread. the case that i am about to cite would satisfy the most credulous that there are other causes that produce uncertain results besides the difference in applying the general principles of the law to different cases. section , article xi of the constitution of the state of iowa, provided as follows: "no county or other political or municipal corporation shall be allowed to become indebted in any manner or for any purpose to an amount in the aggregate exceeding five per centum on the value of the taxable property within such county or corporation, to be ascertained by the last state or county tax list previous to the incurring of such indebtedness." in november, , the taxable property, real and personal, within and subject to taxation by the said city of des moines, as ascertained by the last state and county tax list, amounted to the sum of $ , , and no more, and that five per centum on said amount was only the sum of $ , . . in the month of may, , the city had by ordinance authorized the issuing of bonds to the amount of $ , for the purpose of funding outstanding warrants, and afterwards in may, , they had enacted a further ordinance authorizing the issuing of bonds for funding outstanding warrants on the city treasurer to the amount of $ , , all of which bonds had been duly issued and were outstanding at the time of the commencement of the suit hereinafter mentioned. in addition to these bonds aggregating $ , there were also outstanding warrants upon the treasury to the amount of $ , , making an aggregate indebtedness of the city $ , . on the th of july, , the city passed a further ordinance authorizing the issuing of bonds to the amount of $ , for the building and repair of certain bridges across the des moines and raccoon rivers, thus exceeding the constitutional limit upon the city's indebtedness. george sneer, a citizen and taxpayer of the city of des moines, applied to me to bring a suit to test the validity of this last bond issue of $ , , informing me that the bonds had been placed in the hands of b. f. allen, then a banker of the city of des moines. i informed him i was willing to take the case provided that the suit should be maintained in good faith, that i was satisfied that the bonds were absolutely void whether in the hands of allen or any other person, being issued in plain violation of the constitution of the state, and that every person purchasing any evidence of indebtedness against the city was bound to take notice of the existing indebtedness of the city and was charged with knowledge thereof, as it was a matter of record and easily ascertained. mr. sneer informed me that he desired the question of the validity of the bonds tested in good faith, and that if i undertook the case i might prosecute it to the end. he contracted to pay me the sum of two hundred dollars for my services, and i accordingly prepared the bill for a perpetual injunction against the city council, city treasurer, and b. f. allen. no one was made defendant to the petition except allen and members of the city council and the city treasurer. answers were filed by mr. withrow for b. f. allen and by seward smith, his partner, for the city of des moines and members of the city council, and the case was submitted on bill and answer. there was no denial of the facts set forth in the petition in regard to the indebtedness of the city, nor did anyone appear in the case claiming to be bona fide purchasers of the bonds, but the answer of allen was to the effect that he acted as agent for the city and had sold the bonds to one george p. opdike & co. of new york city. maxwell was judge of the district court, and to my surprise entered the following decree in the case: this cause coming on for final hearing on the plaintiff's petition, and answer made thereto, and the defendant's answer and cross petition, and thus heard upon the pleadings alone, and the court having heard the argument of counsel, inspected the said record and being fully advised in the premises, doth order, adjudge and decree, that the plaintiff's bill be dismissed; that the bridge bonds described therein be treated as in every respect binding obligations of the city of des moines according to the tenor thereof, and that the parties thereto and those in privity with them be forever concluded from asserting or maintaining any defense against the payment of said bonds, and the interest thereon, on the grounds that the same were irregularly issued in excess of the constitutional limitation upon the power of the said city to become indebted; that the money now in possession of the defendant allen, be applied by the proper officers of the city of des moines to the purposes for which the same was raised; and that the defendant have and recover the costs herein taxed at ---- dollars, and that execution issue therefor. to which plaintiff excepts. upon the rendition of this decree i immediately entered an appeal in behalf of george sneer, and perfected the same by filing the proper abstract of record in the supreme court of the state. the cause was submitted to the supreme court on printed arguments on april , . at the october term of the supreme court, being an argument term held at davenport at that date, the supreme court really decided the case by an opinion written by judge beck in behalf of a majority of the court, and the opinion was sent by justice day to the clerk about the time the court was to adjourn, with orders to file the same, and mr. charles linderman, the clerk of the court, informed me that he had actually marked the opinion "filed," and that about the time that the filing was completed judge c. c. cole, then one of the judges of the supreme court, entered the clerk's office and filed with him a paper signed by george sneer dismissing his appeal, and that he entered upon the records of the court the following entry: "on application of appellant, it is ordered by the court that the appeal herein be, and the same is hereby dismissed." at the ensuing regular term of the supreme court held at des moines, december , , the following entry was made in the case: "at the argument term held at davenport in october last, on application of george sneer per se, appellant herein, the court ordered that the appeal be dismissed." before this dismissal either at davenport or at des moines sneer had settled with me and paid me the fee agreed upon, and i had nothing further to do with the case except to reproach him for violating his agreement with me that i should prosecute the case to a final result. it appeared from the sequel that judge cole had also prepared a dissenting opinion in the case, and these two opinions, that written by judge beck as the opinion of the court, and the one written by himself were both published in the _western jurist_ the ensuing january, the one marked "b" and the other marked "c," but suppressing the fact that the opinion marked "b" was the opinion of a majority of the court, and that none of the judges, except judge cole, agreed with the opinion marked "c;" and having the following extraordinary note printed in connection with the opinions, judge cole being then the editor of the _western jurist_: "these two articles, this and the following which advocates a different view of the same question, are from members of the profession in iowa occupying equal prominence before the public, and whose opinions are entitled to consideration." whilst these opinions do not give the detail of the case that was submitted to the court and to which they relate, yet by carefully reading them you can easily see that they refer to an actual controversy that had been pending before the supreme court. the supreme court of iowa subsequently decided the question that was involved in the case of sneer vs. the city of des moines, establishing the principle as applied to this transaction to the effect that the bonds were absolutely void in the hands even of an innocent purchaser if such had been the case. see mcpherson vs. foster, iowa, page . mosher vs. independent school dist., iowa, page . french vs. burlington, iowa, page . andrews vs. orient fire ins. co., iowa, page . holliday vs. hildebrandt, northwestern reporter, page . the dismissal of the appeal by sneer left the decree entered by judge maxwell in full force as though no appeal had ever been taken, and the parties procuring this result, after they had full knowledge of the fact that the majority of the judges of the supreme court held the bonds void, are fully entitled to all of the credit that their conduct merits, and i only record the matter here as a matter of history and as vindication of myself and to exonerate myself from any responsibility for the final result, as i had no knowledge of the dismissal of the appeal until long after the thing was done. i have within the past few weeks examined the archives of the supreme court, and find that the original opinion of the court written by judge beck signed "b" and printed in the _western jurist_ (see vol. vi- ) cannot be found, and also the paper signed by george sneer dismissing the appeal is missing from the files of the court. i presume the city council, as they had by their attorney asked to be enjoined from disputing the validity of these bonds, had obtained a decree against themselves to that effect, very willingly paid the bonds when they matured, but of this i have no actual knowledge. chapter xvi birth of a son and personal incidents leaving the history of political and professional for the present, it will now be necessary to revert and give in some detail matters more personal and affecting more nearly my own private life. i have already given an account of my marriage and removal to des moines. on the th of february, , my wife and myself were made happy by the birth of our only child. this hope deferred came after ten years of waiting. whilst the child was still an infant i was compelled to be absent on professional business at indianola in warren county. i concluded my business as soon as possible and hurried home, feeling an unpleasant premonition that everything was not all right with the mother and the child. heavy rains had swollen the streams between indianola and des moines, and as i approached the small bridge crossing the creek about four miles south of des moines, i found the water running several feet deep over the floor of the bridge. i knew this made the passage very dangerous because frequently such floods took away the flooring and made it probable that the horse and buggy in which i was riding might be cast into the flood of the stream. after some hesitation, however, i determined to take the risk and plunged into the stream accordingly. i got safely over and was much relieved when i found myself again on solid ground. i got home a little after dark and found an old lady who had been employed as nurse to the little one, who was squalling violently, engaged in trotting the infant upon her knee, as my wife lay on the bed on the very verge of hysterics. the next morning early i put out to find a nurse woman possessed of more flesh and patience, and the domestic trouble subsided. the first six months after the arrival of the little stranger my wife could scarcely obtain an hour's consecutive rest. the normal condition of the child appeared to be colicky. as i had to be engaged throughout the day in my business we finally established a second bedroom and i divided the time at night as well as i could with my wife, taking my turn at walking the floor at "half dress." the child, however, proved a great comfort to us and a pleasure, though for many months it was the pursuit of pleasure under difficulties. at the approach of the following year we were surprised by a visit from the wife of mr. charles mcmeekin, my wife's brother, who then resided at cincinnati, ohio. his wife brought with her two children, a boy and a girl, she herself being something of an invalid. it was very difficult at that time, as it has been ever since, to obtain competent domestic help, and after entertaining this lady and her two children for several months i found it necessary to notify my brother-in-law that situated as i was it was no longer convenient for me to entertain his family, and they accordingly left us and went to live at a boarding house kept by mrs. washburn on fourth street. the next summer, at the request of my wife, i consented to take one of the sons of her sister eliza, and i furnished the means for his transportation from newport, kentucky, to des moines. i tried to give this boy instructions in reading, writing, and arithmetic, but found him not inclined to study, and especially disinclined to afford any help or assistance about the house. he had been raised under the shadow of a peculiar institution and had imbibed a strong prejudice against anything like work. after worrying with him for three or four months and being unable to make anything out of him, i sent him home to his mother. in i purchased two lots on the northeast corner of center and fifth streets and removed my old buildings from my place on fourth street to the lots so purchased, making some improvements on the buildings. these lots and buildings i afterwards sold and built a new house on the old place on fourth street. in the fall of , whilst on a visit to ohio, my half-brother, charles r. nourse, invited me to a private interview in which he disclosed the fact to me that he was engaged to be married and wanted me to do something to help him start in life in some kind of business. the young man had not improved his opportunities for an education and had spent several winters doing farm work. before i had left home on that occasion sylvanus edinburn had proposed to exchange a small farm that he had in the suburbs of the city, of eighty-eight acres, for some property i had acquired in town. it occurred to me that i might help the boy by making the trade for this farm, and i accordingly told him if he would have his mother send an invitation to his intended to come and take dinner with us, and i liked the looks of the proposed wife i would do something for him. he readily consented to this arrangement, as did also his intended, and as she appeared to be an industrious and bright young woman i came home and completed the purchase of the farm which i obtained a deed for in march, . there was no building on the farm fit to live in. i had the old house moved onto the barn-lot and fixed up for a granary, and built a new house at the expense of about fifteen hundred dollars. in the following spring charles r. with his bride put in an appearance and i settled them in their new home, where they lived happily for a number of years, but finally after about fifteen years that most fatal of all curses, strong drink, got possession of the young man and he went to the bad. in the year of while visiting my sister at tuscola, illinois, i found her in possession of a very large and increasing family. i was especially pleased with her second daughter, rose, then a young lady about twenty years of age, and suggested to my sister that if she would consent i would take rose home with me and help her to an education. accordingly in rose came to des moines and made her home with us. my oldest brother, joseph g. nourse, had died at cincinnati, ohio, in march, , and about the year of i had induced his widow with her three boys to remove to des moines, her oldest daughter susan having previously married to mr. j. a. jackson. i had before that time induced mr. jackson and his wife also to remove to des moines and had given mr. jackson employment in my office as an assistant. i had also built on fourth street a one story cottage of three rooms and a kitchen, which they occupied for a year or two. after my niece, rose vimont, had been with us for probably a year i became satisfied that she had not succeeded in winning the affections of my wife. dr. c. r. pomeroy had been our pastor at the centenary methodist church for several years and had removed to emporia, kansas, and taken charge of the state normal school at that place. as rose desired to prepare herself for a teacher i went with her to emporia in the spring of and placed her at the institution under the care of dr. pomeroy and his wife, where she remained for twelve months, when school was suspended by reason of a fire which destroyed the buildings. rose returned to des moines and the following year, , she taught a small school in the brick schoolhouse on the northwest corner of my farm, and had a room and boarded with my half brother, charles r. afterwards she obtained a situation in the public schools of the city of des moines and became a very successful teacher, remaining in the city some fifteen years or more. soon after the purchase of my farm, in order further to promote the interests of my brother and give him employment, i became interested in the purchase and raising of pure bred short-horn cattle, committing to my brother the immediate supervision and care of them on the farm, and building some extensive barns and other out-buildings. i subsequently bought from george sneer acres of valuable land in section , township , range , and afterwards in july, , bought thirty-seven acres adjoining the tract that i had purchased of edinburn, making a part of the home farm. i also bought adjoining the same original tract eleven acres from a man by the name of parks. subsequently i contracted with a man by the name of miller to put down a bore hole on my land near the barns, with the hope of procuring artesian water for my cattle and a flowing well. in this i was disappointed, but i required the man to keep an accurate journal of the different strata through which he bored, and at the distance of about feet below the surface he went through a valuable strata of coal averaging from four and one-half to six feet in thickness. i subsequently leased the right to take coal from these lands to the keystone coal company, under which lease they sunk a shaft and operated a mine on the home place for about thirteen years. the royalty from the coal during these thirteen years more than paid the original purchase price of this land, which cost me originally only about fifty dollars per acre. about the year i received a letter from my old friend, amos harris, formerly a resident of centerville, iowa, then living at wichita, kansas, informing me of the death of a man by the name of loring, who had been a former client of mine, residing at indianola, iowa. he stated that mr. loring had left a widow and some five little children, all girls, the youngest an infant only a few months old, and that the family was left in a destitute condition; that upon questioning mrs. loring she had told him that i had transacted some business as attorney for herself and husband, and had sold a house and lot in indianola that they had deeded to me, with a promise upon my part that after paying certain debts for the collection of which i was attorney, if there was anything left they should have it. i had realized about one hundred dollars over and above the amount paid out and i immediately sent mrs. loring fifty dollars for the relief of her immediate necessities, and afterwards paid her the balance. some four or five years after this mrs. loring came to des moines, bringing with her this young child then about four or five years of age, stating that she had a short time before that married a man by the name of gregory, that he was a man of considerable means but refused to support her first husband's children, that she wished to make some arrangement to have this young child cared for, that she had already disposed of her older girls among her relatives. i introduced her to mrs. winkley, then a resident of des moines, who kept a school for small children and boarded and cared for them, a lady to whom my son had been going to school and who was held in high estimation by her many friends. mrs. gregory, as she then was, arranged with mrs. winkley to leave her youngest child with her to be cared for, and left with me some money to pay mrs. winkley from time to time, and also any other expenses that might be incurred in the care of the child. mrs. winkley lived on third street within a block or two of our residence, and i frequently had this child visit our home. my wife seemed to be interested in the child and became attached to her, as i did also myself. along about the first of february, , mrs. gregory came into my office in des moines, stating that she had come to take her child susie, as she could no longer afford to bear the expense of her keeping with mrs. winkley. i asked her if that was the only objection to the child remaining where it was, and she said yes, she was very well satisfied but she was then separated from her husband and was not able to pay the expense incident to the child's keeping in her present situation. i asked her if she had any home to which she could take the child, and she said no, that she had employment at some sanitary institution but it really was not a home for the little one. upon the impulse of the moment and without any very considerable thought upon the subject and having no consultation with my wife, i told mrs. gregory to leave the child where it was and i would bear the expense of caring for her. my income from my practice at that time was averaging about $ , a year and i saw nothing very serious about this undertaking, but upon reporting it to my wife she expressed herself very much dissatisfied. upon further reflection i feared that after the child became older the mother might claim its custody, and for my own protection i wrote out articles of adoption and sent it to the mother, which she duly executed and returned it to me, surrendering to me the full care, custody and control of the child, which articles were duly recorded in polk county, iowa, on the th of february, . after remaining for several years with mrs. winkley i sent this child to chicago to the school of miss rebecca rice, where she remained for a number of years and received a very satisfactory education. the enterprise, however, of caring for and educating this child was not a success. my wife imbibed a strong prejudice against her and never received her as a member of the family. when she was about seventeen years of age she became dissatisfied and i sent her to her mother, who was then living in california. she did not remain with her mother, but afterwards came back to me and by her own wish and desire i arranged to have her taught telegraphy by the superintendent of city telegraphs at chicago. in the meantime i ascertained that while she was in california she had engaged herself to be married to a man by the name of guldager. i tried to dissuade her from this early and inconsiderate engagement but she had not learned the lesson of obedience and was not easily controlled by good advice or counsel. her california lover furnished her the means and she left without my knowledge or consent and went to california to him when she was about eighteen years of age, and was married. after the dissolution of my partnership with williamson & st. john in , i continued the practice of law without any partner in business, receiving assistance from time to time from young men who were studying law in the office or who were beginners in the profession. none of these, however, proved entirely satisfactory. about the year benjamin f. kauffman, then a young man recently graduated in the law department of the state university, came to me desiring a situation in my office. i had been so disappointed in the young men who had preceded him that i hesitated about making any further engagement in that direction. judge george g. wright, however, who had been one of mr. kauffman's preceptors at the law school, warmly recommended him and urged me to give him a position in the office. he was entirely without means and i offered finally to pay his board for six months and take him upon trial. he asked me what he could expect after the expiration of the six months. i told him that after six months if i found that i could get along without him i should discontinue the arrangement. he replied that that was a very hard proposition. i told him no, that he was a young man in good health, full of energy, and if he could not make himself a necessity to my business in six months there was no reason why i should continue even to pay his board. he said if he accepted my proposition, what would i do for him at the end of the six months. i told him that if he made himself a necessity to my business so that i could not get along without him, he would then be master of the situation and i thought there would be no trouble about arranging terms that would be entirely satisfactory to him. he came into the office accordingly and applied himself diligently to business. i occasionally stated to him some question involved in cases i had pending and desired him to examine the authorities and make a brief upon the question involved. he proved to be of very material assistance, very industrious, with a clear mind capable of understanding and analyzing and applying the cases he found in the books bearing upon the question under investigation. at the end of six months i arranged a partnership with him and he continued in that relation for seventeen years, with much profit pecuniarily both to himself and myself. in the year of i exchanged a lot that i owned on center street with mrs. mccauley for property on fifth street, taking the deed in the name of the firm of nourse & kauffman, upon which we built the subsequent year a two story brick building, occupying the south half of the first story for our law offices. we subsequently bought from thomas boyd the forty-four feet on the east end of this purchase, giving us the entire forty-four south feet of lot , block , of the original town, and in the year we built a four story brick building covering the entire surface of the lot. on the dissolution of my partnership with mr. kauffman i formed a partnership with my nephew, clinton l. nourse, and we removed into the new building and occupied the front rooms of the second story. mr. kauffman in the meantime entered into partnership with one n. t. guernsey and occupied rooms on the fourth floor of the building. about the first of january, , i received information that my father, who had removed to and was then residing at reynoldsburg, ohio, was very ill and not expected to live. i immediately went to reynoldsburg. my father was still conscious and able to recognize me, but was very nearly approaching the end. my brother, john d., who resided then at lancaster, ohio, was in attendance upon my father but unable to arrest the disease. on the rd of january my father passed away. after his death in conference with my step-mother in regard to her future, i found she was disposed to join her sister, mary herron, in building a small house in west rushville and making her home there. i was satisfied that this arrangement would not last. my step-mother was a self-sacrificing woman and i knew her sister's disposition was very exacting. it was also arranged that my half-sister mary should live with them. when i bid my step-mother good-bye i told her that i had no confidence in the permanency of the arrangement she had made with her sister, but in view of her faithfulness to my father during his old age i wanted her to feel that she should have a home, and if the arrangement she had made to live with her sister did not prove satisfactory, not to hesitate about advising me of the fact, and i would provide her a home on the farm where her youngest boy charles r., was then living. as i anticipated, after a few years i received information that mother and sister mary both desired to come to iowa and avail themselves of my proffered help. they came accordingly and the first year resided with my half-brother charles. mother then had about twelve-hundred dollars of the small means left, and i proposed to borrow this money and build her a house which she should have rent free, and i would pay her interest on the twelve-hundred dollars which would enable her to live comfortably on the farm. i accordingly built the cottage for herself and her daughter mary, which they continued to occupy for several years. in the meantime sister mary taught a sunday school class in the neighborhood, and among her scholars was one chris mathes. this rude uneducated boy, seventeen years younger than herself, pretended to fall in love with her and on the first of january, , she became his wife. in march, , my step-mother died, leaving what little means she had to her daughter mary, and what was left of the money she had advanced to me for building the house she had occupied on the farm, which i afterwards paid over to mary in full. chapter xvii breeder of short horn cattle my half-brother, charles r., continued on the farm in my employment and in the care of my short-horn cattle business until the year , when i sold out my entire herd. during the ten years i was in the business i enjoyed the recreation and attention to my stock, finding it a great relief from my nervous tension and anxiety incident to an extensive practice of the law. soon after i commenced the business i attended a meeting of the short-horn breeders of the state at west liberty, iowa, at which time there was organized a short-horn breeders' association of the state of iowa, and i was elected president of the association and continued in that office for seven years and until i retired from the business. in the meantime we had also organized a national association at chicago for the purpose of purchasing the short-horn herd books published in new york, ohio, and kentucky, and establishing the _american short-horn herd book_, which became the only authentic publication of pedigrees of short-horn cattle in the united states. i was made a member of this board of control and continued in that relation for a number of years, until i declined a further election because of my retirement from the business. our board of directors represented some eleven different states of the union with one director from canada. our annual meetings were held at the time of the annual fat stock show in chicago, and the gentlemen with whom i was associated in that capacity were among the most pleasant acquaintances i ever made during my lifetime. i found them intelligent, broad-minded men, entirely unselfish and devoted to the interests of the association. during my connection with the board we paid off the entire indebtedness incurred in the purchase of the _short-horn herd book_ as theretofore published by mr. allen of new york, and also the indebtedness incurred in the purchase of the _kentucky herd book_ and the _ohio herd book_. our state association also met once a year in connection with the improved stock breeders' association of the state. we generally wound up these sessions of our meetings with a banquet given us by the citizens of the place where we held our meetings. at these banquets we had a number of toasts and speeches, rather of the humorous than of the instructive kind. i give herewith a specimen that i find printed with the proceedings of the association held at ottumwa on the th day of december, . the short-horn and improved stock breeders' associations of iowa were intended in a great measure by their founders as missionary societies. it was contemplated that they would hold their conventions in the smaller towns and more sparsely settled portions of the state, where their discussions upon breeds and breeding would educate the farmers around in these great and important industries. a feast like this in one of the thriving and finest cities of the state is hardly consistent with this benevolent and self-sacrificing purpose, and i have reason to fear for the consequences; we may fall from grace. at a recent session of the new york annual conference of the methodist episcopal church, it is said that the bishop had great difficulty in satisfying the preachers about their appointments. one of the elders gravely informed the bishop, that the preachers in his district had two ambitions; one was to get to heaven, and the other was to be stationed in the city of new york, and if they were to miss either, he thought they would prefer to go to new york! now i know many of these self-sacrificing gentlemen i see around me have in the past of their lives been trying to do good, looking for their reward largely in the next world; but i fear in the future, when we come to fix the place of our next annual meeting, they will forget the spirit of self-sacrifice and the world to come, and say, "let us go to ottumwa!" [great laughter.] i wish i could express to the citizens of ottumwa the genuine appreciation that i know these my brethren feel for them. it could not be otherwise than that they should love you. you have appreciated us and we must ever appreciate you. your example also may be valuable to us; others may hear of your good works and may be thereby moved to be equally mindful of our necessities. [applause.] my first knowledge of ottumwa was in the year . it was then a straggling village of one street lined on either side with wooden shanties. it would have been impossible for me to have imagined then that in a few short years, whilst i am yet a young man [laughter], there should be built here a substantial city of fifteen thousand inhabitants. this goodly town is indeed a proud monument to the thrift, enterprise, intelligence, and taste of its inhabitants. its commercial and manufacturing interests, and its tasteful architecture you may justly be proud of. iowa is indeed a remarkable state and her people a peculiar people. we have but few drones in the hive. our population is made up of simply the young and the strong and the enterprising of the other states that have come hither to build up their personal fortunes, and who have at the same time laid well and strong the foundations of a great state. there is scarcely a college or university of any of the older states that is not well represented in our men and women. we have come together here and what one did not know he has learned from his next door neighbor. all have contributed something to the common fund of knowledge and enterprise. we have now built our own schoolhouses and colleges, and today we have a less per cent of illiteracy than any other state in the union. but there is one burden on my heart and one thought i desire to express: what is the future to be? are we giving to the state the children that may worthily fill our places and take up and carry forward the work that we have begun? the highest duty that we owe to the state is to furnish to it in our children that perfect type of manhood that will constitute its true glory. what signifies this accumulation of wealth, these fine buildings, this beautiful architecture, if our sons are to be profligates and the accursed saloon is to destroy all the fruit of our toil. the time has come when as citizens and as fathers we must seriously address ourselves to this problem of our civilization. i came to iowa more than thirty years ago. i formed many warm attachments among the young men, then just beginning life. i remember the pride and hope that these young men and their then young wives had in their children. as i visit the older towns where these men have lived and won honorable distinction i have inquired for their children. alas! too often it is a sad story and a painful remembrance, and i have asked myself the question, is this always to be so? and is there no help? but enough of this; i forget i was not appointed to preach a sermon, but to respond to a toast, and to express the appreciation of these stockbreeders for your kindness. you have done well. the scriptures exhort "that we should not be forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." now i am willing to admit that it would be a violent imagination that would mistake one of these lusty stockbreeders for an angel. it will probably be some time before even the pin-feathers will sprout from their shoulder blades. but they are susceptible and under proper influences and conditions i don't know what may happen. i remember in the early days of des moines, when we were dependent upon ourselves entirely for amusements, the ladies got up a public entertainment consisting chiefly of tableaux. i had the honor of officiating as stage manager. one representation was of a good and an evil spirit, representing an angel and a devil. the ladies were quite tardy in getting ready. i went into the green room to hurry matters and found the ladies dressing [great applause and continued interruption]. do not interrupt in the middle of a sentence. i was saying i found the ladies dressing the angel--a young lady to whom they were attaching a pair of wings. i chided their delay and unfortunately remarked, "that it took a long time to make an angel out of a woman." the man who was to represent the evil spirit was sitting by, all ready, with blackened face and horns, and one of the ladies, pointing to him instantly remarked, "that it took but little time to make a devil out of a man." of course it is only a question of time with all of this crowd. we all expect to be angels but it will take time and good feeding. i believe i have fully exhausted the subject assigned to me, to say nothing of the audience. it is sad to have to make a speech when you don't know beforehand what you are going to say and nobody knows after you are done what you have said. brethren we have cast our bread upon the waters--and it has returned to us after many days, literally and substantially. i cannot conclude without thanking you for your quiet and uninterrupted attention. during my visit to emporia, kansas, with my niece, rose vimont, i found a volume written by alexander h. stephens, evidently for the purpose of justifying the attempt that had been made to destroy the government of the united states by the disintegration of the government and the establishment of the doctrine of the right of secession. that fall i was invited by the president of the faculty of simpson centenary college at indianola, iowa, to deliver an address at the college commencement. i accordingly prepared with considerable care a lecture upon the constitutional relations of the national and state governments, in which i endeavored to combat the heresies contained in stephens's book, and the great truth that the national government was not a compact between sovereign states, but was what it purported to be--a government emanating from the source of all power: to-wit, the people. the trustees and faculty of the college, after this lecture, honored me by conferring upon me the degree of doctor of laws. this lecture i afterwards delivered, upon the invitation of the president and faculty of drake university, before the students of that institution, and also before the law class of the state university at iowa city. about this time i also prepared and delivered on several occasions a lecture upon the legal rights of married women, containing some sarcasm and criticism upon the advanced legislation by which under our laws a wife could bring suit in the courts and obtain judgment upon a promissory note executed by her husband and payable to herself, citing an instance in which this doctrine had actually been put in practice, and remarking upon the right of the wife to issue execution against her husband and cause a levy to be made upon his personal property for the payment of the judgment, stating, however, that the law in its humanity and pity for the husband had fortunately exempted the husband's wearing apparel, including his pantaloons, from execution. this lecture i also delivered, at the request of several local institutions in several parts of the state. chapter xviii b. f. allen's bankruptcy on the nd day of january, , the citizens of des moines were startled by the news that the cook county bank of chicago, illinois, of which bank b. f. allen was president, had closed its doors. a meeting of the citizens was called and held for consultation to ascertain what effect this would have on the local affairs of our city. impressions seemed to prevail at first that the failure of the cook county bank did not necessarily involve the failure of b. f. allen or of his private bank in the city of des moines, or of the national bank of this city, of which he was president. the great question before the meeting was to ascertain "where we were at." a committee was appointed for that purpose. i had the temerity to suggest that this committee could easily ascertain what we all desired to know by examining the bills receivable in mr. allen's bank. i was decidedly of the opinion that the cook county bank had never failed and closed its doors while mr. allen controlled the means to avoid such a result. some months before this time, on my return home from business out of the state, my partner, mr. kauffman, informed me that he had purchased a certificate of deposit on b. f. allen's bank at a liberal discount from one j. c. taylor. the certificate of deposit was of recent date, payable twelve months after date. it occurred to me a very strange performance that mr. taylor should deposit fifteen hundred dollars in the bank and take a certificate payable twelve months after date, and then go into the market and sell such a certificate at a liberal discount. as i then suspected, and afterwards ascertained the fact to be, taylor had not deposited fifteen hundred dollars in the bank, but had furnished the bank his promissory note payable to the cook county bank and had received in exchange for it a certificate of deposit payable twelve months after date, and this note of taylor's had been endorsed by allen as president of the cook county bank, and had been sent to new york as an asset upon which to raise money. fortunately this little transaction coming to my knowledge induced me to remove my business from b. f. allen's bank and i lost nothing by his failure. a short time after this; to-wit, about the th of january, , a gentleman from new york, to-wit, a. n. denman, formerly a clerk in the office of allen, stephens & co., came into my office and put in my hands for suit and foreclosure the following remarkable document: new york, nov., . i hereby acknowledge the receipt of $ , of advances to the cook county national bank of chicago for my account, same being made by allen, stephens & co. in money, paper, and endorsements. i have arranged with them for additional advances. in consideration thereof i hereby grant and convey to allen, stephens & co. by way of mortgage and as security for such advances, all my real estate of every kind and description, and wherever situated. b. f. allen. this mortgage was not filed for record with the recorder of deeds of polk county until the th of january, . on the th of november, , it had been placed in a sealed package and intrusted to mr. denman in the city of new york with sealed instructions and directions for him to proceed with the package to chicago and there await further instructions. he was not even informed of the contents of the package and was instructed not to open it until he received advices from new york as to further proceedings. when the people of des moines began to realize that b. f. allen had really become a bankrupt they were ready to believe almost any theory that would exonerate him from the censure that he deserved in risking the money of his depositors in wild and foolish speculation. one theory promulgated and believed was that he had been deceived in the value of the assets of the cook county bank when he purchased the same. on the contrary the evidence taken in the suit to which i have alluded shows that he did not pay a dollar of his own money for the stock of the cook county bank. several years before his failure and before his purchase of the cook county bank, or a controlling interest in it, he had been appointed by the united states circuit court of des moines receiver in a litigation that had been commenced against the chicago, rock island & pacific railroad company. as such receiver he had come into possession of about $ , of bonds issued by the rock island company. these bonds he had hypothecated in new york city for money with which he carried on his speculations, and as the time approached for him to make settlement of his receivership he found it necessary to do something in order to save the sureties on his bond. he accordingly went to chicago and in may, , he purchased the controlling interest in the cook county bank, giving a draft for the larger part of it on allen, stephens & co., and his note for the balance, all of which was ultimately paid out of the money of the depositors of the cook county bank. the funds that he came in control of by this means enabled him to settle his receivership. mr. allen, in his testimony in the case referred to gives the following account of his losses by speculation: as a member of the firm of b. f. murphy & co., chicago $ , h. m. bush & co., grain speculation , lewis & stephens, speculators (grain) , swamp land speculation , san pete coal co. of utah , denver coal lands , kentucky lands , south evanston property , building on so. evanston property , sheffield near south chicago , grand pacific hotel stock , prairie avenue residence , chicago railway construction co. , canada southern railway co. , toledo, wabash & western r.r. co. , speculation stock exchange , these losses only foot up $ , , whereas in truth and in fact the depositor's accounts in his private bank in des moines alone amounted to $ , at the time of his failure, and his indebtedness to the charter oak life insurance company for money procured by blennerhassett from that institution amounted to over one-half million dollars, and a draft of the iowa state national bank $ , not credited to that bank until after the failure. in may , one warren hussey, of utah, visited blennerhassett & stephens in new york city and induced them to procure a pretended loan of $ , from the charter oak life insurance company, then represented by its vice-president, a man by the name of white. the money was advanced as a pretended loan to one matthew gisborn without any security whatever save the personal security of gisborn & hussey, with a private understanding that mr. white and messrs. blennerhassett & stephens should have the benefit of anticipated dividends on the stock of the mine, a large share of which was in the hands of warren hussey for his commission as procurer; in other words, it was a speculation on the part of allen, stephens & co. and white, the vice-president of the charter oak life insurance company, being one of the causes of the failure thereafter of the charter oak life insurance company, as the stock proved to be entirely worthless and the security of gisborn & hussey was of no value whatever. on april , , b. f. allen was adjudged a bankrupt on the petition of his creditors filed on the rd of february, , and hoyt sherman, of des moines, was appointed assignee in bankruptcy. mr. jeff s. polk and mr. bisbee, an attorney of chicago, were employed by the assignee in bankruptcy to defeat the suit for the foreclosure of the mortgage. the main ground of defense to this mortgage was that at the time of its execution there was an agreement between allen and stephens & blennerhassett that it should be withheld from record, and that between the time of its execution and the time that it was recorded stephens & blennerhassett represented that allen was solvent and possessed of large properties in real estate, and they caused him to be rated by the commercial bureaus of the country as worth one million dollars, and at the same time knew that he was in fact insolvent, and this defense was held to be abundantly proved by the testimony taken in the case, and the supreme court of the united states decided that as against the creditors and the assignee in bankruptcy the mortgage was absolutely void. after the original petition was filed for the foreclosure of the mortgage i filed a supplemental bill making the charter oak life insurance company the plaintiff and hoyt sherman, the assignee in bankruptcy, the respondent. after several months had elapsed from the time the suit was begun i concluded to make a personal visit to blennerhassett & stephens, of new york city, and try to understand the real situation and facts in the case. i spent some two weeks interviewing the two men who constituted the firm, but for some reason not known to me i never could obtain from them any very accurate account or reliable statement of the facts necessary to be understood to make the proper presentation of the case. mr. blennerhassett especially appeared to be a very peculiar man and his desire for concealment amounted to a controlling passion. the books of the firm of allen, stephens & co. had locks upon their lids and blennerhassett carried the key. no attempt was made to inform me of the detail of the transaction between them and the cook county bank, and i never became fully advised as to these matters except as they were developed by the testimony afterwards taken. the evidence showed that the correspondence between the house in new york and mr. allen was carried on by means of a cipher or fictitious word. allen was represented as "head," blennerhassett as "arm," and stephens as "leg" of some imaginary person. the transmission of the mortgage itself to chicago in a sealed package with sealed instructions, and the manner in which the business was transacted were well calculated to excite suspicion, or in other words give the impression that there was something that it was necessary to conceal. that allen was insolvent and had been for several years prior to his actual failure the testimony left no doubt, and the manner in which he conducted his business in connection with the house in new york was overwhelming proof that the parties knew that he could not promptly meet his pecuniary obligations. the real interested party in the transaction was the charter oak life insurance company. mr. white, the vice-president, proved to be under the influence of blennerhassett and obtained the money of the company in matters of loan and discount to an extent that was wholly unjustifiable. my visit to new york, however, was a very profitable one to myself. the charter oak life insurance company and several of the banks to whom allen's mortgages and bills receivable had been negotiated from time to time, including $ , of bonds of the des moines gas company, placed in my hands their collections, and i think that the securities that i brought home with me amounted to one half million dollars, and in the suit and foreclosure of these collaterals the firm of nourse & kauffman made very handsome profits. the litigation lasted a number of years and a final result was not obtained until the decision of the supreme court of the united states at the april term, . the opinion is reported in united states supreme court reports, volume , page . after this decision was made we filed a claim of the charter oak life insurance company against the bankrupt estate as a general creditor. in the meantime the charter oak life insurance company itself had gone into bankruptcy. we had some doubt as to whether our claim would be allowed as we had insisted on a preference that the court had decided was fraudulent. mr. j. s. polk and mr. bisbee, of chicago, finally bought the claim of the charter oak life insurance company against the bankrupt estate, and had no difficulty in having it allowed by mr. sherman, the assignee. these men also bought large and valuable portions of the real estate from mr. sherman, the assignee, and received a conveyance accordingly. the estate paid to the general creditors only, as we were advised, about fifteen cents on the dollar. another interesting feature of the transaction was that mr. allen claimed the benefit of the homestead law of iowa and claimed the fine residence on terrace hill with forty acres of land as exempt from his debts. the homestead law of iowa, however, only exempted a homestead in favor of a resident of the state. mr. allen had been for a number of years a resident of chicago, had purchased a home there, and had paid out $ , on the purchase. we also proved that he had voted as a citizen of chicago, i think at the city, county, and state elections, and that he had offered the property on terrace hill for sale and had caused a number of articles to be published in the city papers claiming the property to be worth $ , . a compromise, however, was made by the assignee in bankruptcy by which mr. allen was allowed the buildings and a limited amount of ground, and mr. f. m. hubbell purchased the same for $ , . this $ , did him no good, for within a year or two he lost it in another grain speculation on the board of trade in chicago. in the meantime his wife, who was a daughter of captain f. r. west, had become insane and imagined that her husband's creditors were pursuing her because of their losses, and she died within a few months after losing her reason. mr. allen a few years afterwards removed to california, where he still lives at the time of the present writing, holding some employment from the united states government in connection with the business of preserving the timber on the public lands in that state. [illustration: _charles clinton nourse_ from photograph by i. w. kramer, des moines] chapter xix about prohibition in the month of november, , the democratic party of the state of iowa, for the first time since the election of governor grimes in , succeeded in electing their candidate for governor; to-wit, horace boies. this was brought about by a singular combination between the railroad and the saloon interests of the state. i have already given some account of the effect upon the question of prohibition of the foolish policy pursued by the pretended friends of temperance in securing from the supreme court of the state a decision against the right to manufacture alcohol within the limits of the state for the purpose of export, and also the foolishness and wickedness of certain pretended friends of prohibition in instituting fraudulent prosecutions with a view to making costs and fees for their own personal profit. during the administration of governor larrabee the railroads of the state had become very restive under the control exercised by the railroad commissioners of the state under the law of . in the month of august, , some thirty suits were commenced in the district court of polk county against the rock island, northwestern, and "q" railroads for penalties incurred in failure to make their reports to the commissioners as required by the statute. the railroads of iowa had become a very potent political power. we had five railroads extending from the mississippi to the missouri river, and in every county of the state in which these roads were located the railroads had one or more active attorneys to look after their interests, and under such captaincy as blythe, of burlington, and hubbard, of cedar rapids, they exercised a very important influence over the politics of the state, controlling to a large extent the nomination of supreme judges and district judges and other state officers. the people of the state had become restive under the domination of this power. the open and shameless peddling of railroad passes to the members of the general assembly had begun to lose its power as against the rising indignation of the people. in the counties of lee, des moines, muscatine, scott, and dubuque on the mississippi river, and such interior counties as johnson and crawford, with their foreign population, the saloon power of the state, uniting with the railroads, was sufficient to cause a successful revolt against the party in power. horace boies, the democratic candidate for governor, openly and shamelessly declared the prohibitory law to be cruel and unjust in its provisions, and his utterances in this behalf encouraged the violators of the law to believe what they afterwards realized, that though the courts might assess penalties, yet an executive who believed the penalty to be unjust could easily be persuaded to exercise pardoning power in their remission, and such was the result. for four years during the administration of horace boies the effort to enforce the prohibitory law was almost paralyzed. after incurring all the expense and trouble incident to the conviction of any one violating the prohibitory law, the people had the mortification of seeing the judgments of the courts rendered nugatory by the wrongful exercise of the pardoning power, vested by the constitution in the governor for wise and proper purposes, prostituted by an unscrupulous politician for his own political advancement and that of his party. another cause of this successful revolution in the politics of the state arose from the absolute cowardice of the leading republicans of the state in not defending the legislation for which they were responsible. during the candidacy of boies for his second term, a gentleman who was a candidate on the state ticket for a state office applied to me and asked my consent to publicly discuss the question of prohibition with mr. boies in case the state central committee of the party would arrange for such discussion. i gave my consent to such an arrangement, provided the committee would agree to the same, but he afterwards reported to me that the committee did not think it advisable. on the part of the public speakers in behalf of the republican cause the only discussion of the question of prohibition was an apology for the enactment of the law. they did not attempt to discuss the question of right or wrong, but only that the law was enacted because the people by their vote upon the constitutional amendment had signified their approval of prohibition. the result of this cowardice and the four years' domination of the democratic party had its result in the platform adopted by the republican state convention in the year . only the year before this the republican state convention had adopted a resolution promising the people of the state that the party would take no backward step on the subject of prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage, and at this convention in they adopted the following resolution: resolved, that prohibition is not a test of republicanism. the general assembly has given to the state a prohibitory law as strong as any that has been enacted in any country. like any other criminal statute, its retention, mitigation or repeal must be determined by the general assembly, elected by and in sympathy with the people and to it is relegated the subject, to take such action as they may deem best in the matter, maintaining the present law in those portions of the state where it is now or can be made efficient, and giving to other localities such methods of controlling and regulating the liquor traffic as will best serve the cause of temperance and morality. under this platform, which merely meant the return of the open licensed saloon to iowa in such localities in which the people would tolerate them, mr. a. b. cummins and his followers were all received back with open arms as prodigal sons and became at once important leaders politically in the republican party. the friends of prohibition were shocked and alarmed at this result and at once the prominent and more courageous prohibitionists of the state joined in a call for an independent republican convention favorable to prohibition. at the solicitation of a number of prohibitionists in the city of des moines i prepared the following address and call for a state convention, which address was adopted by a public meeting, held in the city of des moines: when, through the machinations of men who, in their desire for success, have lost sight of principle, causes dear to humanity are about to be sacrificed, it becomes the duty of patriotic citizens to make an organized effort to rescue their imperiled rights. as republicans we assert our unqualified devotion to the doctrines and principles of the republican party as heretofore set forth in our national platform, and as declared by republican state conventions and put in practical effect in the state of iowa by republican legislators prior to the meeting of the republican state convention, held at des moines on the sixteenth inst. we declare that through the patriotic efforts of the republican party of iowa prohibition had become the settled policy of the state, and that any attempt on the part of the politicians to induce the party to take a backward step on that question is to repudiate a past honorable record and to uselessly endanger future success by a base imitation of a hitherto despised opposition. more than forty years ago the people of iowa without distinction of party declared through the enactment of their general assembly, that the "people of this state would hereafter take no part in the profits of the retail of intoxicating liquors." this principle was again approved by the people of the state in the adoption of the act of , approved by governor grimes, and more recently the people again endorsed the principle by adopting a constitutional amendment prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors for the purpose of a beverage. the people of the state of iowa have never indicated any desire for a change of policy on this question, but on the contrary through the action of their representatives expressly elected upon this issue, they have constantly and consistently adhered to our present law. the declarations of the recent republican convention have not been brought about by any change of sentiment on the part of the republicans of the state, but in our judgment its action is the result of a combination of politicians who had other and ulterior purposes at heart, and have failed to realize that whatever may have been their own want of convictions upon the question, the great mass of people have been honest and sincere. the honest voters of the republican party are not "clay in the hands of the potter," to be molded into any fashion that may suit the professional politician. the battle that for the past quarter of a century they have been waging against the liquor power and influence, and in which they have gained so many signal triumphs, has not been prompted by a mere desire for office or place, nor have our forces been kept together by the mere "cohesive power of the hope of public plunder." hence if the defeat of could in any measure have been attributed to the position of the party on the question of prohibition, it would not constitute a valid reason for a shameful surrender and retreat. when the republican party declared for the maintenance of the prohibitory law, and promised that the party would take no backward step on this question, the earnest and honest men of the party did not mean that the party would only pursue that policy so long as it would win, but they meant that prohibition was right and that they would maintain the right, and that they intended to fight it out on that line, not only that summer, but until the saloon should make an unconditional surrender. we have reasons to believe and do believe that the platform of the convention of the sixteenth inst., on the subject of temperance, was brought about by the same combination of railroad and saloon influence that defeated our party in the election of , aided by the timid and half-hearted defense of our platform through the weakness of our state central committee. the implied threat of the same combination to repeat their opposition in the approaching election, induced the republican state central committee to unite in accomplishing this surrender. it is said and often repeated that there is no hope for the cause of prohibition except through the success of the republican party. this was undoubtedly true so long as the state platform pledged the party to maintain and enforce the law. the platform adopted on the sixteenth inst. not only does not promise to maintain prohibition as a state policy, but expressly declares in favor of "something else" in those localities where the prohibitory law was not enforced. this "something else" in the pretended "interest of true temperance" can deceive no man who does not desire to be deceived. it is a base imitation of democratic state platforms, and intends merely the "schmidt bill" or the "gatch bill" or some other equally objectionable attempt to abandon prohibition as a principle and as a state policy. we believe in the sovereignty of the state of iowa, and in its undivided sovereignty over every foot of territory within its boundaries. we do not believe the general assembly should attempt to exercise the power to make an act criminal in one part of the state and license the same act in another part of the state. the constitution of our state requires that all laws enacted by the general assembly "shall have a uniform operation." if the state shall concede that the sale of intoxicating liquors may be licensed in one part of the state and saloons may be lawfully established in one city or county, with what consistency can the state punish such acts as criminal when done in another locality within her jurisdiction. the establishment of a saloon for the propagation of drunkenness is either innocent or a criminal act. we recognize no middle ground. we do not believe in compromising with criminals or commuting offenses committed against the best interests of humanity. neither do we believe the republican party of iowa can ever survive an act so inconsistent with principle and her former professions, as would be the repeal of our present prohibitory law or the enactment of a license system for any part of the state. we do not propose or recommend opposition to the election of any candidate for the general assembly on the republican ticket who is in favor of maintaining and enforcing our present law. the election of such is consistent with our past history and policy and will secure a republican united states senator. if, however, any candidate for the general assembly on the republican ticket shall declare for a saloon as against what has heretofore been recognized as republicanism, the responsibility of his defeat, with all its political consequences, will be upon him, and not upon those who are true to their convictions and principles and the past policy of the party. we, therefore, the republicans of polk county in mass convention assembled, at the instance and with the coöperation of the republicans of sac and other counties of the state, who protest and dissent from the action of the state convention of the sixteenth inst., with the view of an organized effort that may save our party from committing the great wrong and outrage attempted, do hereby invite all citizens who agree with us in sentiment and purpose to meet in delegate convention in calvary tabernacle at des moines, iowa, on tuesday the fifth day of september, a.d. , at a.m., to take such steps and devise such measures as _first._ will secure the election to the general assembly at the november election of such candidates only as will maintain the present prohibitory law. _second._ as will secure such action and such an expression of the will and wishes of the people of the state as will convince the republican managers that the path of honor is the only path of safety. the call for this convention alarmed the leaders of the republican party in the state, and they were very active in their efforts to counteract its effect. the convention was held according to the call on the th of september, , and we had a very large representation and a very enthusiastic convention. we adopted a platform embracing the principles indicated in the call for the convention and nominated a state ticket. our candidate for governor, mr. l. s. coffin, was not present in the convention, but doctor fellows, a prominent prohibitionist of the state, vouched for his entire sympathy with the movement and his acceptance of the nomination. mrs. j. ellen foster, who had been president of the national w.c.t.u., was sent by politicians from washington, d.c., and was present at the convention, for the purpose, if possible, of alienating such as she could influence from taking part in or endorsing the movement. she seated herself in the gallery over against the chair occupied by the president and scowled and looked vengeance at those who took an active part in its proceedings. when i read the call for the convention before set out she looked for all the world like tam o'shanter's wife when waiting for tam's return, "knitting her brows like a gathering storm and nursing her wrath to keep it warm." during the recess of the convention she was very busy button-holing first one and then another of the prominent prohibitionists in attendance, taking them to a private parlor in the hotel and laboring with them to convince them that the success of the republican party was more important than the question of prohibition. after our nomination of coffin as our candidate for governor, mr. lafe young, editor of the _capital_, made a visit to mr. coffin at his home at fort dodge. mr. coffin had prepared his letter of acceptance of our nomination, but young induced him to cut it in two and change the latter half of it so that it would read a declination of the nomination, and by some means unknown to the public induced mr. coffin to take the stump and make a number of speeches on the tariff question during the political canvass that year. by some means unknown also to me, the leading railroad lawyers of the state who had supported boies were induced to return to their allegiance to the republican party, and the party succeeded in electing jackson their candidate for governor, and also electing a legislature in sympathy with their saloon platform. the general assembly that met in january, , accordingly passed the act known as the mulct law, being chapter of the laws of the th general assembly of the state. this act does not in terms attempt to repeal the prohibitory law then in force in the state. on the contrary, section of the act expressly provides: "nothing in this act contained, shall be in any way construed to mean that the business of the sale of intoxicating liquors is in any way legalized, nor is the same to be construed in any manner or form as a license, nor shall the assessment or payment of any tax for the sale of liquors as aforesaid, protect the wrongdoer from any penalty now provided by law, except that on conditions hereinafter provided certain penalties may be suspended." the next section of the act provides for the circulation of a petition, and by obtaining a certain majority or percentage of the voters to sign a petition to that effect the penalties provided in the prohibitory liquor law shall not be enforced against the offender. under this law the brewers of st. louis and milwaukee employed men to circulate petitions, paying them five dollars a day for their services in obtaining signatures to petitions in certain counties of the state, under which the parties who paid the required tax were secured against any prosecutions for violations of the law. i tried several cases in the district and supreme court of the state for the purpose of testing the constitutionality of this act of the legislature. it placed the pardoning power theretofore exercised by the governor of the state in the hands of the brewers of milwaukee and st. louis and their employees, provided they could by such means as they might adopt, obtain the required number of signatures to such petitions. it clearly recognized that what was a crime under the law in one part of the state, might be committed provided the necessary amount was furnished and paid into the public treasury as a commutation for the offense, and that payment should be made in advance without reference to the number of offenses that might be committed. it was clearly not a law of uniform operations under the decisions of our supreme court as theretofore held, for it was a crime in one city or county in the state and not a crime in another city or county of the state; notwithstanding the law making it a crime was still left in full force and effect, except as it was abrogated in a particular locality by the signing of certain petitions. strange to say the supreme court of iowa, notwithstanding their former decisions to which i have heretofore referred, sustained this law and its constitutionality, and under it in all of the counties of the state where we had any considerable foreign population the legalized saloon has returned to do its deadly work and the only compensation for it is that men who call themselves republicans have been able to hold and enjoy the honors of public office. after the decision of our supreme court upon the question of the constitutionality of this act i received from the editors of a law publication east a communication requesting my views and opinions for publication in their law magazine, and i simply wrote upon the letter addressed to me the statement that the decision made by our supreme court under this law was a political necessity and that it was an old and true adage that necessity knew no law, and i had no further comments to make upon it. since the prominent part that i took in this canvass of my standing with the republican party has been rather impaired; nevertheless, subsequently in the campaigns of mr. wm. jennings bryan involving the national policy of the republican party, i have taken very active part. the free coinage of silver heresy of mr. bryan i regarded as a serious menace to the integrity and honor of the nation, and i spent very considerable time and my own private means in making public speeches condemning that wild and visionary scheme. in state politics i have taken no active part since . i never belonged to or coöperated with what has been known as the "third party" or the prohibition party as a national organization. when the prohibitionists of iowa united with the national organization i strongly advised against it. i could not see any hope of accomplishing anything by such an organization. the states of kansas, iowa, and the dakotas had become prohibition, and in my judgment the only effectual way of reaching the question of prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage, or the establishment of places of resort for such sale, was by the exercise of the police power of the states in the management of their own domestic affairs. the congress of the united states had no control over the subject, except in the matter of revenue laws or the taxing of the manufacture or sale of liquors. our courts and the supreme court of the united states had agreed that the payment of taxes under these revenue laws and the issuing of what has been called a license, was really no protection as against the state law and its penalties. the general government does not exercise police power within the state but it may enforce penalties for the violation of revenue laws or enact laws regulating commerce within the states, but it cannot prohibit the establishment of the saloon or the maintenance of such a place merely upon the ground of preserving public order and morality. i could not and never have been able, therefore, to see the propriety of a national organization based upon the idea of prohibiting the sale of intoxicating liquors as a beverage, or establishing places of resort for such sale. another objection to this third party, the national prohibition party, so-called, has been the adoption of a platform favoring universal suffrage without reference to sex. this also is a question over which the congress of the united states have not heretofore exercised any jurisdiction. the question of suffrage or the right to vote has been a matter peculiarly within the control of each state of the union and its local constitution and laws, and is not and never has been a matter of national politics. i have always believed and still believe that if the prohibitionists had confined their efforts to the several states, capturing those in which they had some prospect of success, their cause would have grown and become stronger each year. the great centers of population such as new york city, chicago, cincinnati, and st. louis, and such other cities filled as they are with foreign population, who have no sympathy with the manners and customs pertaining to these agricultural states, cannot in my judgment be brought under the control of prohibition at any time during the present or next generation of men, and i regard it as foolish to spend our time and our money in such quixotic efforts. my hope in inaugurating the movement that we made in was simply to teach the republicans of iowa the lesson that success politically was not to be attained in this state by subservience to the saloon power, and that defeat in the election of that year might result in a return of the party to its better and higher purposes in maintaining that which was right and just and humane. that we were defeated in that effort at that time was most unfortunate, but the domination of the political power of the saloon, i still have faith to believe, will work its own destruction, and that the people of this state will return to their former convictions. chapter xx personal incidents in the spring of the year i sold my home, fourth street, and built a house for my residence on my farm. we left the old home with no little regret. it had been our place of residence since the fall of , with the exception of two years in which we fitted up the property temporarily on the corner of fifth and center, while we built the new house on fourth in the old location. we had planted the shade trees of hard and soft maple. here our child had been born and had grown to manhood, here we had celebrated our silver wedding in , and had enjoyed the society of many kind friends and persons of distinction and influence in the state. bishop andrews, the bishop of the methodist episcopal church, with his family, resided nearly opposite to our house, and bishop hearst and his family had lived on third street nearby, and our excellent neighbors, a. y. rawson and his first wife, thos. f. withrow and his family, had been our kind friends through many years. here we had entertained such men as governor grimes and governor kirkwood and his wife, senator harlan and his wife, bishop waldron, bishop simpson, and other distinguished men of the state and of the church. the most difficult problem in my life that i had to solve was the care and education of my son. i felt that everything was at stake in his proper discipline and education. during his early childhood we sent him to school as already mentioned to mrs. winkley, afterwards for some years to the public school and still later to callanan college, an institution taught by dr. pomeroy. when the time came for him to go from home and attend college my first thought was to send him to iowa city to the state university, but i had grave fears in regard to the influence that prevailed in that city. the college campus was environed by saloons and public sentiment of that town was far from being what it ought to have been. attorneys had been mobbed in the streets of the city for the offense of prosecuting the violators of the prohibitory law, and there had been no proper expression of public sentiment condemning the outrage. i consulted with a number of the best citizens of iowa city in regard to the matter of sending my son there for his education, but i became satisfied that they knew but very little of what was transpiring in the city after bedtime. i thought it prudent to make an investigation on my own account. i accordingly took the train that left des moines at five o'clock in the afternoon, arriving at iowa city about half past nine. i went to the st. james hotel and quietly registered my name and engaged a room for the night, but did not go to bed. i waited until about half past ten or eleven o'clock, and took my hat and started out on a tour of inspection. i visited a number of the saloons on the public square and found them filled with young men, no doubt students of the college, and i met several crowds of these young gentlemen on the street headed by one of the trustees of the college in not a very sober condition. i returned to my hotel with my mind fully made up that my boy should go without an education before i would subject him to the risk of being educated in such a town. subsequently i visited ames in company with my wife and selected a proper room in the dormitory for my son's occupancy, and we sent him to ames accordingly. he afterwards spent a year in california before settling down to business as an architect in des moines. [illustration: _rebecca a. mcmeekin nourse_ from photograph by edinger] he was anxious to design a country farm house that should be a credit to his own skill and ability. our new house was completed in the latter part of july of that year. we found it somewhat inconvenient to be so far away from our church privileges and from business, but took great pleasure in improving our grounds and setting out fruit and ornamental trees for our new home. i had the old road changed so as to run east of the house. my wife soon became very much attached to the new home and here we had many pleasant reunions with our old friends and neighbors. in i rented the farm, including the land in section bought of sneer, to mr. charles west for the term of three years, he carrying on a dairy farm on the place, reserving from his lease the right to occupy the orchard as well as my own residence, and also the right of pasture for a team of horses and a couple of cows. the next year, , my son contracted marriage with miss elizabeth baehring, and here were born my two grandchildren, clinton baehring nourse on april , , and lawrence baehring nourse on october , . my son and his wife and first child made a trip to europe in the year . in my son purchased a property on fifth street and removed to the city and occupied the same until the fall of the year, when the children were both taken down with diphtheria. he put them both at once in a carriage and brought them out to our country home, where the oldest of the two children died september th. this was the first death we had in the family, and i purchased a lot in woodland cemetery where the little one was laid away. the following year my health became somewhat impaired and i had a serious attack of what they called la grippe. i was somewhat overworked at that time, and under the advice of my physician i went with my wife to the state of florida and spent the winter in st. petersburg in that state, returning early in the spring and resuming my practice. for several successive years since then i have spent my winters in st. petersburg, florida. in the year my son's health became seriously impaired, and early that fall with his wife and child he visited california, and in december of that year my wife and myself joined them. my son suffered from severe nervous condition that made it impossible for him to sleep only a few hours out of each twenty-four. he was reduced in flesh to about pounds weight and i became seriously concerned for his future. finding outdoor travel to agree with him better than treatment of the doctors, we finally in the month of april, , determined upon a camping expedition and a visit to the yosemite valley. we fitted out two teams with camp wagons and tent, and started from long beach about the th of april, traveling about twenty miles a day, going first via the coast to santa barbara and thence via merced over to the yosemite valley. at santa barbara my wife concluded she would not go any further with us on the trip. our roads over mountains were very narrow, the outer wheel of the wagon only three or four feet from the precipice, and she suffered nervous apprehension that deprived her of any real enjoyment of the trip. i secured the services of a young man to accompany us on the further trip and to aid in the work incident to camp life. my son's wife had suffered from a spell of nervous indigestion and was scarcely able to do the cooking for her husband and child. i became the cook for myself and my assistant and acquired considerable skill in making coffee and flapjacks and frying breakfast bacon. the scenery upon this trip and in the valley of the yosemite has been described by many writers more skilled than myself in putting their impressions upon paper. i can only say that we all enjoyed the trip exceedingly and were strongly impressed with these wonderful mountains and valleys and great trees that have acquired a world-wide reputation. my wife and myself returned to iowa and to our home early in july, . during the second year of the tenancy of mr. chas. west i had the misfortune of losing all of my barns and outbuildings by fire. the loss amounted to about $ , and i only had $ insurance on one of the barns. i immediately rebuilt the barns and granary and corn cribs, taking the precaution also to build a separate barn for my own use. a few months after my return from california in that year i discovered that one of my eyes had failed, supposed to be caused by a callous condition of the optic nerve. soon after the other eye became affected in the same way, and later in the fall i was unable to read. i first applied to and received treatment from dr. pearson; afterwards i visited chicago and took treatment of an oculist of some reputation there. the following winter i took treatment from dr. amos of des moines, and spent two weeks in the methodist hospital without receiving any relief or seeming benefit. these physicians were all candid enough to confess their inability to do me any good, and since that time i have been partially deprived of the use of my sight, and have not been able to read or write. my physicians promised me several years ago that i should lose my sight entirely, but in this i am happy to say they were wrong. i can still see imperfectly to get about and avoid collision with objects, but i am not able to recognize the features of friends and acquaintances. i have continued every year to visit st. petersburg during the winter season, and have made many pleasant and interesting acquaintances among the tourists who visit annually that place. on the first day of november, , my beautiful home was totally destroyed by fire. we lost all our furniture and clothing, except my private library and furnishings on the first floor of the house, which we succeeded in rescuing from the flames. the previous winter my wife had accompanied me to florida and remained with me there during the season. after our house was destroyed we removed to the city and occupied apartments with my son and his wife in a block of flats then belonging to my son on fifth street. the following winter, - , i spent in st. petersburg, returning home in april of that year. i had been home only a few days before we made the sad discovery that my wife's health was fast failing. at her earnest solicitation, however, we rebuilt our house on the farm and in august of that year reëstablished ourselves in the location of our old home. and now comes the saddest event of my life. on the th day of november, succeeding, my wife passed away. the previous st of march was her eightieth birthday. a short time before that date while at st. petersburg, florida, i received from my daughter elizabeth a letter stating that she intended to have some friends spend an evening with my wife to have a birthday celebration, and requesting me to write some verses and also to send a new silk dress pattern to be presented to my wife on the occasion. i had a premonition that the sad event that later transpired in the fall was not far off. i wrote as cheerfully as i could under the circumstances and sent my daughter a check with which to purchase the silk dress pattern, and the following verses i composed as well as i could with my defective sight. they were read on the occasion, and those present assure me that my wife was cheerful and enjoyed their visit very much: my dear wife:-- elizabeth, our daughter, writes to me that she intends to have some friends to tea; she says she can't invite them all, because our house is much too small, but she selected just a few, the ones she thinks are dearest most to you. she intends to celebrate, for mother dear, the birthday of her eightieth year, and she requests that i shall write to thee, what she is pleased to call some poetry, and that because i can't be there she'll read it from my vacant chair. she also writes, that while your health is good, that very lately she has understood that you are suffering some distress, and i must buy for you a new silk dress, and send it there together with the poetry, that she could have them both in time for tea. the journey has been very long my dear, and you have safely reached your eightieth year, but you will never seem so old to me, i still recall your face just as it used to be. your brow is smooth, your eyes are bright, you still retain your appetite. this human life doth now as ever depend so much upon the liver. some sixty years ago, i knew a fair young girl, she looked like you. we fell in love, a youthful dream, but even now, this world would seem a barren waste, if i could doubt the love i could not live without. 'tis more than fifty years since we were wed, how rapidly the time has fled. the way has not been always smooth, i only cite the fact to prove our love was true. that is to say we found some shadows o'er our way. but they were shadows only, and did not bother, for reaching out our hands to touch each other we kept the path until the light shone out again and all was right. we've had our joy, our grief and sorrow, differed today, agreed tomorrow, forgave each other and repented, firm one day, the next relented, but after all the truth to tell i think we've averaged very well. 'tis almost four and fifty years since you, with many sighs and tears, bade farewell to home and friends, not knowing what your life might be, with only faith in god and love for me. i'm thinking of the time gone by, when from your home, both you and i came west to seek and make a home that we might claim and call our own. without our kindred, friends or wealth, we started forth with youth and health. whate'er we have, whate'er we've gained we know we've honestly obtained, and we grew strong in faith and hope, and never thought of giving up. to our store we added day by day, and faithful friends have joined us on our way. no woman ever bore a son more true and faithful than our one, and when he grew to man's estate and sought and found a worthy mate, we got our daughter ready grown and took and loved her for our own. but there's another blessing yet and one we never can forget: our dearest laurence-- the only grandchild we have left, since of the other one bereft; but there is also present here a cherub from another sphere. he comes to us from realms above, drawn hither by the power of love. we can but feel his presence here to honor grandma's eightieth year. i do not know how many more of birthdays you may have in store. it is not within our ken to know, just how much further you may have to go before you reach the end. but whether near or far, we all will meet you at the "gates ajar." in my younger days i had been accustomed somewhat occasionally to indulge myself in the attempt of writing what out of courtesy to my literary qualifications might be called poetry, though my life was too busy a life to indulge much in sentiment or even to indulge much in imagination. some time the year before i wrote this for my wife's birthday, i composed and wrote the following for the benefit of the early settler's association of polk county, which was sung with considerable enthusiasm at several of their picnic celebrations. the song is sung to the tune of "john brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave," and is as follows: the early settlers' picnic has come around again, and here we are together the few that still remain, to exchange our hearty greetings and to join in this refrain, as we go marching on. chorus--glory, glory, hallelujah, glory, glory, hallelujah, glory, glory, hallelujah, we still are marching on. 'tis many years ago since we all came out west to grow up with the country that is now the very best. god gave the soil and climate and the settlers did the rest when they came marching on. chorus-- we left our homes in yonder for the far off iowa. we came and saw her beauty and settled down to stay, and there's not a soul among us that has ever rued the day when we came marching on. chorus-- this is the land of promise where the milk and honey flow, with corn and pumpkin plenty, and where pies and puddings grow, with every other blessing that nature can bestow as we go marching on. chorus-- we may seem a little older for our heads are silvered o'er, but our hearts are still as young as they were in days of yore, and we still recount the blessings the future has in store as we go marching on. chorus-- this is a goodly land where we have lived and loved together; we have borne the heat of summer and faced the coldest weather. glory, hallelujah! our iowa forever! we still are marching on. chorus-- our nation is united as it never was before, all are happy and contented with old glory floating o'er. we are coming father abraham with many millions more, we all are marching on. chorus-- our column is unbroken though some have gone before, they have passed across the river and have reached the shining shore, and are waiting there to greet us as they did in days of yore when we were marching on. chorus-- generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: the corridors of the courts] a philadelphia lawyer in the london courts by thomas leaming _illustrated by the author_ second edition, revised new york henry holt and company copyright, , by henry holt and company published may, preface the nucleus of this volume was an address delivered before the pennsylvania state bar association which, finding its way into various newspapers in the united states and england, received a degree of favorable notice that seemed to warrant further pursuit of a subject heretofore apparently overlooked. successive holiday visits to england were utilized for this purpose. as our institutions are largely derived from england, it is natural that the discussion of public questions and the glimpses of important trials afforded by the daily papers--usually murder trials or divorce cases--should more or less familiarize americans with the english point of view in legal matters. american lawyers, indeed, must keep themselves in close touch with the actual decisions which are collected in the reports to be found in every library and which are frequently cited in our courts. nothing in print is available, however, from which much can be learned concerning the barristers, the judges, or the solicitors, themselves, whose labors establish these precedents. they seem to have escaped the anthropologist, so curious about most vertebrates, and they must be studied in their habitat--the inns of court, the musty chambers and the courts themselves. the more these almost unknown creatures are investigated, the more will the pioneer appreciate the difficulty of penetrating the highly specialized professional life of england, of mastering the many peculiar customs and the elaborate etiquette by which it is governed and of reproducing the atmosphere of it all. he will find that he can do little but record his observations. it was not unknown to him that some lawyers in england are called barristers, some solicitors, and he had a vague impression that the former, only, are advocates, whose functions and activities differ from those of the solicitor; but he was hardly conscious that the two callings are as unlike as those of a physician and an apothecary. it requires personal observation to see that the barristers, belonging to a limited and somewhat aristocratic corps, less than of whom monopolize the litigation of the entire kingdom, have little in common with the solicitors, scattered all over england. the former are grouped together in their chambers in the inns, their clients are solicitors only, they have no contact, perhaps not even an acquaintance, with the actual litigants and a cause to them is like an abstract proposition to be scientifically presented. the solicitors, on the other hand, constitute the men of law-business, whose clients are the public, but who can not themselves appear as advocates and must retain the barristers for that purpose. again, it is difficult to grasp fully the influence exercised through life by the barrister's inn--that curious institution, with its five hundred years of tradition--voluntarily joined by him when a youth; where he has received his training; by which he has been called to the bar and may be disbarred for cause, and upon the benchers of which inn he must naturally look as his exemplars, although the lord chancellor may be the nominal creator of king's counsel and the donor of judge-ships. the impulse of these inns is still felt at the american bar, despite more than a century's separation, for, about the time of the revolution, over a hundred american law students were in attendance, not only acquiring, for use in the new country, a sound legal training, but absorbing the spirit of the profession which has been transmitted to posterity, although its source may be forgotten. nor will anything he has read prepare the american for the abyss which separates the common law barrister, who spends his days in jury trials, from the chancery man, who knows nothing but equity courts; nor for the complete ignorance, if not contempt, with which they seem to regard each other. k. c.'s, indeed, are afforded their title in the reports--even in the newspapers--but nowhere does it appear that "leaders" are appointed by the judge of a particular equity court to "take their seats" and practice before him exclusively, being associated in each case with "juniors," who in turn have "devils" to prepare their cases; or that a leader may sever this relation and thereafter "go special"; yet all these, and many other peculiar and inviolable customs, are handed down from one generation to another to be followed as if by instinct: and the profession would no more trouble the busy world with such matters than a dog would feel it necessary to explain that he turns thrice before lying down, simply because his wolfish ancestor did so in order to make a bed in the grass. in this environment of ancient custom, however, the american is surprised to find the most up-to-date courts in the world and an administration of law which is so prompt, so colloquial, so simple, so free from formality and so thoroughly in touch with the ordinary man's every-day life, as to provoke a blush for the tribunals of the vaunted new world, still lagging in their archaic conventionality and their diffuse and dilatory methods. at home, the american has been perplexed by the threadbare assertion that we have as many judges in a large city as has all england, but he shortly learns that such comparison considers only the few judges of the high court, and ignores the others and the officials performing judicial functions, so numerous that the little island fairly teems with its justiciary and that the implied criticism is due to ignorance of the facts. the trials, both civil and criminal, will reveal the complete triumph of common sense and the englishman will appear at his best in his court, for there he leads the world. the hearty good humor, alacrity and crispness of the proceedings, the absence of declamation but the avoidance of monotony by the proper distribution of emphasis, all combine to delight the practised observer. the disciplining of the profession by means of a body to whom may be privately submitted questions of morals and manners, mostly solved by gentle admonition and rarely by severe action, will suggest that our single punishment--disbarment--is so drastic as rarely to be invoked and hence largely fails as a corrective. from the "bobby" in the street, to the lord chancellor on the woolsack, from a hearing by a registrar to collect a petty debt, to the donning of the black cap in order to sentence a murderer; all will prove suggestive to the alert american who will nevertheless depart with a feeling that, while there is room for improvement at home, yet, upon the whole, there is much of which to be proud in our administration of the sound old law of our ancestors. the kindly aid of a number of english judges, barristers and solicitors, by way of suggestion and criticism, is gratefully acknowledged. the occasional illustrations are photographic reproductions of original oil sketches. philadelphia, april, . preface to the second edition in accordance with the kind suggestions of a well-known barrister, a number of corrections have been adopted in the text of this edition. some of them it had been the intention of the author to make before his death and others have seemed necessary in order to secure greater accuracy and to preserve the value of the book for purposes of reference. may , . contents chapter page i. first impressions the law courts building on the strand.--a court room.--participants in a trial.--wigs and gowns. --colloquial methods.--agreeable voices.-- similarity to american trials. ii. the making of lawyers classes from which barristers and solicitors are drawn.--the inns of court.--inns of chancery.-- american students at period of revolution.--a barrister's chambers.--training of barristers in an inn.--being called to the bar.--training of solicitors. iii. barristers waiting for solicitors as clients. "devilling." --juniors.--conduct of a trial.--"taking silk." --becoming a k. c.--active practice.--the small number of barristers. iv. barristers--the common law and chancery bars bar divided into two parts. no distinction between criminal and civil practice.--leaders.--"taking his seat" in a particular court.--"going special." --list of specials and leaders.--significance of gowns and "weepers." "bands."--"court coats."-- wigs in the house of lords.--barristers' bags, blue and red. v. solicitors line which separates them from the bar.--solicitor a business man.--family solicitors.--great city firms of solicitors.--the number of solicitors in england and wales.--tendency toward abolishing the distinction between barrister and solicitor.-- solicitors wear no distinctive dress except in county courts.--solicitors' bags. vi. business and fees influential friends of barrister.--junior's and leader's brief fees.--fees of common law and chancery barristers.--barrister partnerships not allowed.--english litigation less important than american.--clerks of barristers and solicitors haggle over fees.--solicitors' fees. vii. discipline of the bar and of solicitors the general council of the bar.--the statutory committee of the incorporated law society. --rulings on various matters.--lapses from correct standards. viii. the civil courts the general system.--different courts.--rules of practice made by lord chancellor.--juries, common and special.--judges and how appointed.--judges' pay.--costs. court notes.--some differences in english and american methods. ix. courts of appeal the court of appeal.--house of lords.--divisional court.--judicial committee of the privy council. x. masters--the time savers current hearings.--minor issues threshed out. xi. the police courts current hearings. xii. the central criminal court--the old bailey current trials xiii. an important murder trial xiv. litigation arising outside of london local solicitors.--solicitors' "agency business." --the circuits and assizes.--local barristers. --the county courts.--the registrar's court. xv. general observations and conclusion index illustrations the corridors of the courts _frontispiece_ facing page crossing the strand from temple to court a jury trial a subject for the police court the sentencing of dhingra sidewalk socialism--hyde park a philadelphia lawyer in the london courts chapter i first impressions the law courts building on the strand--a court room--participants in a trial--wigs and gowns --colloquial methods--agreeable voices-- similarity to american trials. leaving the busy strand at temple bar and entering the law courts building, one plunges into that teeming hive where the disputes of millions of british subjects are settled by law. here the whole kingdom begins and ends its legal battles--except the cases on circuit, those minor matters which go to the county courts, and the very few which reach the house of lords. the visitor, strolling through the lofty gothic hall and ascending one of the stair-cases to the second floor, finds himself in a long, vaulted corridor, sombre and quiet, which runs around the building. there are no idle crowds and there is no smoking, but, curiously enough, frequent refreshment bars occupy corners, where drink as well as food is dispensed by vivacious bar-maids.[a] here and there, a uniformed officer guards a curtained door through which may be had a glimpse of a court room; but no sound escapes, because of a second door of glass, also draped with curtains. groups of litigants and witnesses await their turns or emerge with flushed faces and discuss their recent experiences before returning to the roar of london. barristers pace up and down in wig and gown, or retire to a window-seat for conference with their respective solicitors. a mere sight-seer, having thus visited the courts, passes on his way, but as the administration of law, from the lord chancellor to the "bobby," is the thing best done in england and commands the admiration and imitation of the world, the courts deserve more than a casual visit. passing the officer and the double-curtained doors, one enters the court-room, which is usually small and lofty, with gray stone walls panelled in oak, subdued in color and well lighted from above. the admirable arrangement of seats sloping steeply upward on all sides, instead of resting upon a level floor, brings the heads of speakers and auditors near together; and the bright colors of the judges' robes--scarlet with a blue sash over the shoulder in the case of the lord chief justice, and blue with a scarlet sash in the case of most of the others, together with various modifications of broad yellow cuffs--first strike the eye. the judge's bewigged head, as he sits behind his desk, is about twelve feet above the floor. on his left, at the same level, stands the witness, who has reached the box by a small stairway. at the judge's right are the jury, seated in a box of either two rows of six or three rows of four, the back row being nearly on a level with the judge. in front of the judge, but so much lower as to oblige him to stand on his chair when whispering to his lordship, sits his "associate," a barrister in wig and gown, whom we should designate as the clerk of the court. facing the associate is the "solicitors' well," at the floor level, where, on the front row of benches, sit the solicitors in ordinary street dress. then come the barristers--all in wig and gown--seated on wooden benches, each row with a narrow desk which forms the back of the seat in front. the desks are supplied with ink wells, and with the inevitable quill pen. the barristers keep their places until their cases are reached and then try them from the same seats, so that there is always a considerable professional audience. for the public there is little accommodation--usually only a few benches back of the barristers and a meagre gallery above. the solicitor, whose client may be the plaintiff or the defendant, has prepared the case and knows its ins and outs as well as the personal peculiarities of the parties and witnesses who will be called, but he is unable to take any part in the trial and can only whisper an occasional suggestion to the barristers he has retained, by craning his neck backward to the leader behind him. this leader is a newcomer into the case. he is a k. c. (king's counsel) who has been "retained" by the solicitor upon payment of a guinea followed by a large "agreed fee," and he leaves the "opening of the pleadings" to the junior immediately back of him, while the latter, in turn, has handed over the preparation to his "devil" who is seated behind him. thus, the four men engaged on a side, instead of being grouped around a counsel table, as in america, are seated one in front of the other at different levels, rendering a general consultation difficult when questions suddenly arise. the two men on each side of the case who know most about it have no voice in court, for the devil is necessarily as mum as the solicitor, and the name of the former does not even appear in the subsequent report of the trial. how this comes about requires some acquaintance with the different fields of activity of barristers and solicitors, which will be referred to later. in thus glancing at an english court, an american's attention is sure to be arrested by the wig. the barrister's wig, for his ordinary practice in the high court, has a mass of white hair standing straight up from the forehead, as a german brushes his; above the ears are three horizontal, stiff curls, and, back of the ears, four more, while behind there are five, finished by the queue which is divided into tails, reaching below the collar of the gown. there are bright, shiny, well-curled wigs; wigs old, musty, tangled and out of curl; some are worn jauntily, producing a smart and sporty effect, others look like extinguishers. so grotesque is the effect that it is difficult to realize that these men are not mummers in some pageant of modern london, but that they are serious participants in grave proceedings. not only the eye, but the ear will convey novel and favorable impressions to the observer. he will be struck by the cheerful alacrity and promptness of the witnesses, by the quickness and fulness of their responses, by a certain atmosphere of complete understanding between court, counsel, witnesses and jury, and more than all, by the marked courtesy, combined with an absence of all restraint, and a perfectly colloquial and good-humored interchange of thought. it is hard to define this, but it certainly differs from the air of an american tribunal where the participants seem almost sulky by comparison. the englishman in his court is evidently in his native element and appears at his best. the voices, too, are most agreeable, although many barristers acquire the high-pitched, thin tone usually associated with literary and ecclesiastical surroundings. besides superior modulation, the chief merit is in the admirable distribution of emphasis. in this respect both the dialogue and monologue in an english court room are far less monotonous than in an american. passing the superficial impression and coming to the underlying substance, there is extraordinarily little difference between law courts on both sides of the atlantic. not only is the common law the same, and the legislation of the two countries largely parallel, but the method of law-thought--the manner of approaching the consideration of questions--is precisely identical, so that, upon the whole, the diversity is no greater than that which may exist between any two of the forty-six states. indeed, so complete is the similarity that an american lawyer feels that he might step into the barristers' benches and conduct a current case without causing the slightest hitch in the proceedings, provided he could manage the wig and that the difference of accent--not very marked in men of the profession--should not attract too much attention. that the law emanating from the little island, which could be tucked away in a corner of some of our states, should have spread over the vast territory of america and control such an enormous population with its many foreign strains, and that, as the decades roll on, it should thrive, improve, and successfully grapple with problems never dreamed of in its origin, indicates its surprising vitality and stimulates interest in the methods now in vogue in its native land. footnote: [a] very recently these bars have been moved to restaurants on the lower floor. chapter ii the making of lawyers classes from which barristers and solicitors are drawn--the inns of court--inns of chancery-- students at period of revolution--a barrister's chambers--training of barristers in an inn--being called to the bar--training of solicitors. to young englishmen possessing neither fortune nor influence, the profession of the law has long been an open road to advancement in a country notable for orderly and constitutional methods, where the ultimate appeal is always to reason. perhaps the worship of money, which characterizes modern england, has somewhat lessened the prestige of success at the bar there, as it has done in america, where a millionaire, upon urging his son to enter the profession, was met by the young hopeful's reply: "pooh, father, _we_ can hire lawyers." nevertheless, the law still draws its recruits from the flower of the youth of both countries and, in england, it appeals to two types of men: to those who would become barristers, and to those whose ambition soars no higher than the solicitor's calling; moreover the classes from which the candidates are generally drawn, differ as do their training and the future functions. traditionally, indeed, the sons of gentlemen and the younger sons of peers were restricted, when seeking an occupation, to the army, the navy, the church and the bar. they never became solicitors, for that branch, like the profession of medicine, was somewhat arbitrarily excluded from possible callings, but this tradition, as is the case with many others, has been gradually losing its force of late years. it must always have been a little hazy in its application, owing to the difficulty of ascertaining accurately the status of the parent, if not a peer; and sir thomas smith who, more than three centuries ago, after describing the various higher titles, attempted a definition of the word "gentleman," could formulate nothing more definite than the following: "as for gentlemen they be made good cheap in this kingdom; for whosoever studieth the laws of the realm, who studieth in the universities, who professeth the liberal sciences, and, to be short, who can live idly and without manual labor, and will bear the port, charge and countenance of a gentleman, he shall be called master and shall be taken for a gentleman." the ancient books, too, afford a glimpse of a struggle on the part of the bar to demand a certain aristocratic deference, for an old case is reported where the court refused to hear an affidavit because a barrister named in it was not called an "esquire." that the struggle was not in vain, is evidenced by the reply of an old-time lord chancellor, who, when asked how he made his selection from the ranks of the barristers when obliged to name a new judge, answered: "i always appoint a gentleman and if he knows a little law, so much the better." naturally, the solicitor (who was formerly styled an attorney, except when practicing in an equity court) was sensitive about his own position, for the passage of a now-forgotten act of parliament was once procured, decreeing that attorneys should thereafter be denominated as "gentlemen." but times have changed in the law, as in other fields of activity, and sons of good families, as well as those of less degree, now enter both branches of the profession. hence, representatives of the best names in england are to be found on the barristers' benches side by side with self-made men, some of whom have become ornaments of the bar, and with men of divers races, such as swarthy east indians, and dutch south africans. one or two barristers may even be found, who, although members of the bar and necessarily of one of the inns, nevertheless, remain, as born, american citizens. the bar, in short, although a jealously close and exclusive organization, has become a less aristocratic body and is now a real republic where brains and character count. the same diversity of origin exists amongst the solicitors, for, as has been stated, they are now, in part, recruited from those who formerly would have condescended to nothing less than the bar. a constant improvement in training, too, in the promulgation of rules of professional conduct, in the enforcement of a firm discipline and in the nursing of traditions, all tend to raise and maintain a higher standard and a better tone than formerly existed in the ranks of the solicitors. thus, the modern tendency is that there should be less difference in the personnel of those entering either branch of the profession. candidates for the bar are mostly university men, more mature in years, perhaps, than our graduates--for boys commence and end their college courses late in england--and they are, as a rule, more broadly cultivated than those who intend to become solicitors. some, indeed, take a full course of theoretical law at oxford or cambridge before beginning practical training as a student in one of the inns of court, which are peculiarly british institutions, having no counterpart elsewhere. physically, an inn of court is not a single edifice, nor even an enclosure. it is rather an ill-defined district in which graceful but dingy buildings of diverse pattern and of various degrees of antiquity, are closely grouped together and through which wind crooked lanes, mostly closed to traffic, but available for pedestrians. unexpected open squares, refreshed by fountains, delight the eye, the whole affording the most peaceful quietude, despite the nearness of the roar of surrounding london. the four inns of court (as distinguished from the inns of chancery and serjeants' inn, all of which have ceased to exist) are, the middle temple, the inner temple, lincoln's inn and gray's inn, but the last is of minor importance in these modern days, having fallen out of fashion. the middle temple and the inner temple acquired, by lease in the xiv century, and by actual purchase in , the lands of the knights templar, consisting of many broad acres situated on the south side of the strand and fleet street, opposite the present law courts building, and the whole space is now occupied by an intricate mass of structures--the great halls, the libraries, the quaint barristers' chambers--and by the beautiful temple gardens, sloping to the thames, adorned with bright flowers and shaded by fine trees. there is no line of demarcation between the two temples--one simply melts into the other. they own in common the temple church, part of which dates from , with its recumbent black marble figures of knights in full armor and, in the churchyard, its tomb of oliver goldsmith. the wonderful hall of the middle temple, where the benchers, barristers and students still eat their stated dinners, was built about , and is celebrated for its interior, especially for the open-work ceiling of ancient oak. shakespeare's comedy, twelfth night, was performed in the hall in , and it is believed that one of the actors was the author himself. the library is a great one, but an american lawyer may be surprised at the incompleteness of the collection of american authorities. the hall of the inner temple, on the other hand, is quite modern, although most imposing and in the best of taste. lincoln's inn became possessed about of what was once the country-seat of the earl of lincoln, which, running along chancery lane, adjoins the modern law courts building on the north and consists of two large, open squares surrounded by rows of ancient dwellings, long since converted into barristers' chambers, and shady walks leading to a fine hall of no great antiquity, however. an old gateway, with the arms of the lincolns and a date, a. d. , is considered a good example of red brick-work of a gothic type--probably the only one left in london. the library, which has been growing for over four hundred years, contains the most complete collection of books upon law and kindred subjects in england, numbering upward of , volumes. these three inns of court are the active institutions; the fourth, gray's inn, which probably took its name from the greys of wilton who formerly owned its site, has long since ceased to be of much importance, although the old hall and the classic architecture of some of the chambers, still attracts the eye. it happens, however, that a philadelphia student, who attended this ancient inn nearly two hundred years ago, was responsible for the phrase still proverbial on both sides of the atlantic, "that's a case for a philadelphia lawyer." the unpopular royal judges of the province of new york had, in , indicted a newspaper publisher for libel in criticising the court and they threatened to disbar any lawyer of the province who might venture to defend him. but, from the then distant little town on the delaware, the former student of gray's inn, although an old man at the time, journeyed to albany and, by his skill and vehemence, actually procured a verdict of acquittal from the jury under the very noses of the obnoxious court; the fame of which achievement spread throughout not only the colonies but the mother-country itself. names great in the law, in literature, in statecraft and in war are linked with each of these venerable establishments, to record which would mean to review much of the history of england as well as of america; for, besides the early colonial students, a large number were entered in the different inns during the period immediately preceding the revolution. of these, south carolina sent forty-seven, virginia twenty-one, maryland sixteen, pennsylvania eleven, new york five and new england two. the names of many of them are later to be found amongst the leaders of the bar of the new country, on the bench as chief justices and even as signers of the declaration of independence. the halls of the inns were once the scenes of masques and revels, triumphs and other mad orgies, in which the benchers, barristers and students took part; including, as mentioned, the production of shakespeare's plays during his lifetime. in these halls also occur the stated dinners--to which, in the temple, at least, the porter's horn still summons. the members and students of the inn, arrayed in gowns, attend in procession and, entering the hall, seat themselves on long benches before oaken tables; the governing body--the benchers--being placed at one end where the floor is elevated. it is pleasant to record that, during the last year or two, the daily contact of the barrister with his inn has been increased by the innovation of a luncheon which is served in the hall at the hour when the courts take a recess. on this occasion the most noted english advocates may be seen, strolling in without removing their silk hats, sometimes without even having dispensed with wig and gown, when, seating themselves on the uncompromising oak, they call for a chop and beer and relax into jolly sociability. at one time barristers actually lived in the inns of court, but this practically ceased about the time of the reign of elizabeth. all of them now have their "chambers" in the obsolete little dwelling houses, facing upon the open squares or narrow lanes of the inns, which are merely offices, but very unlike those of an american lawyer in one of our "skyscrapers." entering the front door by a low step, or climbing two or three flights of a rickety staircase in one of these houses, the visitor finds a door on which, or on a tin sign, are painted the names of one or more gentlemen, without stating their occupations, which would be superfluous in this small world of barristers. a summons by means of the old iron knocker, discloses the barrister's clerk, whose habitat is an outer room, and whose business it is to receive visitors--perchance the clerks of solicitors with briefs and fees. ushered into the barrister's sanctum, one finds a meagrely furnished room, the walls masked with rows of books, the table, chairs and window-sills littered with papers. amidst all this, a modern telephone looks quite out of place, and the american tries to avoid detection when his eye unconsciously steals to a wig hanging on a hook back of the barrister's chair and to a round tin box, lying on the floor, which is for the transportation of the tonsorial armor when its owner travels on circuit. the otherwise uninviting aspect of the place is redeemed, however, by a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth and by a restful outlook upon a shady garden, and a splashing fountain, where the sparrows sip the water and take their dainty baths. here the barrister remains when not in court; but when the day's work is done, if he be prosperous, his motor car whisks him to the more elegant surroundings of a home in the west end, or, perhaps a humble bus and suburban train carry him far from town. the inns of court began their existence about , nearly cotemporaneously with the trade guilds, and both, doubtless, took their rise from the instinct of men engaged in a common occupation to combine for mutual protection. all lawyers were once men in holy orders and the judges were bishops, abbots and other church dignitaries, but in the xiii century the clergy were forbidden to act in the courts and, thereupon, the students of the law gathered together and formed the inns. much concerning their origin is obscure, but the nucleus of each was doubtless the gravitation of scholars to some ancient hostelry, there to profit by the teachings of a master lawyer of the day--just as the modern london club had its beginning in the convivialities of a casual coffee house. in time these loose aggregations developed into strong and elaborate organizations which acquired extensive real property, now of enormous value, and have long wielded a powerful influence. in order to enjoy the quiet of what was then the country, and yet to retain the advantage of the city's protection at a time when rural localities were far from safe, the inns were mostly located close to the west wall of the city, although the inner temple, as its name implies, is just within the line of that vanished wall, and thus they were convenient to westminster, where the courts were permanently located by a provision of magna charta. during the present generation, however, the principal courts (except the house of lords and the judicial committee of the privy council) have returned to a situation actually contiguous to the old inns, whilst the vast town, during the centuries, has not only engulfed westminster but has spread miles beyond it. thus, all the inns were grouped in a section, perhaps a square mile in extent, bounded on the east by chancery lane, which roughly follows the old city wall and between the thames on the south, and the district called holborn on the north. looking now to the functions of these ancient institutions, an inn of court may be defined as an unincorporated society of barristers, which, originating about the end of the xiii century, possesses by immemorial custom the exclusive privilege of calling candidates to the bar, and of disciplining, or when necessary, of disbarring barristers. the governing body is composed of the benchers, who are either judges or king's counsel and prominent junior barristers, but it is usual to invite a member to join the benchers of his inn when, and only when, a vacancy occurs. the executive officer is the treasurer, who is selected annually, and the members consist of the barristers and students. all the inns are alike in authority, and in the privileges which they enjoy and the regulations of each, governing the admission, education and examination of students and the calling to the bar of those who are qualified, are precisely uniform; any differences which may have existed having been abolished by the adoption in of a code of rules known as the "consolidated regulations." while there is thus complete equality and no official precedence, yet each inn has its own history, traditions and ancient customs. the choice of which inn to enter, thus becomes a matter of individual preference, depending upon sentiment, or upon family or social surroundings. the former inns of chancery should also be mentioned before leaving the subject, although they have no present interest for the modern lawyer. their origin, too, is buried in obscurity, but they arose about the same time as the inns of court, with one of which each was connected, and were at first places of preparatory training for young students later to be admitted to the particular inn. these youthful apprentices, however, were gradually ousted by the attorneys and solicitors--who have always been excluded from the inns of court--whereupon the inns of chancery fell out of fashion and deteriorated, so that by the middle of the eighteenth century they had disappeared and their names are now mere memories. during the period of activity of the inns of chancery, staple inn (perhaps the best known) and barnard's inn, were attached to gray's inn; clifford's inn, clement's inn and lyon's inn were intimately related to the inner temple; furnival's inn and thavie's inn to lincoln's inn; the new inn and strand inn to the middle temple. one block only of quaint elizabethan buildings, with gables of cross timber and plaster, still overhangs the great thoroughfare of holborn and marks what is left of staple inn. likewise serjeants' inn vanished in , when its valuable realty was sold--for serjeants-at-law had long ceased to be created--and the proceeds were divided amongst the few survivors; a proceeding much criticized at the time, although one of them gave his share to charity. the serjeants-at-law were once a class of barristers who had in some manner acquired the exclusive right of audience in the court of common pleas and had also secured a monopoly of the then profitable art of pleading. upon attaining this degree, a serjeant severed his relations with his inn of court and attached himself to the serjeants' inn. after having occupied several sites since the sixteenth century, serjeants' inn was finally located on chancery lane, and to it belonged all of the serjeants, and all of the judges of the common law courts, for they, necessarily, had been serjeants before being elevated to the bench. the buildings, which are small and have no pretensions to architectural beauty, have for many years been occupied as offices, chiefly those of solicitors. thus, of the many inns of chancery, of the serjeants' inn (and the once powerful societies which they housed), there remain none but the four great inns of court, through one of which must pass every barrister called to the english bar. this brief sketch may convey some idea of the extent to which the young law student unconsciously absorbs tradition, and is moulded, when plastic, by the pressure of centuries of custom and etiquette. whatever may have been his forebears, he is more than likely, when turned out as a full-fledged barrister, to answer pretty nearly to the old definition, for he has, indeed, been one "who studieth the laws of the realm" and he is apt to "bear the port, charge and countenance of a gentleman." to the embryo barrister, however, the existing inns possess interests far livelier than those referred to, for he must enter one of them, and not only thus gain access to the bar, but must ally himself to his choice unless he elects, by going through certain formalities, to emigrate to another inn. formerly he had only to attend a single function--a dinner--during each term and, having "eaten twelve dinners," he, ipso facto, became entitled to be called to the bar, no matter how inadequate might be his knowledge of the law. in these less aristocratic and more prosaic days, however, he is obliged diligently to apply himself to study, and to pass, from time to time, regular and strict examinations, prescribed by the council of legal education, so that his equipment is no longer left to chance, but is really measured with cold accuracy. the term of study is not less than three years, and twelve terms, four in each year, must be "kept" at the inn, the evidence of which is still the fact of dining in the hall six days during each term, although members of the universities of oxford and cambridge need dine but three days in each term. an english student's reading is much like that pursued in one of our own law schools, the chief difference being that he devotes more time to mastering general principles than to the consideration of reported cases from which our students are presumed to extract the underlying principle. much has been said in favor of each method, and the true course probably lies between the extremes, but the average result of an english law training, superimposed upon a generally superior prior education, is perhaps somewhat better than the average american result, while, as to the few on both sides of the water destined to attain real eminence, no superiority could fairly be claimed by either. the total fees payable by a student amount to about £ . and women, be it observed by progressive ladies, are not eligible for the bar in england. having passed the necessary examinations, the young barrister is finally "called to the bar," a ceremony which takes place in the hall of his inn, at the close of dinner on "grand day," which is the day appointed for a banquet, to which a score or more of distinguished guests are invited by the "treasurer and the masters of the bench." the students, wearing gowns over evening dress, are grouped together, below the dais on which the benchers' table stands. the steward of the inn calls out the names in order of seniority. each student, as his name is called, advances to the high table and halts there, facing the treasurer, who, standing up, says to him: "mr. ----, by the authority and on behalf of the masters of the bench, i publish you a barrister of this honorable society." then the treasurer shakes hands with the new barrister and the latter walks away to join his comrades. solicitors are created by entirely different methods, as there are no inns nor any similar organizations for students. there is a preliminary examination to determine whether the boy who desires to become a solicitor, has sufficient general education. if so, he is apprenticed, for a period of five years, to some practitioner, for which privilege he pays a sum of money, say from to guineas; the amount chiefly depending upon the solicitor's standing. there are official fees, too, amounting to about £ , so that, as he receives no compensation during his five years' apprenticeship, and meantime must be supported by his people, the cost of entering the solicitor's calling is not inconsiderable. he begins by copying papers and performing minor services in the public offices and, at the same time, pursues his legal studies, which have steadily become more arduous. his progress as a law student is ascertained by an intermediate examination, held under the direction of the solicitors' incorporated law society, and a final one determines whether he has acquired sufficient knowledge of the law to be admitted to practice. if shown to be qualified, he is admitted by the courts, and is thereafter subject to the discipline of the society and to that of the courts themselves, usually prompted by the society. the marked difference, therefore, that distinguishes the solicitor's training from that of the barrister, is the absence of any inn of court--with its _esprit de corps_--as a commanding influence in shaping his development and governing his whole career. nevertheless, while the whole body of solicitors is, perhaps, not as liberally educated nor as polished as the bar, the higher grade of solicitors are lawyers quite as well equipped, and gentlemen equally accomplished, as members of the bar itself. some glimpses of the separate roads which the barrister and the solicitor travel after their student days, will be reserved for later chapters. chapter iii barristers waiting for solicitors as clients--"devilling" --juniors--conduct of a trial--"taking silk" --becoming a k. c.--active practice--the small number of barristers. having been called to the bar, the question first confronting the young barrister is whether he really intends to practice. he may have read law as an education, meaning to devote himself to literature, to politics or to some other pursuit, or he may have embraced the profession in deference to the wishes of his family and to fill in the time while awaiting the inheritance of property. supposing him, however, to be one of the minority determined to rise in the profession, he is confronted with formidable obstacles, for he can not look to his friends to furnish him with briefs. he can never be consulted nor retained by the litigants themselves. the only clients he can ever have are solicitors, whose clients, in turn, are the public. he never goes beyond his dingy chambers in the inns of court, where, guarded by his clerk, he either wearily waits for solicitors with briefs and fees, or, more likely still, gives it up and goes fishing, shooting or hunting. and this furnishes the market for the alluring placards one sees at the old wig-makers' shops in the inns of court: "name up and letters forwarded for £ per annum." the early ambition of the young barrister is to become a "devil" to some junior barrister, who always has recourse to such an understudy, and, if the junior is making over £ , a year, he continuously employs the same devil. this term is not applied in a jocular sense, but is the regular and serious appellation of a young barrister who, in wig and gown, thus serves without compensation and without fame--for his name never appears--often for from five to seven years. the devil studies the case, sees the witnesses, looks up the law and generally masters all the details, in order to supply the junior with ammunition. before the trial the junior has one or more "conferences" with the solicitor, all paid for at so many guineas; occasionally he even sees the party he is to represent, and, more rarely, an important witness or two. the devil is sometimes present, although his existence is, as a rule, decorously concealed from the solicitor. if the solicitor, or the litigating party, grows nervous, or hears that the other side has employed more distinguished counsel, the solicitor retains a k. c. as leader. then a "consultation" ensues at the leader's chambers between the leader, junior, solicitor, and, occasionally, the devil. at the trial, the junior merely "opens the pleadings" by stating in the fewest possible words, what the action is about--that it is, perhaps, a suit for breach of promise of marriage between smith and jones, or to recover upon an insurance policy for a loss by fire--and then resumes his seat, whereupon the leader--the great k. c.--really opens the case, at considerable length and with much more detail and argument than would be good form in an american court. he states his side's contention with particularity, reads documents and correspondence (none of which have to be proved unless their authenticity is disputed--points which the solicitors have long ago threshed out) and he even indicates the position of the other side, while, at the same time, arguing its fallacy. having done this, he leaves it to the junior to call the witnesses--more often he departs from the court room to begin another case elsewhere, and returns only to cross-examine an important witness on the other side, or to make the closing speech to the jury. in this way a busy leader may have several trials going on at once. the junior then proceeds to examine the witnesses with the help of an occasional whispered suggestion from the solicitor, who is more than ever isolated by the departure of the leader, and the devil is proud when the junior audibly refers to him for some detail. if the leader is absent, which frequently happens notwithstanding his fee has been paid, inasmuch as no case is deferred by reason of counsel's absence, the junior takes his place, while the solicitor grumbles and more devolves upon the devil. occasionally, indeed, both leader and junior may be elsewhere and then is the glorious opportunity of the poor devil, who hungers for such an accident, for he may open, examine, and cross-examine, and, if neither his junior nor his august leader appear, he may even close to the jury. the solicitor will be white with rage and chagrin, wondering how he shall explain to the litigant the absence of the counsel whose fees he has paid, but the devil may win and so please the solicitor that the next time he may himself be briefed as junior. this is one of the things he has read of in the lives of the lord chancellors. the devil is in no sense an employee or personal associate of the junior--which might look like partnership, a thing too abhorrent to be permitted. on the contrary, he often has his own chambers and may, at any time, be himself retained as a junior, in which event his business takes precedence of his duties as a devil, and he then describes himself as being "on his own." having gained some identity, and more or less business "on his own" from the solicitors, a devil gradually begins to shine as a junior, whereupon appears his own satellite in the person of a younger man as devil, while the junior becomes more and more absorbed in the engrossing but ever fascinating activities of regular practice at the bar. reaching a certain degree of prominence, a junior at the common-law bar may next "take silk;" that is, become a k. c., or king's counsel, which has its counterpart at the chancery bar, as will be explained later when dealing with the division between the law and equity sides of the system. whether a barrister shall "apply" for silk is optional with himself and the distinction is granted by the lord chancellor, at his discretion, to a limited, but not numerically defined, number of distinguished barristers. the phrase is derived from the fact that the k. c.'s gown is made of silk instead of "stuff," or cotton. it has also a broad collar, whereas the stuff gown is suspended from shoulder to shoulder. whether or not to "take silk," or to become a "leader," is a critical question in the career of any successful common law or chancery barrister. as a junior, he has acquired a paying practice, as his fee is always two-thirds that of the leader. he has also a comfortable chamber practice in giving opinions, drawing pleadings and the like, but all this must be abandoned--because the etiquette of the bar does not permit a k. c. or leader to do a junior's work--and he must thereafter hazard the fitful fancy of the solicitors when selecting counsel in important causes. some have taken silk to their sorrow, and many strong men remain juniors all their lives, trying cases with k. c.'s much younger than themselves as their leaders. they tell this story in london: a certain scotch law reporter (recently dead), noted for his shrewdness and good judgment, having been consulted by a barrister whether to "apply for silk," advised him in the negative, but declined to go into particulars. the barrister renewed his inquiry more than once, finally demanding the scot's reason for his advice. the latter reluctantly explained that the barrister had a good living practice which he would be foolish to give up. being further pressed, he finally said: "in many years' observation of the bar i have learned that success is only possible with one or more of three qualifications, that is, a commanding person, a fine voice, or great ability, and i rate their importance in the order named. now, with your wretched physique, penny-trumpet voice, and mediocre capacity, i think you would surely starve to death." the barrister did not "apply," but never spoke to the scotchman again. the anecdote illustrates the crucial nature of the step when taken by any barrister, and even if taken with success, yet there are waves of popularity affecting a leader's vogue. solicitors get vague notions that the sun of a given k. c. is rising or setting--that the judges are looking at him more kindly or less so, therefore k. c.'s and leaders who were once overwhelmed with business, may sometimes be seen on the front row with few briefs. a successful k. c. leads a strenuous life, as may well be appreciated if he be so good as to take his american friend about with him in his daily work, seating him with the barristers while he is actually engaged. one very eminent k. c., who is also in parliament, rises in term time at a.m., and reads his briefs for the day's work until , when he breakfasts and drives to chambers. slipping on wig and gown at chambers and crossing the strand, or arraying himself in the robing room of the law courts, he enters court at : , and takes part in the trial or argument of various cases until o'clock, often having two or three in progress at once, which require him to step from court to court, to open, cross-examine, or close, having relied upon the juniors and solicitors to keep each case going and tell him the situation when he enters to take a hand. from to : he has consultations at his chambers, at intervals of fifteen minutes, after which he drives to the house of commons, where he sits until : , when it is time for dinner. if there is an important debate, he returns to the house, but tries to retire at midnight for four hours' sleep. naturally the long vacation alone makes such a life possible for even the strongest man. [illustration: crossing the strand from temple to court] his success, however, means much, for there lie before him great pecuniary rewards, fame, perhaps a judgeship, or possibly an attorney-generalship, both of which, unlike their prototypes in america, mean very high compensation, to say nothing of the honor and the title which usually accompany such offices. the english bar is small and the business very concentrated, but no statistics are available, for many are called who never practice. by considering the estimates of well-informed judges, barristers and solicitors, it seems that the legal business of the kingdom is handled by so small a number as from to barristers, although the roll of living men who have been called to the bar now includes , names. we have no bar with which to institute a comparison, for each county of every state has its own and all members of county bars, practicing in the appellate court of a state, constitute the bar of that state, which is a complete entity. great commercial centres have larger ones and have more business than rural localities, but no bar in america is national like that of london. it would be interesting, if it were possible, to compare the proportion of the population of england, which pursues the law as a vocation, with that of the united states, but no figures exist for the purpose. the number of barristers includes, as already stated, those who do not practice, while an enumeration of the solicitors' offices would exclude individual solicitors employed by others, as will be explained hereafter. the aggregate of these two uncertain elements, however, would be about , . the legal directories give the names of something like , lawyers in america of whom about , appear in fifteen large cities--new york, for example, being credited with over , , chicago with over , and san francisco with about , --leaving about , in the smaller towns and scattered throughout the land. these tentative, and necessarily vague, suggestions rather indicate that the proportion of lawyers may not be very unequal in the two countries. chapter iv barristers--the common law and the chancery bars bar divided into two parts--no distinction between criminal and civil practice--leaders--"taking his seat" in a particular court--"going special" --list of specials and leaders--significance of gowns and "weepers"--"bands"--"court coats"-- wigs in the house of lords--barristers' bags, blue and red. the bar is divided into two separate parts--the common law bar and the chancery bar; for a barrister does not try cases of both kinds as in america. the solicitor knows whether he has a law or equity case in hand, and takes it to the appropriate barrister. common law barristers have their chambers chiefly in the middle temple and inner temple; chancery men, largely in lincoln's inn, and the two kinds of barristers know little of, and seem even to have a kind of contempt for, each other. thus a common law barrister passes his life in jury trials and appeals; whereas a chancery man knows nothing but courts of equity, unless he follows a will case into a jury trial as a colleague of a common law man to determine an issue of _devisavit vel non_. and there are further specializations--although the divisions are not so marked--into probate, divorce or admiralty men. besides, there is what is known as the parliamentary bar, practicing entirely before parliamentary committees, boards and commissions. it is, however, curious that in england no apparent distinction exists between civil and criminal practice and common law barristers accept both kinds of briefs indiscriminately. at the chancery bar there is a peculiar subdivision which has already been mentioned. having reached a certain degree of success and become a k. c., a barrister may "take his seat" in a particular court as a "leader" by notifying the judge and informing the other k. c.'s who are already practising there. thereafter he can never go into another, except as a "special," a term which will be explained presently. for three pence, at any law stationer's, one can buy a list of the leaders in the six chancery courts, varying in number from three to five and aggregating twenty-five, and if a solicitor wishes a leader for his junior in any of these courts he must retain one out of the limited list available or pay the "special" fee. hence, these gentlemen sit like boys in school at their desks and try the cases in which they have been retained as they are reached in rotation. but even for a leader at the chancery bar, one more step is possible, a step which a barrister may take, or not, as he pleases, and that is: he may go "special." this means that he surrenders his position as a leader in a particular court and is open to accept retainers in any chancery court; but his retainer, in addition to the regular brief fee, must be at least fifty guineas or multiples of that sum, and his subsequent fees in like proportion. the printed list also shows the names of these "specials," at present only five in number. the list of leaders and specials in reads as follows: a list of his majesty's counsel usually practicing in the chancery division of the high court of justice. --------------- the following counsel are not attached to any court, and require a special fee:-- mr. levett: mr. astbury: mr. upjohn: mr. buckmaster. --------------- counsel who have attached themselves to particular courts, arranged in the order in which they are entitled to move:-- --------------------+-------------+------------------------+----------- mr. justice joyce | date of | mr. justice warrington | date of lord chancellor's | ap'ointment | chancery court | ap'ointment court | | | --------------------+-------------+------------------------+----------- mr. t. r. hughes | | mr. henry terrell | mr. r. f. norton | | mr. t. h. carson | mr. r. younger | | mr. george cave | | | mr. a. c. clauson | --------------------+-------------+------------------------+------------ mr. justice eve | date of |mr. justice swinfen eady| date of | ap'ointment | chancery court | ap'ointment --------------------+-------------+------------------------+------------ mr. p. o. lawrence | | mr. w. d. rawlins | mr. ingpen | | mr. e. c. macnaghten | mr. dudley stewart- | | mr. n. micklem | smith | | | mr. a. h. jessel | | mr. frank russell | mr. e. clayton | | | ====================+=============+========================+============ mr. justice melville| date of | mr. justice parker | date of | ap'ointment | chancery court | ap'ointment --------------------+-------------+------------------------+------------ mr. bramwell davis | | mr. w. f. hamilton | mr. j. g. butcher | | mr. m. l. romer | mr. c. e. e. jenkins| | mr. e. w. martelli | mr. a. f. peterson | | mr. a. grant | mr. f. cassel | | mr. j. gatey | ====================+=============+========================+============ note--counsel attached to the above courts usually also practice before the judge to whom the companies winding-up matters are attached. printed and published by the solicitors' law stationery society, limited, . chancery lane, w. c., , walbrook, e. g., , victoria street, s. w. --------------- chancery forms of all kinds kept in stock. --------------- price threepence. [transcriber's note: in the original text, the section for m. justices melville and parker appears on the following page, across from the section for m. justices joyce and washington.] the dress of barristers is the same for the common law bar as for the chancery bar, but the details of both gown and wig signify to the initiated much as to the professional position of the wearer. the difference between the junior's stuff gown and the leader's silk one has already been referred to, but it is not true that a barrister having "taken silk," that is, having become a k. c. or a leader, always wears a silk gown, for, if he be in mourning, he again wears a cotton gown, as he did in his junior days, but, to preserve his distinction, he wears "weepers"--a six-inch deep, white lawn cuff, the name and utility of which originated before handkerchiefs were invented. moreover, when in mourning his "bands"--the untied white lawn cravat, hanging straight down, which all barristers wear--have three lines of stitching instead of two. under his gown, a k. c. wears a "court coat," cut not unlike an ordinary morning coat, though with hooks and eyes instead of buttons, while the junior wears the conventional frock coat. on a hot day, a junior wearing a seersucker jacket and carelessly allowing his gown to disclose it, may receive an admonition from the court, whispered in his ear by an officer. wigs, which were introduced in the courts in , and have long survived their disappearance in private life, were formerly made of human hair which became heavy and unsanitary with repeated greasing. they required frequent curling and dusting with powder which had a tendency to settle on the gown and clothing. about , a wig-maker, who may be regarded as a benefactor of the profession, invented the modern article, composed of horse hair, in the proportion of five white strands to one black; this is so made as to retain its curl without grease, and with but infrequent recurling, and it requires no powder. the wig worn by the barrister in his daily practice has already been described, but, when arguing a case in the house of lords he has recourse to an extraordinary head-dress, which is precisely the shape of a half-bushel basket with the front cut away to afford him light and air. this, hanging below the shoulders, has an advantage over the lord chancellor's wig in being more roomy, so that the barrister's hand can steal inside of it if he have occasion to scratch his head at a knotty problem, whereas his lordship, in executing the same manoeuvre, inevitably sets his awry and thereby adds to its ludicrous effect. to the unaccustomed eye, the wig, at first, is a complete disguise. individuality is lost in the overpowering absurdity and similarity of the heads. then, too, there is an involuntary association of gray hair with years, making the bar seem composed exclusively of old gentlemen of identical pattern. the observer is somewhat in the position of the indian chiefs, who, having been taken to a number of eastern cities in order to be impressed with the white man's power, recognized no difference between them--although they could have detected, in the deepest forest, traces of the passage of a single human being--and reported upon returning to their tribes that there was only one town, washington, and that they were merely trundled around in sleeping cars and repeatedly brought back to the same place. by degrees, however, differences between individuals emerge from this first impression. blond hair above a sunburned neck, peeping between the tails of a queue, suggests the trout stream and cricket field; or an ample cheek, not quite masked by the bushel-basket-shaped wig, together with a rotundity hardly concealed by the folds of a gown, remind one that port still passes repeatedly around english tables after dinner. but it must be said that, while the wig may add to the uniformity and perhaps to the dignity--despite a certain grotesqueness--of a court room, yet it largely extinguishes individuality and obliterates to some extent personal appearance as a factor in estimating a man; and this is a factor of no small importance, for every one, in describing another, begins with his appearance--a man's presence, pose, features and dress all go to produce prepossessions which are subject to revision upon further acquaintance. one thing is certain, the wig is an anachronism which will never be imported into america. for the bar to adopt the gown (as has been largely done by the bench throughout the country) would be quite another matter and it seems to work well in canada. this would have the advantage of distinguishing counsel from the crowd in a court room, of covering over inappropriateness of dress and it might promote the impressiveness of the tribunal. the bag of an english barrister is also an important part of his outfit. it is very large, capable of holding his wig and gown, as well as his briefs, and suggests a clothes bag. it is not carried by the barrister himself, but it is borne by his clerk. its color has a deep significance. every young barrister starts with a _blue_ bag and can only acquire a _red_ one under certain conditions. as devil, and as junior, it is not considered _infra dig._ to carry his own bag and he has ever before him the possibility of possessing a red bag. at last he succeeds in impressing a venerable k. c. by his industry and skill in some case, whereupon one morning the clerk of the k. c. appears at the junior's chambers bearing a _red_ bag with his initials embroidered upon it--a gift from the great k. c. thereafter he can use that coveted color and he may be pardoned for having his clerk follow him closely for awhile so there may be no mistake as to the ownership. custom requires him to tip the k. c.'s clerk with a guinea and further exacts that the clerk shall pay for the bag, which costs nine shillings and sixpence, thus, by this curious piece of economy, the clerk nets the sum of eleven shillings and sixpence and the k. c. is at no expense. chapter v solicitors line which separates them from the bar--solicitor a business man--family solicitors--great city firms of solicitors--the number of solicitors in england and wales--tendency toward abolishing the distinction between barrister and solicitor-- solicitors wear no distinctive dress except in county courts--solicitors' bags. the line which separates solicitors from the bar--the barristers--is difficult for an american to fully appreciate, for in our country it does not exist. the solicitor, or attorney, is a man of law business--not an advocate. a person contemplating litigation must first go to a solicitor, who guides his conduct by advice in the preliminary stages, or occasionally retains a barrister to give a written opinion upon a concrete question of law. the solicitor conducts all the negotiations or threats which usually precede a lawsuit and if compromise is impossible he brings a suit and retains a junior barrister by handing him a brief, which consists of a written narrative of the controversy, with copies of all papers and correspondence--in short, the facts of the case--and which states on its back the amount of the barrister's fee. the brief is engrossed or type-written on large-sized paper with very broad margins for notes, and is folded only once and lengthwise so as to make a packet fifteen by four inches. all englishmen of substance, and all firms and corporations, have their regular solicitors and the relation is frequently handed down from generation to generation. it is, of course, unusual except in large corporations to have a permanent barrister, because the solicitor selects one from time to time, as the occasion requires, and the client is rarely even consulted in the choice. when an englishman speaks of his lawyer, he always means his solicitor and if he wishes to impress his auditor with the seriousness of his legal troubles, he adds that his lawyer has been obliged to take the advice of counsel--perhaps of a k. c. hence, the solicitor, unlike the barrister, is not ambitious for fame, nor does he worry because he can not become the attorney-general or a judge; his mind is intent upon the pounds, shillings and pence of his calling. he may seek business, which the barrister can not do, and he is something of a banker, often a promoter. some solicitors, especially those practicing at liverpool, are admiralty men, others are adepts in the organization of corporations and in litigation arising concerning them and there are many other specialties. some are men of the highest grade--particularly those employed by big companies or by families with large estates. the venerable family solicitor of the novel and stage--that custodian of private estates and secrets who appears in all domestic crises, warning the wayward son, comforting the daughter whose affections are misplaced and succoring the gambling father, is sufficiently familiar. the worldly experience, which this kindly old gentleman brings from his musty office, is invaluable to his clients. the large city firms of solicitors, on the other hand, occupy spacious suites of offices and maintain elaborate organizations like modern banks, with scores of clerks distributed in many departments, whose duties are so specialized that no one of them has much grasp of the business as a whole. the name of such a firm, appearing as sponsor for an extensive financial project, carries weight in the business world and its heads enjoy generous incomes, besides being men of much importance upon whom the honor of knighthood is sometimes conferred. in all england and wales only about , solicitors took out annual certificates last year. this indicates the number of offices and does not include clerks (many of whom have been admitted to practice as solicitors), nor those who, for one reason or another, do not practice. instead of being concentrated, like the barristers, in the inns of court in london, solicitors are scattered all over the town and throughout the kingdom itself. some, especially in the minor towns or poorer quarters of london, are in a small way of business and must earn rather a precarious living. others are of a still lower class and seek business of a more or less disreputable character by devious methods, but all are supposed to have been carefully educated in the law and are answerable to their society and to the courts for questionable practices. the division of the profession between the solicitors and the bar is no doubt a survival in modern, or socialistic, england of aristocratic conditions which it is the tendency of the times to weaken, if not eventually to abolish. it is somewhat hard upon the solicitor of real ability to be confined to a limited field and to feel that, no matter how great his powers and acquirements, it is impossible to rise to the best position in his profession without abandoning his branch and beginning all over again in the barrister's ranks. in associating with solicitors, one can not fail to be struck by their attitude towards barristers, as a class, which is hardly flattering to the latter; they frequently allude somewhat lightly to them as though they were useless ornaments and as if such a division of the profession were rather unnecessary. upon asking whether the distinction exists in america, they receive the information that it does not with evident approval. the advantages, however, of the separation of the functions of the solicitor from those of the barrister are distinctly felt in the superior skill, as trial lawyers, developed by the restriction of court practice to the limited membership of the bar, which would hardly exist if the practice were distributed over the whole field of both branches of the profession. then, too, the small number of persons composing the bar enables greater control by the benchers over their professional conduct, and helps to maintain a high standard of ethics and the feeling of _esprit de corps_. moreover, the bar is not distracted from the science, by contact with the business, of the law and it is saved from the contaminating effect of participation in the sordid details of litigation. at the same time, this very condition may be calculated to develop in the average barrister, as distinguished from one of real ability, an attitude approaching dilettanteism. if the division of the profession ever ceases to exist, the change will no doubt come about by the gradual encroachment of the solicitors' branch upon the bar. already solicitors possess the right of audience in the county courts, the limit of whose jurisdiction is constantly being increased, with the result of developing a species of solicitor-advocate, whose functions are very similar to those of the barrister. the more this progresses, the greater will be the number of solicitors who will become known as court practitioners, and whose services will be sought by the public and even by other solicitors, providing an existing act forbidding the latter is repealed. while such is the drift in england, there is at the same time a tendency in america to approach english conditions in the evolution of the law firm composed of lawyers of whom some are known as distinctively trial lawyers, while the other members devote themselves to the business the science, by contact with the business, of the law and it is saved from the contaminating effect of participation in the sordid details of litigation. at the same time, this very condition may be calculated to develop in the average barrister, as distinguished from one of real ability, an attitude approaching dilettanteism. if the division of the profession ever ceases to exist, the change will no doubt come about by the gradual encroachment of the solicitors' branch upon the bar. already solicitors possess the right of audience in the county courts, the limit of whose jurisdiction is constantly being increased, with the result of developing a species of solicitor-advocate, whose functions are very similar to those of the barrister. the more this progresses, the greater will be the number of solicitors who will become known as court practitioners, and whose services will be sought by the public and even by other solicitors, providing an existing act forbidding the latter is repealed. while such is the drift in england, there is at the same time a tendency in america to approach english conditions in the evolution of the law firm composed of lawyers of whom some are known as distinctively trial lawyers, while the other members devote themselves to the business of the law, and indeed one now occasionally hears of such partnerships designating one of their number as "counsel" to the firm--which is, perhaps, an affectation. solicitors often become barristers--sometimes eminent ones, for they have an opportunity to study other barristers' methods, and have acquired a knowledge of affairs. of course they must first retire as solicitors and enter one of the inns for study. the late lord chief justice of england began his career as an irish solicitor. solicitors wear no distinctive dress (except a gown when in the county court, as will be explained hereafter) but attire themselves in the conventional frock or morning coat and silk hat which is indispensable for all london business men. they all, however, carry long and shallow leather bags, the shape of folded briefs, which are usually made of polished patent leather. chapter vi business and fees influential friends of barrister--junior's and leader's brief fees--fees of common law and chancery barristers--barrister partnerships not allowed--english litigation less important than american--clerks of barristers and solicitors haggle over fees--solicitors' fees. an american lawyer will be curious concerning two things, about which he will get little reliable information, viz., how legal business comes and what are its rewards. the barrister supplements his reading, sometimes by practical service for a short time in a solicitor's office and nearly always by the deviling before described, and thus, in theory--and according to the traditions of the bar--may pass years awaiting recognition. finally, briefs begin to arrive which are received by his clerk with the accompanying fee, in gold, as to which the barrister is presumed to be quite oblivious. this, however, is not always the experience of the modern barrister, who may have some relative occupying the position of chairman of a railway, or of a large city company, the solicitors of which will be apt to think of this particular man when retaining counsel. in such fashion and other ways, while he can not receive business directly from an influential friend or relative, but only through the medium of a solicitor, yet such connections are often definitely felt in giving the young barrister a start. his eventual success, however, as in every other career, depends upon how well he avails himself of his opportunities. when briefed as a junior, without a leader, in a small action, his fee may be " & ," meaning three guineas for the trial and one guinea for the "conference" with the solicitor. when briefed with a leader, however, his fee, which is always endorsed on the brief, may read: "mr. j. jones guineas guinea guineas "with you sir j. black, k. c." the leader's brief will be endorsed: "sir j. black, k. c. guineas guineas guineas "with you mr. j. jones." the fee is not always sent by the solicitor with the brief, but a running account, with settlements at intervals, is not uncommon. contingent fees are absolutely prohibited, the barrister gets his compensation, or is credited with it, irrespective of the result. all speculation as to professional earnings of a barrister must be vague, for there can be little accurate knowledge on such a subject. chancery men seem to earn much less than common law barristers and their business is of a quieter and less conspicuous character. at the fireside in chambers in lincoln's inn, if the conversation drifts to fees, one may hear a discussion as to how many earn £ , , and a doubt is expressed whether more than three men average £ , , but the gossips will add that they do not really know the facts. the fees of common law men, while larger, are equally a matter of guess-work. one hears of the large earnings of judah p. benjamin a generation ago, and r. barry o'brien, in his life of sir charles russell, quotes from his fee book yearly showing that the year he was called to the bar he took only £ , while thirty-five years later--in --just before he was elevated to the bench, his fees for the year were £ , . for the ten years preceding he had averaged £ , , and, for the ten years before that, £ , . the biographer of sir frank lockwood, a successful barrister, relates that he earned £ his first year and that this increased to £ , in his eighth year, but he was glad to accept during his twenty-second year the solicitor generalship, paying about £ , . the attorney general, who, although his office is a political one, is generally a leading barrister, receives a salary of £ , and his fees are about £ , more. the clerk of a one time high judicial officer now dead, is authority for the statement that the year before he went upon the bench his fees aggregated , guineas. it seems to be the general opinion of those well informed that the most distinguished leader may, at the height of his career, take , to , guineas. all such estimates must, however, be received with the greatest reserve, and no one could undertake to vouch for them. barristers' fees are, of course, for purely professional services and do not come within the same category as the immense sums one occasionally hears of being received by american lawyers--not, however, as a rule, for real professional services in litigation, but for success in promoting, merging or reorganizing business enterprises. the fees of english barristers are practically all gain, as there are no office expenses worth mentioning. no suit can be brought by a barrister to compel the payment of a fee although the services have been performed, nor is he liable for negligence or incompetence in his professional work. partnerships, which are common between solicitors, are unknown to barristers and anything approaching them would be the subject of severe discipline. this is a fundamental law of the profession, never questioned, as to which the rulings of the governing body of the bar (some of which will be quoted in a later chapter) relate only to the application of the principle to different circumstances. in order to appreciate the abhorrence of partnerships, it is necessary to bear in mind the fact that the great science of the law is to the barrister strictly a profession, having no affinity to a business or a trade. no barrister can have the slightest personal concern in the interests which he advocates, his fee being never contingent, nor is he ever permanently retained by salary or otherwise. he is a purely intellectual ally of the court in the consideration of questions, more or less abstract, as to which he merely supports the view he has undertaken to urge. upon the whole, professional rewards do not strike an american as particularly large, remembering that the recipients are at the top of the profession in london, which means the kingdom. one can not escape the impression that litigation in england deals with minor matters as compared with that of america. there are no american data for comparison with the admirable judicial statistics of england, but, in listening to the daily routine of the london courts, in the tight little island with its dense population and well-settled rights, there seems to be a complete absence of those far-reaching litigations which arise in america, involving enormous sums, or conflicting questions concerning a whole continent, with its railroads and rivers extending as avenues of commerce for thousands of miles and with ramifications of trade running into many states, each with its separate sovereignty. one circumstance rather indicates that the popular estimate of fees is above the truth, and this is the acceptance of judgeships by the most eminent barristers; still, judicial salaries in england are high--£ , at the least--not to speak of the compensation of the chief justice and lord chancellor, which are more. solicitors' clerks occasionally haggle and bargain with barristers' clerks in an undignified manner--but of this their masters are supposed to be in ignorance. and it seems that the matter of fees is sometimes abused. in the case of a celebrated barrister, now dead, it is whispered that his clerk would receive a retainer of guineas on behalf of the k. c. who would be missing upon the cause being reached. the clerk would then tell the solicitor's clerk that the k. c. was overcrowded, and he did not believe he could get him into court unless guineas were added to the fee. after grumbling and protesting, the addition would be forthcoming, whereupon the clerk would readily find the k. c. strolling in the temple gardens, and fetch him to court. this, however, was not regarded as honest and the story itself is doubted. in the case of solicitors, the acquirement of a practice is apparently much like establishing a mercantile business. the majority doubtless begin as clerks in existing firms, and, if men of ability, either rise in the firm or form their own associations. they are not hampered by the same considerations of delicacy and etiquette as the barrister, but may seek employment, although, of course, the one guarantee of real success is the honest and efficient handling of affairs with which they may be entrusted. the profits of a large firm of solicitors are very great. much of the money, however, is made in the transaction of business which is not of the profession at all, such as the promotion of enterprises, the flotation of companies, just as there is a class of american lawyers pursuing the same lines. a solicitor's compensation, called "solicitor's costs," is not a matter of discretion, but is regulated by a recognized scale, although he may make a special agreement with his client in advance, but it must be in writing and is subject to review by a master as to its reasonableness. for an appearance in court the charge runs from s. d. to £ . s. d., according to the nature of the business and the time consumed. a charge reading, "to crossing the street to speak to you and finding it was another man, s. d.," has been ruled out. a solicitor's compensation for services other than litigation is obtained by rendering to the client a regular bill, minutely itemized. the writing of a post card will justify a charge of three shillings and sixpence, but, for a letter the demand may be five shillings and sixpence with a half-penny for the stamp. each interview at the office, and every visit to the client's town or country house, is charged for; while incidental outlays and expenses are carefully detailed, including the fees paid the barrister for his opinions, for the drafting of pleadings and for appearance in court. if the matter has involved proceedings in court in which the solicitor's client has been successful, then various costs are allowed as part of the judgment to be recovered from the opposite side, although they do not necessarily equal the charges to be paid by the client, as will be explained when dealing with the subject of costs. solicitors, unlike barristers, may sue for their compensation and are liable for negligence, although not for mistaken opinions upon questions of law. chapter vii discipline of the bar and of solicitors the general council of the bar--the statutory committee of the incorporated law society --rulings on various matters--lapses from correct standards. the discipline of the bar--the maintenance of correct standards of professional conduct--is everywhere a difficult problem. in england, with the experience of centuries, good results are obtained, upon the whole, considering that human nature is alike the world over. the general council of the bar governs the bar; the statutory committee of the incorporated law society governs the solicitors. these two bodies occasionally confer together--or rather exchange views--in matters concerning the relations of the two branches of the profession. the general council of the bar, having heard a complaint against a barrister, reports its findings with recommendations--perhaps of disbarment in exceptionally serious cases--to the benchers of the barrister's inn. they alone have the power to act and nearly always follow the recommendation. probably little difference exists in their deliberations, methods and actions in serious cases and that of corresponding disciplinary agencies in the united states, whether called a bar committee or a committee of censors. disbarment is an extreme penalty in both countries, inflicted only for moral turpitude amounting usually to crime. but the general council of the english bar renders an even greater service to the profession in establishing standards of professional conduct, not only in respect of morality, but in questions of propriety and good taste. this is accomplished by resolutions upon submitted questions which seem to fall into two classes: those which are found contrary to a "rule of the profession" and those which are pronounced to be "undesirable practices". these rulings (without names or other particulars which might lead to identification) are all reported in the "white book", an annual book of practice in general use, and constitute a code of ethics and etiquette. an examination of these rulings shows very few findings upon rudimentary morals; it apparently is taken for granted that lawyers are familiar with such commandments as "thou shalt not steal." they deal chiefly with the more refined questions of professional conduct which often present difficulties even to men of honest instincts but who lack natural delicacy or experience. an example of a course contrary to a rule of the profession is the following: "_county court judge's sons_: it should be recognized as a 'rule of the profession' (the quotation marks are the council's) that no barrister should habitually practice in any county court of which his father, or any near relative, is the judge." an. st. - , p. . it is not necessary to discuss whether this would be applicable in america. here the principle is probably recognized in the larger cities by the best element, whereas in the country, with only one county judge, it would prevent a son's following his father's profession. the ruling merely illustrates that in england there is an authoritative body which could be asked to declare how the profession regards such a difficult question as, whether suitors should be obliged to see their cases won or lost by the arguments of a son addressed to his father, or whether the son should be excluded from the only court of his vicinity. that a kind of sporting magnanimity is desirable but not required by any 'rule of the profession', is shown in the following, which refers to revenue laws requiring receipts and other papers to be stamped in order to constitute evidence: "_stamps_: it is undesirable that counsel should object to the admissibility of any document upon the ground that it is not, or is insufficiently, stamped, unless such defect goes to the validity of such document. it is also undesirable that counsel should take part in any discussion that may arise in support of any objection taken on the ground aforesaid unless invited to do so by the court." an. st. - , p. . the next point has been the subject of judicial rulings in america to the same effect: "_damages_: _mentioning in court amount claimed_: there is a general understanding that it is irregular for plaintiff's counsel to mention during the trial the amount claimed by way of damages." an. st. - , p. . a series of rulings hold that a barrister occupying the office of town clerk, or clerk of any similar public body, "ought not" to practice at the bar and that it is "undesirable" for such an official to be called to the bar. (an. st. - , p. , - , p. , - , p. .) again it has been held that there is a generally understood "rule of the profession" that a barrister should not practice at quarter or petty sessions in the county of which he is a magistrate, but he may practice at the assizes for his county. (an. st. - , p. .) the following illustrates the aversion to anything approaching advertising: "_photographs in legal newspapers_: it is undesirable for members of the bar to furnish signed photographs of themselves for publication in legal newspapers." an. st. - , p. . likewise the following: "_names of counsel giving opinions: publication of_: the practice of certain newspapers publishing the names of counsel in connection with opinions printed in their columns has been altered to meet the wishes of the council." an. st. - , p. . this is a little obscure and furnishes no information as to what alteration was effected. the daily papers invariably print the names of all counsel and solicitors engaged in any reported litigation and the object of this ruling is probably to prevent indirect advertising by writing opinions upon current topics. in this connection it may be remarked that the law reports of the leading papers are far superior to similar reports in most american journals. the chief difference is that, instead of disjointed fragments throwing the sensational into disproportionate relief and thus conveying little idea of the whole, the reports are really accurate and symmetrical, the drama, however, losing none of its interest. the perusal of these reports, instead of leaving a desire to know what really occurred, gives a feeling of being fully informed. brevity is served by admirable condensation of the evidence, arguments and rulings, and by the use of the third person in narration. by occasional recourse, too, to the first personal pronoun, and a verbatim report of graphic passages, the important and interesting phases of the case are emphasized. these reports indicate that the authors are men trained both in the law and in writing. so well done are those of the london _times_ that they are generally used in court for the citation of recent decisions, and, when collected and issued periodically, are universally employed for reference. the english courts scrupulously guard against the trial of cases in the newspapers rather than in court. in the recent trial of dr. crippen for murder, the proprietor of a provincial newspaper which, in printing the news of the arrest, had speculated upon the probability of crippen's guilt, was summoned before the court after the trial had been concluded and was fined £ on the ground that the article was calculated to interfere with the cause of justice. a prominent london daily newspaper was likewise fined £ for relating that crippen had confessed his guilt, while a london evening paper was fined a like sum because, during the course of the trial, it published a statement not contained in the evidence. many of the resolutions of the general council of the bar deal with the rights and privileges of the profession. one is thus reminded that the inns of court, which came into existence with the ancient london trades guilds, were founded originally for a like purpose--the protection of a particular occupation. during the established vacations many junior barristers take only a few days' holiday and particularly on the chancery side, quite a number of them and also a few k. c.'s are at work in their chambers or attend the weekly sittings of the vacation court during the greater part of the long vacation. it appears, however, that some young devil once attempted to obtain a ruling that another devil should not devil in vacation, but the council declined to sustain his contention as follows: "_devilling in vacation_: there is no 'rule of the profession' against it." an. st. - , p. . a few years ago, there was a newspaper agitation against the long vacation which had always extended from august th to the first monday of november. the result of the discussion was to shorten it, by making it begin--as it now does--on august st and end on the th of october. there are also liberal vacations at christmas, easter and whitsuntide. one resolution of the council illustrates the fact, already referred to, that barristers are not nearly so intimately identified with litigation conducted by them as are american lawyers and that their cases are more or less like abstract propositions placed in their hands to be advocated. the resolution is as follows: "_briefs, obligation to accept_: the general rule is that a barrister is bound to accept any brief, in the courts in which he professes to practice, at a proper professional fee. special circumstances may justify his refusal to accept a particular brief. any complaint as to the propriety of such refusal, if brought to the attention of the council and by them considered reasonable, would be transmitted by them to the benchers of the inn of which the barrister is a member." an. st. - , p. . conversely; a barrister can not offer inducements for briefs, as was held in the following: "_commissions or presents from barristers_: any barrister who gave any commission or present to any one introducing business to him would be guilty of most unprofessional conduct which would, if detected, imperil his position as a barrister." an. st. - , p. . again: "_fees to barrister's clerk_: the clerk of mr. a. informed the clerk of mr. b. that the latter (mr. b.) had received a brief on circuit because he had recommended the solicitor to mr. b. (as was the fact) and suggested that mr. b. should give him the clerk's fees which he would have received on it, had mr. a. been on circuit and so able to accept the brief. mr. b., considering that such a practice might lead to serious abuses, if it were countenanced, requested a pronouncement of the council on the matter. the council expressed the opinion that the practice referred to is absolutely improper." an. st. - vii, p. . a number of rulings serve to define the limitations or partial exceptions to the rule that a barrister's clients are exclusively solicitors and that he must never be in direct contact with litigants themselves. for example: "_non-contentious business_: there is no rule against a barrister advising in non-contentious business without the intervention of a solicitor, but it is an undesirable practice. if fees should be taken for such opinion, such fees must be marked and paid in the usual way, and on the ordinary scale, not by way of annual payment or salary." an. st. - , p. . also: "_counsel advising on case submitted by colonial advocates_: a counsel does not commit any breach of etiquette in advising, without the intervention of an english solicitor, on a case submitted to him by a colonial advocate in a colony where the professions of barrister and solicitor are combined." an. st. - , p. . on the other hand, it was held that a barrister "should not" appear as spokesman for a deputation of contractors waiting upon a public body, nor on behalf of an application for a license, without the intervention of a solicitor. the preservation of the barrister's dignity in his relations with the solicitor seems to have induced this: "_conferences at a solicitor's office_: the council have expressed an opinion that as a general rule it is contrary to etiquette and improper for a barrister to attend conferences at a solicitor's office, but that under exceptional circumstances the rule may be departed from." an. st. - , p. . the complicated subject of one barrister assisting another, usually in the capacity of a devil, while avoiding quasi-partnerships, has been the occasion for frequent resolutions by the general council of the bar, of which the following are a few: "it is not permissible, or in accordance with professional etiquette, for a counsel to hand over his brief to another counsel to represent him in court as if the latter counsel had himself been briefed; unless the client consents to this course being taken.... in the chancery division it is not the practice for one junior to hold a brief (other than a mere formal one) for another and the same is true of king's counsel." "in the king's bench division, in the case of juniors, it is not uncommon for one counsel to devil a brief for another: but in the case of king's counsel it is very seldom done." "there is no rule or settled practice governing the remuneration for devilling, or assistance given by one counsel to another, in the cases above referred to." "with regard to juniors, it is a common practice in the chancery division for the one counsel to remunerate the other by paying him an agreed proportion, generally one half, of the fees the former receives in respect of opinions or drafting. in the king's bench division, remuneration for devilling of briefs or assistance in drafting opinions is not common. in both divisions occasionally such work is remunerated either by casual or periodical payments." "an arrangement of this kind is also not unfrequently made in the case of a king's counsel who desires regular assistance from a junior in the perusal and noting of his briefs." "so far as the council are aware, there is no practice to pay any remuneration in the rare cases where one king's counsel holds a brief for another." "in conclusion the council desires to say that no practice in the least resembling a partnership is permissible or (so far as they know) practiced between counsel: and they are of opinion that the etiquette of the profession forbids the handing over of work by one counsel to another, outside of the conditions above stated." an. st. - , p. . a large number of resolutions deal with the subject of fees and refreshers. thus, it is held that while the council is not a debt-collecting body, yet, where it is "in the interest of the whole profession" that solicitors who default in payment should be "exposed and punished" assistance may be given by the council to a barrister in taking proceedings before the statutory committee of the law society--the solicitor's governing body. (an. st. - , p. .) again it was resolved that a junior chancery man was not precluded by the etiquette of the bar from accepting a refresher less in amount than two-thirds or three-fifths of the refresher accepted by the leader. (an. st. - , p. .) somewhat in the same line is the following: "a king's counsel should refuse all drafting work and written opinions on evidence as being appropriate to juniors only; but a king's counsel is at liberty to settle any such drafting and advice on evidence in consultation with a junior. a king's counsel in accordance with a long-standing 'rule of the profession' cannot hold a brief for the plaintiff on the hearing of a civil cause in the high court, court of appeals or the house of lords, without a junior. it is the usual practice for a king's counsel to insist on having a junior when appearing for the defendant in like cases and when appearing for the prosecution or the defence on trials of criminal indictments". an. st. - , p. . the following is more general than most of the resolutions as it states a fundamental rule rather than its refinements: "_junior and leader._ _proportion of fees._ _refreshers_:--by long-established and well-settled custom a junior is entitled to a fee of from three-fifths to two-thirds of the leader's fee, and, although there is no rigid rule of professional etiquette which prevents him from accepting a brief marked with a fee bearing a less proportion to his leader's fee, it is in accordance with the practice of the profession that he should refuse to do so in the absence of special circumstances affecting the particular case and that he should be supported by his leader in such action. an. st. - , p. . (the council of incorporated law society dissent from the view expressed in this resolution). the same rule applies to refresher". an. st. - , p. . the necessity for a barrister upon accepting a brief in a circuit of which he is not a member, to see that the solicitor retain a junior belonging to the circuit, which will later be explained, is recognized in the following resolution: "_special fees at assizes_:--the universal practice of the circuits since june (when the matter was considered by a joint committee of all the circuits) is that a counsel going special on to one circuit from another circuit should, if a king's counsel, have a special fee of guineas in addition to the brief fee, and that one member of the circuit should be employed on the side on which the counsel comes special." an. st. - , p. . a resolution provides for the settlement of disputes between barristers and solicitors by their entering into an agreement to leave the questions to arbitration, the board to be composed of the chairman of the general council of the bar (or some member of that council to be named by him) and the president of the incorporated law society (or some member thereof to be selected by him). an. st. - , p. . the following is a curious resolution: "_barrister recommending another barrister as his leader or junior_: a barrister ought not to recommend another as his leader or junior. and such questions as, who is the best man for a witness action in such a court? which leader is _persona grata_ in such a court? do you get on all right with x--as your leader? are improper questions and should not be answered." an. st. - , p. . illustrative of this ruling was a recent investigation of the charge that a barrister, about to leave town, had recommended another barrister to a solicitor--the objections being that such an act would not only violate the etiquette which forbids any barrister to laud or decry another barrister to a solicitor, but also that it might savor of co-operation in the nature of a partnership which would never be tolerated. the defence was successful, however, in showing that they were old eton schoolmates and the solicitor knew them equally well. the above extracts show how broad in scope and minute in detail are these authoritative rulings on every phase of professional life and daily practice in england. many of them would be totally inapplicable to american conditions, and, beyond affording a glimpse of peculiar customs and an elaborate etiquette, possess little value here. they do, however, show that the experience of the best bar in the world justifies the existence of such a body ready to declare the standards of professional propriety. it should not be inferred that in england there is no lapse from such standards. it requires some diligence to discover individual shortcomings, but inquiry will develop that even "ambulance chasing" is not unknown--although greatly reprehended and despised. if the american observer, on watching the trial of an action, perhaps against an omnibus company for personal injuries, will cautiously comment upon the array of solicitors and counsel representing a plaintiff apparently not possessed of a sixpence, and express wonder that he is able to afford it, the information will be forthcoming that some solicitor's clerk was probably in a neighboring "pooblic" and, hearing of an accident, had followed the injured man, perhaps to the hospital, and got the case for his master, whose remuneration would depend upon the result. pressing the inquiry further as to whether the solicitor advances the barrister's fees, it will reluctantly be admitted that some barristers have relations with solicitors that should not be looked into too closely--in other words that their fees are contingent. but it will also be added that they are taking great risks of exposure. any one who has sat on a bar committee, or on a committee of censors, in america must have been struck by the frequent instances where practitioners have fallen into error from sheer ignorance, due to inexperience or to the fact that they had not been born and bred to the best traditions. this is especially true in these days when law schools are grinding out members of the bar who have had no real professional preceptors. as disbarment or suspension is too severe a penalty, such lapses pass unreproved and the standards sink, a result much more deplorable than the failure of individual discipline. many a young lawyer would be induced to mend his ways if privately and fraternally informed of professional disapproval and some would be glad to seek the judgment of such a body if it could be had without exposing names or particulars. in this way, too, a body of rulings on the professional proprieties applicable to american conditions would be steadily forced upon the attention of the whole profession, instead of being locked in the breasts of the more reputable members to govern merely their own conduct. chapter viii the civil courts the general system--different courts--rules of practice made by lord chancellor--juries, common and special--judges and how appointed--judges' pay--costs--court notes--some difference in english and american methods. the general system of the english courts may be indicated without detailing the exact limitations of jurisdiction which would be too technical for present purposes. prior to there were a large number of courts with various titles, which had grown up through centuries of custom and legislation. but they were nearly all abolished by an act of parliament, or rather their functions were merged into the present far simpler system. in this radical re-arrangement, however, two courts--the highest and the lowest--survived; the house of lords and the county courts remain as they were. thus came into being the supreme court of judicature, composed of two branches--the high court of justice and the court of appeal. the high court is the one of immediate interest because here are begun all litigations of every description, excepting the minor matters which go to the county courts, or, perhaps, to the registrar's court. the high court is separated into three parts known as the king's bench division, devoted to jury trials which constitute the great bulk of business, the chancery division, where equity suits are considered, and the probate, divorce and admiralty division which deals, as its name implies, with the estates of deceased persons, with divorce, and with marine matters. each of these three divisions has a chief; the lord chief justice of england presides over the king's bench division and the lord chancellor over the chancery division, while the head of the probate and admiralty division, enjoys no higher title than that of "president." the number of judges in the different divisions is fixed by legislation and is determined by the extent of the business in each. in every court, except appeal courts, the evidence is heard by a single judge--of course in a separate court room--with the assistance of a jury in the king's bench division, but, except in divorce cases, usually without any jury in the other tribunals which are equity courts. it was the evident intention of parliament to fuse equity and common law practice, but experience has not proved that this is very feasible, so that the line which separates the two is nearly as distinct as it ever was. nevertheless, a certain amount of progress has been made in this direction--probably all that would be wise--particularly in the admission of equitable defenses in common law actions and in the facility with which, on the other hand, an equity court is enabled to obtain the verdict of a jury upon disputed facts without the old and cumbersome method of remitting the whole case to a common law court for a trial upon a special issue. the rules of practice are established and can be changed by the lord chancellor with the approval of a majority of the judges. it is provided, however, that such changes must be submitted to parliament and that they become void if either house passes a resolution of veto within forty days. the consequences of this very sensible arrangement are that the vast improvements in practice which have so greatly facilitated and accelerated english litigation, have been effected by the courts and the bar of their own initiative without the necessity to rely upon the action of a legislative body largely incapable of dealing with such technical and important questions. this experience should be borne in mind in the present movement to lessen the law's delays in america, and the existing power of the courts should be utilized, or, if necessary, broadened, rather than permit congress and the legislatures to attempt to deal with details which they can not in the nature of things fully understand. it will be recalled that the executive head of the american government has not scrupled recently to designate our methods as, in some respects, "archaic and barbarous," and has directed attention to the present equity practice of the united states courts. in them, testimony upon disputed facts is still elicited by an examiner--a method long since abandoned in progressive communities. such an official, temporarily appointed by the court, possessing but limited power and often with little experience, merely presides, while a stenographer notes the oral evidence subsequently to be reproduced in typewriting or print. thereafter, in some instances, a master is appointed to consider the testimony and report his conclusions, while later the court itself does the same thing over again. all lawyers know how weak in effect is evidence when reduced to cold type, as compared with that which falls from the lips of living witnesses, and how faint and inaccurate are the impressions produced by the former upon the mind of a judge, no matter how industrious and able he may be. hence, in enlightened systems of jurisprudence, the witnesses are called directly before the tribunal which is to decide the facts upon their testimony--exactly as they would be brought before a jury. the power to bring about such a salutary change inheres in the supreme court of the united states which, by the simple promulgation of an order to that effect, without any further legislation, can forever abolish the obsolete system now in vogue. this was accomplished years ago in england and has also been brought about in some american states--such as pennsylvania, vermont and others--with the result that equity proceedings have been much shortened in duration and lightened in cost, to the infinite relief of court, counsel and litigants. in the king's bench division--the only court holding jury trials except the county courts--the jury of twelve men may be either a "common" jury or a "special" jury. common juries are composed of men having practically no property qualification, it being required only that they shall occupy realty the rental of which is equivalent to £ a year. the result is to exclude those merely who are practically homeless, as such a rental represents less, perhaps, than the hire of a single room. the requirements therefore for service on an ordinary jury would seem to be little more than that the juror should have a known place of residence. his compensation for services is but one shilling a day. special juries, on the other hand, which may be claimed as a right by either party and whose services are paid for by the litigants rather than by the government, receive one guinea a day and the members must occupy premises renting for not less than £ a year, or a farm worth £ yearly, or they may be bankers, merchants, or persons upon whom minor titles have been bestowed. the employment of special juries is increasing in frequency at the expense of ordinary juries and it seems that the facility to obtain them is also cutting down the number of trials which the law permits to be conducted by the judges without any jury at all, provided the parties so agree. the chancery division, as stated, is the tribunal for equity trials where juries are rarely employed, but the judge determines both the law and the facts. into this court therefore comes all the equity litigation of england, although, for very limited sums, there is a concurrent jurisdiction in the county courts. the separation which exists between practice in this court, and the barristers who practice therein, as compared with the common law courts, has already been described at length. the judges in the equity courts never wear gowns containing any colors except black. the probate, divorce and admiralty division of the high court of justice is, like the chancery division, a court of equity, as distinguished from a court of law, in which the trials are conducted by a judge without a jury. here are considered all matters concerning decedent's estates, but the chancery division has to do with the construction of wills and the distribution of property. divorces occupy much time of this court and furnish sensational material for english newspapers. they form an exception to the general rule in the probate, divorce and admiralty division in the presence of a jury and in the submission of the facts to them. the admiralty court is of course confined to maritime matters and the room is adorned by a gilt anchor fixed upon a shield hung upon the wall behind the presiding judge, who is assisted in the technical matters by two trinity masters--retired sea captains. the county courts number about , not confined to london but dotted all over england, the districts of which are much smaller than counties, notwithstanding they are called county courts. one judge suffices for a number of these courts which are grouped into circuits. in most courts the judge is allowed to decide both facts and law, but a jury of eight men can be had at the instance of either party. the jurisdiction is at present limited, in common law cases, to £ and, in equity actions, to £ ; while there is no jurisdiction whatever in the matters of divorce, libel or slander. in these courts, as will be explained later, barristers rarely appear but solicitors are allowed to act as advocates. the county courts were established in and, as mentioned, were not disturbed in the reorganization of the courts in , the idea being to bring the administration of justice closer to the people's homes and to reduce its cost. the county courts no doubt serve to relieve the high court of a great mass of petty litigation, and in that respect are extremely useful, if rather uninteresting. an appeal lies from the county court to the high court on points of law but it is not often exercised. for very small matters--chiefly the collection of trifling debts--the registrar's court, which is likewise not confined to london, performs useful functions which will hereafter be described more particularly. besides the courts above mentioned, the lord mayor's court in the city of london and the palatine court and court of passage, in the north of england, are local courts which transact a great deal of business. such, briefly, is the english arrangement of courts for the disposal of civil as distinguished from criminal business. the judges of all courts are appointed--not elected--and their terms of office are for life with provisions for retirement and pension. judicial salaries are much higher in england than in america. ordinary judges of the high court get £ , , the lords of appeal, £ , , the chief justice, £ , , and the lord chancellor, £ , . the appointing power--nominally the crown--is really the lord chancellor, who, unlike the lord chief justice and all the other judges of england, is a political incumbent changing with the government. it might be supposed from this fact that the lord chancellor would yield to a natural temptation in making judicial appointments and that his selections would constitute a distribution of political patronage. there appears to be nothing in the law to prevent this, and formerly judges were largely appointed for political considerations or by reason of personal or social influences. at present, however, the least observation will convince any one that the great majority of judicial appointments in england are made solely out of consideration for character and professional attainments. with few exceptions the judges appointed in modern times--no matter what party may have been in power--have been selected from amongst the leading barristers of the day, and a person who has been in the habit for years of frequenting the courts at intervals, is almost sure, when he misses an eminent barrister from the front row, to find him on the bench, if alive. while this is the general rule, it is true that in rare and exceptional cases one hears of the appointment of a judge who is regarded by the profession as not being well qualified and his selection is attributed to influence. the just admiration which americans entertain for the english judiciary as a body will in such instances not be reflected by the views of the english bar, with opportunities for observation at closer range. barristers will remark that a given judge is not a lawyer at all, but merely had the gift of gaining cases before juries, and that the political influence he acquired induced the government to give him an office for which he is ill equipped. and one may even hear the statement made concerning some judge, "i can not say he is venal; i can not say he can be bought for money; but he has naturally a dishonest mind and can not perceive the truth." a stranger is left to speculate how far such views may reflect some past grudge and he will probably come to the conclusion that the high standing of the english judiciary, in the opinion of all the world, is fully deserved, but that there are some few exceptions to this general excellence. costs play an important part in all english litigation. the tendency since the time of the stuarts has been constantly to increase them. by costs--as understood in england--is not meant the official fees payable to the court officers, but a sum which the unsuccessful party is condemned to pay to the successful party, the aim being to indemnify the side whom the event proves to have been in the right. if a litigant has incurred expense to obtain a judgment for a sum of money, then he must be reimbursed by the other side who occasioned his outlay by refusal to pay. on the other hand, if an unjust claim has been made against him, the claimant must repay his expenses in resisting it. part of these costs are taxed as the case proceeds. thus, if one party summon another before a master prior to trial, to obtain an order for the production of some document, the master imposes costs--say £ . s. d.--upon the party who refused to produce, or upon the party who, the master finds, has unwarrantably demanded the production. the theory here is to discourage unnecessary and harassing interlocutory proceedings. but the principal costs "await the event"--follow the course of the final judgment. they include an allowance for counsel fees, which, however, is not always as much as the amount paid by the litigants. for, if a litigant has indulged in the luxury of an unusual array of counsel, he must do so at his own expense, and the master allows only what he should have laid out in fees. thus, in a petty action, caused by some personal pique, the plaintiff may have insisted that his solicitor retain a k. c. at fifty guineas and a junior at thirty-five guineas, involving a total expense, with three guineas for the consultation, of eighty-eight guineas. the defendant, however, has been content with a junior at " & ." if the plaintiff succeeds, the master will not allow him the eighty-eight guineas, but will decide that the more modest armament of the defendant would have been sufficient. costs are, upon the whole, very high. in an ordinary action to recover a moderate sum--say £ --the costs will generally amount to £ . in a recent action to recover £ , the balance of the purchase price of a motor car, costs were claimed of over £ , and actually allowed in a sum over £ . though this was exceptional, owing to the unreasonable stubbornness with which a just claim was resisted, and is by no means typical, yet it illustrates the possibilities of the system. in theory it seems reasonable that the party in the wrong should reimburse the party in the right for having vexatiously put him to expense in obtaining his due. in practice, however, the prospect of large costs may stimulate unjust suits by impecunious plaintiffs--unable themselves to respond in costs if defeated--against richer defendants vulnerable for whatever the chances of war may have in store for them. to this criticism english lawyers can only answer that if the plaintiff is unable to give security for costs, he may, in actions of tort, at least, be remitted to the county courts, where the costs are much lighter. this, however, is merely a mitigation of the evil. the general opinion seems to be that high costs discourage litigation. this may be true, but if they tend as well to obstruct the assertion of just rights and to stimulate fictitious claims, they are not to be desired by the profession or by the laity. a jury trial strikes one as more cut and dried in an english than in an american court. apparently, through the exchange of documents and otherwise, so much is known to the opposing counsel, solicitors and judge, that the element of surprise is largely eliminated. if all the litigants were honest, and the law were an exact science, this might conduce to a deliberate consideration of the questions involved. but what american advocate, having confronted a disingenuous witness with his own letter, utterly at variance with his testimony, could say that the cause of justice would have been better served if the witness had known that the letter was to be produced and had had the chance to regulate his evidence accordingly? [illustration: a jury trial] and what american lawyer would not feel that half the fun of life were gone? during the examination of witnesses, notwithstanding the rapidity of articulation, an american ear is struck by a certain lack of snap and by the great deliberation and long intervals between questions, which afford--especially for a dishonest witness under cross-examination--too much time for reflection. this impression may be due to differences in national temperament, and the examination may seem even rapid to an english listener. perhaps the chief cause of the hesitancy is the fact that the examiner has obtained his information at second hand, from his client the solicitor, or his junior or devil, and has to feel his way. a kind of confidence in the veracity of witnesses appears to pervade the court; and they are, indeed, as a rule, uncommonly frank. english barristers do not know their cases as well as american lawyers. they have not conducted the preliminaries, nor become acquainted with and advised the parties they are to represent; in other words, they have not "grown up with the case," and the facts are more like abstract propositions lately placed in their hands to be presented. it is not unusual during the trial, when some unexpected situation arises, to see evidence of a lack of familiarity with the circumstances which requires instant reference to the solicitor. the judges take a larger part in trials than in most american courts--a practice which has much to commend it, and which is increasing on this side of the water. an american lawyer will say, "i tried a case before judge so-and-so"--an english barrister says: "i conducted a case which lord so-and-so tried." the english judge restrains counsel, often examines the witnesses, and his influence is quite openly exerted to guide the jury and cause them to avoid absurdities and extremes. yet, the crucial questions of fact really to be determined--of which there are usually but one or two--are left absolutely to the jury's unfettered decision. objections to questions by opposing counsel, which cut so large a figure in an american trial, are rarely made. one is told that the barristers know the rules of evidence too well to ask improper questions and that they have too much respect for the court to hazard a rebuke. this is a very pretty, but hardly a satisfactory, explanation. observation of many trials gives the impression, rather, that great laxity prevails as to what is a proper question and that the party aggrieved by an objectionable one prefers to rely upon the reaction in his favor in the judge's mind, which will be shown when his influence comes to be exercised upon the jury. that this laxity prevails, the least experience will show. upon direct examination leading questions, which in america would bring a storm of objection, pass unnoticed, and even hearsay evidence is not unknown. the absence of the element of surprise in trials, may make those concerned more tolerant of counsel leading in a story known to all beforehand. the occasional element of hearsay is more difficult to explain unless, indeed, the french view gains in england, which justifies the admission of hearsay on the ground that in the most important questions of life--for example, in respect to the reputation of a man whom one contemplates trusting, or of a woman one thinks of marrying--men act exclusively upon hearsay and never upon direct evidence. but, of course, the law of evidence remains in england as it always has been: all that is here meant is that a degree of tolerance prevails and upon careful observation, the real cause of this tolerance will be found in the fact that both sides rely on the influence of the judge to eliminate from the minds of the jury the effect of evidence wrongly introduced. in england, mistress of the seas, with much the greatest merchant marine in the world, and with a large insular population living in close touch with the water, one finds, as might be expected, the best admiralty courts and bar in the world. the chart used by counsel in examining witnesses is pinned to a sloping table, among the barrister's benches and facing the court. in collision cases, small models of steamers and sailing vessels, as well as arrows to indicate winds and tides, are employed. all of these may be veered and shifted as the trial progresses, by means of thumb pins projecting beneath and capable of being pressed into the table which has a cork top. the admiralty trials are beautifully conducted and great familiarity with the affairs of the sea is displayed by the participants. models are very much used in all english courts. in land condemnation, nuisance injunction and accident cases, one frequently sees elaborate models reproducing the _locus in quo_. in actions concerning floods or other occurrences affecting considerable areas, models many square feet in size, reproducing the whole locality, are employed. the chief justice sits at nisi prius more often than upon appeal. it seems odd, during the trial of an action for damage caused by a flood due to the alleged improper construction of a bridge, to see the lord chief justice of england reaching far down with a long white, lath-like stick, into the solicitors' well to point out some feature of a model while interrogating a witness, and afterwards charging the jury stick in hand. it is still more strange to hear a judge, whose name is known the world over, gravely charging a jury as to the value, as evidence of identity, of a wart under the tail of a costermonger's donkey, the ownership of which is in dispute. yet, like every feature of an english court, it is eminently practical and free from form or affectation. the highly paid judges of the high court, sit in the smallest case; the idea seems to be that if a man desires to assert his rights, however insignificant, it is the duty of the government to afford him the opportunity. in the divisional court (an appeal court of limited jurisdiction) the lord chief justice of england and two famous colleagues did not grudge, upon a recent occasion, to hear an appeal involving nominally £ . s. d., payment on account having reduced the actual amount in controversy to £ . s. d. as the salaries of the occupants of the bench were not less than £ , a year--to say nothing of those of the court attendants, and the fees of the barristers and solicitors on both sides--the economy of such an employment of human effort is not apparent. some one, however, thought his rights had been invaded, which justified the waste, while the costs furnished a small stake upon the result. chapter ix courts of appeal the court of appeal--house of lords--divisional court--judicial committee of the privy council. the court of appeal--the last resort except for occasional cases which reach the house of lords and colonial appeals which go to the privy council--is, perhaps, the most perfectly working tribunal for the adjustment of conflicting rights which the wit of man in any age has devised. it is divided into two parts of three judges each, sitting simultaneously. the lord chancellor, the chief justice, or the master of the rolls presides over the respective parts and two associate lord justices of appeal compose the court. printed briefs are not used, though the advantage of this omission is not apparent. there is no bill of exceptions and the appeal is in name, as well as in fact, a motion for a judgment the reverse of that rendered below or, in the alternative, for a new trial, and everything which transpired is open to review. three barristers--the leader, junior and devil--together with the solicitors, are usually found on either side. the leader for the appellant opens, stating the case with great particularity, and reads from the evidence, documents and charge to the jury at great length. much time is thus spent because, for no discoverable reason, but probably due to ancient custom and lack of enterprise, the material is all in manuscript, often illegible and with occasional errors in the copies of the court and opposing counsel. the result is tedious and prosy and an american auditor gets an unfavorable impression at this stage of the argument; an impression, however, which is later dispelled. during the irksome opening, the court has been getting a grasp of the case, as becomes apparent when the argumentative stage is reached, for then there ensues a good tempered, courteous, informal debate between the several gentlemen, comprising the court and counsel. there is no "orating" and no declamation. the positions of the opponents are stated rapidly and smoothly. each, as enunciated, is taken up by one or more members of the court and distinct intimation given whether the court agrees with the speaker. in case it does, he may pass on. on the other hand, deferential dissent may warn him to strengthen his position, or a frank expression of doubt may be accompanied by a friendly invitation to the other side to contribute suggestions. at the conclusion, judgment is rendered orally, in nine cases out of ten, by the presiding lord justice, as the last speaker resumes his seat. then follow the opinions of the associate lord justices of appeal, concurring or dissenting, all expressed with the utmost frankness and spontaneity. these are taken down stenographically, and, after revision, sometimes by the judge himself, find their way into the books to become authorities. occasionally a "considered judgment" is reserved to be delivered within two or three days. the contrast presented by these methods (for the system is not essentially different) to the average american appeal is very great. in america, only the ablest men know by a kind of intuition upon what points their cases will turn, and one often hears a more or less stereotyped speech delivered to a court sitting like silent images, without the slightest intimation to the speaker whether he is wasting effort upon conceded points, or slighting those upon which he may discover by the written opinion--delivered months afterwards--he has won or lost. sometimes these friendly debates in an english court of appeal are witty, and they are often rather amusing. in a case recently argued, the defendant, a real estate owner, appealed from a judgment for £ . against him for wrongfully evicting his tenant, the plaintiff, and putting his sick wife and furniture out on the sidewalk in the rain. there was not much to be said in his favor upon the merits of his act, but his counsel argued that plaintiff's advocate had used inflammatory language in his speech to the jury. the judgment was immediately affirmed, the lord chancellor delivering an opinion to the effect that the control of the language used was a matter of discretion for the court below and could not be examined by the appellate court. both of the associate lord justices concurred, but one proceeded to give quite different reasons. with the preliminary words: "speaking only for myself, but not for his lordship," and with a slight inclination of his head towards the lord chancellor, he said he was for affirming for an entirely different reason--not because he could not examine the language used below, but rather that he had done so. he then proceeded to rehearse the brutal conduct of the defendant, and wound up by declaring, "if it had been my sick wife and my furniture which had been set out in the rain under the circumstances described, i do not think the english vocabulary contains the language i should wish my counsel to use in addressing the jury." this was received, as is not uncommon in england, but unheard of in america, with frequent laughter and even subdued applause, and the "london _times_" in its regular legal column the next day, reported the opinions and indicated the "laughter" and "loud laughter" in brackets. the opinions in the books, after being toned down by the reporter, often bear but faint resemblance to the actual utterances. in the house of lords appeals are equally informal and colloquial, an impression that is heightened by the absence of wigs and gowns, so far as the bench is concerned, and by the very casual manner in which the half dozen gentlemen composing the court are seated. the house itself is a large, oblong chamber with steep tiers of seats, upholstered in red leather, which rise high up the side walls and upon which the peers sit when legislating, but which are, of course, empty when the court only sit. at the far end is an unoccupied throne, while, at the near end, raised above the floor, is a kind of box from which counsel address the court. it is much like the rear platform of one of our street cars. counsel, of course, are in wig and gown, and if k. c.'s, in full bottomed wigs, but one may occasionally see a litigant actually arguing his own case _in propria persona_. on either side of the counsel's box is a very narrow standing place for reporters and the public. the court, consisting of the lord chancellor in gown and full bottomed wig, and perhaps of five judges, in ordinary clothing, sit at the floor level, and therefore considerably lower than counsel in the elevated box. they are not placed in a row nor behind any bench or table. on the contrary, though the presiding lord chancellor is vis-a-vis to the counsel box, the others sit where they please. sometimes this is on the front row of benches and sometimes on one of the higher tiers, with a foot propped up, perhaps, on the bench in front, and their thumbs hitched to the armholes of their waist-coats, and, necessarily, with their sides to the speaker. the members of the court often have portable tables in front of them, piled with books and papers. during the course of an argument they constantly debate with each other across the house, or walk over to one of their colleagues with some document or a book and talk of the case audibly and perfectly freely. one may hear one of them, in a salt and pepper suit, call across the floor to another lord of appeal who has interrupted a barrister's argument, "i say, can't you give the man a chance to say what he's got to say?" these little circumstances show that judges and counsel in the appellate courts of england behave as natural men without the slightest restraint, formality or self-consciousness. arguments are delivered with surprising rapidity of utterance, in a conversational tone, and with a crispness of articulation altogether delightful to the ear. the drawling style of speech sometimes heard on the stage as typical of a certain kind of englishman, seems to have disappeared in real life; it certainly is not to be found in the courts. an american stenographer reporting an english argument, would have to increase his accustomed speed at least one-third. the methods of the divisional court are the same as those of the court of appeal, but the low limit of its jurisdiction renders it of little interest. the judicial committee of the privy council--or, as it is colloquially described by the lawyers, "the privy council"--is doubtless the most interesting court in england because of the variety of the questions there considered and owing to the fact that, geographically, the litigations originate in nearly every quarter of the civilized world, for, as noted above, this is the court of last resort for all of the british colonies. it should not be confused with the privy council itself--a political adviser of the crown--for the judicial committee's functions are purely judicial and its personnel consists of the lord chancellor and the other law lords, a few paid members, and some ex-colonial judges. historically, indeed, it was but a sub-committee of the privy council, which circumstance gives the court its name and explains why its judgments always conclude with the phrase that the committee "humbly advises his majesty" to affirm or reverse the judgment rendered in the colony, instead of pronouncing the conclusion in direct language, as do other courts. this extraordinary body sits in a large second story chamber, not in the least resembling a court room, of a building in downing street, and rarely is there any audience other than the professional men whose business takes them there. of course, most of the colonies are equipped with their own court of appeals--usually called the supreme court--but, nevertheless, an appeal lies from their decisions to the privy council in certain circumstances, although to define exactly the scope of this jurisdiction would be too technical for present purposes. here are to be found, arguing their cases, lawyers from colonies in every corner of the globe in some of which the division of the profession into barristers and solicitors hardly exists, or at least, the line separating them is quite hazy--but they must all appear in wig and gown. bearing in mind the fact that the colonies of great britain are scattered over the whole world and that it has always been the policy, so far as possible, to accept the existing law of each and graft it upon the english law system, the diversity and broadness of this court's deliberations may be imagined. the succession to an indian principality, to be determined under the ancient law of that far eastern land, will be followed by a question of the legality of the adoption of a child in south africa, to be considered under the rules of dutch law. the next case will, perhaps, involve the effect upon an area much greater than that of all england, of the diversion of a river in the canadian north-west. and the court may next turn its attention to the problem whether the widow of a scotchman who left two wills--one intended to operate at home and the other to take effect in australia--can take her thirds against the will in scotland but accept the benefits of the other will as to property in australia. the court of appeal and the house of lords deal with domestic matters of the little island, which, however important the principles involved and however critical the issues to the litigants themselves, seem almost petty in comparison with the broad field of the privy council. little as the average man knows of it, and rarely as it figures in news of the day, no american lawyer can fail to perceive in this great court something of the tremendous scope of his own supreme court of the united states, to which tribunal only is the privy council secondary. chapter x masters: the time savers current hearings--minor issues threshed out. the numerous motions and interlocutory applications, supported by affidavits and urged by argument, which consume so much of the time of an american court, are disposed of in england by masters--competent barristers appointed by the courts, who are paid salaries of about £ , a year. at a certain hour the master takes his seat at a desk with a printed list of "applications without counsel" or "applications with counsel." he nods to the uniformed officer at the door who admits the solicitors engaged in the cause which happens to be first on the list of cases "without counsel." the solicitors stand before the master with a shelf upon which to rest books or papers; one side then states its demand and the other its objection in the briefest and most direct manner. the master's immediate oral decision, accompanied by imposition of the costs and a few scratches of his pen on the back of the summons, indicates to the officer the opening of the door to admit the next case. by actual count twenty-seven cases may thus be disposed of in one hour and thirty-two minutes--an average of a little more than three minutes each. of course there is a right of appeal, which, however, is rarely exercised. as the door opens two solicitors hurry in. there are no salutations nor introductory remarks and the business proceeds abruptly: _plaintiff's solicitor_: "master, we claim £ judgment for rent." _master to defendant's solicitor_: "do you admit the amount?" _defendant's solicitor_: "yes, but we claim a set-off." _master_: (endorsing a few words on the summons) "judgment for rent £ with stay of execution until counter claim is tried." _defendant's solicitor_: "if you please, master." this expression is the universal vernacular with which the defeated party accepts the judgment of a master or judge in all courts. the expression is not an interrogation but is equivalent to "as you please." out they go and the next enter; here the defendant asks for delay, and gets seven days which is endorsed on the summons and requires a minute. then comes an application under "order xiv" for judgment for £ , . defendant requires four days' delay. _master_: "what is the defence?" _defendant's solicitor_: "master, i don't know--a recent agreement has been made between the parties which i have not yet seen." _master_: "i'll give you four days, but you must pay the costs of the adjournment; thirteen shillings and fourpence." _defendant's solicitor_: "if you please, master." the next summons for judgment. as this is denied, the parties agree to try it before the master on the following thursday without a jury. then follows a summons by defendant upon plaintiff for particulars of goods sold and delivered. both parties are dealers in japanese bulbs, and the sale was made subject to arrival in england safe and sound. the defendant demands particulars of the plaintiff as to who were his customers. the plaintiff objects to disclosing his business and the written summons, containing the request for particulars, is gone over rapidly by the master. such parts of the request as, in his opinion, ought not to have been demanded, because they pry into the plaintiff's private affairs, are eliminated by a stroke of the master's pen and an order is made at the bottom in an abbreviated form, imposing the costs of the summons upon the plaintiff. this means that the plaintiff is obliged to furnish the defendant, in so many days, all the particulars which the master did not strike out, and must pay the defendant the costs of the application. a moment is consumed in giving judgment in an uncontested case for £ , with costs of £ . s. d. then comes a breach of promise case. the defendant asks for an order upon the plaintiff for a statement of claim and discovery of correspondence, which is granted. as most of the witnesses are in london, the defendant wants to try the case here, but the plaintiff wishes to try it in manchester where the parties live. the master thinks it is easier to bring two people up from manchester than to take a dozen down from london. next is a summons for directions: _master_: "statement of claim in ten days." _plaintiff's solicitor_: "yes, master." _master_: "defence in ten days." _defendant's solicitor_: "yes, master." _master_: "no counter claim?" _defendant's solicitor_: "no, master." _master_: "documents?" _both solicitors_: "large number." _master_: "all parties in london?" _both solicitors_: "yes." _master_: "any question of law?" _both solicitors_: "no." _master_: "next case." and he at once endorses a few words on the bottom of the summons. then a defendant appears in person: _master_: "do you owe the £ ?" _defendant_: "yes, sir." _plaintiff's solicitor_: "we only want judgment for £ because this morning he paid £ on account, and he agrees to pay £ a week, so that we will not issue execution if he does this." _master_: "i'll give you judgment generally for £ , but you write defendant a letter stating that you will not issue execution as you have just stated." another defendant appears in person: _defendant_: "i've got no defence, all i want is time." _plaintiff's solicitor_: "we'll do nothing until monday as we think he means to pay." _master_: "all right, it is understood you will do nothing until monday." the details of practice before these masters would be beyond the scope of the present writing, suffice it to say that rules have been promulgated from time to time, and are constantly being improved upon, having for their object the simplification of procedure, the rapid despatch of business and the settling of all minor questions which may arise in a case before actual trial. thus, "order xiv," just referred to, enables a master to enter judgment when the defence averred, even if true, would not be effectual, or when the defence is obviously frivolous, although, of course, the rights of the defendant are preserved by the privilege of appeal, the judgment, meantime, binding his property. again, the "summons for directions" is to enable the master to give general directions as to how the parties shall proceed, the intervals of time to be allowed for exchange of copies of documents, taking foreign testimony and what not. one of the cleverest contrivances in the practice before masters is the "tender of damages in tort without admitting liability." a defendant may tender, say, £ . if plaintiff does not accept it, the trial ensues--the jury, of course, being in ignorance of the tender. if the judgment be for defendant, or for more than the tender, that is the end of the matter. but if the judgment be for less than the tender, a large deduction for costs is made from the judgment, and inures to the defendant's benefit. this has enormously reduced the volume of accident cases and has also curbed the often wildly extravagant demands and unjust results in such actions generally recognized as evils difficult to deal with. in short, the system of masters in england works admirably. it is entirely adaptable to american courts, the details and modifications which might prove necessary being fitted to local conditions, but in any such adaptation, the general purpose should be kept in view, namely, that when a case appears upon a trial list it shall have already been pruned of all non-essential preliminary details and is forthwith to be actually tried upon its merits; the court's time being too precious to be expended upon the subsidiary side issues. chapter xi the police courts current hearings. upon arrest, a preliminary hearing is first held at a police station where, as in most english proceedings, the testimony, with anything the prisoner may say (after he has been warned of the consequence of self-incrimination) is carefully reduced to longhand writing and plays an important part at the subsequent stages of the prosecution. the next step is the hearing before a police magistrate at bow or marlborough streets, or at any one of the like courts in london which, although of minor importance, are dignified tribunals. the court room is entered by two small doors, one for the witnesses and audience, the other for officials and solicitors, and there is another passage leading from the cells through which the prisoners are brought to a dock. this dock, as in all criminal courts, is at the far end of the room from the magistrate. the prisoner is thus isolated and can only communicate with his solicitor, if he has been able to retain one, by scrawling a note and passing it on to an officer. the magistrate, appointed by the crown or the lord chancellor acting in its behalf, is almost invariably a man of standing and repute, always a barrister, whose ready dispatch of business shows great experience with crime, and whose kindness to the merely unfortunate testifies to his charitableness of heart. he wears no wig nor gown and is called in court, "your worship"; whereas judges of the high court are called in court, "my lord," and those of the county courts, "your honor." all judges, however, are addressed in private life as "mr." or, if they have one, by a title. a judge of the high court is always knighted on appointment and in private life is addressed as "mr. justice ----" unless he is a peer. solicitors act for the more important prisoners but barristers are rarely seen and appear in ordinary street dress if at all. the early morning run of business consists chiefly of the "drunks", divided nearly equally as to sex, and of persons arrested for begging and minor misbehavior. these cases are disposed of with great rapidity. a woman, looking very silly, and with her millinery somewhat awry, is ushered into the dock charged with being "drunk and disorderly." _magistrate_: "do you admit it?" _woman_: "hi hadmit hi 'ad a little too much, but deny being disorderly, your worship." _police constable_: (sworn) "she was banging on the door of the black horse at a.m. screamin' for drink. i cautioned her and then saw her repeat this at another closed 'pooblic', so i took her in charge." _magistrate_: (to an officer with a book of records) "is she known?" _officer_: "no, your worship, she was never here before." _magistrate_: "five shillings or five days." as she is rapidly conducted through the passage and disappears in the direction of the cells, one hears called from official to official the words: "five or five." the next is an intelligent, elderly, but very shabby, man charged with begging. the police officer had testified that a lady gave the prisoner money and that he immediately entered the nearest "pooblic". the prisoner's explanation was that he had been given the shilling without his having asked for it, and that he had gone to the tavern to get bread and cheese, which he greatly needed, and a glass of beer. the magistrate rather rebuked the policeman for referring to the visit to the public house as counting against the man, adding that anybody had the perfect right to do as he had. then, addressing the prisoner, he said, kindly, that he was by no means sure that actual solicitation by words was essential to constitute begging and that his mere appearance was an appeal. it seemed as though the man was about to get off, when the inevitable question "is he known?" brought the information that he had been in court upon the same charge on february th, on march th and again the month following. the magistrate's manner quickly changed, as he recognized an old offender, "three months hard labor," he said, and "three hard" was repeated like an echo down the corridor as the prisoner slunk back to the cells. the next was a well-dressed young man, apparently a clerk, charged with being drunk and disorderly. _prisoner_: "it's quoite roight what the constable says." _magistrate_: "seven shillings and sixpence or six days." _a voice down the corridor_: "seven and six or six." [illustration: a subject for the police court] after the early business, which is dispatched with great rapidity, come the more serious cases, which, if well-founded, are to be held for trial. an american was charged with obtaining money and goods by false pretence. soliciting advertisements from tradespeople for a book intended for americans visiting london, which never was published; he had obtained money on account and at the same time, procured millinery and garments for a woman whom he introduced as his fiancée. he was represented by a barrister who would try his case if he were held for trial. the witnesses consisted of milliners and dressmakers who detailed the method of his operations. the magistrate referred frequently to the memoranda of their evidence, taken at the police station, and questioned them so as to elicit their testimony, which he wrote down in longhand. the defendant's barrister cross-examined and the magistrate added the substance of the cross-examination to the deposition which was finally signed by the witness, to be used by the trial judge as his guide, if the grand jury should find a true bill. during the examination, one was struck by the alacrity, and glibness of the replies, as in all london courts of whatever degree. an american ear is impressed by the thought that possibly these people, living in a densely packed community of five millions, all speaking one language, are particularly facile in the use of the mother tongue, unlike the english rustic who is apt to be taciturn and awkward of speech. one is also struck, as in all courts, by a certain ring of sincerity, an attitude of respect for the administration of law and the quick and cheerful co-operation of all concerned. the englishman truly appears to the best advantage in his court, where he leads the world. if the accused be held for trial by the magistrate, the next step, as with us, is the presentation of the charge to the grand jury. the grand jury either throw out the indictment or find a true bill, in which event a jury trial follows at the central criminal court. chapter xii the central criminal court;--the old bailey current trials. at the corner of newgate and old bailey streets, near fleet street and not far from ludgate hill, stands a modern building, officially known as the central criminal court, but popularly called "the old bailey." it occupies the site of the ancient newgate gaol and fleet prison, where, for nearly seven centuries the criminals of london expiated their crimes. there they were tried and, if convicted, hanged on the premises, or--a scarcely better fate--thrown into newgate prison, which, from time immemorial, was so overcrowded, so ill-ventilated and so poorly supplied with water that it was the hot-bed of diseases designated as "prison fever." at a single session of court the fever had been known to carry off fifty human beings; not only prisoners, but such august personages as judges, mayors, aldermen and sheriffs. the present fine structure is exclusively a court house to which prisoners are brought for trial and confined in sanitary cells beneath the court rooms only while awaiting the call of their cases. there are three courts: two presided over by judges called, respectively, the common serjeant and the recorder, together with the lord chief justice of england, or such other judge of the high court as may be designated for the month, who comes from his civil work in the strand law courts to try criminal cases at the old bailey. each month, also, two or three aldermen and sheriffs of the city of london are scheduled for the complimentary duty of attending their lordships and entertaining them at luncheon. the court rooms are rather small and nearly square. like every london court, they have oak panelled walls, and excellent illumination from above by skylights; they are arranged with a high dais--on which are the chairs and desks for the presiding judge, the sheriffs, or for any guest--and they have the usual steep upward slope of the benches for barristers on the one side and for the jury on the other. only the solicitors' table is at the floor level. this arrangement brings all the participants in a trial more nearly together than if they were distributed over a flat floor. at the end of the room farthest from the judge is the prisoners' dock, a large square box, elevated almost to the judge's level. this the prisoner reaches by a stairway from the cells below (invisible because of the sides of the dock), accompanied by officers, and he stands throughout the trial--unless invited by the judge to be seated--completely isolated from his barrister and from his solicitor and can only communicate with his defenders by scrawling a lead pencil note and passing it to an officer. a small area of sloping benches, together with a very inadequate gallery, are the only accommodations for the public. if the visitor happens to be a guest of the court, he will be ushered in by a door leading to the raised dais and will sit at a desk beside the judge. his eye will first be arrested by a small heap on his desk of dried aromatic herbs and rose leaves and, while speculating as to the purpose of these, he will discover similar little piles on the desks of the presiding judge and sheriffs. he will also observe that the carpet of the dais is thickly strewn with the same litter. vaguely it is suggested that the court room has been used over night for some kind of a horticultural exhibition and that the sweeping has been overlooked. later, his astonishment, however, is redoubled when enter the sheriffs and the judge each carrying a bright colored bouquet of roses or sweet peas bound up in an old-fashioned, stiff, perforated paper holder. the visitor ventures to whisper his curiosity and he is then informed that, in the former times, these herbs, and the perfume of fresh flowers, were supposed to prevent the contagion of prison fever; and that the ancient custom has survived the use of disinfectants and the modern sanitation of prisoners and cells. the opening of court in the morning and after luncheon is a curious ceremony. the bar and audience rise and, through a door corresponding to the one by which the visitor has reached the dais, enter the two sheriffs gowned in flowing dark blue robes trimmed with fur. then comes the under-sheriff in a very smart black velvet knee breeches suit, white ruffled shirt, white stockings, silver buckled shoes, cocked hat under arm and sword at side. the sheriffs bow in ushering to his seat the judge, who is arrayed in wig and robe, which, in the case of the lord chief justice, or one of the judges of the high court, is of brilliant scarlet with a dark blue sash over one shoulder, or in the case of the common sergeant, is of sombre black. each member of the court carries the bouquet referred to and the whole group afford a dash of color strong in contrast with the dark setting. the judge, having seated himself in a chair--so cumbersome as to require a little track to roll it forward sufficiently close to the desk--the sheriffs dispose themselves in the seats not occupied by the judge or his guest, and, later, they quietly withdraw. they have no part in the proceedings, their only function being to usher in and out the judges, and to entertain them at luncheon--the judges being by custom their guests. the judge having taken his seat, the bar and public do the same and the business begins. there are usually two such courts sitting at the old bailey--sometimes three of them. at lunch time the sheriffs again escort the judges from their seats, and all the judges, sheriffs and under-sheriffs, and any guests they may invite, assemble in the dining-room of the court house for an excellent, substantial luncheon served by butler and footman in blue liveries with brass buttons, knee breeches and white stockings. the luncheon table looks odd with the varied costumes, the rich blues, the bright scarlets and the wigs of the party, who, no longer on duty, relax into jolly sociability. indeed one can not escape the impression that he has in some way joined a group of "supes" from the opera who are snatching a light supper between the choruses. these are some of the picturesque features of the old bailey which, at the same time, is the theatre of the most sensible and enlightened application of law to the every day affairs of the largest aggregation of human beings the world has ever seen. while enjoying a cigar after luncheon with one of the under-sheriffs, the voice of the common serjeant or recorder is heard at the door of the smoking room. robed and armed with his bouquet, he smilingly inquires if there are no sheriffs to escort him into court. a hasty buckling on of sword, a snatching up of his bouquet and a little dusting of cigar ashes from his velvet knee breeches, prepares the under-sheriff for the function, and, preceded by the sheriffs in their blue gowns, his lordship bringing up the rear, the little procession starts along the corridor and enters the door leading to the judges' dais. the under-sheriff shortly returns to finish his cigar but the guest tarries beside the judge. the first case was a minor one--a charge of breaking and entering a shop and stealing some goods. his name having been called, the prisoner suddenly popped up into the dock at the far end of the room with police officers on either side of him. asked if he objected to any of the jurors already seated in the box, he replied in the negative and the trial began. the junior barrister opened very briefly, merely stating the name, date, locality and nature of the charge. following him the senior barrister gave the details at much greater length. these barristers were not, as with us, district attorneys or state prosecutors. they are either retained by the treasury or, as the case may be, represent private prosecutors. the judge was fully conversant with the evidence, as he had before him the depositions taken at the magistrate's court. in an english court, when counsel has finished the direct examination of a witness, he does not say, as we do, "cross-examine" or "the witness is yours", he simply resumes his seat as the signal for the other side to cross-examine. sometimes, a pause of the voice simultaneously with a stooping of the barrister's head for a word of suggestion from the solicitor below, leads his opponent to believe he is seating himself and to begin to cross-examine prematurely. although in this case the plea was "not guilty," the charge was practically undefended, and a prompt verdict of "guilty" followed. then came the important query from the judge to the police as to whether the prisoner "is known"--was there a record of former convictions? learning that there was not, a sentence to eighteen calendar months at hard labor followed a caution that if he should be brought again before the court, he would be sent to penal servitude. with a servile "if your lordship pleases" he turned to dive down the stairs, and, as he did so, with a grinning leer, seized his left hand in his right and cordially shook hands with himself--a bit of a gesticular slang which led one to think that the police were not very well informed as to his previous experiences. the next was a more important case. a clever but sinister-looking belgian, the master of several languages, was charged with obtaining a valuable pair of diamond earrings by an ingenious swindle. having a slight acquaintance with a dealer in stones, he telephoned that a friend of his was coming over to london from paris to join his wife and desired to present her with a pair of earrings. if the dealer had suitable stones and would allow a commission, the belgian said he would try to effect a sale for him. he, therefore, arranged that the dealer, at a fixed hour the following day, should bring the stones to his lodgings for the frenchman's inspection. the appointment was kept and the two men waited for some time for the frenchman. finally the latter's wife appeared and explained to the belgian in french--which the englishman did not understand--that her husband had been detained but would come by a later train, whereupon she withdrew, and the conversation was interpreted to the disappointed dealer. then the belgian suggested that, if the dealer cared to leave the stones, he would give a receipt for them and would either return them or the money by half-past four. the dealer replied that although he was quite willing to do so, he had partners whose interest he must consult. the belgian then produced a certificate of stock in some newfoundland company, saying that it was worth as much as the diamonds. the dealer consented to receive this as security and he then left. just before half-past four he was called up on the telephone and told by the belgian that he had made the sale and had received the money in french notes which he would have changed into english money. the dealer told him to bring the french notes, which would be acceptable to him. that, of course, was the last he ever saw of the money, the diamonds or the swindler, until the latter was arrested some months later. the leading nature of the direct examination, so marked in all english courts, was conspicuous in such questions as the following: _q_: "did the defendant telephone you about . ?" _a_: "yes, sir." _q_: "did you recognize his voice?" _a_: "yes, sir." _q_: "did you send an assistant to the defendant's flat with a letter and was it returned to you unopened?" _a_: "yes, sir." the secretary of the newfoundland company having been called, was asked: "were the shares in defendant's name formerly in the name of john smith?" _a_: "yes." _q_: "was there an order of court forbidding their transfer?" _a_: "yes." two pawnbrokers testified that, shortly after four o'clock, the prisoner had brought the earrings to their shops and asked how much would be loaned upon them and that, the sum offered being apparently unsatisfactory, the belgian took the earrings away. _defendant's barrister_: "my lord, i submit, i've no case to answer." _the court_: "oh, yes, you have." _barrister_: "well, if your lordship thinks so." the defence was cleverer than the original swindle in that it did not attempt to deny the overwhelming evidence, but merely made the story tally with an ostensibly innocent explanation. the belgian averred that he had himself been robbed by the frenchman, with whom he had but a slight acquaintance gained at the paris races. he said that the frenchman had kept the deferred appointment and, though he admired the stones, he thought them hardly worth the price, whereupon the two had set off in a cab to obtain an opinion as to their value. if thus assured, he was to make the purchase and together they were to take them to his wife in a hotel near piccadilly. as it was late in the day, they failed to find a french-speaking jeweller whom they sought, and it was suggested that, as pawnbrokers were very cautious in loaning, two opinions of that fraternity should be had. on stopping at the pawnbrokers' shops, the frenchman, being ignorant of english, said there was no use of his going in as he would have to rely upon his companion's interpretation and might as well sit in the cab. thus, the visits by the belgian alone to the two pawnshops and the inquiry as to the amount procurable as a loan, were duly accounted for. according to the prisoner's story, the frenchman, being satisfied, proposed to pay in french notes and the belgian entered a public telephone booth to enquire of his principal if that would be satisfactory, leaving the jewels with the frenchman in the cab. when he returned the cab was gone. his intention having been to leave for the continent the following day, the belgian said he had already notified the landlord of his flat--which was apparently true--and had dispatched his effects in advance. so, supposing that the frenchman had gone to paris, he immediately followed on the evening train in the hope of identifying him en route, or of finding him somewhere in that city. he swore he did find him a few days later and caused his arrest, and that the french magistrate declined to hold him because the crime had been committed in england where there was no warrant out, and, hence, no demand for extradition. the weakest point in this ingenious fabrication was the prisoner's failure to communicate with the owner of the diamonds during the ensuing five months. this, and other discrepancies, having been easily laid bare on cross-examination, a verdict of guilty was quickly rendered. the judge had hardly uttered the usual query whether the prisoner was known, before an alert police inspector replied, "he is an international swindler, well-known all over the continent, wanted in berlin for a job of , marks, in paris for another of , francs and elsewhere." _judge_: "suppose we give him a few months and allow the foreign police to apply for extradition?" _inspector_: "well, your lordship, the trouble is that he claims to have been born in paris of english parents and that he is, therefore, a british subject, and the french police will jolly well accept his statement." _judge_: "that's very awkward. we'll give him twelve calendar months and see what transpires." chapter xiii an important murder trial amongst the murder trials on the "calendar of prisoners" appeared "no ; madar lal dhingra, , student, wilful murder of sir william hutt curzon wyllie and dr. cowas lalcaca." this referred to the cowardly assassination of an english gentleman who had devoted his life to indian administration and to benefiting the native races of that country, and to the murder of an indian doctor, who lost his life in an effort to save him. the tragedy, the news of which had profoundly shocked the world less than three weeks before, occurred during an evening reception at the imperial institute. the prisoner, a fanatical indian student, was believed to have borne no personal animosity to his victim. no one knew exactly when the case would be reached, but it had been expected for several days when, one morning, the old bailey, in view of a possible disturbance by indian sympathizers, was found to be carefully guarded by detectives. except a small audience admitted by cards which were doubtless hard to procure and not transferable, the public, clamoring at the doors, were excluded from the court, although one american lady, who appeared in one of the back seats, seemed to have had information and influence necessary to gain an entrée. the barristers' benches, however, were so full that there was an unusual array of bewigged heads on that side of the court. the jury, already in place, and the small audience, waited in quiet but tense expectation. while one was idly noting the usual dried herbs and rose leaves on the desks and carpet of the judges' dais, the lord chief justice seated himself and rolled his chair forward, a shaft of soft sun rays from the skylight accentuating his scarlet robe. the sheriffs bowed and took their seats at the side, and dhingra's name was called. into the dock at the far end of the room popped the prisoner, guarded by two imperturbable policemen. he was a little, yellow youth with a semitic or oriental countenance, silky black hair much dishevelled and badly in need of the scissors, and eyes, so far as they were discernible under his gold-rimmed spectacles, of glittering black. he wore an ordinary gray suit and stood with his right hand thrust into the breast of his coat, suggesting that he had concealed there some weapon or, perhaps, poison; but of course he had long since been disarmed and under careful guard. his was a meagre figure, by no means conveying to an observer his own conceited estimate of his personality. when he spoke, though posing as a hero and martyr, he revealed only a sullen, sulky and venomous disposition and the ferocity of his character was attested by the premeditated and treacherous murder which he had committed. the clerk of arraigns having asked whether the prisoner pleaded guilty or not guilty, his reply was at first not understood because of his broken english and his quick, spasmodic utterance. so his answer had to be repeated, as follows: _prisoner_: "first of all, i would say these words can not be used with regard to me at all. whatever i did was an act of patriotism which was justified. the only thing i have got to say is contained in that statement, which i believe you have got." _the clerk_: "the only question is whether you plead guilty or not guilty to this indictment." _prisoner_: "well, according to my view i will plead not guilty." _the clerk_: "are you defended by counsel?" _prisoner_: "no." there were three barristers for the prosecution, including the attorney general who chiefly conducted the case. the lord chief justice volunteered leave to the prisoner to sit down, which he did, appearing more diminutive than ever, in contrast with his guardians. the junior barrister having stated the names, the date and locality of the crime very briefly, the attorney general opened the case for the prosecution in great detail, consuming a third of the ninety minutes which elapsed before sentence of death. in his opening, as is usual in england, he produced exhibits and read letters not yet offered in evidence. in substance it was related that dhingra came to england about three years before to study engineering and fell into the association of india house, a rendezvous in london of indians of seditious proclivities. he lived in lodgings where he had few visitors and where, after the murder, was found a letter from sir curzon wyllie which was read in the opening speech and which stated that the prisoner had been commended to the writer's protection and offered to be of service to him while in england. the story was told of his procuring a license to carry a weapon, of his purchase of a colt's automatic magazine revolver and another revolver, of cartridges and of a long dagger--all of which were produced by the speaker and the triggers of the empty pistols snapped to show the jury how they worked. an account of his frequent practice at a pistol gallery for three months and up to the very afternoon of the day of the tragedy and the use of a target the size of a man's head, preceded an exhibition of the last paper target used, when four bullets out of the five had pierced the bull's eye. the speaker described how dhingra had called his victim aside into a vestibule while lady wyllie proceeded down the staircase, how he fired four shots pointblank, which passed through sir curzon's head; how dr. lalcaca had tried to intervene and was shot for his temerity, and how, finally, an elderly english baronet had grappled with the murderer and succeeded in wresting the revolver from him and bearing him to the floor. the witnesses were then called and examined with great rapidity, the judge restricting their testimony to essentials and checking both counsel and witness from the slightest digression. this seemed to be carried almost to an extreme, as an untrained witness often brings forth an important fact amid much irrelevant verbosity. at the end of the direct examination of the first witness, his lordship asked dhingra if he wished to cross-examine. the latter growled a negative but added that he had something to say, whereupon he was informed that he would have an opportunity for that later. thereafter, when asked the same question at the conclusion of each witness' evidence, he merely shook his head. the prosecution having rested, dhingra was asked if he had any witnesses and replied that he had not. the lord chief justice then informed him that if he had anything to say, now would be his chance, and asked whether he desired to speak where he was--from the dock--or from the stand. the judge of course referred to the difference between a mere unsworn statement which might be in the nature of a plea to the jury to add a recommendation for mercy to their verdict, or, sworn testimony which might go to the merits of guilt or innocence. it was apparent that the prisoner, as he was without counsel, did not understand this question and, as well, that the judge did not comprehend his inability to grasp a distinction indicated in the question. doubtless, as the prisoner was bound to be hanged--and he richly deserved it--the misunderstanding made not the slightest difference in this case, but one could not help feeling that the failure to provide counsel was a serious defect in the administration of justice. dhingra elected to remain in the dock and stated that he was unable to remember all he wanted to say, but that he had committed it to a writing which was in the possession of the police. this was then read by the clerk but so falteringly owing to the manuscript being illegible, that the effect of the revolutionary diatribe was largely lost. the london _times_, however, printed it the next day as follows: "i do not want to say anything in defence of myself, but simply to prove the justice of my deed. for myself i do not think any english law court has got any authority to arrest me, or to detain me in prison, or to pass sentence of death upon me. that is the reason why i did not have any counsel to defend me. i maintain that if it would be patriotic in an englishman to fight against the germans, if they were to occupy this country, it is much more justifiable and patriotic in my case to fight against the english. i hold the english people responsible for the murder of eighty millions of my countrymen in the last fifty years, and they are also responsible for taking away £ , , every year from india to this country. "i also hold them responsible for the hanging and deportation of my patriotic countrymen, who do just the same as the english people here are advising their countrymen to do. an englishman who goes out to india and gets, say, £ a month, simply passes the sentence of death upon one thousand of my poor countrymen who could live on that £ a month, which the englishman spends mostly on his frivolities and pleasures. "just as the germans have got no right to occupy this country, so the english people have no right to occupy india, and it is perfectly justifiable on our part to kill an englishman who is polluting our sacred land. "i am surprised at the terrible hypocrisy, farce, and mockery of the english people when they pose as champions of oppressed humanity such as in the case of the people of the congo and of russia, while there is such terrible oppression and such horrible atrocities in india. for example, they kill , , of our people every year and outrage our women. if this country is occupied by germans and an englishman, not bearing to see the germans walking with the insolence of conquerors in the streets of london, goes and kills one or two germans, then, if that englishman is held as a patriot by the people of this country, then certainly i am a patriot too, working for the emancipation of my motherland. whatever else i have to say is in the statement now in the possession of the court. i make this statement, not because i wish to plead for mercy or anything of that kind. i wish the english people will sentence me to death, for in that case the vengeance of my countrymen will be all the more keen. i put forward this statement to show the justice of my cause to the outside world, especially to our sympathizers in america and germany. that is all." his lordship then asked the prisoner if he wished to say anything more. the prisoner at first said "no", but just as the lord chief justice was commencing to sum up the case to the jury, dhingra said there was another statement on foolscap paper. _his lordship_: "any other statement you must make now yourself." _prisoner_: "i do not remember it now." _his lordship_: "you must make any statement you wish to the jury. if there is anything, say it now." _prisoner_: "it was taken from my pocket amongst other papers." _his lordship_: "i do not care what was in your pocket. with what you had written before, we have nothing to do. you can say anything you wish to the jury. what you have written on previous occasions is no evidence in this case. if you wish to say anything to the jury in defence of yourself, say it now. do you wish to say anything more?" _prisoner_: "no." the lord chief justice then summed up the case to the jury in a charge occupying but six minutes. he said that the evidence was absolutely conclusive; that the jury had no concern with any political justification for the crime, for if anything of the kind were considered it would be in the carrying of the sentence into effect--with which the jury had nothing to do--that this was an ordinary crime by which a blameless man, who had devoted himself to the public service and had done much for the natives of india, had lost his life, and that it was quite plain there had been premeditation. his lordship added that there was nothing which could induce the jury to reduce the crime from murder to manslaughter, nor was it suggested that dhingra was insane, so that if the jury believed the uncontradicted evidence the only possible verdict was one of wilful murder. without leaving the box the jury put their heads together and, in less than a minute, the foreman arose and uttered the fateful word "guilty." there are no degrees of murder in england, but in cases where a weak intellect or greatly extenuating circumstances render hanging too severe a penalty, the home secretary may exercise a power of commutation. thereupon dhingra having been ordered to stand up, the clerk addressed him as follows: "you stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder. have you anything to say for yourself, why sentence of death should not be passed on you according to law?" _prisoner_: (with a snarl) "i have told you once i do not acknowledge the authority of the court. you can do whatever you like with me--i do not care. remember, one day we shall be all-powerful, and then we can do what we like." then followed absolute silence for two minutes--a silence in which the breathing of persons near was audible. slowly the lord chief justice lifted from his desk a piece of black cloth. it was the "black cap." one naturally thinks, from its name, that this is a kind of headgear corresponding to the shape of a man's head. on the contrary, it looks like a piece of plain limp cloth, a remnant from a tailor's shop, about a foot square, which the judge places on the top of his wig, letting it rest there quite casually and perhaps at a rakish angle, the four corners hanging down and the whole producing a somewhat ludicrous effect. neither judge, jury, nor audience, rose when sentence was about to be pronounced, but all remained seated, except the prisoner, who stood in dreary isolation, flanked by his stalwart guard, at his elevated station in the dock. his lordship, the dignity of whose well-modulated voice contrasted strongly with his comical head covering, slowly addressed the prisoner as follows: [illustration: the sentencing of dhingra] "madar lal dhingra, no words of mine can have the slightest effect upon you, nor do i intend to say anything more than to point out to you that you have been convicted upon the clearest possible evidence of the brutal murder of an innocent man. the law enforces upon me to pass the only possible sentence in such a case." the sentence was that the prisoner should be hanged by the neck until he was dead and be buried at the place of execution. the chaplain, in his robes, having somehow appeared at his lordship's side, added: "amen. and may god have mercy upon your soul." immediately after the dread words had been uttered, the prisoner saluted the grave judge by a salaam, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead, and said in a manner, the impertinence of which deprived his words of dignity: "thank you, my lord. i am proud to have the honor of laying down my life for my country. i do not care." counsel representing the relatives of the condemned man then arose and said that he was instructed to say that they viewed the crime with the greatest abhorrence and wished to repudiate in the most emphatic way the slightest sympathy with the views and motives which had led to it, adding, on behalf of the father and family, that there were no more loyal subjects of the empire than themselves. his lordship replied that, while the course might seem somewhat unusual, yet, having regard to the wicked attempt at justification in some quarters, he was glad for what had been said on behalf of the members of the family. dhingra and his guards then disappeared from the dock and in a few moments the lord chief justice and his escort, as well as the small audience, had withdrawn, leaving the court room deserted except for a newspaper reporter who was completing his notes. and so the drama closed. one was told that the youthful student would probably be hanged in a fortnight from the following tuesday--the trial having taken place on a friday--as ancient custom entitled the condemned man to three sundays of life after sentence.[b] the spectacle of this little, lonely, misguided, yellow man, prompted partly by fanaticism but largely by vanity, having braved the whole power of mighty britain in its proud capital to exploit his chimerical views, caught in the meshes of a law he hardly understood and hemmed in on all sides by its remorseless ministers, was deeply interesting and somewhat calculated to excite sympathy, until one's reason summoned the significance of the treacherous murder and the picture of a fair englishwoman going out into that london night a widow. while the result of this trial was justice, swift and unerring, to an american observer it seemed odd and scarcely a fair practice for a man to be tried for his life unrepresented by counsel learned in the law. although the case was plain, nevertheless, with great respect for the admirable administration of the law in england, it must be remarked that innocent persons,--who, even if not mentally defective, may none the less be far from clever and who are necessarily inexperienced, and may perhaps lack the intelligence or means to retain counsel--ought not to be permitted by the court to pit their wits against an able officer of the crown, the stake being their own necks. to excuse the omission on the ground of the obvious guilt and callousness of the prisoner, is not a satisfactory solution, because it would involve prejudging the issue to be tried. the proper and humane course is followed in the united states--the appointment by the court of counsel for an undefended prisoner--for it guards against the possibility of terrible mistakes. from a technical point of view, the "leading" nature of the direct examinations, so noticeable in english courts, was especially conspicuous in that this was a murder trial where no departure from the recognized customs would have been permitted. one's ear grows accustomed to questions which put the answer into the mouth of the witness and require merely a monosyllabic assent; and one waits in vain for the objection which, at home, would follow such infractions of the rules of evidence as thunder succeeds lightning. in the dhingra trial, for instance, the attorney general did not scruple to ask such questions as the following: _q_: "did you happen to look through the doorway and into the vestibule and see the prisoner speaking to sir curzon wyllie and did you see him raise his hand and fire four shots into his face, the pistol almost touching him?" _q_: "did you see sir curzon wyllie collapse?" _q_: "then, was there an interval of some seconds and then more shots?" (these killed dr. lalcaca.) nor did he hesitate to put such questions to another witness as: _q_: "did you hear the noise of four shots and did you then look and see the prisoner and did you see him shoot again?" a police officer was asked: _q_: "did you examine the pistol and find one undischarged cartridge only?" _q_: "had the other pistol six undischarged cartridges in it?" _q_: "did you find two bullets similar to these in the wall?" to such an extent was leading carried in the dhingra trial that occasionally the answer did not follow the lead, thus: _q_: "did you ask him 'what is your name and where do you live?'" _a_: "i can't remember what i asked him." the probable reason for the great latitude in this regard is the fact that apparently nothing in an english trial is a surprise--except to the jury. the court and counsel, knowing practically all the evidence beforehand, are extremely lenient. not only are leading questions common but also questions asking for conclusions--not for facts from which the jury may draw their own deductions. thus, in the dhingra trial, a doctor, who was sent for after the murder, was asked: "did the prisoner seem calm, quiet and collected?" a plaintiff, perhaps, will be asked: "how came the defendant to write this letter and what was its object? did he consider himself remiss?" of course an american lawyer would successfully contend that a letter speaks for itself, while a man's estimate of his own position could only be put in evidence by repeating his admissions in that regard--not by asking his opponent how he regarded himself. in favor of the practice of asking witnesses for conclusions--a practice which many american lawyers have found invalidates parts of testimony taken in england for use here--much may be said. to ask a witness the mental attitude of a person, whom he heard talking a year before--whether he was angry, or joking, for example--is to ask an answerable question; but to require him to repeat the exact words, is to demand an impossibility. in replying to either form of inquiry the witness may be honest or the reverse, so that the chances of intentional misinformation are equally balanced, but an attempt at verbatim repetition nearly always requires, consciously or unconsciously, a draft upon the imagination. it seems that our rules of evidence in this regard might, perhaps, be cautiously relaxed with advantage, to accord more with practical experience. an english criminal trial is quick, simple and direct. dhingra, for example, whose crime was committed on july first, was sentenced on the twenty-first of that month and was hanged on august seventeenth--all in forty-seven days. the simplicity and directness of such trials is due to the absence of irrelevant testimony and imaginative arguments; these, counsel scarcely ever attempt to introduce--so certain is their exclusion by the judge. thus, the real object of all punishment--its deterrent effect upon others--is greatly enhanced because it is swift and sure. the public, moreover, are usually spared the scandal and demoralizing effects of prolonged, spectacular and sensational trials. until a short time ago any person convicted in an english court was without appeal--the rulings and sentence of a single judge were final--but this manifest injustice has lately been cured by a law granting the right of appeal. it is too soon to estimate the effect of this change, but the prediction may be ventured that the ancient habit of regarding criminal judgments as conclusive, together with the saving common sense which characterizes all english courts, will probably prevent any radical departure from the present methods, which have much to commend them. comparison with american conditions is most difficult because, besides the united states courts extending for certain purposes over the whole country, there are forty-six absolutely separate sovereignties whose administration of criminal law, unless in conflict with the constitution of the united states, is as independent of the rest of the world as that of an empire. consequently, while differences exist in methods and results, the remarkable fact is that they are, upon the whole, so similar, when only a common tradition and a fairly homogeneous public opinion serve to keep them from drifting in diverse directions. the administration of criminal law by the united states courts deals chiefly with the trial of persons accused of murder on the high seas, counterfeiting, forgery, smuggling or postal frauds, defaulting bank officials and, very lately, corporation managers charged with favoritism in freight rates, or with the maintenance of monopolies affecting interstate commerce. throughout the length and breadth of the land it is prompt, thoroughly dignified, vigorous and fair; indeed, its excellence, as a whole, suffers little if at all by comparison with the best english standards, which have been perfected only by centuries of experience in the highly concentrated population of a small island. but turning to the individual states, all comparisons must depend upon locality. new york, the landing place, that threshold of real america, with a predominating foreign population; the western frontiers of civilization, and the south, with its peculiar racial conditions, suffer by comparison with british standards far more than would one of the orderly communities composing the greater part of the republic. recent mal-administration of criminal law in new york constitutes a subject of national mortification, but the existence of this sensitiveness is the best of reasons for believing that time will bring an improvement. unfortunately for the good name of the country, foreigners do not comprehend, and can hardly be made to appreciate, that the instances of private assassination in that city followed by trials, which, whether owing to a vicious system of practice or to judicial incompetency, excite the indignation and ridicule of the world, are not typical of america but are expressions of purely local and probably temporary conditions. foreign critics should be told that new york is not america, as many of them assume, and that temporary and local lapses do not prove a low standard. they may also be reminded, as showing that human justice is fallible, that even in london if a man walks into an oxford street department store, lies in wait for the proprietor against whom he has a grievance and blows out his brains, although he will be convicted in a trial occupying but three hours, yet the home secretary may intervene and prevent his hanging, upon a petition signed by tens of thousands of sentimentalists moved by the rather illogical fact that his wife contemplates an addition to a thus celebrated family. in the far west, criminal practice is probably neither better nor worse than in any other rough frontier of civilization where men must largely rely upon their own resources, rather than upon the government, for the protection of their lives and property. conditions in the south are so peculiar, owing to the sudden elevation to a legal equality of an inferior race which is in the majority, that no comparison with any other community is possible. without in the least condoning existing conditions, it may even be said that lynching, unlike private assassination, involves some degree of co-operation and is the expression of public, rather than of individual, vengeance. the theatre of these outrages is, moreover, sparsely settled, beyond large cities or centres of education, and still retains some of the features of a frontier. throughout much the largest area, however, constituting the solid civilization and containing the bulk of the population of this immense country, no such conditions exist. on the contrary, crime is met with that steady and impartial justice, inherited from england, which neither partakes of the police oppression of continental countries, nor lapses into the barbarism of the exceptional localities above referred to. to commit deliberate murder in one of the eastern states, such as pennsylvania, or massachusetts, or in one of the great commonwealths of the middle west, means sure and reasonably speedy hanging. but, bearing in mind the difficulty of accurate comparisons between such diversified sections and a compact unit like england, and endeavoring to arrive at a general estimate, it must be conceded that america, as a whole, has even more to learn from england's criminal, than from her civil, courts. footnote: [b] he was hanged three weeks from the following tuesday. chapter xiv litigation arising outside of london local solicitors--solicitors' "agency business" --the circuits and assizes--local barristers --the county courts--the registrar's court. as has been said, solicitors are to be found in every town in england, whereas barristers, with minor exceptions to be noted, all hail from the london inns of court. people living in the country or in provincial towns, especially the larger ones, such as liverpool and manchester, of course consult local solicitors. if litigation is contemplated, the solicitor advises his client and conducts the sparring and negotiations which usually precede a lawsuit. but when actual warfare opens, the provincial solicitor generally associates himself with a london solicitor who is known as his "agent"; and hence "agency business" constitutes a considerable portion of the practice of a large firm of town solicitors. the manchester or liverpool solicitor does all the work and receives the fees up to the time he sends the "proofs" to the agent--that is, the documents, statements of witnesses reduced to affidavits, and the other items of evidence--and dispatches the witnesses to the trial in london, which usually however, he does not attend himself, although, of course, he sometimes does so. the london solicitor retains the barristers, and is thereafter in complete charge of the case. the newspaper reports of trials of cases from the provinces, after giving the names of the barristers, always mention the london solicitor as agent for the country solicitor whose name also appears. the fees are shared from the time of association; one-third to the country, and two-thirds to the town solicitor. this is not unlike the manner in which our lawyers handle business in states other than their own--but it is much more systematized. if, however, the provincial solicitor prefers to await the assizes (which he may, except in divorce, probate, equity and some other kinds of business) he may bring his action in the high court, sub-offices of which are available throughout the country for the issuance of writs, and, having retained a barrister, may try the case in his own town when the judge of the high court comes down from london thrice a year on circuit. these circuits of the high court are arranged with regard to the volume of business and the contiguity of centres of population, without reference to county boundaries, and the same judge is rarely designated to repeat his visit to a circuit until it is reached again in regular rotation. to some circuits, like the northern, where the business is very heavy, two judges are sent. at these assizes, both civil and criminal business is handled, and, if there be two judges, one court room is devoted to the former and the other to the latter. every london barrister, early in his career, joins a circuit. he usually selects one where he may be somewhat known to the solicitors, and where, perhaps, his family have property or associations. formerly and, in fact, long after the advent of steam, judge and counsel "rode the circuit"--as was done in the early days of our own county bars--and indeed, within the memory of barristers still in middle life, a horse van used to stand in one of the temple squares to receive the luggage, papers and books of court and bar for the circuit. each circuit has its "mess" with interesting traditions of midnight carousals and records of fines of bottles of port inflicted upon members for various delinquencies. the modern mess, besides procuring special rates at the hotels, constitutes a sort of itinerant club; rendering possible a discipline for breaches of professional propriety by expulsion or denial of admission, which is the most drastic punishment short of disbarment. a few barristers, and their number is increasing, reside in large towns other than london and practice exclusively at the assizes and in the county courts--of which something will be said later. they are known as "locals". if successful, however, they gravitate to the source of the high court--london. thus the local solicitor, if he decide to eschew london and an agent and await the assizes, has a considerable bar from which to pick his man. a barrister never accepts a brief in a circuit other than his own unless the solicitor has also briefed, as his associate, a junior who is a member of the circuit. to do so would be a gross breach of etiquette. but if this unwritten law be duly observed, the barrister who is a stranger here, although a daily colleague in the london courts, is immediately received with open arms and made an honorary member of the mess. court and bar having reached and disposed themselves in an assize town, as a flock of birds settle in a convenient cover, a transplantation of a london court is effected until the disputes of the neighborhood are resolved. an observer can find no difference in personnel or general aspect, except perhaps, that the provincial policemen at the doors are not so polite and patient as the london "bobby"--that marvel which excites the envy, admiration and despair of conscientious ministers of authority in the rest of christendom. if an action involve no more than £ , a solicitor may seek the county courts--for there are seven of such courts for the county of london. the advantage in so doing is chiefly in the smaller costs, which are a serious matter to all english litigants, and almost prohibitive to the poor. the judge of a county court must be a barrister of at least seven years standing and generally hails from london. he is appointed by the lord chancellor and receives a salary of £ , . his title in court is "your honor", as distinguished from a judge of the high court, who is addressed as "my lord" or "your lordship," and from a magistrate, who is called "your worship." in the county courts, solicitors "have audience", that is, they may, equally with barristers, address the court and jury; in other words, they may be the actual trial lawyers, whereas, in the high court barristers alone are heard. in addressing the court, they must wear a black gown, but no wig. barristers, except locals, are infrequently seen in the county courts; the amounts involved scarcely warrant retaining them. but, for some years, the tendency has been to increase the limit of jurisdiction of these courts and their importance is steadily growing. in this connection it may be mentioned, too, that agitation appears to be making some progress for removing all limitation of the jurisdiction of the county courts with, however, a right to the defendant to remove a cause to the high court when more than a certain sum is involved, thus creating a sort of solicitor-advocate. but the outcome of all this is, at the moment, problematical. at present, to prevent solicitors developing into pure advocates even in the county courts, a law forbids one solicitor retaining another to conduct the actual trial. the registrar's court in a great town, like birmingham, will be found in the county court building. the court room is large, but usually contains only a few people, of the lower class, and the registrar, in black gown and wig, sits on a raised dais. in the high court, the american observer has been accustomed to associate a gown only with the barrister--never with the solicitor. in the county courts, however, he has seen solicitors practicing as advocates, in minor cases, and wearing gowns; but until he visits a registrar's court he has never seen a wig except upon the head of a barrister or of a judge; and all judges have once been barristers. he is therefore surprised to learn that, notwithstanding his attire, the registrar is a solicitor, appointed to his position by the county judge. beside the registrar stands a man who very rapidly passes to him numerous printed forms upon which the registrar places a figure or two, such as " / " or " / ". this is done almost as fast as one would deal a pack of cards. occasionally, there is a pause, a name is called and some one from the audience steps forward; whereupon brief testimony is taken as to some small debt, claimed upon one side and denied upon the other. judgment for plaintiff follows in nine cases out of ten, and then inquiry is made by the registrar whether the defendant--or her husband, if she be a woman--has work or is unemployed. a figure is then placed on the printed form which is added to the pile. the business dispatched is that of some large retail tradesman. upon payment of a small fee in the clerk's office, summonses have been obtained which have been served on the debtors by a policeman, and, in most cases, the defendants have signed their names admitting the debt. the figures / , / , etc. signify the order of the court, that shillings and pence, or shillings and pence, shall be paid monthly until the debt is liquidated. in this way, the time of a defendant who admits the debt is not diverted from his work to attend court. the claims are fixed for hearing in batches of every half hour of the court's sitting, when, if not admitted in writing, a short trial of the contested cases ensues. in this way about cases a day are readily disposed of. payments are made in the clerk's office and each payment is endorsed on the summons. if the debtor falls out of work, an application is made, invariably with success, to suspend the payment until idleness ceases. the costs are trifling and the whole system works admirably. it is a prompt and businesslike manner of enforcing small obligations with a minimum of loss and delay. chapter xv general observations and conclusion it is the office of the courts to administer written laws enacted from time to time in response to the popular mood. they also--and it is the more important function--discover and declare the principles of natural justice which, in the absence of written law, govern the decision of a controversy. these deliverances, constituting the common law, rely much upon precedents which, however, are not followed slavishly, but are continually being modified--sometimes abruptly--in harmony with prevailing sentiment. thus, the law expounded by the courts is ever changing and it slowly follows public opinion. both the public opinion and the law of england were, for generations, characterized by the quality of conservatism. the various reform acts, starting in , marked the advent of an epoch of individualism which, lasting for over fifty years, made england the land where personal liberty and private property were perhaps safer than ever before in the world's history. it was a country where government's chief concern was to furnish irreproachable courts, competent police and few but honest civil servants, so that each man might pursue happiness after his own fashion with the least possible interference, yet with complete confidence that he could assert his rights effectively when invaded. hence it was that america learned to look to england for precedents. all this is changing. the substitution of the doctrines of collectivism for those of individualism began in and it proceeds rapidly in many directions. the socialistic harangues one hears from vagabonds mounted on benches in hyde park are delivered without interference by the police. the spreading of discontent by paid agitators proceeds at the market crosses and in the taverns of the villages between elections. later the politicians appear and solicit votes for impossible schemes, an ever increasing proportion of which are actually adopted by parliament and of which the laws regulating liability for personal injuries, attacks upon land and other forms of property, old age pensions and the methods of public education, furnish typical examples. [illustration: sidewalk socialism--hyde park] the workingmen's compensation and employers' liability act of was a tentative step, but seems likely to lead to extended liability and reduced defences, particularly in the matter of contributory negligence, which has almost ceased to be a factor. one of the clauses of this act shows that, even when it is proved that the death or serious disablement of a workman is attributable to his own wilful misconduct, compensation may yet be claimed on his behalf from his employer. in addition, another and unheard of form of liability for an employer, requiring him to compensate his servant if the latter falls ill or dies of an "industrial disease" (a list of which diseases was appended to the act) and with the extraordinary provision that, having paid the compensation, the employer may sue any former employer for the amount, if he can prove the servant actually contracted the complaint in the earlier service and within ten years. of course universal accident liability insurance followed, the cost of which must be borne by the proprietor, and, if he is a manufacturer, eventually by the consumer. as may be imagined, such laws give rise to surprising results. the report of one of the great accident liability insurance companies, made shortly after the passage of this law, exhibited, for example, the recovery of damages by a domestic servant, who, while eating a meal, had swallowed her own false teeth; another had contrived to swallow a curtain hook; a third was burned by the bed clothes taking fire from a hot iron which she had wrapped in flannel for the purpose of warming herself. the manageress of a laundry had her hands poisoned by handling copper coins. a footman was bitten while attempting to extract a cat from the jaws of a dog; a nurse-maid was burnt by letting off fire works in the back garden at a private celebration of the servants during the master's absence, and a cook had her eyes scratched by the house cat. such absurdities show the trend of modern english legislation on the subject. a glance at an english landscape with its panorama of endless turf and forest and comparatively small areas of cultivation, in marked contrast with the minute utilization of every inch on the continent, and the reflection that england produces only a portion of the food consumed in its crowded towns, should leave no one surprised at an agitation to modify the existing conditions, which led to continued assaults upon all forms of possession, whether of real or personal property. acts of parliament followed each other in quick succession depriving land owners of their holdings to inaugurate chimerical building schemes; giving rent-payers power to condemn and forcibly purchase dwelling houses; attacking property other than land by taxing the inheritance of money so heavily (on a sliding scale of percentages increasing with the size of the estate), as to approach the socialistic ideal that two deaths shall mean the absorption by the state of any large property and that no man shall enjoy a rich grandfather's accumulations; levying upon the living wealthy by ever increasing income taxes, with a like sliding scale, operating upon them alone, while exempting the poor. to this almost confiscatory taxation no limit seems to be in sight. old age pensions--one of the most startling novelties of the collectivist--are doubtless economically impossible and morally pernicious unless required to be contributory on the part of those who may later claim them, so that they constitute a system of compulsory saving and insurance, as is the plan in germany where socialism is at least somewhat scientific. but it remained for the once conservative england to inaugurate the distribution of universal alms without any comprehensive plan for raising the money--the weekly dole to be inevitably increased and the age limit lowered as the exigencies of vote-seeking politicians render expedient. no one now questions the propriety of a government providing free education for children, but in england a father, no matter how well qualified, may now be prosecuted for educating his child himself rather than sending him to a government school to be fed as well as taught. at the marylebone police court a well known journalist and writer on education was summoned by the education department of the london county council some time ago for neglecting to send his four children to school. he was, himself, an old and experienced teacher with credentials from one of the colleges of cambridge university. he did not believe in sending his children to school until they reached the age of ten or eleven, but meanwhile he taught them himself, _viva voce_ in the open air, according to the system of froebel and pestalozzi, and endeavored to make education a delight. this was the father's chief occupation and he devoted as much time as possible to training all the mental faculties, without exhausting the nervous force or injuring the physical health, of his children. the eldest, a boy of fourteen, had contributed an article to one of the leading magazines which was pronounced by a competent editor of another periodical to be an extraordinary effort for a boy of his age. it appeared that he knew shakespeare well and was in the habit of quoting him and other poets, but that his brother, aged eleven, preferred wordsworth. he considered the english language "awkward," french "euphonious" and german "rationally spelt." it was rather a relief to find another brother, aged nine, who was deep in "robinson crusoe." a school-attendance officer, however, had reported that the children did not attend the elementary schools and the magistrate imposed fines upon the father, but, upon it appearing that he had no property, he was sentenced to imprisonment for seven days in respect of the shakespearean, and five days each to cover the lover of wordsworth and the student of defoe. a month later the father was summoned before a different magistrate in the same police court who fined him in respect of the youngest child and adjourned the hearing in order that the other three might be examined by a government inspector to ascertain whether they were being efficiently educated. this episode may not have been typical, but that it was possible in modern england illustrates how out of date is the old-fashioned conception of the personal liberty and freedom from governmental intrusion which once characterized that island as distinguished from the continent. these are but examples of a series of surrenders to the proletariat, which have practically delivered over the general government of england to the collectivists; while the education and training of many of the party managers who are responsible for it, renders incredible the excuse that they may be only fanatics. simultaneously, municipal socialism has spread in a manner affecting the public even more intimately. over three fourths of the councils--county, town, urban district and rural district--are engaged in municipal trading of various kinds, operating inefficiently and generally at a loss, such enterprises as golf links, steamboats, concert halls, motor busses, markets, trams, bath houses, gas works, libraries, telephones, milk depots, electric lighting, lodging houses, building operations, insurance--and a host of other undertakings heretofore left to private initiative. all this means an ever increasing army of officials, agents and inspectors. the interference of a paternal government is threatened or felt in every detail of existence. the people have learned to agitate collectively for advantages to be taken from some classes and distributed to others. without a constitution (for the so-called english constitution is but a misnomer for former laws and decisions which are subject to constant repeal and alteration) and without a supreme court capable of declaring wild legislation to be unconstitutional--for every act of parliament becomes a law which can never be challenged in any court--there is no brake to retard, and the politicians of all shades are left free to compete in casting one vested right after another to the mob in quest of votes. the most serious effect of all this is, probably, the tendency to weaken that sturdy self-reliance upon individual effort which has always characterized englishmen, and the encouragement of an attitude of leaning upon the government and of looking to legislation to remove all difficulties. no popular disturbance is impending--it is unnecessary, for the revolution progresses smoothly and the whole country is adjusting itself to the new order of things. the possessors of property seem singularly resigned, or at least inarticulate, and submit almost in silence to spoliation. such opposition as exists takes chiefly the form of party controversy upon details, and criticism by each faction of the steps of the other. few seem to realize how far the country has departed from its former standards or that the most moderate proposals of to-day were radical yesterday. it is a great race, this anglo-saxon, and it has shown wonderful capacity to govern itself in the past. it may prove to be wisely meeting half way an approaching avalanche of worldwide socialism destined to modify the existing order of society. or can it be that england has seen its best days? one thing, at least, is sure--the united states is at the moment infinitely more conservative than england. both are pure democracies, and therefore if the people should be resolved to abolish the rights of property as we at present know them, it would inevitably be accomplished. that the majority are really of that mind in either country is more than doubtful; but in england the politicians seem to be destroying that which it has taken centuries to build up, whereas in america this could not happen unless the conviction was so widespread, determined and permanent, as to accomplish what is apparently impossible--the radical amendment of the constitution. this digression into the field of politics is only relevant in its possible effect upon the courts. they, at present, necessarily exist in an atmosphere of confusion and of constant annihilation of rights. the head of the whole administration of law, the lord chancellor, is a political appointee changing with the parties. he appoints the other judges, the king's counsel and, directly or indirectly, he is the great source of legal advancement. true, he has for a long time been selected from the leaders of the bar so that he has been professionally well qualified. but this was not always the case and it is not necessarily a permanent condition, especially in a country passing through such fundamental changes. time alone will show whether these violent shocks will disturb the balance of the scales of justice. for the future, realizing that england is no longer conservative, but is now the land of startling experiment, it would be at least prudent to accept its political and legal precedents with caution. one sometimes hears it said that we have too many judges, and the argument is apt to be urged by the assertion that the number in a large city is as great as in all england. the natural inference is that our judges work less effectively. no statement could be based upon falser premises. the roll of judges in the high court is, indeed, a limited one and, as they try small as well as large cases, the impression might follow that they constitute the whole judicial force of england. the fact, however, is quite the reverse. taking at random the daily official cause list for london there will be found on a given day sitting at the law courts in the strand alone, twenty-one judges of the high court, eight masters, seven chancery registrars, twelve masters in chancery, three official referees, two registrars in bankruptcy and one official presiding over "companies winding up"--exactly fifty-four men simultaneously performing judicial duty in one building. each of these is holding what is practically a separate court and his title is of no significance. when one remembers that at the same time the house of lords is sitting at westminster, the judicial committee of the privy council in downing street, the four criminal courts at the old bailey, more than twenty police magistrates at bow street and elsewhere, and county courts, at bloomsbury, clerkenwell, edmonton, marylebone, shoreditch, southwark and westminster, some idea may be formed of the number of judges and courts always at work in the metropolis. innumerable courts are also sitting in the provinces, which, if less important, serve to relieve the metropolitan judges. the justices of the peace number in many counties three or four hundred and in one county about eight hundred, although most of them never attend and the work is done by comparatively few. they sit singly as committing magistrates and in groups at petty sessions and at quarter sessions. there are also a large number of borough criminal courts presided over by a recorder. besides, the county courts are over five hundred in the aggregate, though there are not so many county judges, for the smaller courts are grouped into circuits. finally, there are the assizes of the high court coming down periodically from london to try causes, both criminal and civil, all over england. thus the little island fairly bristles with tribunals and teems with judges and any criticism of american judges or of american judicial methods by such comparison would only be possible in ignorance of the facts. * * * * * in america, litigation begins in the court room; in england, it ends there. american proceedings tend to be somewhat formal, conventional, diffuse and dilatory. pitfalls and traps are occasionally laid by astute practitioners, which embarrass the side really in the right and delay a conclusion upon the merits. much is incomprehensible to the laymen concerned except the result. english legal proceedings on the contrary are colloquial, flexible, simple and prompt, thoroughly in touch with the spirit of the times and with the ordinary man's every-day life. the legal decisions of the two countries are probably of equal value, and are held in mutual respect. neither, perhaps, could claim any superiority over the other in its legal results, but in methods, england at present is far in advance. this was not always so. up to the english courts were most slow, expensive and unsatisfactory. but in these thirty-five years, reforms in methods have so progressed, step by step, that the most important action can be tried, a judgment given, appeal taken, argued and orally decided as counsel sit down--all in ninety days. the details of these improvements are too technical for the present occasion; suffice it to say that they are characterized by the utmost simplicity, and many of them are capable of adaptation with modifications to american conditions. in america, the bar is almost unorganized. it has little voice in the selection of the judges, of whose qualifications the politicians have no knowledge; it is weak in disciplining and purging itself and in commanding public respect for its rights; its standards of professional propriety are not clearly enough established, although great improvement is noticeable in all these respects. in england, the bar is well organized and governs the whole administration of the law, jealously resenting any interference with its ancient prerogatives and preserving its own professional honor. thus, a close observation of professional life in england will prove instructive and suggestive to the ever-alert american. nevertheless he will depart with a feeling that, while at home there is room for progress, yet, upon the whole, the old profession in the new world well maintains its proud position. index absence of "leader" in trial, accident cases, "tender of damages" in, admiralty, probate, divorce and admiralty division of high court, trial, advocates, solicitors as, "agency business" of solicitors, american law books in middle temple library, members of english bar, appeal, courts of, to judicial committee of privy council, to house of lords, in criminal cases, of colonial cases, appellation of judges, appointment of judges, aromatic herbs in criminal courts, assizes, "associate" or clerk of court, attorney or solicitor, bags of barristers, of solicitors, bailey, old, "bands" of k. c.'s dress, bar, american members of english, calling to, discipline of, english, size of, english, division of, make up of, parliamentary, women not eligible to, barnard's inn (chancery), barrister, "associate," "blue and red" bags of, begins by becoming "devil," chambers of, chancery, common law, desks of, dress of, fees of, formerly lived in inns, joining circuit, "juniors," "leader," "locals," master, member of inns of court, partnerships forbidden, practice of, selection of, serjeants-at-law, training of, "twelve dinners" of, upon becoming k. c., invited to join benchers, voices of, wig of, , benchers govern inns, black cap, briefs, briefs, endorsed with fees, butler's livery at old bailey, calling to bar, cambridge students exempted, censors, chambers of barristers, chancery bar, "specials," barrister of, division of high court, inns, inns formerly connected with inns of court, inns, history of, lane, lane, serjeants' inn, "leaders," chief justice, salary of, circuits of high court, clement's inn (chancery), clerk of court or "associate," clifford's inn (chancery), colonial appeals, colors of bags, "blue and red" for barristers, common juries, serjeant criminal judge, law barrister, "consolidated regulations," contingent fees not permitted, corridors of the court, costs, council of bar, general, of legal education prescribes course of studies for barrister, counsel in a cause, county courts, jurisdiction of, procedure, judges of, salaries of judges of, court appeal, central criminal (old bailey), civil, common pleas, practice formerly limited to sergeants-at-law, county, - criminal, divisional, enumerated, high, police, registrar's, room described, room, criminal court, described, vacation of, criminal law, trials, trials, appeals in, trials, comparison with american, criminal court, aromatic herbs in, central (old bailey), customs in, dock of, judges of, police, recorder, room described, devil may conduct trial, "devilling," dhingra's trial, disbarment, discipline of bar, of solicitors, divisional court, divorce, probate and admiralty division of high court, dock, in criminal court, dress of barristers, of butlers at old bailey, in criminal court, of footmen at old bailey, judges, judges (chancery), king's counsel, solicitors, - education, council on legal, governs training of barristers, employers' liability acts, english bar, size of, entrances to court room, equity trials in chancery division high court, ethics of profession, etiquette of dress enforced, fees of barrister, of sir charles russell, of sir frank lockwood, must not be contingent, paid by law students, of solicitors, of solicitors, sometimes divided, first impressions, fleet street--"old bailey," footman's livery--"old bailey," furnival's inn (chancery), general council of bar, observations, "gentleman," defined by sir thomas smith, gray's inn, - hearings in police courts, herbs used in criminal court, high court, of justice, circuits of, division of, house of lords, appeals, impressions on entering law courts' building, incorporated law society, - inns of chancery, formerly connected with inns of court, history of, "staple's," "barnard's," "clifford's," "clement's," "lyon's," "furnival's," "thavie's," "new inn," "strand," inns of court, date of origin, government of, origin of, position of, uniformity of, inns, gray's inn, inner temple, lincoln's inn, middle temple, serjeants', interior of barristers' chambers, journals, law, reports of, judges, actively conduct trials, appellation of, appointment of, chancery division, robes of, formerly in holy orders, of county courts, of county courts, salaries of, of criminal courts, robes of, salaries of, - judicial appointments, committee privy council, "junior" barrister "opens pleadings," tries case, jury, common and special, only in king's bench, qualifications of, situation and arrangement of, trials, king's bench, counsel, , counsel, robes of, counsel, routine of, counsel, "taking silk," - law courts building on strand, journals, society, solicitors' incorporated, lawyer's training, "leader," king's counsel, list of, absence of, leading questions, - lincoln's inn, - livery of footman, criminal court, local barristers, solicitors, lockwood, sir frank, fees of, london times, law reports of, long vacation, lord chancellor, appointments by, salary of, lord chief justice, lyon's inn (chancery), magna charta fixed position of courts, masters, trinity, "mess" of circuits, middle temple, described, american law books in, models much used, murder trial of madar lal dhingra, newgate prison, new inn (chancery), newspapers, law reporting in, trial of cases in, nisi prius, sittings frequent, offices of barristers in inns, old age pensions, old bailey (central criminal court), oxford students, exemptions of, parliamentary bar, partnerships of barristers forbidden, pensions, old age, police courts, porter's horn, practice of barristers, before masters, rules of, preliminary hearing in police courts, preparation of case by solicitor, "president" of probate, divorce and admiralty division, prison fever, privy council, judicial committee of, probate, divorce and admiralty division of high court, procedure in county courts, provincial courts, reading of english law student, recorder, a criminal judge, registrars' courts, registrar, a solicitor, reports of cases, robes, judges', of judges' chancery division, of king's counsel, rules of practice, russell, sir charles, fees of, salaries of judges, - of judges, county courts, of masters, serjeants-at-law, common, a criminal judge, inn, - inn, present use of, shakespeare, production of "twelfth night" in temple, sheriffs, duties in criminal court, "silk," "taking of," smith, sir thomas, definition of "gentleman," socialistic legislation, solicitors, "agents," bags of, become registrars, develop into advocates, discipline of, dress of, fees of, have no inn of court, incorporated law society governs training of solicitors, prepare cases, sphere of, training of, - "well," special juries, "specials" in the chancery courts, list of, staple's inn (chancery), strand inn (chancery), students, training of, supreme court of judicature, "taking silk," templars, knights; use of land of, by inns of court, temple, church of, inner, library of, middle, tender of damages in tort cases, thavie's inn (chancery), trade guilds organized, treasurer, executive officer of inn of court, term of, trial, - absence of "leader" in, in admiralty, before master, of criminal cases, "trinity masters," "twelfth night," produced in temple, vacations of courts, "weepers," "white book," wigs, barristers' described, witness box, situation of, witnesses, demeanor of, women, not eligible to bar, workingmen's compensation acts, transcriber's notes: the spelling "sergeant" appears once in this text on page , otherwise the word is spelled and indexed as "serjeant." there is a separate transcriber's at the end of the table of counsel that appears in chapter iv. max fargus _by_ owen johnson _author of_ "arrows of the almighty" and "in the name of liberty." [illustration: decoration] new york the baker & taylor company union square north _copyright, , by_ the baker & taylor company published, september, _the plimpton press norwood mass. u.s.a._ [illustration: "any one up there?" _frontispiece_] contents chapter page i. the house of the tin sailor ii. in the eyes of the law iii. the firm of groll and bofinger iv. the little man of the shovel hat v. bofinger loses hope vi. miss morissey is miss vaughn vii. the compact viii. the discoverer of the oyster ix. the misanthrope in love x. bofinger reports xi. marriage as a battlefield xii. bofinger in sheep's clothing xiii. sheila retreats xiv. as a flash in the dark xv. the ironical moment xvi. castles in the air xvii. the seven years xviii. fargus is dead xix. rout at every point xx. bofinger in despair xxi. sammamon acts epilogue illustrations "any one up there?" _frontispiece_ facing page "no, no, i won't sign!" "and how's your man, nell?" for mile after mile he scurried thus "keep your hands off!" max fargus chapter i the house of the tin sailor in a street, uniform and dedicated it would seem to commonplace existences, there was taking place, on a certain evening in march, -, a chapter in one of the most perplexing and mysterious of dramas which the scramble for wealth has known; whose denouement, unsuspected by neighbors and hidden from the press, holds the secret of the rise of one of the most forceful and brutal individualities that have dominated the city. near stuyvesant square, which then presented in the waste of new york, a charming oasis, serene and calm with the quiet of colonial dignity; in one of the side streets east of second avenue there extended an unbroken march of red brick houses, uniform as though homes were fashioned wholesale. the block was clear of the skirts of fashion which gathered about the square, yet rescued from the squalor into which the street suddenly sank as it passed east under the brutal yoke of the elevated. it belonged to mediocre life, to those who earned two thousand a year, who paid a third of their income in rent, went rarely to the theater and always to church, where occasionally the children fetched the family beer in pail and pitcher; a street of one servant or none at all; one of those indistinct half-way stations of the city where fortune and misfortune, ascending and descending, pass; where one finds the small shopkeeper, the clerk who is rising next to the doctor whose patients have left him, or the lawyer who has missed his leap. towards the east a saloon made the corner, while a few doors nearer a brothel displayed its red ensign, before which, in the daytime, the children romped without distinction. already several doorways invited board and lodging, signs of the invasion which sooner or later would claim the street. a third of the way down the block, on the north side, there projected above a doorway the figure of a tin sailor, balancing two paddles which the breeze caused to revolve. some one in whom the instinct of home was strong had placed it there in protest against the tyranny of uniformity, while succeeding tenants, grateful for the indication, had left it undisturbed. by eleven o'clock of the night on which this story opens, beside the distant red lantern of the brothel and a few top-story lights there was only the parlor window, under the odd weather-vane, whose bright edge cut into the blackness of the street. the shade, contrary to custom, was lowered, but at each approaching step the silhouette of a woman crossed it hurriedly in the direction of the door. shortly after the bells of a dozen churches had cried the hour, a man coming from the west passed under the lamp-post, carrying a satchel and striding with that nervous intensity which the tumult of new york injects into the legs. as he perceived the lighted window his advance suddenly relaxed, until opposite the door, in default of a number, he began to seek in the shadow the presence of the creaking boatman. then, noticing the silhouette on the shade, as though assured of his destination he sprang up the steps. before he could seize the bell the door was thrown open and he passed into the house. a woman in the thirties, pretty, dressed in white, closed the door after him and remained weakly leaning against the wall, awaiting in agitation his first word. he gave her a nod, took a step, turned and looked at her sharply, then busied himself with his coat. suddenly the woman stretched out her hand and cried, with the hopelessness of one for whom the question can bring but one answer: "bofinger, what is it? tell me!" "oh, it's good news," he said laconically, placing his bag on the floor, "good enough." "he's alive--my husband is alive!" she stammered, her eyes filling with nervous, incredulous tears. "alive!" he exclaimed, rising his voice to a shout, while his head jerked about. but in a moment the amazement gave way to unbelief and he continued, with the irony of one impatient with feminine hypocrisy, "max fargus, my dear sheila, is dead; done for by bandits, accommodating little greasers, bless their souls!" he turned his back on her scornfully, busying himself with finding a hook in the dark hallway. the woman had received the news like a blow in the face. she swayed back against the door, her hands went to her lips, then to her throat as though to stifle a cry, and for a moment she seemed about to fall. then suddenly her eyes returned in fear to the contemptuous back of the lawyer and she controlled herself by a violent effort, passing before him into the parlor to hide the agitation on her face. "shed a few tears for the public, my dear," he called out, following her with the impertinence of a man who has a right to dispense with civilities. "you can afford them; for eventually you'll come into as tidy a fortune as was ever won in six months' time. but before we get down to business, sheila my dear, i am starving; could you get me a bite." seizing further opportunity to prepare herself for the encounter she passed into the dining-room, after bidding him be seated with a conventionality as marked as his affectation of intimacy. as he was settling in a chair he suddenly remembered his bag and returned to the vestibule. the parlor breathed an air of imitation and a striving for luxury, which after the first impression of ridicule had a certain note of pathos. everything was of the factory, with the odor of the bargain-counter. one saw the decoration before the body, overwhelmed by a confused sense of plush and gilt, of reds and greens, of false cherubs and artificial flowers, of airy, bejeweled furniture for which, in the department stores, one imagines in vain a purchaser. in the medallion carpet all the colors fought, in the portieres the byzantine wrestled with the gothic, the roman with the greek. before selecting a comfortable chair, bofinger peeled off a pair of yellow gloves, looked about in indecision and placed them gingerly on an étagère. next, whisking out a lilac handkerchief, he slapped vigorously the dust from his shoes. then bringing forth a number of documents from the bag he smoothed them nervously on his knee, replaced them, and suddenly raised his head to follow the movements of the woman with a perplexed intensity, in which there was both irritation and anxiety. on the body of a dandy was set the head of a comedian. one and the other produced a like impression of sham. he was too solicitous of his clothes, too conscious of his manner. his collar was worn with discomfort, his checked tweed cutaway was too tight, his shoes too new; while, on establishing himself in his chair, he had thrown open his coat on a buckskin vest, heavily sealed, and a purple tie, held in four-in-hand by a fat horseshoe, with the ill-at-ease of the man who never quite familiarizes himself with his own audacity. the head had the prominent bones of the yankee with a suggestion of the italian in the sallowness of the complexion and the limpidity of the eyes, which when most gracious had a warning of treachery. he smiled much, but the smile was as constrained as his dress. though not far in the thirties, his face was sown with lines, while at each thought flurries showed on the forehead and the cheeks, which from constant conscription had come to never remaining still. his ears were so small that they seemed almost a deformity. the nose, which was impressive and slightly pointed, told more of cunning than of sagacity; the mouth, open and pliant, was the mouth of the demagogue and the orator, which lets escape the torrent of phrases. one divined the man who played at will the tyrant or the servitor, who browbeat the timid and flattered the strong, who bellowed in a police court, but who tiptoed for a favor and could on occasion listen obsequiously. finally his jet hair, which he enforced into parting in the middle and plastered to his scalp, in the back rose like the comb of a cockatoo. this rebellious movement to the repression of the front was significant of the whole man. when mrs. fargus returned with a tray all traces of emotion had vanished. watching her, the lawyer voiced the amazement that had been in his mind from the first. "sheila, you are astonishingly pretty to-night." "really!" she said, and despite her alarm she sent a glance to the mirror. over the loose white muslin, free at the throat and at the elbows, she wore a filmy scarf of red chiffon, subtle as a mist, which, encircling her shoulders, came to a loose knot and fell to her feet in a sanguine line. it was a striking effect which perplexed the eye, and threw in bold relief the waves of her black hair and the rather high color of her complexion; but emphasized in the general voluptuousness the surprising contrast of the eyes which, gray with a slight blue tinge, were cold, without passion or enticement. intrigued at the contrast of her indifference with her first agitation, bofinger was careful not to open the conversation, knowing that it is easier to penetrate the hypocrisy of an enforced question than to discover truth in a guarded answer. mrs. fargus, seeing at last that the situation compelled her to speak, rested her chin on her palm and said as though to herself: "so fargus is dead!" "eh, eh!" the lawyer cried instantly, shooting a sharp look, "a moment ago that overwhelmed you. but you are reconciled already, i suppose." she showed some confusion, but returned immediately: "sure i'm shocked; poor fellow, after all he did love me." displeased to find her self-possessed, the lawyer, not to waken her mistrust, seemed to accept her attitude by launching into a diatribe. "yes, yes, cling to your respectability. you women are all the same. virtue always! do you do it to fool us or yourselves? come now, you know that old fargus's death is a stroke of luck! why the deuce, then, don't you admit it?" "you don't understand," she said coldly. he searched her face with aroused curiosity, saying to himself, "no, my lady, you bet i don't." then continuing his plan of battle he occupied himself with his plate. "you brought him, the body, back," she asked presently. "no," he answered irritably, and pushed back his plate with impatience. "why not?" she asked, noticing his annoyance. "that is a long story and goes with the rest," he said rising. "now, my dear, we'll get down to it." in the parlor, as he was taking a chair, he recollected himself and demanded with a jerk of his head: "any one up there?" "i sent the girl away," she answered, "as you said." "nevertheless," he replied slowly, "i guess i'll satisfy myself of that." "yes, i supposed you would," she said with a shrug, "i left the gas on." the unlooked-for reply halted him. he vacillated a moment suspiciously, wondering whether to accept the situation, but, the shyster prevailing, he turned on his heel and went up the stairs. the woman smiled with the consciousness of a first advantage. but no sooner did the steps creak than she abandoned herself to a paroxysm of despair, twisting and turning the scarf in her hands until it cut them, as though to fight with the physical sting the agony of the mind. yet in this violent return to her first agitation there was nothing to suggest grief for another; rather she seemed a prey to the torments of the gambler who, by a sudden upset, sees a fortune elude his fingers, dissipating in the air. she was, at the first glance, of that gay and fragile class who comprehend nothing but pleasure and see pleasure bounded only by the narrow limits of youth, into which they wish to compress all emotions, all desires, and all sensations; who pursue their ideals, palpitating and with bandaged eyes, and are consumed alike by their gratification and their hunger. on them weigh perhaps the heaviest the inequalities of society. mixtures of desires and scruples, peculiarly american, swayed by conflicting ideals and prejudices, they wish to taste of the glittering world at any price except at the price of outward respectability. a young man attracted to sheila fargus by her facile beauty would have mistaken her for an adventuress or a saint. a man of the world, knowing her weakness and her fetishes, would have recognized that she might become either. as soon as the step of bofinger was heard returning, she drew herself hastily together, but the lawyer, to further satisfy himself, passed into the kitchen. she rose, inhaled a long breath, extended her arms as though to shake off the rigidity of her emotion, and finding herself pale, pinched her cheeks. the lawyer returned too conscious of his tactical disadvantage to notice the traces of her agitation. "so you feel at rest now," she said maliciously. "my dear, take it as a tribute to you," he answered. "you had the air of truth but you might have been--" "more clever?" "exactly," he said. "you can't be sure with a woman." to shut off further reference he cast himself back in his chair, brought his fingers to a cage, and demanded, as though from impulse, "sheila, answer this--and carefully, for it is vital. before fargus left for mexico did he show any suspicion?" "why, no," she answered, too visibly surprised not to be telling the truth; "sure he didn't." "what, not the slightest suspicion of our relations?" he persisted. "think well,--fargus who was suspicion itself! and he didn't at some time suspect either you or me!" she reflected a moment, started to answer, and then shook her head. "no, no, not once." the hesitation was not lost on the lawyer, who continued: "but did he seem much in love?" "why, he adored me!" she cried. she examined him curiously, noting again his restrained irritation, and asked, "what funny questions! why do you ask them?" "on account of a number of suspicious circumstances," he answered irritably. "well, you know fargus; he was not an ordinary man. however--" he took up his documents, sifting them to count them. then, at the moment when sheila, preparing to listen, was off her guard, he launched the question he had held in reserve. "did he tell you why he went to mexico?" "why," she said, "i suppose, on business." "he told you what business." "no." the two looked in each other's eyes. "she lies," thought the lawyer. "he knows i lie," she said to herself, palpitating, but she did not dare avert her glance. chapter ii in the eyes of the law to sheila's surprise, instead of the browbeating she had learned to expect, she saw that for some incomprehensible reason it suited him to accept the denial. "he went to investigate a silver mine," he said after a moment. "a mine!" she exclaimed; and the knowledge that he had not challenged the lie gave to the exclamation a vehemence so well simulated that it left him somewhat shaken in his first impression. "that at least is my conviction," he said. "now for the story." he spoke rapidly, recounting in trivial detail the various steps by which he had traced fargus to mexico and into the dangerous mining region of durango. from time to time sheila, who suffered under these numerous details, interrupted, saying: "leave that." "be more brief." "but tell me, tell me first of his death!" "here we are," bofinger said finally, after completing without deviation his methodical recital. "on the twenty-fifth day of january, the last day of his life, he quarreled with his attendants and dismissed them. despite all warnings he then pushed on in the sole company of an indian breed and arrived at two o'clock at the ranch of a mexican, manuel stroba. here is his affidavit, the importance of which you'll see later." as he prepared to read it, she snatched it from his hand, crying: "afterward! go on; oh, do go on!" "at three o'clock, fargus left the ranch, intending to make a mission five miles away. the next morning stroba, in passing through a defile six miles on, the scene of a dozen hold-ups, found the bodies of the two horses. the packs were scattered on the ground alongside of the coat and hat of fargus stained with blood, in fact everything to indicate a violent conflict, except--except not the slightest trace of fargus or the half-breed." she sprang up. "but then," she cried all in one breath, "he could be alive!" he looked at her, astonished again at her emotion. "if it happened yesterday--perhaps," he admitted; adding quickly, with the emphasis a man gives to a statement of which he is determined to be convinced, "but this happened on the twenty-sixth of january and we are now the end of march. if he was taken by bandits, it was for ransom, and if he lived they would have served notice immediately. no, fargus is dead--dead without a doubt. for me, i suspect the half-breed. he could have murdered him, buried the body, shot the horses, and arranged things to make it seem as though he had shared the same fate. unfortunately," he added moodily, "unfortunately there is no conceivable way of proving that most necessary fact!" the ominous significance of his last remark was lost on her. the flash of hope which had so mystified the lawyer disappeared in the dejection caused by his logic. there passed through her an immense breath, which like a tumultuous burst of wind seemed to whirl away a multitude of longings and desires. she remained silent, overwhelmed and convinced. "but you said there were suspicious circumstances," she said at last. "what circumstances?" "first," he replied, watching her, "why should he have taken such a journey, at such a risk?" she shook her head. "and the next?" "this. no one in the mines, not a soul, knew of his coming;--in fact, no one had ever heard of the existence of max fargus." this time she could not repress an exclamation. "so, that does surprise you," he said quickly. "why, yes--of course," she admitted grudgingly. she rose, took a step, and reseated herself. "still, if he were thinking of buying a mine, wouldn't it be like him to look it over first without being known. that might be it." bofinger understood that she wished thus to convey to him her knowledge, but without appearing to notice the contradiction, he suddenly broke out: "what luck, what damnable luck! and i did everything, scoured the country, offered a dozen rewards for the body! no use, not a trace, not a single clew!" sheila, who had expected to find him triumphant, recognized again with growing anxiety the note of disaster in his voice. "something is wrong?" she said, leaning forward suddenly. he rose, gave her a glance as though to estimate the probabilities of her attitude, then, oblivious to her presence, suddenly allowed all his anger and defeat to appear. "it is inconceivable, monstrous, absurd! it is enough to make me superstitious! but that's the way it goes in this world! i surmount everything. i put to sleep the suspicions of a crazy man, play him till he marries you. good! everything succeeds like magic. he goes to mexico on some tantrum and is killed. so far magnificent! fargus out of the way, the property ours. nothing could be better. one would say heaven had ordained it. and then--there comes an impossible, an absurd turn,--a preposterous, idiotic bit of luck, and we are stranded high and dry!" he flung himself down and, jarring the table with his fists, cried: "it is enough to make me believe in providence!" "but what, what has happened?" she cried, now thoroughly alarmed. "is there a will?" "true, you don't see it. you're not a lawyer," he said, stopping short. "ah, the law is a beautiful thing, a marvelously beautiful thing, my dear! you are satisfied he is dead, aren't you?" she hesitated, looking at him, wondering if there might be a doubt. "of course you are!" he said savagely. "so am i, so would any one,--not the shadow of a doubt. well, my dear, under the beautiful and equitable system of common-law from which we receive justice, nothing of the sort is allowed. fargus cannot die for seven years!" "i don't understand," she said helplessly. "because there is no eye-witness of his death nor discovery of the body, the law, my dear, will not admit he is dead for seven years." "ah!" she followed him anxiously, perceiving there was more than she comprehended. "my dear girl, don't you see what that means?" "no, not quite." "it means fargus being alive, in the eye of the law,--for seven years you can neither marry nor touch"--he paused to give the full blow to his next words--"nor touch one cent of the property." "but that is terrible! that is not just!" she protested mechanically, still incapable of estimating the sentence. the blow was too crushing, and, before they overwhelm, the great misfortunes demand time. "and that is what you call justice!" "i, i call it law!" he said with a laugh. "well--what can we do?" she asked, turning to him in frightened appeal. "nothing--wait." "but i am his wife--do you mean that i--" "cannot touch one cent!" "but i am his wife!" "wedded to a corpse," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "and i can neither marry nor inherit the property?" "just that." "for seven years?" "correct." "seven years," she repeated, drawing her hand across her eyes. "it is hard." "seven years!" she burst out, rising with a cry of despair that thrilled the lawyer. "but that is a lifetime!" "eh, its long enough." "a lifetime!" she repeated more quietly, staring at him with blank eyes. "it's hard on me too," he said roughly. "on you!" she cried with a laugh such as despair alone can render horrible. "oh, on you!" all at once he understood that the cry had been torn from her by the vision of the youth she saw expiring. "there now--" he said desperately. "after all, seven years are soon over, and half a million is something to wait for." "what good will it do me then!" she said, sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands. then seized with a convulsive sobbing, she cried, "no, no, it is too cruel. i won't do it, i won't, i can't!" "come, don't be a fool," he said angrily, taking her by the shoulder. "seven years, seven years!" she cried hysterically. "what good will it do me then, what do i care for money then! oh, my youth, my youth! and this is the end of it. i knew it, i knew it! fargus, you were not human! fargus, you did this to punish me!" all at once she rose, shaken and frantic as a prophetess, and seizing her hair in her hands cried: "oh, those years, i see them, those seven terrible years!" she began to wander about the room avoiding the lawyer, invoking always the youth which she seemed to see expiring before her, in the inexorable limits of nature. bofinger, after a vain attempt to check her, remained helpless in the presence of such hysteria. a moment later he stole from the room, took his satchel and went to the door. there he stopped, waited, saw her convulsed with sobbing, frowned, raised his shoulders and slipped out. on the sidewalk the gods of suspicion, which ruled him, made him cry suddenly: "hell! i am a fool to be so tender-hearted. she's been lyin' to me to hide some mystery. that was the time to put the screws on!" he hesitated, scanning the shade. from time to time a silhouette passed, frantic and suffering. this shadow, without life or body, representing nothing but an agony, horrified him. he turned and hastened away. chapter iii the firm of groll and bofinger six months previous to the events of the last chapter, four men were awaiting the opening of the afternoon session of the police court, in an office whose glass front displayed to the travel of tenth street the legend, hyman groll & alonzo bofinger _counselors-at-law._ opposite, the jefferson market court loomed from the triangular island which is formed by the junction of sixth and greenwich avenues, whose muddy torrents descend, roaring, to shake it from its foundation. the court is one of seven similar mouths, down which one may look aghast, into the cauldron at the depths of society. vice nowhere has a more horrid aspect, for nowhere is it more mean and repulsive with the inequalities of suffering. journalism, to strip the novice of all his illusions, sends him to this rude school, where he shortly learns not only that evil as well as good is inevitable and eternal, but that justice, in common with eternity, must be accepted in faith, for to explore its depths is to recoil in horror. to him, who knows the misery which bears the weight of the social superstructure, justice has the aspect of a seal over a living tomb, and the present building is a mockery. where there should stand a waste of gray is a meaningless mass of red brick. in place of a stern, ponderous block of granite, unsoftened by ledge or cornice, crude with the crudity of man's justice to man, there rises in architectural legerdemain a jumble of turret and tower, as though variety and gaiety could be sought in this saddest and dreariest of the manifestations of society. confronting the barred windows of the prison annex, from sixth to seventh avenues, runs a short row of clingy, undersized houses, given over to the lawyers of the army of "shysters," who, much as a ragpicker rakes a garbage heap, scrape from the petty crimes of the court a miserable income. the lawyer who succeeds has his runners whipping up the gutters and the alleys, his alliances suspected or open with the criminal and the police, while the miserable fee which results from this elaborate system must often be divided into three parts. the city, which does nothing in character and wantonly mingles loveliness and evil, the ridiculous and the tragic, has not marked the spot for avoidance but has forced the lawyers to dispute their foothold with half a dozen small shops. the marketers, who come to the grocery, basket on arm, share the sidewalk with the prostitute and the dive-keeper. at four o'clock each afternoon the street is momentarily flushed by the influx of children from a neighboring school, who also witness the reluctant entrances into these mysterious offices, where despair dominates beyond what the court itself can inflict. in this row, the offices of groll & bofinger were the most pretentious and immaculate. the glass front sparkled. the gilt announcement arrested the eye afar, while a green shade, raised half-way from the bottom, effectually screened the occupants and suggested a little of the mystery of the pawn-shop, which offers obscurity to the despair of its clients. an office boy, prematurely gone into long trousers, lolled in the doorway, finishing by means of a hat pin the butt of a cigar and searching the passers-by with something of the restlessness of the pointer, alert to flush a new client. within the office the dwarfed ceiling and the frown of the opposite prison left a dim area by the window and sunk the rest into shadow. in the rear two dull glass doors threw a foggy interruption which filled with foreboding the imagination of the client who entered these confidential cabinets. otherwise, the office was matter-of-fact and characterless; where one expected dust, confusion, and slouch, everything was clean, ordered and new, seeking an atmosphere of respectable mediocrity. this decent surface, nevertheless, after the first introduction never failed to impress the initiated with the treachery of an ambuscade. by the window bofinger, with a leg over the table, was chatting with a reporter, joseph lebeau, who from nervousness was perched on the back of a chair, feet on the seat, gulping down frankfurter sandwiches from a paper bag. on the bench near by his comrade ganzler, from a news agency, was stretched on his fat back, a law book under his shaved head, hat over his eyes, pretending to snatch the sleep he had squandered during the night. in the rear the figure of groll, withdrawn from the conversation, presented nothing but an indistinct bulk. ganzler was one of those rats of journalism which are as necessary to the press as the criminal confederate to the police, a bohemian to whom reporting was a destiny rather than a profession. he touched all men on the worst side, knew blackmailer and sharper by name, enjoyed their company and fell into their ways, did them favors when they turned up in the police court, was their intermediary with the force and, in return, ran without fear streets where a detective would not venture alone. he knew each subtle channel of graft about the court and won the confidence of all by dipping into the same ugly mess. he was coarse, acute, with a memory which never let slip a fact, made of iron, tricky, but too immersed in the life he reported to lend to the bare facts that inspiration which needs a far perspective. he was rated sure and indispensable. in journalism that is at once a guarantee and an epitaph. joseph lebeau had not been in the service long enough to disguise either his curiosity or his horror. he was a blonde young man remarkable for that height of forehead which the image of walter scott has impressed upon the memory, and which, while invariably betokening great imagination and intellectuality, appears alike in poets and casuists. in the brown eyes were perception and wit fed by an untiring curiosity of life. at twenty-five, unless dissipation has scarred it, the face of a man is a record yet to be written and the first marks are significant. from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth two furrows had already set, which when he smiled recalled that statue of voltaire which, above the fret of the boulevard st. germain, mocks those who cannot see life is but a jest. though rich, he dressed carelessly. the felt hat askew on his head was weather-worn. the blue tie straggled from its knot. the trousers sustained by a belt bagged from the hips to the boots which showed the white seam of a crack. nevertheless, beside him, bofinger in his immaculate trousers, stiff white vest, and planked shirt had the air of a countryman who dresses once a year for a wedding or a funeral, while there was about lebeau an atmosphere of aristocratic certainty which gave the impression that his bohemianism was a mood into which, as into all things, he had ventured to sample the sensation. he had been listening vacantly to bofinger, intent more on pursuing some train of thought of his own. at length he crumpled up the bag and asked with that impertinence which reporters use to arrive more directly to their ends: "alonzo, did you ever in the course of your distinguished services happen to defend an honest man?" bofinger feigned an air of reflection, then with a superior smile answered: "how many do you know?" the paper bag hurled at the waste basket fell back, spilling its crumbs. lebeau without attention to the accident drew out a cigar, crossed his legs and began gravely: "how many do i know? you don't believe in the animal then? that phrase, my poor bo, condemns you to mediocrity. man, honesty is not a fixed virtue! any one may become honest, at times, and for a variety of reasons." "joseph, you alarm me," said ganzler, stirring under his hat. "alarm me and disturb my slumbers." "honesty as a variety is an absolute necessity to man," continued lebeau, half in raillery, half in conviction. "it stimulates our imagination and resuscitates our powers for sinning. we reserve it as a sort of moral bath; when we feel ourselves getting too black, why, we seek out an honest action and cleanse ourselves. it is a moral bath and a very slight application removes the stains. blessed be our human nature!" "joe, your view of human nature is horrible," interjected ganzler. "say, can't we trust any man to remain dishonest?" "not even you, you old grafter," lebeau said with a complimentary oath. "i pass that. but bo?" continued ganzler. then answering his own question he added: "bo, though, isn't to be relied on, he's not a steady character. say groll then--now go slow, you ain't going to tell us groll's in any danger? i'd hate to think that." the impudence of journalists is unbounded. all is permitted them if only they say it with an air of insincerity. on their side they abuse their prerogative, as women avail themselves of banter to leave the sting of truth. as lebeau remained silent and thoughtful, bofinger rose and examined the street, while ganzler turning to the wall grunted: "that was a poser." "if i am right," lebeau said with deliberation. "of the four of us, groll is the surest to end honest and respectable." he added: "he's a conservative--the present is but a ladder." ganzler and bofinger, who saw in his gravity an exquisite irony, went off into riotous laughter, but lebeau had the satisfaction of seeing, in the shadow, groll abruptly raise his head. "a man is neither good nor bad, honest or dishonest," he continued, "but a sensitive organism that under different conditions responds to different impulses." "hello, here's flora," said ganzler. a woman entered, young and with a memory of good looks. bofinger rose and the two disappeared through one of the glass doors. "the man who succeeds," said lebeau, speaking to groll, "is he who studies the conditions that may turn an honest man to dishonesty, and those that bring a rascal to repentance. the important thing is not to fix the price of each man. not at all. the thing is to use rogues not as rogues, but as rogues in whom is the fatal impulse to honesty." "hello, that's an idea," said ganzler. the door of the cabinet creaked and bofinger, sticking out his head, said with an oath: "same story--she wants more time!" groll without a word let fall his fist; bofinger, interpreting the refusal, disappeared. a cry was heard. the door shut, lebeau resumed. "that's what bofinger doesn't see, and yet it is the obstacle he ought always to be dreading. nothing more dangerous than honesty. why, it is often nothing but an obstinate revulsion of pride in a man who for a whim or a moment resents being counted on as a rascal. that is temperamental honesty, liable at any moment to trip up a case. then, a man can become honest by terror, or anger, or superstition, or sheer caprice. the truth is, in these days, you can count on no man's dishonesty. so confident am i of this beautiful truth that i prophesy bo will end a shyster lawyer in a shyster court." the woman reappeared, trailed by bofinger, who shrugged his shoulders at her sullen departure. "no use, flora," broke in ganzler, impudently, "you dress too well for that game. pay and be protected. the system is better than another one we know." the girl stopped for a furious retort, in one of those passions which shake the existence of the outcast and bring a hundred times into their lives the lust of murder. then compressing her lips she wheeled and bolted out. ganzler laughed uneasily; lebeau, forgetting his theme, watched her retreat. from behind, she showed a pleasing figure and the movements of a young girl. "take the other side," bofinger said, returning to his perch. "every man is more or less dishonest. admit that proposition." "it is debatable," said lebeau, whose eyes still followed the woman. "we graft or allow grafting--and what's the difference?" bofinger pursued contemptuously. "a man who touches society the way we do has got no illusions i can tell you. do you know how i could live if i wanted to--without its costing me a cent? talk to me of your honesty! for lodging i could put up at a dozen hotels who want protection. for meals there are restaurants by the hundred who don't want to be looked into too closely. stand in with the force and anything is yours." "you said clothes?" inquired ganzler with particular interest. "well, it ain't so hard to find a sweat shop that's breaking the law, is it?" bofinger replied with a smile. "liquor and tobacco are too easy. theaters that break the rule of the fire department will keep you amused. pawnshops on the queer will give you a fine assortment of jewelry, and you can get a hack when you want it from any night hawk who expects to get into court." "correct," said ganzler, with an approving nod, "and convincing." "fact is, there is pretty nearly nothing you couldn't get served up to you," bofinger ended, with too much pride for either to misunderstand it. "nothing--because you can always find some one who is grafting in a large or small way. hell, how absurd justice is! take this case just now. if adultery is a crime, why don't they prosecute a woman of the world in a divorce scandal instead of some miserable brute who lives by selling herself for a few little dollars!" ganzler admired the fine flush of indignation and nodded wisely. lebeau, remembering the scene with flora, smiled ironically. "a poor man calls in a lawyer to defend him," continued bofinger, whom the thought of injustice aroused. "a rich man's lawyer plans for him how to escape arrest. what's the difference? a million, that's all! with a million anything is respectable." "it is," took up lebeau, in haste to air his opinions on that topic. "why? with a million direct responsibility ceases. you no longer need to steal in person, you break laws by proxy. justice does not yet recognize indirect responsibility. a million--there's our standard! make it anyway. so long as the track is masked society will judge you only by the way you use it. at the bottom of all is this," he summed up, pulling out his watch: "the world abhors petty sinning. take a ten-dollar bribe, you are despicable. distribute on election day one hundred thousand dollars for bribery and you are a leader of men. take one life--murder! sacrifice a thousand lives for a commercial advantage, you are a captain of industry! crime is in the motive and the scale. when a man steals from hunger or kills for revenge the motive is evident and the guilt apparent. but for ambition, for fame, for supremacy--the motive is human and grandiose. the grand scale precludes the crime! you are right, bo, you are right there. the million's everything!" "yes," bofinger said pensively, whistling on his fingers, "but to get that first essential million you've got to run some risks." "otherwise life would be too easy," lebeau said with a smile. "the only difficulty to-day is, as you say, to get the first million." "it is all luck," bofinger said moodily, and he remained silent, his gaze plunged into the street. lebeau scrutinized him, smiling at the appetite he had awakened, seeing the man in the bare, and wondering if there were any crime before which such a nature would retreat, were it once a question of the opportunity he coveted. he woke his companion, who jumped up rubbing his eyes, asking: "well, are you through with your honest man?" "true, we had forgotten him," lebeau said, glancing at bofinger. "bo, good news!" ganzler cried, looking through the window. "i see a client." across the street a little man, clad in black from a shovel hat to a cloak which he carried slung over his shoulder, was examining undecidedly the row of lawyers' offices. the shoulders, which were unusually broad, so diminished his size that they gave him the look of a dwarf. it was an odd figure, incongruous in the street, with an air of belonging to the traditions of the stage. the two reporters, amusing themselves at his expense, decided successively that he was a bandit, a barber, an actor, a magician, a poet, and an engraver of tombstones. "there he goes," cried ganzler. "he's frightened off. he's guilty!" "maybe it was the honest man after all," said lebeau, laughing. "only honesty looks guilty nowadays. too bad, that was your chance. beware the honest man, though!" the two reporters departed for the court after helping themselves to cigars. immediately from the back of the room a voice cried peremptorily: "alonzo, you talk too damn much!" "what of it?" bofinger said, wincing under his chief's reproof. "i only told them what they knew." "say nothing and you risk nothing." extricating himself from his seat groll moved into the light, discovering the shoulders of a hunchback, a massive bust on legs which were weak, ill-matched, and pitiful. the heavy head fell from the high cheekbones and the yellowish eyes, which bulged like marbles, along the bold and fleshy nose to a lengthened jaw where the folded lips adhered to each other as though to repress all indiscreet speech. it was an unusual face, vacuous and immobile, that seemed to contain instead of blood some fishy fluid, which left it incapable of emotion. on settling into his seat his arms sprawled over the desk, bracing the weight of the head and shoulders on the elbows, while from the mass the eyes, vacant and magnetic, conveyed to bofinger for the thousandth time the impression of an immense spider in the center of its web. physical deformity has an extreme effect on human nature. either it produces an heroic and resigned optimism, or it forms, by divesting them of the passions which shackle men, characters of implacable selfishness, who are strong because they were born weak and know no pity because nature has shown them none. calculating and self-absorbed, groll was yet not of those gamblers who, staking all at each leap, infrequently arrive through desire and infatuated confidence to heights seemingly beyond their force. he moved slowly to his end, with that unhuman oriental patience which, allied to the imagination of the american, forms in its rare conjunction characters that death alone can thwart. he knew how to bide his time without, as commonly occurs, the waiting consuming him. at thirty-eight, age when the american reckons his life a success or a failure, he had not lost a whit of his complacency. he had never known youth, he had not therefore been disturbed by its pangs for instant preeminence. with all that he was approaching forty a shyster lawyer, living on the blackmail he shared with the police. the future did not seem to hold anything further. nevertheless, he had forced a career even out of this slough of petty misery. he had begun by examining carefully the problem of vice and the law, asking himself anxiously if the system of blackmail was transitory. he soon became convinced that so long as public sentiment would not admit that vice exists and legalize it, vice must exist through corruption. he then conceived an audacious plan, which was no less than to unite under one system, with himself as the head, all the traffic in blackmail which then filtered through a thousand intersecting channels. the man who could achieve such an organization, he saw would dominate the city so long as he was content to remain obscure. towards this end he had moved irresistibly, picking his associates and his agents, biding only the moment when his fortune would permit him to launch the system on a grand scale. so well had he locked up in his own breast the secret of this gigantic plan that bofinger himself did not suspect it. in character he was frugal, temperate, and peaceful, without vices or distractions, qualities which in another man would have been virtues, so strangely does the controlling motive determine betwixt virtue and vice. born three centuries ago he might have been a bigot, pursuing religion with the same fanaticism which he brought to the conquest of his present design. bofinger continuing to defend himself, groll interrupted decisively: "one is never strong enough to be confident. only a fool feels secure. talk to ganzler who is one of us--but not to lebeau, who for a sensation might write us up and bring everything tumbling about our ears! also don't show your hand! play close to your chest." he stopped, considered his associate, and perceiving the reproof was felt, added: "now for business. what did they say at that new joint in eighteenth street?" bofinger, who had taken his scolding like a guilty schoolboy, hastened gratefully to the opening, saying: "they won't give up a cent." "did you make clear our pull?" "yes." "what, do they think they can operate in this district for nothing?" "that seems to be it." "we'll have it raided to-night," groll said thoughtfully but without irritation. "we must make an example. it will have a good effect. besides flaherty tells me he's got to pull off something quick." he drummed on the desk, while bofinger, seeing he had something in mind, waited. "alonzo, we've been working on a wrong principle," he said suddenly. "this idea of being lenient with the women will bring us in trouble. we must be paid promptly and cut out the excuses. that's what gets them excited, and when they get worked up they are liable to do anything. when they understand they must pay up they'll take it as a matter of course. putting it off gets them to brooding over their wrongs. after this, no more putting off. otherwise run them in the next day and send them up to the island. two or three examples will straighten things out. make it easier for us and easier for them." "shall i warn them?" bofinger asked. "no," he said after a moment. "the example will be better if you don't. send a couple up." for a few minutes he gave directions in the same mild, unvarying voice, and then departed, each step paid by an effort. bofinger with a remainder of his irritation threw himself into a chair. the discussion with lebeau had touched him too closely to be soon dismissed. the reporter had not been mistaken in his estimate. bofinger was a man constantly in revolt against his condition, ready to risk anything for the opportunity to rise. but he wanted fortune, as the gambler seeks it, in a day, on some marvelous cast. this conversation with lebeau, who had all he coveted and seemed to disdain it, left him in a fury. he recapitulated in his mind a dozen schemes of blackmail and sharp practise, rejecting each as inadequate and petty. "it's all luck," he said almost aloud. "i'd like to be a woman. it's only a woman can jump from anywhere. if i only had their chance!" in the midst of this reverie, the door was suddenly thrown open without the ceremony of a knock, and a curt voice demanded: "be this mr. groll?" the lawyer, shocked out of his dreaming, looked up and recognized the singular figure of the little man in the shovel hat. chapter iv the little man of the shovel hat the newcomer stood rigidly. in the dimness of the office he had the look of a musty portrait where the artist has allowed the body from the shoulders to sink into obscurity, the better to emphasize the chalkiness of the face. "i am mr. bofinger," the lawyer said. "what can i do for you?" the client, without answer, remained blinking at the lawyer. the clothes were shabby, of a style unfamiliar. the trousers bulged and wrinkled like sails in the wind. in the coat the elbows were polished and the cuffs eaten away. the narrow, ill-revealed eyes had all the cunning of the valet, spying the details that escape another, but with the insolence of the man who is accustomed to give command. the cast of countenance was eastern, dominated about the thick lips by a set scowl of mistrust, which struck the lawyer at once, as well as the almost fanatic intensity of his gaze. the feet, the knuckles, and the nostrils, as in abnormal or extreme natures, were pronounced. he remained at the doorway with undisguised interest, examining the unfamiliar surroundings with the defiance of one prejudiced against the profession. bofinger, who divided humanity into those who could pay and those who could not, satisfied on this score despite the poverty of the habiliment, rose and said: "come in, take a seat." the visitor with a start removed his hat, discovering a fleeing forehead matted with coarse dark hair, and sliding forward ten feet fell into a chair. standing his hands had obtruded, seated he sought to conceal his feet. then suddenly, speaking from the corner of his mouth, he said: "you're rather young." "i have been fortunate," bofinger said modestly, concealing his astonishment at this opening, by pretending to discover a tribute. "close-mouthed?" "as an undertaker." "honest?" "what, sir!" "and honest?" the little man repeated, seizing a knee in either hand and looking him stubbornly in countenance. with unfeigned astonishment, bofinger shot to his feet, glared down a moment at the cynical, unrelenting scrutiny; then, with a bob of his head, wheeled, returned to his desk and said softly as he took up his paper: "kindly close the door--after you!" there was a moment's interval, while each watched the other, the lawyer fearing the success of his manoeuver, the client weighing its sincerity as he balanced on his chair and blinked in indecision. all at once he jerked upright, flung aside his shock of hair and blurted: "mr. bofinger--" "no, sir, i beg you," the lawyer cut in, elevating two fingers. "such questions cannot be addressed to reputable members of my profession--" "i want to say--" "no sir, it is useless. if i don't produce in you the necessary impression of confidence, then there ain't no use in prolonging--there ain't no use, i say--" "say, i take that back," the other interrupted decisively. convinced that the question had been designed to test him, bofinger allowed a requisite interval to salve his dignity, before replying: "you are, i see, unfamiliar with the etiquette of attorney and client. for that reason and because i see your business is of a kind to alarm you i'll pass over what you have just said. but i insist that without further delay" (here he consulted his watch) "you come to the matter in point, mr. ----" the little man shook his head nervously. "you don't wish to give your name?" "i don't." "that ain't unusual," bofinger said graciously. "well, how can i help you?" thus faced, the client said carefully: "it is a delicate matter." at this trite introduction, bofinger could not restrain a certain disappointed loosening of his body. he crossed his legs, caged his fingers and, meditating on the ceiling, volunteered: "a woman?" "yes." the visitor shifted in his seat, pulling at the knees of his trousers. bofinger repressed a smile and a yawn. "you couldn't have gotten into better hands," he said in sing-song. "are there any letters? does she hold documentary evidence?" "no--no!" "good. divorce or breach of promise?" "what are you talking about?" his client said angrily. "i want information." "i see," bofinger said, resuming the scent, "and very stupid of me. information preparatory to marriage, ain't it?" "certainly not!" bofinger, nettled at his insuccess, said grandly: "if you will elucidate." "it is an adoption." the manner and the answer revived all the lawyer's curiosity. "you said--" "adoption!" snapped the little man with evident ill humor. "very good. the case now is clear. with a view to adoption, i am to investigate the past life and present surroundings of the child." "yes." "it is a girl?" "a woman--a young woman." at this answer the lawyer experienced an extraordinary quickening of interest that finally dispelled any fear of a commonplace case. this time he did not force a repetition of the essential statement, but adopting a matter-of-fact tone, poised a pencil and asked: "what is the name?" "vaughn--sheila vaughn." "and the address?" "i don't know." bofinger raised his head in astonishment. "but you know her--have met her." his client, with a nod, suddenly abandoned his reticence and as though now he had come head high into the matter, there was nothing for it but to strike out boldly, began imperiously: "i'm to meet her at four o'clock in washington square, northeast corner. you be there, follow her after i go, and get her address. find out everything about her, where she comes from, where she lives, what she does." "one moment," bofinger said suddenly. "how long have you known her?" the little man frowned, looked at him in disapproval of the question, and finally replied: "four months." "good." "look here, mr. bofinger, i want to know everything, complete. you know what that means?" "certainly." the chair grated, the little man snapped to his feet, clapping down his hat. "and see here. i forbid--that is, i want you to see that she don't suspect what's going on, not for a second. you hear--she's not to know i'm looking her up." "that goes without saying. now can i have a few days? say--three from now. where do you want me to report, mr. ----" "mr. bofinger," he cried angrily, "you ain't going to catch me with your lawyer's tricks. you thought you'd worm out of me where i lived, didn't you?" he stopped, glared at bofinger and then cried: "do you know what i think? i think you're nothing but a pettifogging lawyer--that there ain't no partner, and i'm no better'n a fool to talk to you. what do you say to that?" "that i'm dealing with a lunatic!" bofinger said brusquely. "i've had enough of you. take your case somewhere else!" "no, no," he answered chuckling. he remained shifting from foot to foot, swinging his big hands and blinking at the lawyer, who, from long contact with rascals, presented an offended innocence on the most honest countenance imaginable. at the end of a moment, reassured or not, the little man ground on his heel, squared his shoulders, and without so much as a word shuffled away. bofinger, with a few rapid steps, flung out the back passage into a sort of blind alley, choked with a damp display of mounting wash, hailed toby the office boy from a knot of young gamblers, and returning showed him through the window the retreating figure of his late client. "name and address. be quick and be damned careful." he spun a half dollar in the air, adding, "waiting for you, toby, if you're back within an hour." "i'm on," toby answered. he drew in a whistle, blinked one eye affectionately at the silver and disappeared like a shadow, calling back, "put it on the ice, boss!" bofinger stood a moment, rubbing his chin. then with a grin he dropped into his chair, saying contemptuously: "an adoption!" chapter v bofinger loses hope bofinger, with his instinct for blackmail, already saw clearly into the case. a misanthrope in love, who, to conceal his purpose, hid his identity and feigned to be considering an adoption; and a woman who, on her side, refused to reveal her address presented to him the familiar conjunction of senility and the adventuress. when he had asked his client how long he had known sheila vaughn he had had a motive. to him, the vital issue was to learn whether this shabby, odd client had means. confident that the woman must have already secured that information, when he learned that the intimacy had already existed four months he felt certain that if she had played so carefully it was for no mean stake. to his keen sense of his own opportunities the eccentric character of his client, all suspicion and mistrustful cunning, provoked a professional eagerness to meet and dupe so unusual an antagonist. he did not formulate a plan yet, but he had that strange, excited premonition of success, which, though it deceive a hundred times, gains always with the temperament of the gambler an easy credence. he went to the court-room, where he transacted some business, and towards four o'clock hastened back to the office. to his great irritation toby was nowhere to be seen, but on going to his desk he discovered a note on which was scrawled: max fargus _the oyster house man._ bofinger pounced upon it with a cry of exultation. max fargus, proprietor of half a dozen oyster houses, was a character known to the city by a score of anecdotes of eccentricity and greed. he crushed the paper in his hand and swung out triumphantly. "fargus is worth half a million, if a cent," he said joyfully. "what luck, eh! the woman is playing for marriage of course. bo, i begin to see where you come in!" as he hastened towards the square, dodging amid the filth of sixth avenue, he amused himself by sketching the portrait of the woman as he imagined her. "yes, sure, its a question of marriage," he thought. "it must be if she has played as close as that for four months. she's a clever one, i bet, an old hand. i wonder if i know her." the square suddenly discovered itself, that smiling barrier which interposes between the horrors of third street, a locality so foul that a conflagration alone could cleanse it, and the thoughtless royal avenue which digs its roots here and stretches upward to flower like a royal palm in the luxuriance of central park. at this period washington square had not fallen before the vandal march of business, though already the invaders showed their menacing front above the roofs. to-day nothing remains of that glory save the north side, which, in its red and white uniforms, makes face with solid front to the enemy from whom it expects nothing but obliteration. "now for it," thought bofinger as he entered the grateful shades which the foliage, nowhere more generous, lavished there. on a bench at the foot of a sycamore he had perceived the somber note of his odd client and the green flush of a dress. slackening he came towards them, his eyes eagerly on the woman. he had expected a young girl, he found a woman in the thirties, but fresh and defying an exact estimate. a simple bonnet, with border of lace, which drooped like petals, effectually concealed her face. the dress of a peculiar shade of may-green silk showed a neck as modest as that of a young girl, and draped itself demurely and indefinitely. she was busy over some embroidery, but at the moment of his passing the needle was idle, and with her eyes on the ground she was pondering on some remark of her companion. everything spoke of the natural--the innocence and prudery of her pose, the gradual motion of her body, the artless quiet of her attention; of the coquette or the actress--not a sign. bofinger caught this rapid impression as one seizes the flight of a star. he passed, his hopes sank. his anger rose and he cried with an oath: "hell, what luck--she's honest!" it was the one obstacle that never failed to upset his temper. to be defeated by rascality, by a clever turn of chicanery, never disturbed him--that was legitimate. but honesty, in his philosophy, was such a colossal absurdity that before it he never could control his impatience. so it was with a sense of having been defrauded that he repeated: "damn the luck, she _seems_ honest." he sat down at some distance, yet near enough to wait anxiously a better look. in a moment the woman lifted her head and he saw her face as she nodded deferentially to her companion. the black hair was divided in the middle and fell over the temples in the fashion of a thousand madonnas. he thought that she had even a look of stupidity. she put the embroidery into a bag and the movements of her arm was stiff, lacking grace, the gestures of a woman without coquetry. "sold again!" bofinger murmured, overcome by such evidence. "perhaps after all i jumped too soon. the old boy is crazy enough to adopt her." with an abrupt leave-taking, fargus arose and departed eastward. the woman without lightness or geniality had accepted his bow, bobbing her head and, betraying her inexperience by a slight diffident start, reseated herself with embarrassment. presently she stood up, smoothed her skirt, tucked her bag under her arm and moved off, clutching her parasol by the waist. "oh, a woman who walks like that," bofinger said to himself as he followed her up fifth avenue, "must be virtuous. she's the honest working girl supporting an invalid mother and all that. it's true, such things do happen. ah, we turn east now." she had disappeared around the corner of twelfth street. without distrust, bofinger followed so negligently that on rounding the corner he ran full upon her waiting in ambush. the surprise made him lose his self-possession; he passed hurriedly, without daring to meet her glance. but to his immense relief he saw she had not even noticed him and divined that it was for fargus alone that she took such precautions. "eh, eh! what does that mean?" he said joyfully to himself. but this new hope gradually flickered out, as he considered logically: "after all, she has a right to hide where she lives. besides, if she were an adventuress, she would have suspected me. that's true, that proves nothing." he continued eastward and turned north up irving place, perceiving to his satisfaction that she would do the same. at fourteenth street he covered himself in the crowd, while the woman taking the other side went west to seventh avenue, again starting north. seeing that she no longer feared pursuit bofinger approached nearer. at one crossing, to avoid a puddle she caught up her skirts in either hand, the parasol projecting awkwardly. "she walks like a country school ma'am, going to school in rubber boots!" he thought savagely, finding relief, as his irritation grew, in ridiculing the woman. "how long is she going to keep me trotting after her, i wonder?" as though in answer to his question she turned west and suddenly mounted the steps of a brown stone front close to the southern corner. "respectable, of course!" bofinger ejaculated, passing and marking the number. he went to eighth avenue, descended a block and returned eastward. the respectability of the house completed his dejection, which showed itself in the listless drag of his feet. all at once as he neared seventh avenue again his indifferent glance, wandering along the street, was stopped by the peculiar actions of a woman in a light duster, who was holding the door across her and spying the street with caution. the veil which fell from a saucy toque of light blue straw was thick enough to hide her features. with only a languid amusement bofinger was watching her when, in stepping from the vestibule, the woman caught her duster on the door. the next moment she snatched it around her, but in the second's interval bofinger beheld a flash of green, of that peculiar may-green silk which a half an hour before had first attracted his eye to the companion of max fargus. her alarm, the dress so carefully concealed, the position of the house back to back with the one she had entered, revealed the whole stratagem. a great thankfulness welled up in him, and like all men whom a flip of fortune redeems, he received the turn exultingly, as an evidence that he might count on illimitable favors. he laughed with an easy heart at the simplicity of the trick which had deceived him, and as he followed her he laughed anew at the transformation of the woman. everything was changed. the skirts hidden under the duster were yet gathered about her in a way to suggest the slender lines of the body. she walked daintily, placing her feet with care. even to the alert poise of the head and the rapid grace of her movement, everything breathed an air of coquetry and art. bofinger, lost in this analysis, continued to laugh, sharing emotion between railing at his stupidity and admiration for the actress who had not neglected a single detail. he thought of the awkward start she had made when fargus had left, and of the way she had reminded him of the country woman stalking in rubber boots, and recalling such details he followed joyously, scenting success with such an ally. after a few blocks she went west and entered a house, letting herself in with a key. "hello, i know that place," bofinger said to himself, recognizing the boarding-house as a haven of improvident actors. "so miss vaughn is of the stage. i can believe it." then he added with decision: "what a treasure, eh! she's clever enough to hoodwink a dozen farguses!" the exact meaning of this sentiment was, no doubt, that a woman who could deceive him must be capable of great things. chapter vi miss morissey is miss vaughn at the end of half an hour, which he gave to a careful consideration of his plans, bofinger returned to the boarding-house. a plot of burned and scrawny grass served as a front lawn. a cast-iron nymph, relic of prosperity, stained and chipped, its head-dress holding the straws of an old nest, gave the note to the place and prophesied the interior. at his pull, the loose knob, as though unaccustomed to use, came forth so far that he feared he had wrenched it bodily out, before a faint twinkle from within persisted to his ears. three times he repeated this operation, before a shadow on the glass announced a slow relief. a frail old woman, moving tediously, ushered him into the hall, shading her weak eyes while she awaited his errand. bofinger, drawing forth his pocketbook, selected a business card, discarded that for one that bore his name alone, and finally, after a moment's consideration, replaced the pocketbook and said: "just tell the lady who came in a half an hour ago that a gentleman wants to speak to her." "ain't ye goin' to send no name?" the woman asked in dull astonishment. "it is not necessary." "and ye don't know her well?" "i don't." "i guess, then, i've got to climb up," she answered wearily. "i was hopin' you might go up. what did ye say her name was?" "the lady who came in a while ago; she wore a light duster." "oh, miss morissey--ye want to see her, do ye?" "that's it, miss morissey--please." "she wouldn't hear if i called. she's on the third," she answered, with a sigh and a look of reproach. "ye can sit down there--" she took a step but turned with a sudden solicitude. "don't bear too hard." mindful of the caution bofinger balanced gingerly on the shaky chair, watching the landlady laboring up the stairs, a step at a time, childish fashion. an air of dinginess and neglect pervaded the hall and the distant dining-room. in the carpets were frayed shallows, on the banisters two spindles diverged from the line. the blistered plaster was dropping from the ceiling, while on the wall the grimy, green paper had regions of musky yellow. curtains and shutters rigidly excluded the daylight, while everywhere the carpeted silence spread the feeling of a cemetery of abandoned hopes. from the second floor the thin complaint of the landlady came down. "miss morissey! oh, miss morissey!" so persuaded was bofinger by the all prevailing famine that he rose and cautiously regained his hat from the loose rack. the landlady, climbing on, kept calling from time to time, fruitlessly, "miss morissey! miss morissey!" a door whined, and in the dusk of the landing above a vague head came to peer down at the lawyer. the landlady returned, descending with the same efforts, and announced: "ye can go up, top floor back, feel to the right as far as ye can go, and knock." seized with the general decadence he toiled upward with slow, lifeless steps. an odor of stale tobacco hung in the air. at the first floor a door left purposely open showed a man in shirt sleeves, shaving, while a woman in a wrapper arrived in time to study his passing. through the darkness into which he now ascended came an atmosphere of musk and the scraping of a violin. groping down the blind passage with outstretched fingers, his hands finally struck against the wall. he felt to the right, found a door, and knocked. a voice replied, uncertainly: "yes--come in." he stepped out of the blackness, blinking a moment at the sudden light. the woman he saw was indeed sheila vaughn. "miss morissey?" he asked, shutting the door carefully. "yes." he bowed and, indifferent to her questioning, remained sweeping the room with precise scrutiny. in the walls the same decrepitude was manifest, in the furniture the same infirmity. a patch of brown paper replaced a pane in the window, the globe on the gas-jet was bitten and smoked. on the rakish bed was laid out the green silk dress, a clothes brush on top. in its place she wore a soiled muslin, raveled at the cuffs and the neck, while the neat boots had given way to frayed red slippers. a wrapper, a musty dress or two, in impoverished contrast to the elegance on the bed, hung from a row of pegs. the eye of the lawyer, after noting each evidence of unusual poverty, rested on the table where a few photographs were displayed. he advanced and picking up each in turn said pleasantly: "ah, miss morissey, you have had a career?" the woman, who had followed him with amazement and alarm, said stiffly: "what do you want with me?" "miss morissey," bofinger said, replacing the photographs with a nod, "i want to see you on business--particular business. can i sit down?" "sit down." reassured by the matter-of-fact method of his address, she motioned him to a chair, drawing one for herself. "if you please, i'll sit here," he said, placing himself so that the light would fall on her face. he drew his glasses, peered at her earnestly, and began: "my dear miss morissey, you are certainly a most interesting person--pardon me if i am too curious." "what's your name?" she said quickly. "mr. bofinger--mr. alonzo bofinger." "you are a lawyer?" she asked slowly. "yes, miss _vaughn_, i am." "ah!" the interjection escaped her. immediately she rallied, rose and shifted her chair, that the light might be equally shared. her eyes showed anxiety but more interest, as she asked with false calm: "then what do you want with--miss vaughn?" "sheila vaughn," bofinger said loudly, thinking the time right to overwhelm her, "i represent mr. max fargus." he paused for evidence of disconcertion, but whatever her emotions she replied evenly: "yes, i know him." "mr. fargus has commissioned me to make the most exact inquiries about you." "why?" she asked, studying his face intently. "my client is thinking of an adoption." "indeed!" she said, really astonished; but the smile that succeeded showed him she was not the dupe of the subterfuge. "that was the reason he gave me. i suspect, though, that it is rather a question of marriage." "very probably," she said, nodding. in measure, as she studied the sly countenance, her assurance had returned. "and what'll you do?" "madam," bofinger said impressively, "i must report what i have discovered." "and that's what?" "that i followed miss vaughn to a house where she disappeared and miss morissey emerged--by a back passage. that miss morissey is quite a different character from miss vaughn, especially in style," he added, smiling reminiscently. "that miss morissey is evidently of the stage, living in a boarding-house, which i happen to know is a resort of actors on their uppers. i shall be forced to describe the contrast in your dress and the destitution of your wardrobe; pardon me, if i am forced to use the word,--deception. this, i say it frankly, is but the beginning of my investigation." "it's already a good deal, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully. "you must judge of that, miss vaughn." "are you sure" she asked with a smile, "quite sure that you'll tell all that?" he turned in astonishment and saw that she had taken his measure. realizing that he could no longer count on the advantage of terrifying her, he acknowledged the turn by abandoning his magisterial attitude, and discarding his glasses. "sheila," he said genially, "i don't intend to do anything of the kind." she frowned, laughed, rose, rearranged her skirts and, with a return of coquetry, asked maliciously: "will you please tell me how my extraordinary friend came to employ you?" he did not like it that she should have read him so easily, but this pique yielding to the humor of the question, he said with a grin: "i guess fargus thinks all lawyers a set of scoundrels. anyhow he picked me at random, thinking he would stand as good a chance that way as any other. to which i'll add, since perfect confidence is necessary between us, he was wrong in his theory and unlucky in its application. however, his misfortune is our gain." at the word "our," calmly spoken, sheila turned anxiously. "you have some plan then?" she said abruptly. "and what do you expect out of it?" "one moment," bofinger said with a deprecating smile; "before we discuss such vulgar details there must be, i repeat, absolute confidence. miss vaughn, you have sized up quickly the fact that your future lies solely in my hands. i ain't going to deceive you--my interests depend on you. let's begin at the start. what's your side of the affair?" he threw himself back into a listening attitude and looked at her encouragingly. the daylight had begun to weaken. across the sordid back lots an occasional gas-jet flared upon a room too miserable to be hidden. before the direct avowal sheila hesitated, incapable of his brutal frankness, woman-like considering some justifying motive. the lawyer with a cynical smile comprehended the dumb play and waited until she broke out lamely: "my side--you know it already. he wants to marry me--and i--i am willing. that's all. how could it be anything else?" she put out her hand as though calling on her surroundings to explain. "what have you told him?" bofinger asked, seeing that he must prompt the recital. "i am living with an aunt, whom i support by needlework," she admitted reluctantly. "come, my dear," bofinger said encouragingly. "if you don't want to tell me how you managed it--you're clever enough, you fooled me for a moment--tell me where you are." "i don't know," she said frankly. "he's half crazy, you know. i'm never sure of him." "well, has he spoken?" "of marriage? no--that is, not outright." "well, where are you?" "why, i am waiting," she said with a shrug. "he makes love to me all the time." "and i suppose, my clever dear," bofinger said, taking the opportunity to promote familiarity. "you've made him think you're pining away?" "i'm no such fool," she answered with an indefinable smile. "indeed i tell him that i don't care the least bit for him. that if he wants to win my affection he's going to have a hard time, but--" she added with a laugh, "i let him believe that's not entirely impossible." "you're right," bofinger said appreciatively. "of course you're right." a weak knock sounded on the door. bofinger, who did not wish to be seen, rose, looking anxiously at sheila. "it's only dinner," she explained, going to the door. "nevertheless," he said hurriedly, showing his back and going to the window, "don't let any one in." obedient to his request, she received the meal from the child who brought it, paying out the pennies and barring the door. "let's see," he said, returning to the table, "what you call a dinner." on the table were arranged half a sausage, half a loaf of bread, and a pint of milk. he looked at them a moment and then with a contemptuous motion tossed the loaf and the sausage out of the window. sheila, with a cry, sprang forward. "no more of that stuff," he said with a sneer. he drew his pocketbook and laid on the table a fifty-dollar note. "there's ready money, pay your debts and be ready for me at half-past seven." "why, what do you mean?" she blurted out, fastening greedily on the money. "is that for me? why?" bofinger, who watched anxiously the effect, was exultant at the hunger in her eyes. "i hold her there," he thought. then aloud he said cheerily, "i'm going to take you to your aunt's, my dear, and respectable quarters where you need not be afraid of being found. and we'll do that right away, for old fargus is suspicious enough to have me watched as well as you. we'll take no risks. now if you'll light the gas." as she complied, he pulled his note-book and, tearing out a page, was proceeding to write, when he stopped and considered the woman as though to measure her cunning. suddenly he asked: "sheila, are you educated?" "yes." "you can write--like a lady?" "of course." "let's see," he insisted, passing her the paper and pencil. she wrote her name and his in a free, regular hand. "very good," he nodded, scanning her signature. "now just a moment." he wrote with pains, while she waited in perplexity, until at length, with a glance of satisfaction, he returned the page to his pocket, stiffened in his chair and said drily: "now, if you please, we'll talk business!" chapter vii the compact sheila looked at him in astonishment. a world intervened between the two attitudes. the man she had fathomed and did not fear had given place to something hard, impassive, and mechanical. she saw she had marched into a trap and the perspiration rose cold between her shoulders as she moved uneasily, seeking with a smile to regain the man from the lawyer. "come, it isn't so bad as that!" she said with a moue. "you see how i am fixed. what do you ask?" "half!" she looked at him open-mouthed. a moment intervened before she asked in perplexity: "what? half of what?" "half!" he answered, raising his voice. "share and share alike!" "do you think i'm a fool?" she cried angrily, springing up. "a fool?" "half!" he insisted, pressing the point of his pencil obstinately into the table. "of all he gives you--one half to me!" "oh, that's too absurd!" she cried with a clap of laughter. "my dear miss morissey, sit down, sit down and listen," he said acridly. "we are to be partners, share alike or the game's off. whatever you get, whatever money passes from his hands to yours, for whatever reason, for expenses or for pleasure, for carfare even, one half comes to me--to my account. accept and i take all expenses. you leave here to-night and marry fargus in two months. otherwise i break you with a word, as easily as this." he took a glass from the table, placed it without anger under his foot, and crushed it. she came suddenly to him, tears of fear in her eyes, and placing her hand on his shoulder said: "you're not going to be as hard as that--i am starving, in rags--have a little pity on me. or is it the way of you lawyers," she said, forcing an anxious smile, "to ask for more than you expect? if so, you are wrong. i will be generous. help me to marry fargus and i'll give you one thousand dollars." "one thousand dollars!" he cried uproariously. "you fool, do you know what the old miser is worth? a quarter of a million! half, half i say!" she still sought the man in the lawyer and, throwing herself on her knees, cried: "but that would make me a slave! you can't mean that--you are too young to be so merciless. make your own terms, say anything reasonable, and it's yours." "miss morissey," he said pompously, "you are mistaken in the person you're addressing. mr. bofinger has left the room. you're dealing now with the lawyer. let me tell you right now, as a lawyer, i don't set one price to get another. i always get what i ask. when i have once made up my mind what's coming to me, i never relent. i am not twenty-one," he added with a smile. "i do not throw away thousands, either for caresses or tears. get up!" she regained her feet, affrighted, perceiving that this obsession of the lawyer was the more implacable that it was set in vanity and pride. "don't drive me to despair!" she said with an ugly flash of anger. he began to laugh. "you are wrong," she said sullenly, "to squeeze such a bargain. i will refuse." "come," he said, rising, and with a brutal movement laying his hand over the bank-note. "is it for you to make conditions? i know your kind, a fine dress outside, rags to your skin--rags, that's the story, rags and crumbs, beggary and starvation. and you bargain with me! come, that's too good. suppose i offer _you_ a thousand and take the rest? i could do it. i hold the whip hand. i make the terms. enough of this. come, choose." he held the bill loosely in his fingers, withdrawing it gradually. she followed its retreat with haggard looks, until, when he was on the point of replacing it in his pocket, she shot forth her hand, and said sullenly: "give me it--i am starving!" "there, my dear, that's sensible," he said with a burst of good humor. "you can have the best dinner to-night new york can give! what! are you hankering after cold bread and sausage? is poverty so lovely that you regret it? and, sheila, do you think that boiled ham is any more satisfying than a crust? look at me. i swear i suffer as much on a pittance as you do on nothing. i also, my dear, am hungry for a little bit of the cream. no, you are not one bit more miserable, here in this room, than i; i, who if i had had ten thousand dollars to start with would be worth a million to-day. do you think a man like me--with my talents, don't suffer too? come, we're more than partners--comrades! we each want the same thing, don't we? so lets play the game together and square now! there's no limit to what we can do!" she felt the wolfish sincerity in his avowal and perceived that it was useless to struggle, but, disliking his new mood, she said coldly: "i'd rather talk to the lawyer." "which reminds me," he said, driving into his pocket. "kindly sign this paper. it is an acknowledgment of a common-law marriage between us." "between _us_!" she exclaimed, utterly bewildered. "purely technical, my dear," he said with a reassuring smile. "my affections ain't enlisted. the document is simply for my protection and is, as you will see, the only one that can guarantee me you'll live up to your agreement." "so that means i am to be absolutely in your power?" she said slowly. "absolutely." "and if i don't do as i agree--" "i'd produce the contract and prove your marriage to fargus void. you see how it protects me?" "and suppose fargus dies?" she persisted. "you see i want to know all." "in that case," he said cheerily, "we should probably--after a decent period--get married ourselves." "that's what i wanted to know!" she cried, hurling the contract angrily away. "very well. i will never, never sign such a paper, never!" she began to whip up and down the room like a panther, her lips moving, repeating incessantly, "never, never!" bofinger, without shifting, allowed her passion to run its limit. then when, from its very violence, exhaustion compelled her at last to fall into a chair, he said softly: "so, so. then, my dear, you had no idea of holding to the agreement, had you? come now, why are you so furious? because you find that i am not to be tricked? take the pen and sign." she shook her head weakly and put it away with her hand, as a child refusing medicine. "i shan't give you time to repent," he said, pursuing his advantage. "if you refuse, i take a cab from here to max fargus. i don't propose that you shall see him first. it's hard luck, of course it is, that you can't get it all, but luck has given me a chance to divide the pie--and what are you going to do about it? come, come," he said, again advancing the contract to the yielding woman. "sign and get through with this wretchedness. what holds you? do you love squalor? do you prefer this to luxury and riding in your own carriage--for play your cards well and that's what you can get. there, sign this and learn what it is to live." the devil could not have persuaded her more eloquently. she allowed him to slip the paper under her unresisting fingers. "sign, my dear," he repeated softly, moderating his impatience. "there now, we are sensible. don't try to disguise your handwriting. i have your signature, you know." she dropped the paper and pen with a cry of fear and recoiling exclaimed: "no, no, i won't sign. i am afraid of you--afraid of what you may make me do. you would stop at nothing!" [illustration: "no, no, i won't sign!"] "yes, sheila," he said, trying to give to his words an air of conviction, for he realized that he had been too clever. "i stop at a good many things and always on the windy side of the law. i am not a fool. as for the rest, i am not close. play square and you will find me a good fellow." from his pocketbook he added two bills of fifty dollars to the first, and with a smile offered them to her. "in return for your signature, of course." he again placed the document before her, laid the three bills at its side and, giving her a little tap on the shoulder, said: "come, sheila, this place gives me the horrors. let's get through and out of here." she gazed at the three bills, then took the pen, looking moodily up into his face. there, despite the smile with which he sought to reassure her, she saw such avidity in his eye that suddenly there rose to her mind the scene where faust sells his immortal soul to the devil, and, turning from bofinger to the covenant, she shuddered. then half averting her face she pressed the pen to the paper and signed. he pounced upon it, without concealing his joy, compared the signatures and thrust both papers into his pocket. she had the three bank notes twisting in her fingers. "pack up, pay up, and be ready in an hour," he said, no longer delaying for fair speeches. "i'll have the marriage witnessed to-night. in an hour, sheila." "yes." she opened the door, followed him to the stairs, and leaned over the banister to watch his descent. below, a faint blurred light marked the drop of the stairs. his steps were hushed on the carpeted flight, only the white of his hand, slipping down the railing, showed the winding retreat. all at once she was shaken with a loathing and a dread of this unseen man, and leaning over, she whispered, "stop. come back!" on the banisters the white spot paused, then slid rapidly down, and a shadow, like the passage of a bat, obscured the glow in the hall. the door shivered noisily. she waited and then went slowly to her room. the three bank-notes were on the table, waiting. at the foot, the pen had rolled on the floor. she flung down into a chair and snatched up the bills as though to tear them into shreds. a moment later they slipped from her fingers into her lap. "no, i won't do it!" she said aloud, staring with horror at the green notes, stained and bruised by the clutch of battling hands. but though she had renounced them, she could not withdraw her eyes. when the hour was three quarters gone, with a cry she jumped up, crumpled the bills into her breast, and began feverishly to make ready. chapter viii the discoverer of the oyster max fargus, on leaving sheila to be shadowed by the lawyer, departed in such a fever of amorous suspense that it became absolutely essential to his intense nature to inflict some cruelty on his fellow beings. the nearer he approached to the realization of his infatuation the more imperative became these sudden revulsions to savagery. with this temperamental debauch in mind, he hastened to broadway, purposing to surprise his principal establishment and find food for his spleen. by a back entrance he glided into the kitchens, where he passed like a storm among the scullions, who feared him like the evil one. but this time, to pour out the floods of his wrath on oyster openers and dish washers no longer satisfied him. the crisis in his affections was too vital for him to find relief in petty browbeating. realizing that only a master stroke could satisfy him to-day, he climbed the stairs and passed moodily through the restaurant, where the waiters watched him from the corners of their eyes. then passing into his office he shut himself up and waited angrily for an inspiration. all at once he struck the bell and shouted joyfully: "send bastien here!" at the end of a brief moment a portly, florid frenchman slipped through the door and glided to attention, waiting blandly the moment it pleased his employer to speak. fargus, enjoying the surprise his announcement would bring, feasted his eyes interminably on the victim a flash of genius had suggested to him. the head waiter, who by a miracle had for three years avoided the suspicions of his master, without troubling himself at this savage inspection, shifted his balance, coughed faintly, and fell to studying the clouded tops of his employer's shoes. "bastien," fargus began softly, "do you know why i want you?" "no, sir, i don't, sir." "can't guess?" "why, no, sir," bastien said, beginning to show some perplexity. "i sent for you," fargus said, hanging on each word, "to tell you, bastien, that i don't need your services any more." "me?" exclaimed the head waiter, who could not have been more astonished had a bomb exploded under his legs. "you, bastien." "beg pardon, sir, you said--" "discharged!" "me--me?" "you, bastien." "what for, sir?" he cried all in a gulp. "haven't i served you three years without your finding a word of fault?" "exactly!" said fargus, whose black eyes under the frowning eyebrows, like threatening muzzles, had been holding in their pent-up rage. "exactly. for all that time i have never found fault--found--bastien. there's the trouble. there's where you started my suspicions. you're clever, my man, but there you overreached yourself." before the impossibility of such a charge, bastien for the first time in his life lost his self-possession and remained, desperately fastening his hope on the chances of a joke. fargus, shaking with malicious, dumb laughter ran on: "too sharp, my man, too clever: you forget i know the business from a to z. if you'd stolen a little i should have said nothing. don't tell me you don't steal. you steal--all steal--and if i haven't caught you it's because you stole too well, or, or," he cried, raising his finger theatrically, to confound him with the shrewdness of his guess, "or, because you thought you'd wait until you were put where you could touch the keys of the safe! aha, have i hit it--you scoundrel!" "before god, mr. fargus--" the frightened waiter started to protest, but fargus, with a contemptuous laugh, waved him off, crying: "discharged, discharged!" "what, you turn me out," bastien said sullenly, "because you haven't found fault with me?" "yes! it is impossible, i say, to be so virtuous without some evil purpose." "but not for good, sir--i can come back?" "no!" fargus shouted with a crash of his fist. "no you don't! you gave yourself away that time! if you were innocent you wouldn't take it so meekly. i only suspected before, now i know!" bastien, helpless before such madness, remained a moment staring stupidly at him. then suddenly, convinced of the hopelessness of appeasing such an obsession, he forgot the waiter, and as a man, outraged and indignant, raised his fists and cursed him. at the uproar the clerks and the waiters ran in, while fargus, rubbing his hands with delight, shouted above the din of oaths: "so, at last you rage! now you show your true character! and for three years you have tried to put me to sleep with your meek face! you villain, i'll tell you what i'll do--i'll have your accounts investigated, before you get a cent!" bastien, purple in the face, screamed that he would have a lawyer. "you will, will you!" fargus cried, bounding up. "and i'll have a judge on you! oscar, peter, put him out! throw him out! joseph, call a policeman!" the waiters, who had suffered the usual indignities from the fallen chief, without waiting a second urging seized the struggling bastien and propelled him from the office. fargus, with lips still trembling from his excitation, listened with clenched fists to the dwindling tumult that announced the progress of the eviction. then gradually his breathing grew quieter, the anger passed from his eyes, he reseated himself, held his head a moment in his hands, then, stretching back, threw out his arms and smiled a smile of vast contentment. peace had returned to his soul. his history, from the age of nineteen, had been the record of a ledger, of the hour of rising, eating, working, and returning to sleep. he spent not one cent more one day than another. he woke invariably at half past four he was in bed by one o'clock. he spent five cents on carfare each morning, and saved five by walking home each night. he lunched and dined at his restaurants. his one extravagance was to breakfast at a coffee stall, kept by a woman who thirty years before had jilted him for a longshoreman, where for six cents he might remind her each day of the fortune she had flung aside. so much for the history of the man. before nineteen his youth had been one of storm. three great disillusionments had marked the period, the greatest which can befall a man, in the loyalty of a friend, in the virtue of his mother, and in the love of a woman. the friend was a newsboy, the mother a pedler, and the woman a waitress in a restaurant on the wharves. society, which regards honor, virtue, and faith, and the capability of sorrow, peculiar to itself, can see nothing but the ridiculous in such tragedies. to the frail boy, however, with his misanthropic bent, these three trials changed the complexion of the sky and brought a rage against humanity, and with it an abiding, vindictive purpose to treat it always as an enemy. his worldly progress had been the journey of the mole. burrowing through his youth, obscure and undivined, he had broken ground one day and emerged, to the surprise of his associates, rich and successful. starting as a chore boy, rising to a waiter in a small oyster house near the docks, he had progressed to the proprietorship of one lunch counter, to the ownership of a restaurant, of an oyster house, of three; until the city knew him at last as the owner of half a dozen resorts, fargus's west side oyster rooms, fargus's bowery oyster parlors, fargus's broadway oyster & chop house, etc. he had but one vanity, a weakness pardonable in self-made men, he had come to regard himself as the discoverer of the oyster. on the night of the interview with bofinger, to the upsetting of all routine he left his office an hour earlier. the hat boy, hastily summoned, arrived trembling, but to the amazement of every one fargus departed without a word of reproof. the violence which had eased his craving for cruelty had departed and left him timid and infatuated, with the elusive figure of sheila running before him and mocking his desires. instead of following his invariable course down broadway, he turned into the quieter side streets seeking an opportunity for reflection. he did not walk like the generality of men, who propel themselves from the back foot, but like the animals who draw themselves forward by their claws. this peculiarity, which was not so noticeable when he was in a hurry, sprang into notice the moment his gait relaxed, when he appeared, as to-night, to be prowling over the ground, alert as a panther to bound forward a dozen feet. so immersed was he in the perplexities of his passion that he failed to notice the sudden swooping down of three soldiers of the night, until a hand fell on his shoulder and an angry voice commanded: "stop short, damn ye!" fargus, thus threatened, answered without disconcertion: "well, my friend, what can i do for you?" at this moment, the third of the party, coming up, broke in with a shout: "bill--you fool, what'cher stopping him for? it's the old screw!" "it is, eh?" the other cried with an oath. "and what if it is?" "go through him, then, if you're so green!" continued the first, "and if you pull more than a nickel i'll double what you get." "quite right," fargus said cheerfully. "i've been here forty-nine years and no one's ever found any more on me than the next day's car fare." he drew from his pocket five pennies which he displayed for confirmation. "and what's more, you can't find another cent in my room!" "ah, come on. don't waste time over that guy," said the third. "we've turned him inside out a dozen times." "the hell you have!" the other cried in disgust, and struck up his hand, causing the pennies to scatter into the street. the three footpads lurched into the darkness. fargus, fondling his chin, stood a moment chuckling at their discomfiture before striking a match and betaking himself to the task of recovering his pennies. the fifth having been secured on his hands and knees he started rapidly home, penetrated a squalid, heated street, filled with children slumbering on the steps, and halting at a flight of tenements stumbled up a dark stairway and found his door. lighting the butt of a candle, which he had drawn from his pocket, he entered a room with one window, murky and pinched, which he called his home, and whose horror can only be appreciated when it is realized that three families had shared the room before him. in the further corner stood a cot, without covering, and a pine washstand. by the window was a small leather trunk. in the whole room there was not another object. placing the flickering stump on the washstand, fargus secured the door. then going to the trunk he unlocked it, drew out the bedding and made the bed. once undressed he went in his nightgown to the window and, resting his chin in his palm, gazed up a moment at the black rim of the opposite tenement. forty-nine years before, in the little room under the heated roof opposite, he had opened his eyes to the struggle of life. from there, as a child, he had a thousand times gazed down on the room he now occupied as a region of unattainable felicity. to possess such a paradise, all to himself, seemed then the zenith of earthly ambition. it was his earliest conception of the possibilities of wealth, it had never changed. he had remained in his present home twenty-one years, without a larger desire. to-night he stayed but a short time at the window, the contemplation of his progress did not bring him its accustomed satisfaction. he was conscious of a great unrest, of having suddenly laid his way along unfamiliar and perilous paths, where everything was problematical and uncertain. "if the lawyer finds everything all right," he said to himself, turning away, "i'll marry her. but if he don't--" he blew out the candle with the breath of his irritation and flung down on the bed, saying to himself querulously: "am i going to sleep to-night, i wonder? well, supposing he don't--what then?" chapter ix the misanthrope in love it was now a little over four months since sheila vaughn had intruded upon the well-ordered and sufficient existence of the misanthrope. on that memorable day in june fargus, for the first time, had broken his prison-like routine and taken in the middle of the afternoon an hour's relaxation. three bits of good fortune, arriving together, had inclined him to such an unusual vacation: the monthly contract for clams, thanks to his shrewdness was ten per cent below the market; second, he had concluded a deal by which he took over the establishment of his chief competitor for the theater trade, at terms offered only by a bankrupt; third, he had discovered that his monthly personal expenses had fallen thirty-five cents below the average. for the first time in his life, then, he felt the imperative need of drawing breath for a moment's gratified contemplation. he sauntered over to washington square where, yielding to the pleasure of the spring and his own good humor, he installed himself on a shady bench, buying a newspaper in an automatic seeking for some reason to be idling there. the foliage was complete, yet with the zest of its youth still on it. the fountain in the center flung its spray against the rich green background. gardeners were setting out the flower beds. the chirp of sparrows and the glee of children blended together in the stirring of the leaves. the air was fragrant and gentle, good to breathe. fargus, contemplating the scene, forgot his paper, and remained contented and idle, with something that approached a smile. by one of the thousand and one chances which determine our mortal journey, call it fate or call it coincidence, it presently happened that his eye was arrested by the figure of a woman, advancing towards him. the green silk dress she wore, as though alive to the breeze, was in a continual flutter, the edges billowing as though served by the playful hand of cherubs. in the poise of her figure there was a slight, pleasant consciousness, but the face was given to abstraction and a dreamy, wistful contemplation of the park. a parasol swung languidly from her wrist, occasionally resting lightly on the ground. she seemed so a part of the gentle prospect that fargus nodded approvingly, without realizing that it was not nature, but a woman, who had thus drawn his admiring glance. arrived near him, she cast about for a vacant seat, and presently, with a glance, came and sat beside him. his first impulse was to recoil, all a-bristle and scowling, but as his companion continued oblivious to his displeasure he relaxed and from the tail of his eye stole a glance at the slender hands crossed on the top of her parasol. suddenly he heard a soft voice say: "i beg your pardon, could you give me the time?" he withdrew gruffly, glaring at the woman, on whose face appeared first surprise and then a restrained amusement. "i beg your pardon, have you the time?" at this gentle reminder he became confused and, fumbling for his watch, with a jerk extended it to her on his palm, without vouchsafing a word. "thank you," she said, nodding. "you don't speak english?" "what do you mean?" he said, startled into speech. "oh, i see," she said with a malicious smile. "i was wrong. you do look foreign, though. it's pleasant here, isn't it?" insensibly, resenting the ingenuity that drew him on, he was led into conversation and then all too soon abandoned by her rising and departing with an inclination of her head, sent to him over her shoulder as she swept up the shimmering green dress. fargus jumped up and glanced guiltily at his watch. then, with a scowl, brushing aside a bevy of children, he rushed back to his office. the following day, at the same hour, before he had quite understood what had guided his steps, he found himself straying again into the square. she was already there, in the same green dress, on the bench where they had sat, her arms resting languidly, her head a little back, yielding to the charm of the sky. he faltered as he approached, went on, and then making a sudden turn came and sat beside her. two months passed, and in the soul of the misanthrope an infatuation took root and grew, tumultuous and struggling with the stubborn forces of his hatred, without his being able, from word or look, to determine that the woman was leading him on. his first advances, awkward and innocent, to his surprise were abruptly rejected, nor was he able once to transgress the strict limits of acquaintanceship. despite such austerity, he would not have been fargus had he been without suspicions. he apprehended a deep purpose and set himself to preparing his retreat in the belief that some day she would attempt to discover his identity. the precaution was unproductive and, without his suspecting it, arrived too late. when in turn he sought to follow her he was surprised by the same ambush which had nearly entrapped bofinger, and obtained his pardon only by a solemn promise to refrain from further attempts. the repulse and her steady indifference heaped fuel on the rising flame of his infatuation. he arrived at the stage where he no longer could see the ridicule of his own actions. he asked her to the theater, with the palpitations of a schoolboy blundering through his first escapade, and her constant refusals left him helpless and miserable. finally, he sought by discreet questions to discover her existence. "why do you always wear the same dress?" he began abruptly. "i am poor," she answered so naturally that fargus was left abashed. "you work for a living then?" he persisted. "i do embroidery and fancy sewing." "you are alone?" "i live with my aunt." "you support her, i suppose?" he said with almost a sneer. "i help." he left her brusquely, enraged at her story, convinced of its insincerity. what infuriated him was that all he had to do was not to return. but that was an experiment he had no desire to try. finally he obtained from her a promise to spend a sunday afternoon with him in central park. the concession once laboriously won, he feigned to see the second stage of her campaign. he ran precipitately, full of joyous madness, to a jeweler's, whence, for the enormous price of ten dollars and a half he bore away a horseshoe of pearls, after lingering romantically over a lover's heart to offer her which he finally lacked the daring. the next afternoon the mischievous package in his vest pocket left him no peace. he blew hot and he blew cold. he said to himself that he would never have the audacity to offer it, and the next moment imagined impassioned speeches which never reached the tip of his tongue. finally, when they had paused to rest, in one of the unfrequented bypaths which wind about the lakes, he plunged his hand into his pocket, and bringing forth the box said in a fit of desperation: "for you. for luck." he did not dare to look at her. he had a sinking feeling of having thrown away all by his folly--and he did not know that he was in love. sheila turned, saw him trembling like a frightened bird under the hand, took the box and held up the pin. fargus, scarce believing his fortune, dared to steal a look. she counterfeited admirably a flush of pleasure and regret. "oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, holding it at arm's length and allowing her eyes to show the longing for its possession. "but it is too valuable, i could not take it--no." she looked at it again regretfully, then turning to him added: "you are very kind--but i mustn't, i can't take that!" then, by quick movement, she averted her head, as though she wished to conceal from him her tears. the fire mounted into his temples. he caught her hand, drawing her to him and crying: "sheila, sheila, my darling!" "oh! oh!" she sprang up, wrenching free her hand. fargus, swept away by his infatuation, followed her, seizing her by her arm. with a rapid movement of anger she threw him off and, dashing a stinging hand across his face, cried: "all or nothing!" then flinging the pin into the dust she stamped on it, covered her face with her hands and, bursting into sobs, ran away; leaving fargus so thoroughly undone that he could neither speak or move. "ah, she wants to marry me, does she?" he cried with a clap of rage, when he had recovered a little from his amazement. he picked up the twisted brooch, dusted it off and cried again, overcome by the enormity of her crime: "she wants to marry me! that's her game, then! marry me! huh!" with a roar he made off, swaying between incredulity and rage, contempt vying with derisive laughter. full of fury and tempest he passed the night, eating out the slow hours until the next afternoon when he descended like a lion upon the square, to force an understanding. she was not there. "what, she won't come!" he cried, thunderstruck at such a solution. he sunk on the bench, waiting desperately for some glimpse of the woman. his rage departed like a puff of wind, leaving him beaten, lonely, and blank. "she will come to-morrow," he said, as he trudged wearily home. she came neither that day nor the succeeding days. then in fargus the last seeds of resistance died and left nothing but a barren, disheartened surrender. he had no longer any doubts as to his true state, her absence taught him what he could suffer. a week passed before a chance meeting on the street brought them together again. he sought her forgiveness abjectly and without shame. for a while she refused to give ear to his protestations, his explanations and his promises. at last she inclined her head and replied seriously: "very well. but i shall reserve my opinion, for the future." with this resumption of their daily meetings, his suspicion started up anew, without his still being able to find a hook whereon to hang them. she remained cold and uninterested, refusing always to believe in his vows of affection. it is true, he had not spoken of marriage. "sheila, you don't care for me," he said once to her in unreasoning anger. "i don't," she said with a nod. "and it won't make any difference to you if you never see me again." "yes, it would. you have been kind, and my life is lonely," she said reflectively. "i will miss you." "you say that as if you were going away," he said irritably. "true. i haven't told you. we go next week to chicago." "and why should you go to chicago?" he cried furiously. "my aunt must go--she's had a legacy left her, a small one but it'll mean a good deal. of course, i have to go with her," she added, a little regretfully. the next morning, in a panic, fargus had sought out bofinger. chapter x bofinger reports fargus, who slept as badly as a bridegroom on the wedding eve, was up before five o'clock. after replacing the bedding in the trunk he departed for his morning's breakfast. three blocks to the west near the river front, in a frame building which occupied a corner, a flaring yellow sign, over a sunken basement, announced, nellie the coffee-woman _ladies & gents parlors._ three wooden steps, rotted by the weather, descended past the food bulletins into a sanded room. it was in this underground resort, with its rough clients, that fargus had served his apprenticeship, faithfully his master and his master's daughter, pretty nell o'hara, who had jilted him for the privilege of maintaining the present mr. biggs in idleness among his bottles. fargus descended the familiar steps and entered. never once did he return to the presence of his first love without a pang of mortification that all the triumphs of his changed fortune could not obliterate. a ponderous woman on whose expanding trunk time had recorded each successive year was behind the counter. of the charm that once was nell's nothing remained but a certain reminiscent prettiness of the face. fargus, who entered as a conqueror, took his seat at the counter, asking maliciously, as he never failed to do: "and how's your man, nell?" [illustration: "and how's your man, nell?"] "the same," she answered, as though the simple statement required no explanation. "and are you doin' well, mr. fargus?" "i bought another restaurant, nell," he said. "yes, i'm doin' well. it's a little larger than the old place." he saw she understood the malice of his last remark and enjoyed the new opening of the old wound. to-day his vindictiveness was tempered by a feeling of wonder. with sheila in mind he looked at this woman, mottled and worn with toil, and asked himself how it was possible that she could still have the power to make him suffer. the thought recalled sheila and abruptly he arose and departed. but, not wishing to lose an opportunity for vengeance, he returned and said wisely: "nell, perhaps i'll have something to tell you before long, a bit of news that may interest you. my love to your man." he departed for the oyster markets for his purchases, but without the zest that gave to these excursions the exhilaration of the battle-field. "i'm a fool," he said to himself angrily, "to let a woman upset me so. how the devil, though, am i going to wait two days more to hear from that lawyer!" bofinger had resolved to conceal his relations with fargus from groll, taking the risk of an inopportune visit of his client. he knew well the consequences of such treachery once discovered, but the avidity of great stakes gave him the daring to play with fire. he was in the office, chatting with groll and lebeau, when towards one o'clock he perceived from his sentry by the window the incongruous figure of fargus, advancing from the direction of sixth avenue. he yielded to a moment's panic, then rapidly, with a hasty excuse, stepped out of the door and departed, not too quickly, towards the west. "they may notice him again," he thought, "but it's not so risky as going to meet him." he slackened his gait at the corner, bought a newspaper and, perusing it, went slowly northward. a moment later fargus shuffled up, all out of breath. "oh, it's you," bofinger exclaimed in surprise. "that's lucky; you want to see me? shall we go back to the office?" "there's some one there," fargus said nervously. "yes, there's my partner and a reporter," bofinger replied with an air of reflection. "perhaps you'd rather--" "let's walk on," fargus interrupted. then, no longer holding back his anxiety, he blurted out, "well, what? have you found out anything?" "i think i've made a good beginning," the lawyer said in his professional manner. "of course in one day--" "i was passing," fargus said, avoiding his eye, "i thought--" "well, sir," bofinger broke in tactfully, "i have investigated enough, i guess, to satisfy you. to begin, miss sheila vaughn is an orphan living with an aunt whom she supports by her needlework." at this confirmation of sheila's story the misanthrope gave a sigh of relief, which showed the lawyer what pangs a contrary answer would have cost him. immediately, seizing the arm of the lawyer, he stammered: "are you sure? can you be sure? how are you sure?" "my dear sir," bofinger objected, "i ain't goin' to make a statement on insufficient evidence. i followed miss vaughn without any difficulty. she lives in a respectable boarding-house on the west side. here is the address, for your information," he added, passing him a slip. "i marked the house and went back pretending to seek a room. two circumstances, fortunately, helped me to gather a great deal of information. in the first place, the servant who showed me around asked nothing better than to talk." "well, well?" fargus broke in irritably. "a little patience," bofinger said with a smile. "things have got to be told in their order. i learned from the servant that miss vaughn and her aunt miss morissey have lived in the same rooms for over six years. the aunt is a retired school-teacher, having perhaps a very small income. miss vaughn, evidently, is the mainstay, doing fancy embroidery and needlework. the servant told me that she was very devout. now for the second circumstance, but this won't be to your liking." "what do you mean?" fargus demanded, instantly alarmed. "i learned that miss vaughn and her aunt are going to leave." "you are sure?" fargus cried in despair. he had only half believed the announcement from the lips of the woman. "i am. with an inspiration, i instantly asked to see their room. what do you think of that? on this pretext i saw not only the room but miss vaughn and her aunt. well, they impressed me very favorably, quiet and devoted--" "but when is she going, and where?" fargus broke in impatiently. "they go to chicago in a few days--a very few." "and did you find out why?" "i did," bofinger said with a nod, and began again. "of course i did not try to pump them, but when i left i said to the maid--" "never mind that, tell me now why they are going." "miss morissey, the aunt," bofinger said, stopping short, "has had a small legacy left her and is going to settle her affairs." "then what she told me was true after all!" fargus exclaimed, without perceiving how clearly he portrayed his real sentiments. "now, of course," bofinger said glibly, stealing a glance at his dejected client. "i shall at once take up the threads and push my investigation rapidly." "mr. bofinger," fargus said, coming out of his abstraction, "that's enough. don't do anything more. i've got now all i wanted to know." "then you are satisfied?" bofinger replied in feigned astonishment. "yes." he walked a while, studying the sidewalk, and then asked slowly: "mr. bofinger, you see all kinds of people--you ought to be a judge. i'm going to put a question to you. would you, if you were me, in my position, adopt miss vaughn?" "really, my dear sir," bofinger said carefully. "i can't take the responsibility of answering that." "is she the right sort--steady and dependable?" "oh, if you mean is she worthy of being adopted--certainly yes! but," he added with a show of frankness, "if you do want my opinion, i think the young lady is too independent a character to permit it." fargus hesitated a moment, with an impulse to confidences, then, retreating awkwardly, he began to draw out his pocketbook, saying: "thanks, you've done well." "then you want nothing further?" bofinger said, smiling at the way his hand fumbled in his coat. "no, no," fargus said hastily. "you've done enough. that's what i wanted. you've done fine." he turned his back on the lawyer and examined the pocketbook, close to his nose, for he was short-sighted. after long weighing of reasons, he plucked forth two bills as one might draw out a thorn, and spinning about hastily he thrust them into the lawyer's hand, as though mistrusting his second thoughts. bofinger saw that each was for twenty dollars. with a flash, he stiffened and said sternly: "my dear sir, i would like you to know that, in my profession, we fix the remuneration." fargus, believing himself entrapped, looked with repressed rage at the money he had surrendered. bofinger allowed him this moment of torture, before continuing on the same key: "my fee, sir, for these services is twenty dollars." and with a gesture that was sultanesque he returned the other bank-note. fargus received one of the shocks of his life. the idea that any one could refuse money so confounded him that he did not have wit enough to extend his hand. but only for a moment; then, with a grunt of joy, he snatched up the bill, crying with genuine feeling: "mr. bofinger, you'll not regret this!" "thank you, that is my invariable fee--good day," the lawyer said, holding his hat like a statue. then, snapping back to life again, he returned exultantly to the office. in the short interview he had grown immeasurably in his own eyes. but one thing distressed him, the thought that so much talent must be locked in his own bosom. he drew a long breath and, walking on his toes, said with conviction: "ah, bofinger, you were made for bigger things!" chapter xi marriage as a battlefield two weeks later sheila and max fargus left church as man and wife and, entering a cab, set out for their new home near stuyvesant square. the comedy which bofinger had devised had thus come to a successful end. the lawyer was not mistaken. fargus, in despair at the thought of sheila's leaving, had offered himself that afternoon. she did not accept at once, she asked time for reflection; but promised, in response to his frantic appeals, to remain in new york. miss morissey, her aunt, departed for chicago on the next afternoon. fargus did not see her. sheila, after several days, allowed herself to be persuaded. but in consenting to be his wife she promised nothing more. she frankly avowed herself happy to have the opportunity of a home, admitted a certain friendly esteem, which she did not pretend was irrevocable, but made him understand that to win her love lay in his hands alone. on these terms she asked him, with many misgivings, if it was right for a woman to marry. fargus argued the question furiously and without rest, and succeeded, to his delight, in disposing of one objection after the other, without for a moment suspecting that it was he and not sheila the arguments were designed to convince. the arrival of the wedding was to him a day of bewildering and complex emotions. so well did the woman keep him in suspense of her final acceptance, that it was only on the morning of the wedding-day itself that he awoke to the fact that the day would dispose of his own existence. his first act was characteristic. he rushed in a tempest to the coffee stall, where he announced his departure and his marriage to nell, to whom for the final time he brought the agony of a destiny despised. refreshed by this _coup de grace_ on the woman he had never forgiven, he hurried chastened and cheerful to sheila. at first he had opposed a religious ceremony. he professed himself an atheist. when one ceases to believe in man, one does not believe in god. sheila, who was really devout, would hear of nothing else. fargus ceded, but his appearance in church had put him into a frightful humor. now in the cab, alone at last with the woman he had so long desired, he discovered all at once that the law, which gave him everything, gave him nothing at all. in his squat hand were the four fingers which she had ceded to him, without resistance and without feeling. he clung to them awkwardly, gingerly, knowing not what to do. sheila did not even feel his presence. withdrawn as far as possible, without appearing to shun him, she nerved herself for the battle which, with sure instinct, she felt approaching. of the two, she had all the self-possession, plus an excited mentality which stimulated all her forces at the approach of the crisis. she was in this mood when the cab stopped at the flight of red brick dwellings, before the stoop above which the tin sailor was whirling his paddles. she had a slight surprise. it was not elegance; but she had dreaded worse. "it's not so discouraging," she thought, as she jumped out full of anticipation. "it is not bad--to begin with." astonished to find the shades down, she rang impatiently, then turning to fargus, who was disputing furiously with the driver, she cried: "is this right? have i made a mistake?" "in a moment, i have the key," he cried, dismissing the driver and hurrying up. "ah!" she thought, drawing breath like a gladiator entering the arena. "i'm to have no servant, then!" "there, my dear," cried the voice of her husband, proudly, "there you are!" forgetting twenty pretty speeches, he threw open the door and stood aside with bashful pride to let her pass. the beam of light entered the vacant dusk like an intruder. sheila seized all in one swift glance and her lips set dangerously. she remained without motion, while fargus, mumbling nervously, stole to the parlor window and flung open the shutters. the hall was bare, the parlor had but a table and a cheap lamp in its emptiness. the walls were destitute of ornament, clothed with an invariable dust-green paper. she went quickly to the dining-room. the furniture was of the scantiest. she counted the chairs, there were just two. the sideboard and the table were of oak, thinly veneered and not fresh. the two gazed silently, sheila with swelling throat and clouded eyes, fargus, to whom each purchase had been a plunge into the abyss of ruin, trembling again with the memory of the pangs each had cost him. "well," he asked at last, "it's pretty, don't you think?" "oh, the house can be made very pretty," she said pensively and, turning to him with a smile, she added gratefully, "and you were real nice to leave me the furnishing of it." "the--the furnishing!" he stammered, opening his eyes. "wait and see what i can do," she cried with a laugh. "now i'm going up to see the rest." she left him stupefied and tripped up the stairs. in their bedroom, which alone was furnished, there was nothing but a bed, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. she felt a profound discouragement, a sudden desire to weep, but it was only the weakness that precedes great victories. "now or never!" she thought, as she heard the soft step of her husband on the stairs. she threw herself into an attitude of inspection, gathering her skirts from the dusty floor, set her head critically on one side, and extended her hand as though to calculate the height of the walls. "what are you doing?" fargus said, stopping short. "i was trying to decide," she answered meditatively, "whether to paper all the room in rose or to use a border." fargus leaned against the door for support. then forcing a horrible laugh, he cried with desperate good humor: "say, now, you're a good one, and that's a good joke!" "as for the guest room--green and white," she continued, passing to the back; "green and white is fresh and clean." the absurdity of a guest room convinced fargus. he laughed with a light heart and entered the spirit of the jest. "green and white is good," he assented, wagging his head. "the question is whether to have a double bed or two single ones," she persisted. "oh, two!" he said gravely, sticking his tongue in his cheek. "a double bed is cheaper," she said reflectively. "bah!" "i know just the furniture," she said, embracing the room with a sweep of her hand. "such a bargain! we ought to pick it up at once,--seven pieces, bird's-eye maple too, just the elegant thing." "let's go now," he said with exaggerated levity. "shall we--o max!" she answered, clapping her hands. then nodding seriously, she said in approbation: "you have begun well. you don't know what it means to a woman to have the making of her home. just think what fun it'll be, picking out carpets and rugs and pictures. but we must decide on the papering right off--because i don't intend to be out of my home any longer than i can help it!" he eyed her suspiciously. there was that in her enthusiasm which made him doubt her levity. nevertheless he could not yet bring himself to comprehend such a monstrosity. he answered facetiously: "how about the stable and horses, my dear?" seeing that she must bring matters to an issue she returned to their room, nodded and said pensively: "this we ought to decide more carefully. i'm for ebony, though. it's nobby. now," she added, wheeling about, "let's go to the hotel." "what hotel?" he said dumfounded. "why, the hotel we're going to stay at, until the house is ready," she said impatiently. then all at once he comprehended that he was caught. he felt for a chair and stumbled into it. "then what you said about furnishing was true?" he said in a dying voice. "you meant it!" "why, what is the matter with you?" she asked, stopping and looking at him in pretended amazement. suddenly he bounded up and said brutally, pointing to the room: "this is where we stay!" "here?" she cried scornfully. "this isn't fit for a servant!" she had dreamed of luxury so long that the manner came to her naturally. for a moment fargus was overawed by her sudden stature, then the thought came to him that after all she belonged to him and that he had a right to do as he wished with her. "well, that's where you stay!" he cried with that rage which is as closely allied to love as madness to genius. she saw him advance upon her to crush her in his arms. without giving an inch, she put her hands behind her and looked him frigidly in the eyes. his hands touched her before they fell. she was at once anger and ice; to have continued would have been to embrace a monument. so overcome was he that he remained awkwardly before her, not knowing how to extricate himself. "go and sit down," she said coldly, "and let's have an understanding at once!" he hesitated, with his eyes on the floor, brooding whether to carry it through by violence. she saw and was frightened. "and let me say at once, mr. fargus," she continued hurriedly. "never attempt again what you tried then! for if you do--i shall know how to protect myself." the mystery of her threat appalled him. the man in love believes all absurdities. he retreated. "what furnishing does it need?" he asked sullenly. "everything, carpets, curtains, linen, furniture," she said aggressively, now that her moment of danger had passed. "even to the servant's room nothing is done!" "servant!" he cried in terror. "do you want to ruin me!" "what!" she exclaimed in turn. "do you mean i'm to have no servant!" "what for?" "then it's true," she cried vehemently. "you were bringing me to this garret to be your servant! this is the kindness you promised me--this is your generosity!" "sheila!" he cried in fear, as she gathered her cape about her. "this, then, is what your love means!" she continued angrily. "so you expect me to come to this, do you? a kennel! a dining-room without a chair for a friend!" "i have no friends!" "so you thought, did you," she said scornfully, "that i would cook for you, wash for you, clean for you, make your bed for you? you call that getting a wife! you are wrong, you don't want a wife--you want a slave! go and get one!" "sheila, one moment,--sheila!" he cried, seeing her about to depart. she paused, and then, with a toss of her head, returned and sat down. presently she said sadly, her eyes filling with tears: "and this is all you care for me. if you were poor and i loved you, i'd share anything with you. but you are rich--you told me so twenty times. so, if you bring me to this, it can only mean, max, that you despise me." "no, no!" he cried, won by the sweetness of the look she gave him. he flung himself at her knees, striving to gain her hand, but sheila, withdrawing it with firmness, said gently: "what else am i to think? i haven't concealed from you that i don't love you. i liked you for your kindness, i respected you--yes, i trusted you, when you swore you would know how to earn my love. i consented to marry you telling you all this, for i longed for a home. is this, then," she continued with a catch in her voice, "is this the way you're going to make me love you?" he had caught her hand, he felt himself going, slipping from the old moorings, and with a last resistance he cried desperately: "sheila, what is it you want?" "to be treated as your wife!" she said quickly, avoiding the pitfall of the specific. "to be treated as though you were proud of me. either that or"--she paused a moment and ran her fingers through his hair; "or if money means more to you than to love and be loved, poor man, then let us own our mistake and part--now." "no, sheila, no! don't leave me!" he cried, and sinking his head in her lap, vanquished, he caught her knees while the very rout of his soul made her indispensable to his infatuation. "then i am--to stay?" a sob was her answer. "poor fellow," she said compassionately. "what do you know of life? i will teach you how to live." these terrible words, which filled the flesh of the miser with mortification, aroused in the lover the frenzy of the gambler. he felt that he was throwing his all to the winds and the thought intoxicated him. "sheila," he cried, lifting his face, "do what you want! i love you--only you!" she bent her head hurriedly. there were in her eyes two things she did not dare let him see, the pride of her triumph and that bewildered pity which comes only to the utter victors. chapter xii bofinger in sheep's clothing fargus, as all those who are forced to surrender without conditions, retained a reservation,--he counted on the future. his nature was too simple and intense to fathom the complexities of marriage. he had the fierce, half-savage conception that the woman resigned her ascendancy when she gave herself into his power. he conceived of woman as a tyrant before marriage and a suppliant ever after. for him the physical submission carried all with it. so even in his surrender he believed that time would restore the balance in his favor. sheila, on the contrary, had well understood that the first weeks of marriage must be a battle on which would hinge the fortunes of her whole life. she had this advantage, that fargus was utterly unprepared and ignorant of the thousand agilities of her sex. she had subdued him by taking him by surprise, but she was not the dupe of her victory. she knew where the danger lay, divining the secret thoughts of her husband. the problem with her was to forever cheat his infatuation. she submitted but she did not give herself to him. the history of these unending skirmishes, open or ambushed, seldom rising to the dignity of a conflict, was an uninterrupted record of successes for the woman. fargus, who had counted on the future, found himself each day more willingly subjugated. this infatuation that overturned all his ideas of conduct gave to his love the mad aspect of a forbidden passion. each time that he ceded to sheila he had a moment of horror, and then that delirious access of folly and passion which comes only to the man who loves and ruins himself. sheila, then, had her way, but she did not abuse her power. she even began to practise economies,--she sewed the curtains with her own needle and marked the linen. fargus avowed himself touched by such acts of moderation. nevertheless, there were moments in the night when he awoke with a cry, starting in a cold perspiration from a nightmare where he had seen himself dragged down into bankruptcy by the follies of his pretty wife. he rose and crept over the house, trying the windows and the locks, listening suspiciously at the door of the servant, an innovation to which he could never accustom himself. then returning softly to his room he regained his bed. but the night was rare when the creak of a plank did not start him again on his uncanny rounds. he was not happy. he had believed that in marriage all desires were gratified. instead he found himself, to his mystification, even more miserable than in the days when he returned in despair to his one room in the slums, there to pursue all night, in his dreams, the elusive figure of the radiant woman. he came at length, slowly, to understand what she adroitly and cruelly intended he should, that the possession at last of sheila, even under the wide domain of marriage, left him still defeated, and that it was her love alone that would satisfy. after that he was ready for all follies. when sheila saw that the victory was complete, she had, naturally, a moment of intense virtue, in which she said to herself that she could well be content, with a man whom she so easily bent to her every desire. besides, the joy of making a home was to her such a natural impulse, that during its ecstasy fargus represented to her no more than the husband. this joy was so intense that she came near relenting and showing him some kindness,--a slip against which she was forced to be constantly on her guard. for she saw clearly that her domination lay in perpetual vigilance, and that with such a man nothing could be shared--she would have to be either a tyrant or a slave. there was on her fair horizon but the ugly shadow of the lawyer. she had almost forgotten him, then she almost doubted his existence, so fantastic seemed the idea of their extraordinary contract. each month, she had agreed to give him an accounting, delivering him her note for the sum due. but to carry out such a program they must see each other, and she asked herself incredulously how the lawyer could manage. the month passed without a sign of bofinger, when, one evening as she was in her bedroom, she heard, to her amazement, the familiar shuffle of fargus on the stoop, accompanied by a thick, resolute fall of feet. the lock clicked and the voice of bofinger said loudly: "see here, mr. fargus, your lady won't like being taken by surprise." she understood that he was sending her a warning. she had indeed need of it. a voice from the dead could not have struck more terror than this sudden apparition of the lawyer. she felt her knees wabble and with an effort seized a bottle of smelling salts. her repulsion for bofinger, intensified by fear, was suddenly a hundred times magnified by this uncanny introduction into her home, on the very arm of her husband, at the moment when she fatuously had put him out of her mind. "ah, i was so happy!" she cried, sinking limply into a chair. nevertheless she realized that the moment was fraught with peril and that she must regain her control. "sheila, sheila!" fargus called from below. she shut her teeth savagely over her lip and went down to face her husband's glance. "sheila," he said, as she halted in simulated surprise, "i brought an old friend with me,--mr. bofinger." she went hurriedly past her husband, murmuring something, and extended her hand to the lawyer, who, bland and smiling, bowed with stiff legs. seeing his self-possession, she rallied, brought to calm by the quiet command of his eye. "take mr. bofinger into the parlor, my dear," fargus said. "put him into a comfortable chair and make him at home. i'll be down in a minute." "really, mrs. fargus," bofinger said, halting on the threshold of the parlor, "i compliment you on your home. i heard my friend had to sail pretty close this winter, but i guess that must have been rumor. really, this is elegant; say, this is luxury!" while pronouncing this glibly he managed to lay his fingers over his lips, sending her a glance of warning. sheila, at this extraordinary introduction, delivered without a trace of expression to clarify its meaning, stood in stupid bewilderment. when she heard the sound of her husband's step above, she started forward with an impulsive question. with a rapid frown the lawyer again laid his finger along his lips and, drawing her to a corner, said quickly: "not a word to-night. complain at the table about the size of the house--remember!" then aloud, quelling her astonishment with a peremptory gesture, he continued, raising his voice purposely, "mrs. fargus, i really ought to apologize. i shouldn't have dropped in on you like this, but your husband would have it; and when an old friend gets you buttonholed--you know!" this assumption of intimacy, avowed alike by the lawyer and her husband, completed her terror. her wits had deserted her. all her artillery lay in the consciousness of her fascination. as soon as she knew herself loved, she became formidable and arrogant. the unimpressionable glance of the lawyer disarmed her and scattered all her artifices. obeying an imperious sign from bofinger, she gathered herself together and said hastily: "why--i am sure my husband was quite right, and, indeed, it's no trouble." "so i said," fargus put in, his nocturnal face appearing at the door when she believed him above. "sheila, it's all right, i had something sent over from the restaurant." "then i'll see to it," she said, escaping quickly, for she felt as yet unequal to retaining her composure before both of them. the supper, to her relief, passed easily. she dissociated herself from the conversation, resisting all the lawyer's attempts to drag her into it and evading obstinately a dozen openings which he gave her to criticise her home. keeping a stubborn silence, then, she began anxiously to study his game. seeing that she had no intention of obeying him, he shifted his tactics. he began a tirade against the extravagance of the modern woman, asserting that she put on her back one fourth of the family income. sheila smiled, but guarded herself against a retort. fargus applauded in his taciturn way. receiving no answer, bofinger developed his thesis, to the point of declaring that the nation was becoming effeminate, due to the fact that the wife instead of the husband was the dominating influence in the home. he even ascribed to this cause the increase of domestic infelicity. "is he, by any chance, trying to force me to quarrel with him?" sheila thought in amused perplexity. "is that his game, i wonder?" acting on this assumption, she avoided all expression so skilfully that the lawyer on his leaving immediately after supper shot her a glance full of anger and irritation. "come again--come soon," fargus said cordially. "sheila, ask mr. bofinger to run in and see you some afternoon." "why," she stammered, overcome by this new surprise, "i hope he will." when fargus returned from ushering out the lawyer, he found sheila in the parlor, an elbow on the mantelpiece, resting her chin pensively in her palm. "i thought you had no friends," she said immediately. "i? so i haven't--not many." "mr. bofinger is a friend then?" "he is--why, yes." "you have known him a long time then?" "oh, quite a while." "five years?" "well--around that." "why, you've never spoken to me of him." "didn't i? so i didn't." "tell me this," she said, her anxiety rising above her prudence, "do you rely upon him? do you trust him?" "why, in a way," he answered evasively, adding sharply, "why do you ask that?" she made a gesture of impatience. "you don't like him, eh?" her shoulders twisted with an indefinable displeasure. "why not?" "i could never trust--that man!" she said desperately. "it's a woman's instinct, that's all." "nonsense," he answered with great good humor, "bofinger's square as they make 'em. he is not a lady's man, i know. but he's got sense--horse sense, and sheila, my dear, if you ever want advice, go to him." she opened her eyes very wide at this and said nothing more, turning it over and seeking some explanation in the tangle of the evening. "i've been a fool," she thought, glancing at the satisfied face of fargus. "i've played into bofinger's hands--whereas i ought to have made fargus jealous." the truth is, she was too near the dreaded shadow of bofinger to have regained the clearness of analysis which would have saved her from such a blunder. chapter xiii sheila retreats the explanation of this extraordinary meeting, which had so mystified sheila, lay in a last revolt of the miser. once out of her presence, max fargus was constantly terrified at the gradual perversion of his own character. he could refuse his wife nothing, or resisted only long enough to learn anew the completeness of his surrender. from an agony of foreboding he vacillated to an ecstasy of defeat. his own impotence mystified him, for he believed that he resisted with all his being, not realizing that in an infatuation half of the man combats for the woman. then he could never comprehend the use of money. money spent was money lost. he would have denied angrily being a miser and would have argued that in allowing his wealth to accumulate he individualized it and turned it into a human agency which returned him the most satisfying of sensations,--power. for the first time in his life he felt the need of a friend to advise and to steady him. but what he had cried out to sheila was literally true, he had not a friend in the world, not even an acquaintance to whom he could turn. in all his business dealings he had sought to make himself feared. he disdained conciliation, to prevail by sheer autocracy alone intoxicated him. in this perplexed mood he found himself one morning, in what seemed to him the most accidental manner, face to face with his former attorney, alonzo bofinger. the familiar face evoked the memory of an unexampled moderation. a quick thought was followed by a bow. he stopped, giving him a smiling, "good morning, sir." the lawyer shifted his glance a moment, then with a blank countenance passed on. "but i'm not mistaken, it must be him," fargus said doubtfully, and he called again, "mr. bofinger, hello there!" the lawyer halted, wheeled, and said in a puzzled voice: "yes? what? who is it?" "say now," fargus protested, "you know me." "not at all, sir." "why, i was your client a month ago." "indeed?" "you remember me now?" "not in the street, sir," bofinger said with a smile. "my memory stops at my office." "but if i let you," fargus said, much impressed. "that is different. how do you do? you may remember i don't know your name." such scrupulousness completed the favorable impression of the misanthrope. he nodded approvingly and said: "mr. bofinger, you please me, i like your ways. and if you'll come around to the restaurant, i'd like to consult you--i want some advice. my name's fargus, max fargus--you know that name, i'll bet." "what, are you _the_ fargus!" bofinger exclaimed, taking a step backwards. "the same," fargus said with a chuckle, flattered by the tribute. "you wonder why i came to you, don't you--on the quiet?" "i am a little puzzled, i admit it, mr. fargus," bofinger replied, putting a new deference into his address. "i've been bitten too often," fargus said with a grim nod. "there's a lot of your profession, mr. bofinger, who ain't no better than crooks!" "far too many," bofinger said solemnly. "but i hope a better day will come." they arrived in the private office. for the third time fargus fidgeted and repeated: "i want some advice." "well, sir, i hope i can help you," bofinger said encouragingly. "mr. bofinger," fargus blurted out, "you remember miss vaughn?" "perfectly." "mr. bofinger, won't you have something?" fargus said desperately. the lawyer named his drink. his host, turning from the waiter, faced him with the manner of one about to overwhelm him with his disclosure. "she is now mrs. fargus--my wife." "indeed?" the lawyer said politely, shooting up his cuffs, but nodding without astonishment. "well, doesn't that surprise you?" fargus said, opening his eyes. shrewd and tricky in his little specialty, in the minor experiences of life he was a little dull. "yes and no," the lawyer answered, examining the ash of his cigar. "from the standpoint of your attorney, yes. from any other standpoint," he added with a smile, "no." "then you suspected all the time?" "pardon me," bofinger said, raising his hand half-way. "it was not my business to suspect, my business was to believe what you said. so miss vaughn is your wife?" "yes." "i hope you're happy." "that's just it," fargus said, seizing the opening, "that's the point. you put your finger on it without knowing it. i can't say i am happy--altogether happy." "well, let's hear about it," bofinger said with bluff directness. "the trouble is this," fargus said doubtfully. "a woman has no idea of money, except to spend it and--you know yourself--it ain't easy to refuse one anything--particularly--well--when you're fond of her." "say, now, ain't this about it?" bofinger said, abandoning his stilted accents for an air of rough and confidential understanding. "this is the trouble. you're in love with a pretty woman, a remarkably pretty and charming woman--a whole lot in love. now she, like a woman, a pretty woman, thinks more of pleasure than you do, wants to be out and seeing and wants to be out and be seen." "yes," fargus assented, and with a sigh he echoed faintly, "yes." "and she probably thinks that you're much better off than you are," bofinger said with a wise nod. "that's it; there, that is it!" in his eagerness, fargus extended his hand until it touched the lawyer on the sleeve. "doesn't understand that just because you run a few fine places, that don't mean money--but expenses." "ah, mr. bofinger!" fargus said, raising his hands. "come, now, you're worried over expenses at home, or rather at what you may be getting into, and you find the trouble is here,--dealing with a woman you're in love with ain't like talking business to a man." "mr. bofinger," fargus said solemnly, "you've struck the nail on the head. that's my case--you can't handle a woman like a man." "of course not. you're not the man to do it either. you'd spend everything on her!" fargus, with an effort, allowed the statement to pass without betraying his emotion. "i'll tell you the best way," bofinger said, after drumming a moment with his fingers, while fargus pricked up his ears. "here, this is it! get a friend to talk to her." "how so?" "why, a friend--the right sort--could do this," bofinger continued. "he could tell her confidentially--that he thought--that he rather suspected, well, that he'd heard things weren't going as well with you as people thought. in fact, he feared you were going to have a close squeeze. he needn't say anything direct now, that would make her suspicious, but he might advise _her_ to beg _you_ to cut expenses down all you could." "mr. bofinger," fargus cried, slapping his hands together, as bofinger with a satisfied chuckle turned to him for his approval, "that's an elegant idea! and you're the man to do it!" "me?" bofinger exclaimed, in real surprise at such quick success. "but i'm not exactly, do you think, in the position of a friend?" "she'd never know it!" fargus insisted. "i say, you're the man." "why, frankly, sir," the lawyer objected, "i can't see i'd do--i really don't--you can't say those things off-hand--i'd have to get acquainted more--" bofinger resisted so well and protested so earnestly that, an hour later, fargus carried him away, under his arm, to that meeting which had come so near to sheila's undoing. the situation was a perilous one for the lawyer. there was, he knew, the insane jealousy of the misanthrope to be reckoned with, the danger that fargus would fear more from his intimacy than from the prodigality of his wife. fortunately for bofinger, sheila's attitude had completely reconciled fargus, who wanted her to receive advice, but more that it should come from unwelcome lips. in a fever of trepidation, sheila awaited the next meeting with the lawyer. the sense of peril had sent her panic-stricken, with almost affection, to the shelter of her husband. the instinct of safeguarding her home and the memory of her pinched and wandering career impelled her towards all the virtues, in an incentive to flight from the menace of the lawyer. many times she debated the consequences which would follow confession and an appeal to her husband's generosity. invariably she recoiled, as before an impossibility, convinced that he would never pardon the slightest deception. she had divined under the intoxication of love the implacable, dormant fierceness of the misanthrope, and with this perception she came to recognize by what slender bonds she held his savage nature imprisoned. to surrender a moment her supremacy meant at best servitude. besides, in her ignorance of the law she saw no escape from the marriage contract which lay in the hands of bofinger. to her annoyance, it was not until the third afternoon that the lawyer arrived. from her window she discovered him sauntering elegantly toward her, displaying to the street a brilliant tan vest, a pair of lavender trousers, and a smooth gray cutaway. a villain masked has thrice the terror of a villain seen, and to the despairing woman this outward semblance of the negligent dandy magnified immeasurably the lurking venom of the shyster beneath. she went hurriedly down the stairs, rehearsing the dozen and one evasions she had prepared in making up the account he had come to demand. "he cannot prove i am lying," she thought defiantly. "let him make a scene if he wants to. as for the furniture and the expense of fitting up the house, that belongs to fargus. on that point i won't yield." then, as his step sounded, she opened the door and said pleasantly, "well, you've come at last." "ah, mrs. fargus, i am unlucky! you are going out?" he said, starting back with a frown and speaking punctiliously. "but i may come in, for a moment? just for a moment, then." "fargus is not in," she said, sneering at his sleek hypocrisy, "and no one is around." "excuse me, every one is around!" he said savagely, pushing past her. "neighbors have eyes as well as ears. oblige me by not coming to the door until i ring!" "a pleasant introduction." he shrugged his shoulders and made a quick survey. returning to the parlor he took his seat by the window, to command a view of the street. "sit there," he said, placing a chair. "now no one can steal in on us." he stretched out his legs, quizzing her with a smile, in which he took no pains to conceal his vanity. "you were a little surprised to see me the other night, just a leettle, eh?" "how long have you known fargus?" she said instantly. "you heard what he said." "then you deceived me." "if what he said is true." she saw that she would learn nothing from him, so, drawing back, she said angrily: "very well. is this why you came?" "no," he said sharply, and abandoning his coxcomb attitude he sat erect with a jerk, brought his brows together above his joined fingers, staring at her so fixedly that sheila nerved herself for the dreaded demand. "sheila," he said moodily, "why didn't you complain of this box of a house, as i told you?" "because i did not intend to play blindly." he shifted his glance, gazing moodily out of the window until, with a pucker of his lips, he said condescendingly: "blindly, sheila? i thought you more clever than that. you missed a trick. we must quarrel before him. if you had obeyed me i should have pooh-poohed your extravagant ideas. we would have been at once on bad terms. do what i tell you another time." "why, what is the use?" "to work into his confidence and get rid of his infernal jealousy, my dear." "but why make him stingy? certainly that's not our game." "that's but temporary," he said after a long pause. "now be frank with me," she said anxiously. "what are you trying to do? you've got a new plan, haven't you?" "none whatever," he said with emphasis. "one may come. on my honor, i have nothing in mind now but to work into his confidence and become the friend of the family. the advantage to us is obvious." the reply did not convince her. despite his glibness she felt that he was deceiving her. she pressed him for some time, but without success. finally, as she persisted, demanding his confidence, he cut her short by rising and saying: "i mustn't stay too long. it's understood now you are to hate me?" "very well." "not difficult, eh?" he said with a laugh. "no." he turned upon her violently, catching her wrists. "don't try any tricks on me, my dear!" "you hurt," she said in white anger, but without resistance. "you heard?" "i hear." "and remember this," he said without releasing her. "when fargus asks what we talked about, say that i told you i thought he was hard up and worried over his business." "i hear." "and i told you to make him go slow." "i hear." "there," he said, smiling and releasing his hold. "don't be a little fool. act square and you won't regret it. au revoir." it was not until he had gone that she remembered with a shudder of foreboding that he had not once referred to their contract or demanded his account. the thought left her frightened and dismayed. without a doubt he had changed his plan of campaign. yet what could be his new purpose and why should he want to cater to her husband's avarice? did he plan, when he had gained his complete confidence, to carry off by some master stroke what he would have to wait for painfully, year by year? she asked herself twenty such uneasy questions and resolved that, until she had forced bofinger's confidence she would do nothing to further his purposes. "well, have you seen mr. bofinger yet?" fargus asked on his return. "he called." "indeed," he said with a start. "and what did you talk about?" "mr. bofinger preached to me about--economy," she said slowly. "well, well," he said, at loss for a comment. "and how do you like him now?" "max, i wish you'd tell me something?" she said earnestly, laying her hand on his shoulder. "is he your lawyer? does he have charge of anything for you?" "no, no!" he said, shaking his head. "i look after my own business, thank you! still, bofinger is a good fellow; though you're set against him, aren't you?" "i?" she said in surprise, "oh, i was--" "well?" he said fretfully. "why, this afternoon i liked him better. why did you say he wasn't a lady's man? i should say just the opposite." "nonsense!" he said angrily. "so you like him?" "yes," she admitted thoughtfully. "yes, i do. he's quite different when you talk to him, alone." she added pensively, "what funny eyes he has,--very handsome, don't you think?" "what do you mean? what makes you say that?" fargus said in great disturbance. "oh, you silly man!" she said, throwing back her head and laughing. "don't look so fierce. the idea! a man doesn't make love to you the first time he calls!" chapter xiv as a flash in the dark the card sheila had played in her desperation succeeded so completely that she became alarmed. she had played on impulse, recking not the danger of crossing the lawyer. the effect on fargus was so extreme that she suddenly found herself in all the dangers which now arose from her double relation. the very thought that any man might make love to his wife had sufficed to awaken all the demons of jealousy in fargus and had caused the face of bofinger to appear the most odious in the world. from that night the name of the lawyer never passed his lips. he avoided him studiously in the streets. he left orders at his restaurants to deny him access. it was no longer only bofinger he held in fear but all younger men, and he resolved bitterly never again to commit the error of introducing into his home that particular danger. for six days bofinger was unable to catch even a glimpse of his coat-tails or to penetrate to his office. vaguely alarmed, he studied his time and succeeded in surprising fargus one afternoon at the moment he was leaving for the rounds of his various establishments. fargus, unaware of his proximity, was startled by a clasp on his arm and the glib voice of bofinger crying in his ear: "here's luck! where in thunder have you been hiding all the while?" in dismay fargus let fall the package under his arm. "evil conscience," said the lawyer, laughing as he restored the bundle. "well, are things going any better?" "what things?" fargus stammered. he looked at him darkly, seeing nothing but the eyes that sheila had found handsome. "hello, didn't your lady tell you how i lectured her on expenses?" bofinger said, examining him with uneasiness. "guess i must have turned her against me with too much advice." "oh yes," fargus said finally, forced to say something. "i remember." "it goes better then?" "better." "well, well, glad to hear it," bofinger said, withdrawing his arm and shooting a queer look. "glad to have been of use. call on me any time. by, by!" with a nod and a luxuriant wave of his arm he ground on his heel and strode away. fargus, a little uneasy, plodded along saying to himself that he had shown his ill-humor too abruptly. next, remembering the little deceit in which they had been fellows, he became genuinely alarmed lest bofinger, offended, should revenge himself by blabbing to sheila. at this horrible idea he at once set out for jefferson market determined to conciliate the lawyer. the poor man, after a few weeks of marriage, was ready to do anything to escape facing a scene. entering hastily he found the office in the sole possession of hyman groll. he halted, startled by the unusual figure of the hunchback, and asked: "isn't mr. bofinger back?" "not yet." "when do you expect him?" "when i see him," groll answered, shrugging his shoulders. "you're his partner?" fargus said, surveying the hunchback with an interest which groll returned, each recognizing in the other a common intensity of purpose. "i'm his partner. can we do anything for you?" "no, no," fargus said hastily; "just tell him i want to see him very much." "what name?" "fargus. he will know." "you're a client of his, then?" groll said with aroused curiosity. "yes, of course." "i beg pardon--since when?" "why, a couple of months--" "indeed--what name?" "fargus, max fargus." "oh, max fargus. thank you, i'll speak to him," groll answered with just the slightest twitch to his eyebrows. excusing himself fargus hurried directly home, convinced that the lawyer would be beforehand. he arrived at the corner of second avenue just in time to perceive the figure of bofinger passing into his home. "oh, the villain," he cried, "he is going to betray me!" and clutching his cane in the middle, he began to run, provoking the gibes of a group of street urchins, who cheered him on. he reached the door, blown and trembling, and inserting the key entered. immediately such an explosion of anger greeted him from above that, mystified, he checked the call on his lips and stole cautiously to the foot of the stairs. the voice of his wife was answering in terror: "i swear i haven't! i've played square!" "look here, sheila, my girl," cried the furious voice of bofinger. "it won't go. it won't do. what i want to know is what you've been telling the old boy to set him against me!" the first words had revealed the truth to the misanthrope, as in the storm a flash suddenly reveals the monstrous iniquities of the night. the exclamation was stifled in his throat; crumbling he fell across the banister, clinging to them with desperate fingers, while above the sounds of the altercation continued their overwhelming revelation. "are you going to tell me the truth?" cried the lawyer. "sheila, either you've made a blunder or you're playing double with me." "i am not." "you've made him suspicious of me." "i haven't--i swear it--on my honor." "honor!" he cried with a roar of laughter. "cut that out between us! now once for all you can't fool me. i know when you're lying, and you're lying now! ah, my girl, i've placed you long ago. you think you'll play me close and get all for yourself." "bofinger, you are mad!" "see here, cut this short. i'll give you just one chance." "what's that?" she said, but so faintly that fargus did not hear it. "you get me to supper here within four days--or i'll put the screws on!" "but how can i?" "that's a good one," he cried, repeating contemptuously her words. "you do it. that's all. we're partners and don't you forget it. share alike! that was the terms when i could have ruined you with a word--and those, my girl, are the terms now!" fargus, crimped to the banisters, listening with parted mouth and terrible eyes, could hear no more. he was suffocated. he reeled to the door and with a last effort opened it without noise. once in the street he slunk rapidly away, glancing backward fearfully over his shoulder, scarce restraining a mad impulse to break into a run. he scurried under the elevated and on without stopping, until at last the river barred his way. there he collapsed on a pile of lumber and remained holding his numbed head in his hands, swaying, until a policeman startled him by touching him on the shoulder and questioning him. then, stumbling to his feet, he fled again towards the south, but haphazard as the rush of a brute wounded to the death. for mile after mile he scurried thus, striking east and striking west, his mind vacant and stunned, incapable of other thought than to flee as far as he could from the abomination he had left in his home. a dozen times he came near being run over, without knowing his danger or hearing the screams of warning that followed his crazy progress. in the blank shifting of faces he saw nothing but the leer and the scorn of the mocking world. the blow had been too instant and too astounding. his numbed mind could only feel the acuteness of the anguish, without as yet being able to analyze or recognize the causes. he did not think of sheila or bofinger. it was the world which had crushed him, the perfidious, mocking world which in the end had thus taken its contemptuous revenge. [illustration: for mile after mile he scurried thus.] he saw everywhere smiles of derision, heard triumphant laughter. every one was gazing at him, enjoying the discomfiture of the ancient enemy. he saw nothing clearly, he began to stumble in his walk and to waver, clearing his way through the crowds with his cane, thrusting women and children violently out of his path. in one narrow street in the jewish quarter a crowd of boys at play set up a cry of "madman!" he turned furiously and shook his fist, cursing them. then fleeing anew his course became embroiled, crossing and recrossing, until to his dismay, a second time, he encountered the group of urchins, who accompanied him a block, with derisive shouts. fargus, clasping his temples in his hands, broke away in terror and, by some instinct avoiding his former direction, turned north, winding and twisting helplessly in the labyrinth of the ill-smelling slums. still everything was confused, his hatred and his agony. it was always the world which pursued him with its jeers. this obsession possessed him so completely that even the noises of the city, the rumble of truck and carriage, the roar of the elevated, the screams of the street hawkers, the hum and swish of the crowd, struck his ears as so many delirious taunts. through this fog and rumble, all at once, he heard a wild shriek of acclaim: "madman! madman!" looking up wildly he found himself, to his horror, a third time in the street of his persecutors. this time the hilarity descended on him like a storm, for humanity is pitiless once its sense of ridicule is touched. from the windows women saluted him with gibes and laughter, people crowded to the front of the shops showing him to one another, while the loungers cheered on the ragamuffins who, forming in a company behind him, chanted in unison: "mad dog! mad dog!" some one from a window pelted him with an apple. at this moment he was in danger of losing his reason. he began frantically to run, his tormentors with shrieks of delight pursuing him. after two blocks of fruitless flight he turned suddenly on the pack about his heels and clubbed the foremost with such fury that the rest fled. then forgetting everything but the new fear of the something within his mind which was beginning to snap, he rushed over to the west side, crossing broadway by a miracle. all at once he heard his name pronounced. a familiar voice was saying conciliatingly: "oh, mr. fargus, do come in! what has happened to you?" he came to a halt, stock still, and glared about him. some strange instinct had led him back to the scenes of his boyhood. he was before the sunken rooms of nell's coffee house, and mrs. biggs herself was watching him with fear and wonder. "what, you too!" he cried, and whipped into fury by the sight of his first love he brandished his cane and rushed on her. the woman, with a cry, flung into the restaurant and barricaded the door. then a chill began to shake him, his arm fell inertly, his rage, from utter exhaustion, passed like a fever from him. he turned away and instinctively took up the familiar journey to his old home in the tenements. "ah, let me think," he said wearily, striking his damp forehead. the perfidy of bofinger he had guessed from the first words of his wife. he gradually comprehended what had happened, that the lawyer had gone straight to sheila and with her had formed a compact which had made her his wife. if the details were obscure the truth was blinding. when he had thought this carefully out he said again: "what am i going to do?" he returned to the street of his birth and hurried up the well-known stairs. the key of the room was still in his pocket--he had never surrendered the old quarters. it was a superstition and a sentiment unique in his life. he entered the room and looked about solicitously. nothing had been disturbed. mechanically, still confused, he went to the trunk and was taking out the bedding when in dismay he recollected himself and shoved it hurriedly back. then seating himself on the bed, his head imprisoned in his hands, he repeated: "what am i going to do?" this time the question had the vigor of an explosion. he no longer could abandon himself to the torrents of his rage. that emotion had left him in weakness and fear. but gradually, in the cold succeeding calm, a germ of a new passion formed and gathered violence,--the germ of vengeance. at the end of an hour of anguish he leaped to his feet with a shout of victory and, refreshed and alert, again rushed down the stairs and set out resolutely for the upper city. chapter xv the ironical moment three hours later fargus dragged himself home, still limp with the violence of that first uncontrolled burst of vengeance, which, like all the passions, had been too intense in its inception not to necessitate an exhausted reaction. but during these three hours he had already put into motion that conception of a punishment which had come to him like a flash at the end of his maddened flight through the city. what was hardest was to return home. when he reached the street it was already dark and the light in the second story was showing cheerily, while from the hall the veiled glow spread a feeling of delicious warmth. at the sight of the home he had grown so passionately to love such a lust for murder welled up in him that, not daring to look upon sheila's treacherous face, he fled again. it was almost half an hour later that he came again to his own door and forced his reluctant feet up the steps. with the key in his hand he remained a long moment, feeling all at once very old and exhausted. then with a shudder he opened the door. "is that you?" the voice of his wife cried instantly. in the greeting, strangely enough, there was a note of gladness. "what kept you? i have been waiting for ever so long." "business," he mumbled. his delay had frightened her. in moments of danger and deception the slightest deviation from the routine fires the imagination with vague terrors. reassured, she began to move about quickly, humming to herself. below fargus listened, one hand raised, his lips moving involuntarily to her singing, aghast at her composure. "i'm coming--coming right away," she called down. "go in and order supper." before he had moved, she had run down the stairs. "heavens!" she cried, stopping short. "how tired you look!" "do i?" he said, looking on the floor. "yes, a headache or something." "you must take more rest," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder and looking a moment anxiously in his face, before she took her seat at the table. he had wondered if he could keep his hands from her fair throat,--she came and he could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet. when he looked at her at last his heart rebelled. he had believed that her perfidy had ended his infatuation. he found in her loveliness the power yet to wound--he suffered, he loved. it was not only the woman he could not give up, but the half, the happier half, of his own self. seeing him so weary sheila felt a sudden movement of pity, a maternal tenderness she had not believed possible. across the shining little table, which she contemplated from time to time with an affectionate eye, she saw always the intruding shadow of the lawyer, malignant and inexorable, bringing with it the damp and the chill of the outer night. it was a memory and a threat, the shadow of the cold, starved world of poverty which clung to her. before this real menace her vanities and her whims vanished, and suddenly, on again looking at the man who had placed her amid this coziness and warmth, the tears dimmed her eyes. all at once she realized how desperately she clung to this home of hers, this one satisfying reality in a stretch of past darkness and future menace. threatened in this joy of possession her heart was softened towards her husband, whose suffering she now comprehended with her own. she raised her head and said compassionately: "how tired you are, dear! you aren't ill, are you?" at this, her first caress, he twitched violently as from a shock of pain, and drawing his hand hastily across his forehead he stammered inaudibly: "no, no." he fastened his gaze desperately on his plate; to look at her would have meant surrender. he had an immense impulse to seize her in his arms, to overwhelm the fair, treacherous face with kisses, to forego and to forget and to sink into a shameless, passionate subjection. to himself he repeated again and again: "yes, yes, i love her--i want to love her!" sheila also was stirred by the responsive emotion one endearing word had brought. "if he loves me like that," she thought, trembling on the verge of a confession, "he might forgive me anything." and shaken with the daring of the thought she sought the courage to throw herself on her knees and cry his mercy. the pause lasted but a moment. neither suspected what was in the soul of the other or that three destinies hung on a word. a glance of affection would have brought fargus shamelessly to her knees, a flash of courage and she would have confessed and been forgiven. the ironical moment passed. she did not quite dare. but to distract him she said gently: "i'm going to tell mr. bofinger to give you as good advice as he gave me. and by the way, what has become of him all this time?" that speech decided two fates. in fargus every human emotion froze. from the rage of subjection he passed violently to the rage of murder. where a moment before he had been on the point of stretching forth his hands in supplication he was now shaken with a blinding passion to possess himself with something murderous, with which to rush on her and blot out forever both her treachery and his infatuation. "fargus!" she cried in horror. "what is it? why do you look so?" "me?" he mumbled, thrusting away from him the knife by his plate with a gesture she could not understand. "what--what was it?" "i asked if mr. bofinger was away," she said, following him in alarm. "and why you haven't seen him." "ah, bofinger!" he cried, and his fist cracked on the table like the sound of a curse. "what jealousy!" she thought to herself, and reassured she began to laugh openly. "why do you laugh?" he demanded fiercely. "monster of jealousy!" she said, smiling. "what a lot of trouble that naughty remark of mine has made!" "go on," he said, drawing his eyebrows together. then to himself he added furiously: "actress--vile actress, lie now to me if you can." "i'm penitent, my dear; i own up," she said with mock humility. "your friend talked economy and poverty to me until i expected he was going to send you back to your old ways. so to be rid of him i made up my mind to make you jealous. you remember?" and looking at him with challenging eyes she burst out laughing. "since then, you can't bear to hear his name. isn't that true?" "no," he said gruffly, cursing her cleverness. "no, i am not jealous." "fib!" she said, wagging a finger. "and it's all my fault." "no." "you're not made for telling lies," she said with a shake of her head. "leave that for those who know. shall we ask mr. bofinger to supper then--to-morrow night?" he did not answer, raging at the skill with which she enmeshed him. "and you're not jealous!" she cried, clapping her hands triumphantly. then rising and coming to his side with the fawning movement of a cat she laid her hand on his arm, saying with a sudden shift to seriousness: "forgive me my foolish teasing. i'll feel awfully hurt if you let that come between you and an old friend. as for mr. bofinger, you silly man, he oils his hair and his eyes have a squint!" "then you want him?" he said, without raising his eyes from her jeweled, supple fingers. "please--for to-morrow," she answered with the air of making an atonement. "and--i'll not be so wicked again." strangely enough, in the presence of such perfected acting fargus found new strength and a fierce delight in matching wits. "well, well!" he said, forcing a fierce smile. "that was all, was it? and you are sure you want mr. bofinger?" "please." "that decides it then!" he said grimly; and to him the words were as the casting of a die. the emotion of vengeance is supreme among human passions. beyond love itself, of which it is often the ultimate phase, it is so exacting and absorbing that only the most intense natures can guard it long in their hearts without being thereby consumed. the generality of men prefer to excuse and forget. the man who can pursue a vengeance relentlessly, and at the sacrifice of his own desires, has in him either a little of the woman or of the savage, in whom the egotism of civilization is unknown; or a touch of that madness which distinguishes fanatics and misanthropes, those who are ready to sacrifice themselves for humanity or those who despise it. in measure as this supreme passion dominated fargus it educated him and, from a first tempestuous upsetting, it calmed him and gave to him the strength of deception, the joy of matching his wits against the woman and a confidence in the ultimate day. his demeanor during the supper at which bofinger was present surprised him. forewarned he viewed their adroit maneuvering to develop a quarrel with scorn and amusement. he found in himself another man, the creature of his new purpose, who suffered no longer. but at times the other returned with the intensity of pain. two days after the supper with bofinger, fargus returned one night with a vigor and a zest that impressed sheila at once. "ah, you're different to-night," she said, looking at him with interest. "yes, sheila, i am," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing it joyfully. "luck, great luck!" wondering much she followed him up-stairs, where without preliminaries he brought out a bundle of papers and said with a smile: "sheila, we're going to have a business talk. something unexpected has happened. first--there!" picking out of the bundle a book he offered it to her with an expectant smile. she took it with a feeling of apprehension, watching him in almost dismay. it was a bank book inscribed with her name. "for me?" she cried, "but--what--why?" "you have said you don't have enough money," he answered drily. "you are now to run the house--all expenses except rent. every three months four hundred dollars will be paid in to your account." she looked and saw that amount entered to her credit. this development in her husband so overwhelmed her that she could not for a time muster words to thank him. when she started he cut her short. "now listen, sheila, you've been wondering, haven't you, what has worried me these last days." he stopped with a questioning look, reveling in his new power of deception. "three days ago i was afraid that the chance to make millions was going to escape me. to-day i have it in my hand. yes, sheila, millions--millions!" across her mind there passed the terrible thought that bofinger had found an opening, and she said anxiously: "is it a secret?" "absolutely," he answered. "a secret for every one!" "it's a plan, then, of mr. bofinger's!" she said with conviction. "bofinger, heavens no!" he cried in real alarm. "he has no idea of it; and, sheila, no one must know, no one!" "never fear," she cried, relieved. "not a word shall pass my lips, i promise you! but, max, you say millions," she added incredulously; "in your enthusiasm don't you--what do you really mean?" "no, millions!" he cried, smiting his palms. then leaning forward and grasping a knee in either squat hand he began nervously: "to-morrow i'm leaving for mexico. when i come back, if all goes well, there is nothing you can wish for you can't have." at this extraordinary promise, all of a sudden, like a mist, there rolled up before the woman a glittering vision of luxury and splendor; carriages beautifully fashioned, rolling behind swift horses, boxes at the opera dimmed by apparitions of bewildering satins and silks, which in turn disappeared before the fascination of glistening jewelry. she shut her eyes and with a sigh relaxed in the gentle happiness. fargus lost not a sign of her emotion. he smiled as a master smiles. he held her. he proceeded rapidly, finding in the thought of her deception a joy which she imagined came from his words. "four years ago i staked out a miner who came to me with tales of the mexican silver mines. i supplied him on condition to have two thirds of his findings. he is not the first i've done that for. he wrote me a week ago that he was returning successful. to-day i saw him and, sheila, not only has he discovered a mine that promises everything, but he brings me the chance to buy up one which they think is worked out, but which really is filled with millions. there is in this business," he said, nodding wisely, "something queer, a bit of treachery; but let the owners look to themselves. the more fools they to be deceived! i shall go to-morrow and investigate both with an expert, on the quiet. now, in order that i can close as soon as i am sure, i have brought these papers to you to sign." she received the papers without a glance, saying breathlessly: "and you really believe there is a chance?" "a chance? a certainty!" she leaned over and took his hands, saying with tears in her eyes: "o max, if it is only true!" "there, there, read over the papers," he said nervously, withdrawing his hands. "if everything goes well i shall sell some of my restaurants and cinch the bargain. the papers are a formality--your consent to the sales in case they are made. of course," he added with a shrug, "if nothing turns up i shan't sell." "oh, don't speak of such a thing!" she said with a superstitious shiver. "where shall i sign?" "there and there," he said, imposing his finger and hiding his eyes. "to-morrow we'll go before a notary and you can acknowledge your signature." "and why that?" she said, signing carelessly. "to show, my dear, that your signature is given willingly and not by compulsion." she lifted her head and met his glance. the two burst into laughter. the next morning the deeds were duly executed at the union bank, where sheila was identified. after lunch she insisted on packing everything herself. she arranged his tie, smoothed his coat, studying him with an affection as sincere and deep as her hunger for the vision of wealth he had so marvelously held out to her. "now remember," he said sternly, "if anyone asks, say i'm off on business." "i will." "but you don't know where." "never fear." "you might say, if necessary, that it was to look up some oyster beds." "i will." "good-by, then," he blurted out, reaching out his hand. "not like that!" she cried in protest, and flinging herself into his arms she kissed him. then holding herself from him, seizing his shoulders, she cried fervently: "oh, max, bring me only what you promised, and i'll give you all without reserve. all!" chapter xvi castles in the air it was fully a month before sheila received word of max fargus. the weeks passed in skirmishes with bofinger, who, dissatisfied with her explanations, continually harassed her. to his insistent demands she answered always that fargus had left without further explanation than that he was going to investigate the oyster fields. "and that's all you know?" the lawyer demanded with one of his inquisitorial looks. "absolutely." "he writes to you?" "me? i haven't heard a word," she answered truthfully. "well, it looks peculiar," he said suspiciously. "he has never done this before that i can find out." "perhaps he has a plan to extend his business," she said, committing the mistake of trying to explain. he looked at her with an antagonistic eye. "sheila, i bet something's gone wrong between you two." she protested in surprise. "you haven't been cutting up, have you?" he continued angrily. "doing anything to make him jealous?" "me? what could i do?" she answered. "i might as well live in a convent." "how long is he going to be away?" "i don't know." "and he hasn't written?" "no." "and that doesn't worry you?" "me?" she said, slipping over the dangerous answer. "why should it?" twenty times bofinger returned to the catechism without discovering in her manner a single flaw. she held the lawyer always in terror, but according to the nature of her sex, which is disconcerted only by the unknown, the daily contact educated her and brought a new confidence. besides she was defending the millions fargus had promised her with the instinct of a mother for her children. they had grown very real to her, these children of her hopes. she believed in them because she had always wanted to believe. so now without restraint she began to abandon herself to all the delights of the imagination. she began the morning by ransacking the society columns for details of the last night's functions, promising herself, with a delicious rage, that the time would soon come when she would read her own name there. she ran the shops, purchasing in her imagination enough to fill their little house three times over. she hung over the shining counters of the jewelers, setting aside for the future day bracelets and brooches unending, and decided, so natural did her new destiny seem to her, that she would wear nothing but rubies and pearls. she remained late abed, having her breakfast served in her room and tired out the morning with preparations for her afternoon parade on the avenue. at times her happiness became so intense that she had a superstitious dread lest at the last moment providence might thwart her. she went thrice a week to church, where she promised to be a faithful and exemplary wife if only fargus might be permitted to return successful, hoping by this bargain to conciliate god and range him on her side, for she was a bit uneasy over her past. also it must be admitted that her conception of paradise had a flavor of upper fifth avenue. the culmination of these weeks of delirium arrived in a visit to the opera. it was an intoxication such as she had never known. ensconced in the glittering orchestra, the display on the stage, the surge and the sweep of the immense music, awakened all her senses. radiant and palpitating she leaned back languidly, her glance traveling among the boxes, back and forth over the bewildering horseshoe, dreaming of the day when she too would take her place among these princesses of fashion,--and it took her quite a while to decide which box she would occupy. during the second entre-acte she joined the parade in the foyer. feeling that the excitement gave her a moment of unusual brilliancy, she placed herself in prominence, wondering anxiously if she would be noticed among all the gorgeous toilettes. to her delight she drew many glances and on leaving had the delicious satisfaction of hearing a voice say in a whisper half impertinent and half admiration: "who is she?" "oh, when i can dress as they do!" she thought with a sigh of delight, "they will know who i am!" the incense of this flattery caused her to imagine the conquests she should then number--little infidelities to fargus, a number of which, despite all her vows, she committed in that moment of ecstasy. on leaving the opera she took a carriage for the mere vanity of being obsequiously handed through the door. then, arrived home, she paid the driver double his fare in the embarrassment she felt that he should set her down in such an unfashionable quarter. the next morning, remembering with alarm the infidelities she had imagined to her poor husband, she hastened to church where she renounced them in trembling, hoping perhaps that the divine providence had not noticed such a minuscule frailty. at the end of the month bofinger, on repairing to sheila's, stumbled on a messenger who was bringing a telegram to the door. convinced for a long time that the absence of fargus held some mystery of which the woman knew the secret he avidly seized on the occasion offered. slipping a quarter into the palm of the surprised messenger he bade him return five minutes later. then he went in hurriedly and going at once to the attack said: "well, sheila, what news?" "about fargus? nothing." "what! not even a letter?" "no, indeed." "but he's telegraphed?" he persisted. "he'd never think of that," she said with conviction. "so," he said smiling. "and you're still satisfied there's nothing to fear?" "why, i am a little worried," she said, deciding to answer thus. "but then i suppose it's only one of his funny ways." at this moment the bell rang and sheila, answering the door, received the telegram. "hello, what's that?" the lawyer cried from the parlor. "only someone at the wrong number," she said, shutting the door. bofinger rose and with two steps reached her side at the moment she was trying to conceal the telegram in her dress. "indeed!" he said ironically, twisting the dispatch from her hand. "so this doesn't count?" sheila, paralyzed with fear, felt the floor swim beneath her. bofinger, tearing off the cover, found to his great disappointment only this: begin journey tomorrow. "max fargus." without attempting to conceal his vexation, he was tendering the dispatch to sheila when all at once snatching it back he scanned it for the source. "mexico!" he exclaimed, and, looking at her with the gleam of the lawyer who has entrapped his witness, he raised his voice to a shout, "mexico!" sheila, who had feared that the contents might reveal the story of the mine, comprehended rapidly that she might yet extricate herself. "mexico?" she cried with well acted incredulity, and seizing the telegram she read it. "but--but i don't understand! why mexico?" "you do it well," he said scornfully. "so fargus has gone to mexico. why?" "my dear fellow," she said, sitting down and studying the telegram, "i am as astonished as you." "sheila, you're lying to me." "you tell me that a dozen times a day," she said with a shrug. "it gets tiresome. still, i would like to know why he is in mexico and what he means by beginning his journey. does he mean his return or what?" deceived by her air of candid bewilderment bofinger tried a new method. "sheila," he said, looking at her earnestly, "i believe you. but, my dear girl, if you are deceiving me, you are running big risks. fargus is too clever for you alone. you need me, whether you find it out now or later." "perhaps," she said, glancing at the telegram to escape his scrutiny, "perhaps he has some idea of bringing up a mexican establishment?" "you think he's coming back now?" "oh, of course." "you are doubtless right," he added, smiling too graciously not to raise her doubts, "and we'll soon know." a week later, the mail brought her the following brief letter, with a southern postmark. dear sheila: fargus has been away a leettle too long. you may be satisfied, i am not. i'm off for mexico. alonzo bofinger. "oh, if he finds him, then everything is lost!" she cried in consternation. "if only i knew how to warn fargus!" at the end of three weeks she received a telegram from bofinger which completed her despair, for he sent but the one word: "progress." six weeks of torture succeeded, during which she was torn between the fear that the lawyer should learn of the mines and the agony which gradually possessed her as she became convinced that some dreadful accident had happened to fargus, forever sweeping away her brief vision of fortune. this was the secret of the overwhelming grief which had so mystified bofinger on the night when he had returned to reveal to the distracted woman the fall of all her hopes and the extraordinary sentence which for seven years she must undergo by the provisions of the common law. chapter xvii the seven years the human imagination, which responds easily to the narration of an immediate sorrow, is unable to comprehend that suffering which has no end, for the imagination of man is powerless before the stretch of time, which always surprises and mystifies it. hence the difficulty of making comprehensible the agony of the seven years' waiting in which sheila suddenly found herself; as though she had suddenly awakened in the embrace of a dungeon, forgotten and without hope. for man can conceive of the future only in the terms of the past, and if time, when reviewed, has the ironical property of amazing contraction, it has, when anticipated, according to the intensity of the desire, the illimitable power of extension with something of the mysterious cruelty of death, incessantly multiplied and incessantly possible. what is seven years in the human life? in the past it is a breath, in the future it is eternal. in the memory it ceases to exist or stands only as a vague gap which one seeks bewildered and with a sense of loss. in the future, for the convict who awaits his liberty, for the genius who runs the streets unrecognized, for the lover and the heir, seven years stretches beyond the human vision and has something of the quality of eternal punishment. seven years to eat out her soul in patience, seven years to mortify unquenchable desires, seven years to contemplate the autumn of her youth arriving, to have all just beyond reach, to gain all just too late, and to suffer each day the pangs of a queen in exile--this was the aspect to the distracted woman of these inexorable seven years on the morning after the revelation of the lawyer. she had not realized it at once. she began to comprehend it in the morning after a night of agony. when bofinger returned the next afternoon he found her shattered and inert. she had passed from the horror of waiting to a recoil from the suffering she must begin, as a damned soul might shrink at the brink of the unending atonement. she did the natural thing. she refused to believe that fargus could be dead. then, as though to surrender the thought of the millions was as painful as to wait for the half of one, she found a wretched consolation in the hope that fargus had found the mines and had pretended death, until by careful espionage he could satisfy himself that she was worthy. bofinger had his reasons for keeping her in ignorance of her legal rights. he did not inform her that she could apply to the courts for an allowance, for he wished to keep everything in his hands, fearing specially the danger of her falling into honest guidance. two things he wished to avoid, her learning the value of her inheritance and, in his selfishness, her spending what would undoubtedly be a liberal allowance. to make more secure his hold he loaned her the sum requisite for her needs, twelve hundred a year, taking notes of acknowledgment at twelve months for double the amount, which by constant exchange he calculated to swell to usorious figures. also it suited his precautions that she should be forced to live frugally and separated from the world, for he knew the dangers of her nature which, were the opportunity presented, would sacrifice everything for instant luxury. without his suspecting it, one thing abetted his end. sheila's account at the bank terminated with her first credit. seeing that she refused, for some unaccountable reason, to surrender the hope of fargus's return, he encouraged her in that persuasion, pretending also to fear some ruse of his eccentric nature. for two years sheila clung to this obstinate hope, and at times thereafter she returned to it desperately, but at the beginning of the fourth year she abandoned her dream utterly and resigned herself to despair, with the revolt of one who can accuse but fate and sees herself the sport of some divine cruelty. in brief, as the history of such daily grief can no more be told than comprehended, six years passed and, amazed, she beheld the beginning of the last period. she was entering then her forty-first year. with the six preceding years she had bidden a sullen farewell to the last of her youth and in this cruel martyrdom had watched day by day the imperceptible fading of her bloom, the dulling of her eyes until, doomed to impotently witness the fragrance and the warmth evaporate, she had come rebelling into middle age, having been beautiful, coquette, and pleasure-loving for nothing. what gave a mysterious horror to this period was the utter impossibility, when she sought back, to perceive even the traces of the journey. at the beginning of the seventh year she awoke and shaking off all restraint began desperately to anticipate the arrival of her fortune. bofinger, after a first resistance, seeing her resolved, advanced her the sums she required, surprising her by his generosity and good humor. at thirty-four she had looked upon forty as irrevocable. now she said to herself that she had yet two years into which to crowd all the defeated longings of her youth. she flung madly into the vanities of luxury. she dismissed her maid of all work and installed a cook and waitress. she made a bundle, so to speak, of all her furnishings; replacing the carpets with oriental rugs, introducing into the dining-room a magnificent sideboard spread with silver. as for the parlor and bedroom, within six months they retained not an object of those treasures which had once seemed to her so luxurious and whose purchase had cost fargus such pangs. each afternoon in a landau, which she rented by the month, prepared by her coiffeur, perceptibly rouged, a little puffy but always noticeable, she rolled away languidly to mingle in the parade of the avenue. in the evenings she lived from theater to theater. paradise, to this woman, was to be admired, envied, and coveted. she loved but two ideas, herself and the world. her feminine nature had never sought the tribute of the individual--the woman who does that returns her love--but the admiration of the mass; an emotion entirely selfish and egoistical. in her appetite for admiration she made no discriminations, the meanest glances had the power of rendering her supremely happy. so each day, as she whirled along up fifth avenue and through the park, she watched anxiously from the corners of her eye, counting the looks that followed her; thoughtful and pained when an old beau, who recognized her artifices, showed her to a friend with a knowing laugh, delighted when a young man, attracted by the mystery of woman's maturity, ogled her with supreme daring. one consideration alone kept her in her modest neighborhood, a consideration human and quite feminine. next to the joy of rubbing elbows with the fashionable world, she procured her greatest delight in the triumph over her neighbors, which she each day achieved as, perfumed and hidden in laces, she was handed into her carriage. in this unsatisfied, false joy she ran through the last twelve months, eating up the savings of the lawyer, who continued meanwhile all suavity and good nature, calling on her three times a week, serving her in little ways, always agreeable and amusing, acting as her companion whenever it pleased her. still she was not the dupe of his mildness, understanding very well its end. only as a disagreeable situation to be met in the future she found it easier to banish the problem from her mind. thus arrived the end of january, and the day which brought to an end the seven years. at eight promptly bofinger arrived bearing a bouquet. time had not entirely overlooked him. he had turned slightly bald, the wrinkles had invaded every cranny, and his vest had generously rounded out. but despite such telltale evidence, he had not yielded a jot of the dress of a young dandy. he wore a fancy shirt, thin red lines on a lavender background, upright collar of the same decoration. a flowing crimson tie passed through the loop of a large ruby ring, this last the memento of a gentleman who procured such trifles at considerably below their market value. a blue silk vest with a firmament of yellow stars was designed to give the touch of gaiety needed to a suit of ruddy brown cheviot. pending sheila's arrival he waited in the parlor, heels clicked together, stiff legs, bouquet to his bosom, a speech on his tongue. then, as this attitude began to cramp him, he relaxed, placed the bouquet on the table and stalked about the room, contemplating with his chin in his palm the display of sheila's extravagance. many thoughts doubtless passed through his mind, which he summed up by clicking to himself and saying with conviction: "damn, she'll take a lot of driving!" then instinctively the fingers of his left hand tightened as one who already grips the reins. immersed in this reflection he did not notice sheila's soft entrance. by a caprice, instead of making a toilette for the anniversary she had put on a plain dress of black, either to render herself less desirable or to appeal to his compassion. she stood a moment silently, her glance bent gravely upon him. then, advancing with a smile, she said lightly: "heavens, alonzo, you _have_ something on your mind!" bofinger, startled, turned about in haste, losing all his effect. "do you know what night this is?" she asked, stealing his thunder. "i have come to congratulate you on your widowhood," he said hurriedly. "is that why you have gone into mourning?" "and are those flowers for me?" she asked with a gesture. "eh," he cried, and, turning clumsily, hastily presented them. to restore his equanimity he began to smoke, while sheila, after touching the flowers of the bouquet one by one, finally laid them down on her lap and said: "do you know that, until a few months ago, i expected him to turn up at any moment." "well, at times i had the same idea," he said with a nod. "a sort of superstition. however, if the waiting was long it's over now. sheila, own up, i haven't been a half bad fellow, have i? have you any complaint coming?" "no," she replied with a smile. "you have been easy on me; but i never thought that it was against your interests." he frowned, and bringing out a package of notes said acridly: "do you know just how much i've loaned you? for seven years i've made you an allowance of $ , yearly, total $ , . it may be interesting to note that it has been at a slight personal embarrassment. beside which, in the last twelve months i have advanced you $ , ; to do which i have been forced to borrow heavily. total, $ , ." "finish up the calculation, alonzo," she said with a shrug, "and tell me just what you expect to make on your generous transactions. however, i don't object, virtue should be rewarded." "about $ , ," he said promptly, "which is nothing considering the risks. yet," he continued, placing the notes on the table before him with a significant movement, "i'll have something more to say about this later, then perhaps you will give me more credit." an awkward moment succeeded, what each felt was the end of the skirmishing. it was the woman who finally resolutely went to the attack. "alonzo," she said, sinking back in her chair, "we might as well come to the point. i know very well what that is,--you intend to marry me. well, let us talk it over and as friends. for our feelings have changed and, as i have become a middle-aged woman, i look at things differently. you have had your interests but you have been a good friend to me. so let's talk the situation over, as friends." "agreed," he said gravely; "but as we are going to be frank, sheila, why, i may as well say now, we will be married day after to-morrow." "then let us discuss it on that basis," she said with a smile, into which she put all the indifference and weariness of middle-age. "what is the situation? you wish your half of fargus's fortune; i don't flatter myself there is any other reason for our marriage. well, you shall have it--freely. i won't hide from you that i did at first rebel. now you have fairly earned it. but on the other hand i want my liberty. so take your share and leave me free. on your side, at forty-three, you are young. you will want to enjoy life, you won't want to do it with an old woman at your side. you love life, my dear alonzo, and a wife twenty-five years old is what you need. for me," she said with a tired smile, "i have come to what i never felt possible; i adore pleasure as much as ever, but i have no longer the strength. yes, i must get used to being old. this last year has tired me dreadfully. it's over, money will no longer mean what it could have meant." "and what will you do with it?" he asked solemnly. "me? i may make a splurge for another six months, for it is hard to give up. after which," she added with profound deliberation, "i think i'll devote myself to charity. therefore, my dear alonzo, don't tie up with a middle-aged woman when it isn't necessary." "my dear sheila," bofinger said, adopting the same attitude. "what i am going to say will surprise you; i too have changed. no, i have not the same desires, the same enthusiasms i had seven years ago. i am not young at forty-three and to play it would make me ridiculous. a time for all things. now i have other ambitions. but first of all i have gotten to the point in life when a man gets lonely--wants to anchor somewhere." "heavens, alonzo," she cried in vexation, "you're not going to make love to me now!" "that would not be difficult, my dear sheila," he said with an admiring glance, "though for some reason you have taken pains to-night to appear at your worst." and tilting his nose in the air, he enjoyed a smile at the expense of the woman, he had not studied in vain. "what's the use, sheila? you know it's settled. and when we get as far along as this scenes ain't agreeable. when we're married," he added, sweeping up the bundle of notes, "sheila, my dear, you may make a bonfire of these without it's costing you more than the price of a match." "but," she said suspiciously, "if that's been your intention why did you make me sign such agreements?" "and supposing you had died," he said with a shrug. "what would have been coming to me? nothing but the papers i held. now tell me i haven't been generous! and what's more, when we're married, you can choose. i'll take what's coming to me and leave you absolutely free--or--" "or what," she asked, at some wonder to hear him speak so soft. "or we can pull together. the property has improved, if we wanted higher stakes we could do much together. i'd go into politics; that's the way to invest your money to-day. yes, sheila, tastes change and new ambitions come. after forty only power satisfies a man. that is what i want. so, frankly, i should like a home. i feel i'd make a good husband and, sheila, i shouldn't find it difficult to be proud of you!" in listening to these soft words and seeing him so settled and phlegmatic, knowing the charity that comes with fortune, she had perhaps a moment during which she was willing to believe that he had really experienced a change of heart. so easily are we persuaded of the best intentions, when we fear the worst. "but why," she asked after a thoughtful interval, "why is marriage necessary? there is no question of your half, that i promise you." "my dear," he said with deprecatory candor, "i am too old to change my skin. i know i can trust you, now. yet, to save my life, i couldn't help doubting it. it's second nature, you know. seeing is believing, and holding is better. i'm made to risk nothing, to act as though i suspected everything. it ain't personal, sheila--i can't help it." she bit her lip and, driven to desperation, said angrily: "but i don't want to marry you!" "why not?" "because i'm not in love with you." "were you with fargus?" he said quietly. "it was a question of interest, wasn't it? well, marry me and it'll be to your interest too. such a man as i am, knowing the secret ways and who ain't squeamish, only needs capital. knowledge without capital is what makes the shyster." "however, you leave me free to choose?" she said. "perfectly." "then," she said decisively, seeking to provoke from him his true feelings, "since you won't trust me to pay, we'll be married and, as soon as you get your half, you'll arrange for a divorce." "i regret," he said politely but with a ring of vexation, "that is not possible. in coming into possession of fargus's estate you must give bonds for the principal until another seven years have elapsed. there also you will need my assistance." "then in heaven's name what do i get!" she cried, rising. "humph, you get the income," he said with a shrug, "which is tolerable--quite enough." "well, what?" "well," he drawled, looking askance at her, "somewhere around $ , ." "a year?" she said faintly. "yes. the property must have bettered considerable--ought to fetch close on to a million now." "and that, all that is mine!" she said, palpitating. "all ours," he corrected, and his voice trembled a little, despite himself. "and half of that won't satisfy you!" she cried. "two such halves are better than one," he said, then added hastily, "however, that lies with you. if you say it, it will be a marriage in form only." "let me think it over," she said, still under the shock of her surprise. "certainly," he answered, rising to depart. "you are perfectly free." "thank you." "but," he added at the door, "be ready for the ceremony, day after to-morrow, at eleven in the morning. good night. think over the rest carefully." then she comprehended, what at the bottom she had known from the beginning, that, despite all her resources, at the crucial moment he would always be her master, and in the matter of her fortune she would do exactly as he designed. chapter xviii fargus is dead it is rare in the secret life of the city that they who live by preying on society are not themselves preyed upon. alonzo bofinger for a long while had been in the clutches of sammamon, the money-lender. without his aid he could never have maintained sheila through her period of waiting. but, to obtain the necessary loans, he had been forced to take him into his entire confidence, paying, of course, the penalty in the usorious rates sammamon greedily imposed. bofinger, indeed, had never lived on his income, but had used it to capitalize his debts, gambling always on a lucky future turn of the wheel of fortune. he frequented what are called "sporting circles," where in the company of jockeys and pugilists he was entirely at home. he had the run of the second-class theaters and enjoyed specially the atmosphere of the wings and the little suppers after midnight where the gaiety was not conventional and the jests were unadulterated. he liked to splurge and, as a consequence, he was constantly floundering beyond his depth. without losing either his heart or his head he had entered into an attachment with one of the actresses of these sham stages, a connection which flattered his vanity and gave him, he thought, the standing of a man of the world. when, therefore, after the death of fargus, he saw the future open before him with all the gratification of his desires, he threw all moderation to the winds, and having in a short while exhausted all his property, he had recourse to sammamon, with whom he had had one or two previous understandings. his yearly income, about this time, was nearly cut in two by the withdrawal of hyman groll from the firm. bofinger, already in debt, was astounded to learn that his quiet partner had already accumulated a capital of $ , with which he purposed to emerge into larger opportunities. but his chagrin was tempered by the delicious thought that, in a few years, he would be able to turn the laugh. to his annoyance, the dissolving of the partnership showed him, what he had scoffed at before, that with all the glamour and the applause he was only the voice where hyman groll had been the power. in a month he saw his prestige impaired, his alliances shaken, and found himself on the same footing with the half dozen lawyers who scrambled for the pickings of the court. all of which had sent him frequently and deep into the lair of sammamon. on the morning after his visit to sheila, he started for the office of the money-lender to negotiate another loan, which he promised himself should be the last. a frightful run of luck at roulette had depleted him. besides, he wished to make a handsome present to sheila before their marriage, desiring above all things to keep her in good humor until the crucial morrow was over. also he had to appease the actress, and having no doubt as to the scene which would follow his announcement of the marriage, he knew that no small offering would suffice. not far from hester street, in the heart of the ghetto, on the first floor of a tumble-down frame building, stooping with age, a dank office bore the sign, leopold sammamon _loans._ bofinger, whose sensitive nose was offended by the smells of the quarter, lit a cigar, and entered. the office, on the apex of a triangle formed by the junction of two streets, had an entrance on either side, so that those within seemed to be constantly buffeted by the two streams of humanity. sammamon came hurriedly forward, a frail man not yet forty whose shoulders stooped as though still bearing the weight of the pack with which he had landed here twenty years before. the body, without vitality, seemed held together by the one impulse of gain that burned in the eyes, which had the strange contradictory quality peculiar to his trade, all fierceness and intensity when examining a client, but wavering uneasily the moment they were subjected to the same scrutiny. the two entered a cell which served as a cabinet and began to talk, with their foreheads together, both to overcome the noise of the street and to protect themselves against the sharp ears of the three clerks. "sammamon, i want two thousand dollars," bofinger said directly, "two thousand dollars more and that's all, so help me god!" "where i get two thousand dollars?" the money-lender protested. "i am bankrupt now with your loans! ain't the time up to-day--eh? why you want more money?" "i am going to marry the woman to-morrow," the lawyer said conciliatingly. "and i've got to hush another one up and do it handsome!" "where i get two thousand dollars?" sammamon repeated with a shrug. "see here," bofinger said, tapping him on the knee. "come to terms now and quit your mumbling. darn you, you know very well you're making a good thing out of this. give me the money and i'll sign for three thousand dollars at sixty days and i'll pay the rest then. it takes time to get the thing through the courts." "i couldn't do it,--so help me! i couldn't do it, i couldn't get the credit, i couldn't get one other cent!" "three thousand dollars, sammamon, at sixty days." "think of the risk! if anythings happen, i'm ruined!" "well, curse you, what will you do it for? out with it!" "i can't do it, mr. bofinker, i can't do it!" "three thousand five hundred dollars then." "imbossible!" "well, make your own terms--i'll sign anything." sammamon took his chin in his hands, and, after much shrugging of his shoulders and pursing of his lips, finally said, with a gesture that seemed to apologize to his ancestors for his moderation: "five thousand dollars at sixty days--not one cent less. and then i don't know where i gets the money." "make out the papers," bofinger said curtly--and did not curse him until the money was safe in hand. the next day having meanwhile procured the authorization of the courts, he was married to sheila and went with her to live in her home; for sheila, seeing there was no escape, and deciding to make the best of the situation, had feigned a willingness to accept his proposal. three days later, on a stormy morning, in the company of his wife bofinger appeared in court to begin the formalities necessary to place sheila in possession of fargus's property. sammamon, who trusted only his own eyes, occupied a distant corner where he listened attentively, seeking unsuccessfully to conceal the agitation which the prospect of his future gains caused in him. the judge, who, despite the monotony of his profession, kept an interest in the romances of the law, instead of proceeding with the routine of the case, assumed an ex-officio air and said: "ah, this is that extraordinary case of disappearance--a very extraordinary one, mr.--mr. bofinger. in my whole experience i don't think i remember another case like this." "your honor," bofinger said, "i represent my wife, the party in pleading." "you're a lawyer, then, mr. bofinger?" the judge said in some surprise. "i do not remember your name before." "in fact, i have never had the pleasure of appearing before your honor." "and what was the last heard of this mr. fargus?" "seven years ago, the twenty-sixth of this month," bofinger said, "according to the depositions i have here." "upon which date the lady was free to marry. you are not, therefore, an old married couple." "naturally, your honor." "i congratulate you," the judge said pleasantly, giving him a shrewd glance. "it has been a long attachment." "quite so," the judge answered with a bow, "and now that your marriage is accomplished you are taking steps to gain possession of the property?" "your honor states the case exactly," bofinger said drily. "we are come to take the first steps to acquire possession of the property, subject, of course, to the bond which the law requires for another seven years; although it is sufficiently established that max fargus is dead." "who says that i am dead?" at this extraordinary interruption every one in the court-room turned in astonishment. in the back of the court-room a dark undersized figure had entered unperceived and supporting himself heavily on his cane, had advanced to the middle of the room, where a second time he cried: "who says that max fargus is dead?" then with an effort he removed his hat, revealing a face on which, despite a pallor of death, was the mocking sneer which one imagines on the face of satan claiming the forfeit of a soul. for a moment there was a tense silence. then through the court-room the shriek of sheila reechoed in terror: "fargus, max fargus!" the sound of a thud followed as she slipped to the bench and pitched loudly on the floor. "your honor," fargus said, turning to the judge. "all i wanted to do was to establish my identity. that is done." bofinger had a moment of vertigo during which he committed two vital mistakes. the first was to remain sillily muttering over and over, "max fargus! max fargus!"; the second was in allowing his enemy to escape. when a moment later he recovered himself and rushed forth there was not a trace of the misanthrope to be seen, neither in the halls nor on the sidewalk, nor in the white, storm-swept street. a policeman told him that a cab had been waiting into which fargus had tottered and driven off with a companion who had remained inside, concealing his features. chapter xix rout at every point great dangers, which in the physical world turn the coward at bay into the most dangerous of antagonists, often in the realm of the mind excite a similar phenomenon. bofinger, before the shock of the revelation, remained but a moment confused and staring. the situation flashed over him,--he divined the conspiracy. calling hurriedly to the policeman to have his wife sent home, he cleared the sidewalk with a bound and started on the trail of a car, hat in hand, his coat-tails lashing the frosty air. but half-way, meeting a hansom meandering towards him through the storm, he turned with a cry of joy and bounded into it, almost jolting the sleepy driver from his seat. "fargus's broadway oyster house!" he shouted. "ten dollars an hour--drive like the devil!" the hansom shaved the corner, hung a moment on one wheel and rocked up the street. in bofinger there were two movements, a physical collapse, as he sank back inertly into the corner, and an acute nervous excitation of the mental faculties which, soaring above the surrender of the body, absorbed in a few minutes, with the compressed energy of so many hours, every detail of his perilous situation. his reflections, jumbled and rapid as a kaleidoscope, ran thus: "two thirds gone at a blow, two thirds of a million lost forever by his turning up! how in the devil did he manage it? the third, the third, the dower right! what will become of that? can it be saved? what is the law? does the second marriage forfeit the dower of the first, if the husband turns up? if so we are ruined. there's not a doubt in the world that there was a plot. fargus planned it all out. what am i going to do? i must get hold of him--yes--or he'll disappear again. if he goes anywhere he'll go to one of his oyster houses to be recognized again. he must have discovered everything seven years ago, but how--not from me. from sheila? she talked perhaps in her sleep, or he found her accounts and guessed the rest. if he got a clew he could have put a detective on it and everything would have come out. but what gave him his clew? not me. sheila? but she had no reason to ruin herself." at this point he took his head in his hands and said desperately: "i'm wasting time. what does it matter how it happened. that's not the point. two thirds gone and only the dower right left--if it is left; why should it be left? the law is probably the other way. what am i going to do?" all at once he sat up. "i have it. bring an action of conspiracy against fargus with intent to defraud his wife of her dower rights. hell, am i losing my wits! of course. desertion and conspiracy to defraud. plain as day! but the devil of it is i must get hold of him. oh, what a fool i was to let him slip away again! anyhow i can get an injunction on the property this afternoon, at once. but first for fargus!" at the restaurant he found everything in bewilderment. an hour before, fargus had entered, and after having been recognized by his old employees had departed. "oh, the scoundrel!" he cried, rushing out, "he has established his identity and has gotten off." as he fled from the restaurant his shoulder was suddenly clutched and turning in alarm he beheld the greedy features of sammamon, who, running out of the court-house at his heels, had caught the address flung to the cabman. the money-lender, panting and distracted, cried to him all out of breath: "where you going, mr. bofinker? what you going to do? what about my money?" "sammamon, you idiot," bofinger cried with an oath, "don't stop me! i've got to have every moment. you fool, i'm not running away! if you don't believe it, get in there and go with me." and half lifting him he pounced into the hansom, crying: "to fargus's chop house, broadway near fortieth." "you pay?" sammamon cried menacingly as the hansom swung into its reckless course. the rapacious fingers instinctively closed over bofinger's sleeve as he added aggressively: "how you pay now?" "sammamon, i've a mind to run you out of business!" bofinger cried furiously. "take your hand off me and let me alone! can't you see i've got enough to think over." "you pay?" the money-lender persisted doggedly. "damn you, of course i'll pay you!" bofinger cried. "see here, we lose two thirds by that devil's turning up, but there's always the dower right which belongs to my wife,--a third, if you know enough law to know that. a third is a third of a million, and that's safe in real estate, where he can't convert it. you've got nothing to worry over." "what you doing now?" sammamon said, but half convinced. "trying to get hold of fargus, of course," bofinger said irritably, "before he can get away, to delay matters." the hansom jerked to a stop, bofinger rushed into the restaurant while sammamon mounted guard at the door, heedless of the rush of snow. the lawyer quickly returned, having received another setback. fargus had appeared and departed. with a last hope bofinger drove to the westside establishment, relapsing moodily into silence. the grim, persistent figure of the money-lender began to affect him with a foreboding of disaster. at the oyster parlors, the same story. then bofinger, abandoning any hope of surprising fargus, returned to the hansom and cried savagely: "to the union bank! sammamon, where can i put you down?" "no, no," sammamon replied with a wily shake of his head. "i go too." "sammamon, i'll pitch you out!" the lawyer cried, exasperated. "you pay? where you get the money?" the money-lender said defiantly. "look here, will you get out!" "i go too," sammamon repeated. bofinger in a rage, stopped the cab, took the money-lender by the collar and deposited him roughly in the street, a move which later he was to regret. then changing his mind he drove to the court where he had a warrant issued for fargus's arrest as well as an injunction on the union bank on any sums standing in the name of max fargus. returning to his office he hurriedly put himself in communication with his particular allies in the detective force, imploring them to ransack the city for a trace of fargus. armed with his injunction he went next to the union bank, where he had himself announced to gilday, the president, whom he knew. lawrence gilday was a small, dapper, smiling man, fastidious in his dress, with a general air of bon viveur, which deceived at first. the gamblers and politicians esteemed him greatly for his probity and confided in him without reserve. thanks to this peculiar personality the union bank had built itself up a number of blind accounts, personal and political. to a few who were initiated, gilday was recognized as the safe intermediary between the upper world of finance and fashion and the leaders of the under regions in the numerous secret occasions where these extremes desire to meet with mutual profit. gilday, who never surrendered his position of quiet superiority, received bofinger with quick circumstantial affability and said without rising: "well, bofinger, what can i do for you to-day?" "mr. gilday," bofinger said, sitting down awkwardly and secretly admiring, despite all his agitation, the neat red tie which he could not have worn without its crying out to the street, "i've got an injunction here that i've got to serve on you immediately." "is it a personal matter?" gilday said, frowning. "no, no," bofinger said hastily, "it's simply an injunction on the account of one of your depositors, pending the result of an action at law." gilday, divining that there was more in reserve, extended his hand, wondering under what scheme of blackmail the lawyer was now engaged. "well, what account is it?" "the account of max fargus," bofinger replied, "and you'll oblige me if you will notify your cashier at once." "have we such an account?" gilday asked with a doubtful look, which bofinger thought the perfection of acting. "max fargus? the max fargus i knew has been dead some time." "mr. gilday," bofinger said smiling, "i know everything. besides there is no longer any need of concealment, as max fargus has chosen to show himself to-day." "max fargus--the restaurant proprietor?" cried gilday. "the man who was murdered in mexico?" bofinger, with a shrug of his shoulders, said: "i wouldn't ask you to break professional secrecy, mr. gilday, but i tell you everything has come out and concealment is no longer possible." gilday, who had rung, handed a slip of paper to the clerk, saying: "is there any such account? mr. bofinger," he continued, "i can assure you there is some mistake. mr. fargus i knew very well. we have heard nothing from him for many years." "one question," said bofinger: "don't fargus's restaurants bank with you?" "there is no reason why i should not answer that," the banker replied carefully. "certainly they do." at this moment the messenger returned, saying: "the account of max fargus, sir, expired seven years and two months ago." "and will you give me your word of honor," bofinger said with a smile, "that max fargus has no account here under any other name? but that, of course, mr. gilday, i realize i have no right to ask. however--" "one moment," gilday interrupted, "it's true that i should not ordinarily answer such a question; but in the present case, i assure you that we have no dealings directly or indirectly with mr. max fargus." bofinger shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly, as a man who does not hold a falsehood against another, and replied: "and may i ask how you reconciled that with your statement that the restaurant account is still with you?" "but what has that to do with max fargus?" gilday asked with a trace of impatience. "the max fargus restaurant company is an independent firm." "since when?" bofinger said, smiling at what seemed to him the successive blunders of the banker. "since seven years ago. i remember the transaction perfectly," gilday replied. "a month before his departure mr. fargus sold outright his various restaurants, stipulating only that the name should be retained for eight years. mr. macgruder, a client of mine, bought the property, being only too glad to retain the name which has always been a guarantee with the public. for that reason the deal was a secret one." "mr. gilday," bofinger said sharply, thinking that the banker had abused his good nature long enough. "do you forget the simple fact that no man can transfer his property without his wife's consent? to clear matters up, let me tell you now that i represent the widow of max fargus, and that she is my wife." "thank you, i am aware of such elemental law. i now repeat to you that max fargus sold out seven years ago--with the consent of his wife." "mr. gilday, that is impossible!" bofinger said, losing patience. "mr. bofinger, i assure you, you are laboring under a misunderstanding. mrs. fargus, in my presence, gave her written consent willingly and, i may add, eagerly." bofinger looked at him, saw he spoke the truth and collapsed. gilday sprang forward to ring, then, changing his mind, went quickly to the table and seizing a glass of water dashed it in his face. bofinger, who had had a spell of vertigo, staggered to his feet with such an ashen face that gilday even was moved to cry: "in god's name, what is the matter?" "i'm wiped out!" bofinger exclaimed, and raising his fists he cried, "oh, that devil!" then controlling himself with an effort he asked, "mr. gilday, in the name of pity, tell me if you know to what bank fargus transferred his money." "mr. macgruder paid him with a check," gilday said after a moment's reflection. "and on the following day mr. fargus drew out his entire account." "was he paid with a check?" "in cash." bofinger, who thus lost his last hope of tracing the movements of fargus, started to leave the room without quite realizing what he did or said, when gilday retained him. "but how is it possible," he said with a glance replete with curiosity, "that you knew nothing about this? surely you are a partner of hyman groll?" bofinger shook his head. "no--no, not for a long while." "ah," gilday ejaculated, at once mystified and enlightened. then he added, "do you lose much?" "everything!" bofinger answered, and disappeared. everything for him meant no longer the dreamed-of millions, nor the half, nor the dower right; but, so swiftly had the perspective narrowed, every cent he had in the world. he had entered the bank, thanks to his plan of suing for conspiracy, certain of retaining at least $ , , sum substantial and not to be despised. he staggered out with everything swept away into certain bankruptcy, thinking only of one thing, to reach his bank and withdraw the two thousand and odd dollars he had deposited the day before. still another shock was reserved for him. at the wicket the paying teller refused to honor his draft, saying: "sorry, mr. bofinger, but i've been served with an order restraining me from paying anything over to you." "in whose name?" he cried aghast, and at a loss to divine the direction of the blow. "leopold sammamon." he withdrew the check saying nothing, accepting the reverse dully, too bewildered not to imagine the finger of retribution, and yielding all at once to that superstitious dread which attacks the scoffer amid the blasts of disaster. at this moment he feared and believed in god. chapter xx bofinger in despair towards seven o'clock that evening bofinger presented himself at the door of a large double-fronted mansion, in one of the side streets of murray hill. since the morning he had eaten nothing. hunger and fatigue had given him the appearances of an extreme dissipation. his feet burned with cold and from time to time, to resuscitate them, he plunged his hands in his breast. a fine bead of snow had risen on his clothes, fastened to his hair, and caked over the collar, which had rolled up on one side. the butler, who came to his ring, viewing with disfavor this desperate figure, exclaimed: "be off now, we can't do anything for you." too miserable to resent the insolence, he took an attitude of supplication. "this is mr. hyman groll's, ain't it?" he said meekly. "and if it is?" "tell him it's mr. bofinger, alonzo bofinger." "mr. groll is out," replied the butler aggressively, "and he won't be back to-night." at this moment, when bofinger was in despair, a carriage drawn by a team rolled swiftly up and stopped before the house. the butler, leaving bofinger, ran down to the step and helped out the short, overhung figure of hyman groll, to whom he gave his arm to assist up the steps. in the disordered figure on the stoop the hunchback failed to recognize the person of his former dapper partner. he stopped and, with a questioning glance, said: "who is it? what do you want?" "it's me. it's bofinger," the lawyer said humbly, removing his hat. "i'm in trouble, partner, i've got to see you." groll twitched violently, and drawing back with a start shoved the butler forward until his body interposed. then after a moment of evident hesitation he said: "go in, i'll see you. humphreys, take him into the library." bofinger, ushered by the astonished butler, was shown into a large room at the back where he remained deferentially, surveying the evidences of his associate's sudden rise in the world, at a loss to account for the cause. in a moment groll entered, stopped near the door, watched him, and in an almost defensive attitude said: "well, my boy, in trouble, eh? what is it?" "hyman, i'm done for!" said bofinger, who at this moment reeled and fell into the chair. "what's the matter with you, man?" groll said, hobbling forward. "i guess i'm weak," bofinger said, passing his hands over his face. "i haven't had time to eat anything all day. oh, what a day!" seeing that the case was urgent groll rang, ordered some sandwiches and whisky, and presently, as though reassured, came and sat near bofinger, eyeing him doubtfully. "here, now, eat something and drink this," he said, pouring him out a glass. "talk afterward." "hyman, i'm up against it," bofinger said, shaking his head. "you are, eh? you look it. what's the matter?" "i'm cleaned out." "bankrupt?" "ten times over." "well, let's hear it." "hyman, i got over my depth," bofinger said gravely. "and i don't know where i stand now. that's why i want your advice." he paused, drew a breath and continued with a jerk: "ever hear of max fargus?" "the restaurant man? didn't he disappear somehow in mexico?" "disappear--hell, yes!" bofinger cried with an incongruous laugh. "look here, i've got to make a clean breast to you. you won't hold a little thing in the past against me, will you? you've done too well." "go ahead," groll said with a nod. he settled in his chair and turned his glance on him; the same cold, emotionless scrutiny which bofinger knew of old. "when we were partners down by the old jefferson market," he began, withering somewhat under the look, "i struck the trail of max fargus by accident. he came to me to look up some girl he was in love with. i went over and struck a bargain with her and turned in a report that made the old boy marry her. now, i'm making a clean breast," he added, faltering a little and dropping his glance. "i'm knocked out. you're at the top, you won't hold it against me, will you?" "go on--go ahead." "i kept it from you--expecting to make a tidy bit out of it. i was to get half of whatever came to her." "how much?" "half." "you did well," groll said with just a tinge of irony. "well!" bofinger repeated with an oath. "i've acted like a fool throughout! and i thought myself so clever. then i managed to work into the old fellow's confidence and everything went smoothly and i thought i saw a chance of doing something big. he must have been worth close to a million then." "go on--" said groll as he stopped. "i'll ask you some questions later. only what was the woman's name and who was she?" "sheila vaughn or morissey, a sort of third-rate actress," he answered. the quick professional attitude of groll recalled to bofinger the traditions of their office. he forgot the personal note and lapsed into a technical voice, as he related the details of fargus's departure, his suspicions, his discovery from sheila of her husband's whereabouts, his tracing the miser to the scene of the hold-up, the fruitless efforts to discover the body and his return to sheila with the news. "you'll admit," he concluded doggedly, "that the situation was elegant. i had only to marry the widow to scoop in a fat fortune." groll raised a hand in objection. "i mean, of course," bofinger added hurriedly, "at the end of the seven years, which the law fixes. i can't get things straight to-night." "alonzo," groll interposed with marked interest, "did you apply for a trust for the widow?" "no, of course i didn't! that's just what i didn't want to do--then. i wanted to keep her in my hands to make sure of her, until i could marry her! instead," he added, "i put up for her myself and got into the hands of that robber, sammamon, doing it!" groll made a move as though to enter a question, and then relapsed, motioning him to proceed. "as soon as the seven years were over and i could get the papers through i married the widow. to-day we went into court to begin proceedings for the possession of the estate--and fargus turned up from the grave!" "the devil you say!" "but that's not all, he got away again," he said shamefacedly, "after we had both lost our heads and recognized him! and i haven't had a sign of him since then, though i've put the whole force on his track." groll emitted a whistle, which to him was an enormous concession. "it was a conspiracy of course," bofinger said sullenly. "damn him! he planned it out--must have got on to our game somehow. that meant two thirds swept away." "why only two thirds?" interrupted groll. "there was her dower right, wasn't there?" bofinger replied, doubtfully. "surely the law would give her that?" "i'm not sure of that," groll objected. "there might be a question there." "well, anyhow, if it didn't, i had a plan to save it all right." "indeed," groll said with interest. "how so?" "i had a warrant sworn for him on a charge of desertion, complicated by conspiracy to deprive his wife of her dower rights. that is clear enough." "possibly--possibly yes," groll said after a moment's drumming on his chair. "ah, but the worst is to come!" bofinger said bitterly. "when i went to attach the property, i found fargus had sold out everything seven years before!" "but--" "with the consent of the woman, of course! gilday of the union bank told me he saw her give her consent himself!" "the woman played crooked then--or they fooled her," groll said softly, looking at bofinger, who bent his head and bit his lips with repressed fury. "then here's the situation," he began. "you can't get hold of fargus, no property to attach, and you're in the clutches of sammamon? how much do you owe him?" "over twelve thousand and he has attached all i had in the bank. that's the worst of all!" "he was quick about it." "he was slinking around the court, damn him, when fargus turned up." "have you any other property?" bofinger took out a few bills and small change, saying: "that's what i'm worth to-day. not a cent more; i had banked all on that." "so you're cleaned out?" "gutted!" "alonzo," groll said, "you're in a bad way. now i want to put some questions to you." bofinger nodded. "i wanted to get things clear in my head. the woman, of course, has been the weak point. what were your relations?" "dog eat dog." "you tried keeping her under by scaring her, then?" "yes." groll shook his head. "a mistake, alonzo. you ought to have made love to her. you can only bully a woman that way. fear won't hold them! so she was sullen all the time?" "yes." "then she didn't want to go into the arrangement." "you bet she didn't." "it was a hold-up, then?" "yes." "but how could you hold her after she married fargus?" bofinger, in his misery, related without a gleam of pride what had once seemed to him a master stroke. "i made her sign a common-law marriage with me, had it witnessed, and told her if she squealed i'd produce it and claim her." "alonzo," groll said with a nod of approval, "you've had hard luck." "luck! i've been up against a fiend; that's what!" "that idea of a common-law marriage was clever," groll said musing. then he added carelessly, "you squeezed that paper tight!" "it ain't been out of my safe a moment." "now tell me why you didn't investigate the property?" "i did--every bit of it, hyman, right after the marriage." bofinger said with a curse. "how was i to know that she'd given her name!" "you ought to have looked it up again," groll said, shaking his head. "what was the use? i thought it was safe." "you were wrong, bo." "oh, of course! i know it." "so you never suspected that she'd signed a paper?" "never!" there was a pause until groll took up evenly: "well, alonzo, you want facts. here they are. to begin, there's no doubt that this fellow fargus got on to your game. he's planned the whole thing to revenge himself on you two, that's plain. he took his precautions in selling out, but fooled you by concealing the sale." "yes, that's plain." "as to your case for conspiracy and desertion," groll said reflectively, "all right, if you catch him. but by this time he's off and to run him down means money--a lot of it. when you find him he may be somewhere where you can't touch him. of course he hasn't left a cent, here, for you to get at." "no, damn him!" "now the point with you is where do you stand?" bofinger looked at him, waiting, as a man who knows there can be no favorable answer. "well, alonzo, here's the truth. he's broken you! you owe twelve thousand to sammamon, who'll get everything you have in the bank. what do you hold in notes on the woman?" "about thirteen thousand," replied bofinger, who was too ashamed to mention the higher figure. "so much waste paper! has she any debts?" "i don't know--a thousand or two, perhaps." "an interesting point might come up there," groll said musing. "whether you are liable for her debts. a husband is liable for the debts of the woman he marries. though it don't make any difference; you'll go into bankruptcy." "oh, i'm knocked out!" bofinger said, biting his lips to keep back the weak tears. "yes, alonzo, you are," groll said. "haven't you got anything you can save?" "not a thing." "hasn't the woman any jewels? get them if you can, but make sure first that they are free of debt, if you don't want to get in worse trouble." "you're right," bofinger said, starting up. "i'll get hold of them before sammamon can put his claws on them." "if i were you," groll said softly as they went to the door, "i think i'd have an understanding with the woman. she's the one who's done you." "i'll attend to her!" "nothing rash, alonzo," groll said with more curiosity than feeling. "you won't do anything rash?" "rash!" bofinger cried with a wild laugh. "oh, no! nothing rash!" and leaving groll in profound meditation on the stoop he plunged down the steps, no longer caring for the cold or the storm. chapter xxi sammamon acts at nine o'clock that night sheila, who had waited all the afternoon in agonized ignorance, beheld bofinger burst in with the fury of the storm that was raging without. one glance at his wild figure and blood-ridden face told her all. she fell on her knees shrieking, "alonzo, don't hurt me!" "get up!" he said hoarsely. "get up quick and sit over there! and answer everything i say or i swear i'll do for you!" she obeyed instantly, saying hurriedly: "alonzo, i'll tell you the truth--every word of it!" "when did you sign those papers?" he asked, each word interrupted by a gasp. "what papers?" she cried, for in her ignorance of their import she had totally forgotten the transaction. "what papers, alonzo--tell me!" "the papers--those papers--the papers fargus got you to sign--your permission for the sale of the restaurants." "yes, yes, i remember," she said eagerly, "the day he left for mexico." "you signed--willingly!" "yes." "why, in god's name!" she hesitated. "why!" "i'll tell, i'll tell you," she cried, throwing up her arm, and brokenly she told him of the mine. "oh, that fiend! that devil!" he cried, forgetting her for a moment in his consternation at the malignant ingenuity with which he had been ruined. the next moment, turning to her furiously, he shouted: "and you thought by concealing it from me you could cheat me out of my share! didn't you--didn't you!" "yes." "you fool!" he cried in a paroxysm, "and what has it cost you? fargus sold out the next day and you lost every cent of your dower. ruined, that's what we are! ruined, without a cent in the world to-day!" in her fear for her life she thought to moderate his fury by pretending to fall in a swoon. he ran to her angrily, shaking her without drawing from her a sound. then, leaving her sprawling, he began to pace up and down the floor. presently, in terror of what he might do, she half opened her eyes. imperceptible as was the movement he perceived it and seizing her by the shoulder swept her up into a chair. "get your wits back. hurry up, i haven't any time to lose," he said. in his present manner was something venomous and cold that terrified her more than all the transports of his rage. from that moment she thought only how she might manage to reach the front door and escape from the house. she opened her eyes with a sigh and sat up weakly. "do you owe any bills?" he began. "a few." "where?" she enumerated half a dozen stores. "do you owe anything on your jewelry?" "not a cent." he breathed a little more freely. "take off your rings," he commanded. she slipped off, hurriedly, seven glittering rings. "put them on that table." she obeyed. "take off them bracelets." she flung them on the table. "and the pins." in her haste, she pulled off the brooches, pricking her finger and, without waiting his command added the gold chain she wore about her neck. "now go up-stairs." she ran up, trembling to feel him behind her. "gather up your jewels, gather up every one of them," he commanded, following her into her room. she made a pile, putting into it everything, even to the silver on her bureau. "take them down-stairs." again they descended. "put them with the rest." when all were on the table, he raised his eyes and said: "so you knew all the time about his going to mexico?" "yes," she said faintly. "and you played me false all the time?" she noticed that his hand began to tremble and edged away until with a spring she placed the table between them. "come back," he said, glowering at her. she did not move. "come back, i tell you!" "don't kill me, alonzo," she said faintly. "i'm not going to kill you. come back you--!" he cried with a vile expression. suddenly the door-bell rang, long and violently. both halted in throbbing surprise, so incongruous did an intrusion seem at such a crisis. a second time the bell rang angrily, accompanied by a shower of knocks. sheila started to the door. "stay there!" bofinger cried, and advancing with a guilty fear he went to the door and opened it. in the midst of a cloud of snow sammamon rushed in, a warrant in his hand. "hell!" bofinger cried, appalled by the apparition, and rushing to the table he tried to screen the heap of jewelry from the money-lender, shouting desperately, "sammamon, get out of here! sammamon, do you hear me, get out! i'll do you harm!" the money-lender, whom losses had made frantic and courageous, did not flinch a minute. rushing past him, he spied the jewels and divined the lawyer's purpose. "you run away with them, eh! you swindler!" he cried violently. "you touch one thing, you go in jail! everythings here is mine!" "keep your hands off," bofinger cried. "those belong to my wife, you can't touch them!" [illustration: "keep your hands off."] "touch, eh?" he screamed, "don't she owes me five thousand dollars!" "sheila, you owe him--that hound?" he cried, reeling back. "is that true?" "he came himself! he offered it to me!" she cried, and turning in terror to the money-lender she pleaded, "mr. sammamon, don't leave me, he's going to kill me!" sammamon gave no heed,--he was busy inscribing on his cuff the inventory of the jewelry. "kill you? that's too good for the likes of you," bofinger cried, starting forward, "i'll fix you. out on the street you go where you belong! get out of here, get out of this house at once!" "on the streets? to-night?" she cried in terror. "without a cent?" "go out and earn it, the way you're fit for!" he said brutally. then with an oath he extended his hand and commanded: "get out of those clothes." "bofinger," she cried in terror, "have mercy!" "take it off!" he said with an ugly look. "not a rag belongs to you. every stitch you have ought to go towards paying what you swindled me out of!" she dropped on her knees, stretching out her hands. "not like that, alonzo, not like that!" "take it off!" he cried in a fury, and as she made no move he seized the collar in his hands and tore it open. sheila fell forward. on the bare neck flashed a necklace of small diamonds, which she had bought with the money from sammamon. "that was it, was it!" bofinger cried, beside himself with rage at this new deception. he seized the necklace and tore it from her, flinging it on the floor. on the neck a spot of blood sprang up. she staggered to her feet and fled to the door. when she had got it open such a blast upset her, driving in the snow, that she shrank back piteously, begging, "alonzo, dear, don't turn me out. let me stay for pity's sake!" "ah, you won't go, won't you!" he cried, and the sight of the blood on her bare neck unloosed the brute in him. he ran in a rage to the fireplace and snatched up the shovel. sheila shrieked and disappeared into the storm and the night. epilogue two years later, of a sunny morning in april, the carriage of hyman groll transported him to the familiar street where the jefferson market court casts the shadow of its crushing tyranny over the little meannesses of the opposite row of lawyers' offices. the carriage according to orders drew up near the entrance from which presently the court at the close of the morning session would issue, while groll, with a glance at his watch, leaned from the window, as though expecting again to see the glass window with its gilt display: hyman groll and alonzo bofinger _attorneys at law._ on the threshold of putting into operation his vast scheme for controlling the tribute on vice throughout the city, he had arrived at last to that knowledge of human destinies which even in men of the most practical sense must awaken a power of imagination, if only it begins with self-contemplation. the sordid street filled him with horror. in the grubbing days he had never flinched in the confidence of his destiny. to-day he shuddered at the memory of his former faith, trembling for a quick moment at the possibilities which had never daunted his stubborn beginnings,--an emotion the more poignant now that he looked back over the yawning chasm. he frowned, stiffened and withdrew into the back of the carriage so as to be concealed from the sidewalk. at this moment the doors opened and the steps were covered with the outflow of the court. with pursed lips he followed the crowd. some he knew of person--all by intuition;--the crooks, the flashy women, the sleek swindlers come to study the ways of the new magistrate and the pleas that avail. the shabby and the tawdry misery dwindled away. several policemen hurried away to luncheon; a late clerk scurried off. then after an interval alonzo bofinger, guffawing with two reporters, slouched down the steps and hung himself over the railing, giving and taking banter with that false laughter which is fanned only from the lungs. of the once flashing dandy nought remained, not even the bloom of the amazing vests. he had grown quite puffy in the throat and the legs and under the bulbous waistcoat, quite lumpy and neglectful of his dress. the creases were no longer defined in the trousers, while over the shoulders the wrinkles ran with impunity. the reporters rolled away arm in arm. the laughter faded from alonzo bofinger's face and it seemed suddenly to age. he drew a cigar and eyed it in indecision before fumbling in the shabby pockets. finding no match, he started to pocket the cigar, changed his mind, placed it languidly in his mouth, shoved back his hat and stared on the sidewalk in heavy lassitude. hyman groll, opening the door of the carriage, called energetically: "alonzo--eh, alonzo!" at the sight of his old partner bofinger started up with a flush of embarrassment which disappeared in the precipitate obsequiousness with which he hastened to the carriage. "you were waiting for some one?" groll said with a slight, amicable nod. "never mind, jump in." bofinger complied quickly, concealing the cheap cigar in his pocket with a sly movement groll did not fail to perceive. the carriage rolled away. without preliminaries groll said: "bo, sheila's dead." bofinger dropped the hand he was raising to his collar, shifted in his seat and said faintly: "when?" "last night." "where?" "bellevue." "here!" "yes." "were there--" "you're all right, there were no debts." "i wouldn't have paid them," he said, in his agitation drawing out the cigar from his pocket. "you lost track of her after the night you turned her out?" groll said, offering him a light. bofinger frowned, shrugged his shoulders and leaned towards the window. "and didn't care to--i understand. well, she was picked up the next morning half frozen," groll said, glancing at him, "out of her head,--two months at the charities. after that she got a place in a traveling circus. she hung on as long as she could. she died of quick consumption." his companion, who had gradually turned towards him, frowned in perplexity and asked: "how do you know?" "i was interested in the case," groll answered carefully. "and fargus, do you know what became of him?" bofinger took a sudden deep breath and turned again to the window with the involuntary distaste of one who wishes to avoid the resurrection of a disagreeable memory. the movement told all to his companion, the bitterness, the humiliation, and the never-ending sting. "what! haven't you any curiosity," he persisted. "no," bofinger said without looking at him, "i don't care to hear either. all that is over. i botched the job--i got what i deserved." "you did not understand him," groll answered. "he was crazy--mad," bofinger said bitterly. "we call mad what we can't understand," groll objected slowly. "so you don't care what became of him?" "i do not." "he died three weeks after his appearance in the court." "who told you that?" "i was interested in the case," groll repeated softly. this time bofinger remained blankly staring at him, struck by a dawning comprehension. all at once, forgetting the distance between them, he seized his partner by the collar crying: "what do you mean? what had you to do with all that?" "everything," groll said calmly. "take your hand off and quiet down. i am going to tell you all." "you--great god, it was you!" "right, me, your partner whom you deceived." an oath shrieked out and bofinger, dropping his hold, sank back in the limpness of despair. "my time is valuable, let me get at this," groll said coldly, abandoning the familiar tone. then quickly he recounted the circumstances of fargus's discovery of bofinger's conspiracy. "yes, it was to me he came for his vengeance," he said, gazing at his companion who remained as in a stupor. "the idea was like him--to strike you by the hand of your partner--whom you thought you were deceiving. not a bad idea that." "you planned out that business in mexico!" bofinger cried hoarsely. "an ordinary vengeance," groll said, nodding, "would have meant nothing to him. i had to find him something that would not only bankrupt you both but crush out of you all youth, ambition, and hope. more--fargus wished not only all that made life blotted out, but that life itself should be the most unendurable thing to you both. he succeeded. he knew it--strange man! he died happy." "and he--where was he all that time," bofinger said dully. "he--he lay hidden in the safest place in the world," groll said, looking out at the city with a smile full of malice. "max fargus, from the time you began to hunt him high and low--during the whole seven years remained quietly and safely in the house opposite to sheila." "impossible!" bofinger cried in horror. "the most possible thing in the world," groll answered. "do you know the face of one of your neighbors? i don't." "ah, you were well paid for all that!" bofinger murmured, clenching his fists. "of course--of course, naturally. his whole fortune has passed to me." bofinger, beside himself with rage, flung himself on the hunchback, crying: "and if i strangle you, you scoundrel!" "my dear bo," groll said calmly, "open murder fortunately is a transgression we lawyers avoid by instinct. besides, it is not me you want to throttle but your own fate. what have i done that you wouldn't do if you had the opportunity? there, return to your side and don't make me call for help." bofinger gradually released his hold, sunk back and covered his eyes with his hand. at the end of a moment he said pleadingly: "you're right. i have no kick comin'. you'll do something for me, hyman?" groll puffed away on the cigar he had not ceased to smoke before answering decisively: "no." "why not?" "i promised him." "well, what?" bofinger said coaxingly. "you ain't going to talk to me of promises and honor--come now!" "just that," groll answered with a nod. "you won't understand. it's a superstition--so be it. but i owe what i am and what i'm going to be to max fargus. i shall do what i promised him." "he's dead." "it's not him i'm thinking of--it's myself--it's a superstition. i'd be afraid to do otherwise, i have that in me. besides, i liked him." "you won't do anything, then?" "no." "honest?" "yes." "what was the use of telling me, then?" "i promised him to do so, as soon as sheila was gone." "why not before?" "there might have been complications." "and do you think me such a fool that i don't know what to do now?" bofinger cried suddenly. "a third of the estate belongs to sheila as her dower right." "and you would bring suit to recover that?" groll said. the carriage had come to a stop before an office building on union square. "i get out here. one moment, are you quite sure that sheila ever was the wife of max fargus?" "what do you mean," bofinger cried, halting with one foot on the sidewalk,--aghast at the thought. "i think, my dear bofinger," groll said maliciously, "that a contract of marriage exists between you and sheila--" "trickery!" "but very difficult to explain away. you have the contract?" "it is destroyed." "you are sure?" "yes." "my dear fellow," groll said suavely, "that contract was in my possession three hours after you had told me of it." "you stole it, then,--you!" "i do not object to the word," groll said. "you see i was careful to protect myself at every point before telling you these things. moreover, i have the death-bed statement of sheila herself. she at least believed it a marriage. a little reflection, i think, will show you the danger of your position." bofinger looked at the ground as a child does in the sudden lust of murder. "will you go back in the carriage," groll said politely. "no!" "you are foolish to take it so hard," groll said with a shrug. "i have stirred up a mess of nasty memories and you imagine you are the bofinger of ten years ago. you are not. you will suffer an hour or so and then you will forget. do you know what is the best thing to do? get into my carriage and drive back. make an impression on your clients. call out, when you get back, 'mr. hyman groll wants you at his office.' then you'll get a reputation as a man of influence. get into the carriage and for twenty minutes imagine yourself its master. here, smoke these--they're good ones." he drew a couple of cigars and held them out gravely to bofinger, who at the end of a moment took them, looking on the ground, and entered the carriage. "hyman, you'll do something for me?" he said gently. "i won't give you a cent," groll said, "but i may have need of you some day." he shut the door and called to the coachman, "jefferson market court!" when the carriage turned, bofinger was holding his head in his hands. "ugh!" groll said to himself, gazing after him with a somber glance, "and i might have been like that!" he remained still, shuddering at the thought which bofinger's abjection had called up; as in another's death what we weep for is often the imminence of our own. two or three persons found the situation unusual enough to turn and glance back. advertisements katrina by roy rolfe gilson author of "in the morning glow" with illustrations in color by alice barber stephens. crown, vo. $ . the subtlety and charm of mr. gilson's stories reach their highest point in this book. larry, the newspaper man, humorous, kindly, homely, lives over again the romance of his younger days in the little daughter of the woman he lost. upon this slightly suggested theme mr. gilson builds one of his most charming stories, full of the humor and the tenderness which mark all of his work. the illustrations by mrs. stephens deserve an especial word, for the extraordinary sympathy with which they depict the charm of mr. gilson's characters. the baker & taylor co. - east th street, new york power lot by sarah p. mclean greene _author of "cape cod folks," "vesty of the basins," "deacon lysander."_ mo illustrated $ . in this volume mrs. greene returns to the quaint, strong characters of the sea coast, but this time it is in nova scotia that she has laid her story. the tale is of a dissolute city lad set down penniless in the sombre life of power lot--"power lot god help us" it is called in that section--a little fishing village set on the rough, wild coast, where the characters have the breadth of the magnificent view which surrounds them, and a quaint idea of life, which is altogether fascinating. the story of the development of this lad in the hard work and struggle for his very living, and of the pathetic and humorous incidents which befell him, is done in mrs. greene's best style, and is perhaps the strongest and most entertaining book she has written. the baker & taylor co. - east th st., new york hazel of heatherland by mabel barnes-grundy $ . truly a tale of most exceptional humour and charm--a most captivating and refreshing story. how england received hazel: punch.--"the baron has great pleasure in recommending hazel to all and sundry. there is in this story an originality of idea and a freshness of treatment that will rivet the attention of the most jaded novel-reader." pall mall gazette.--"in _hazel of heatherland_, miss mabel barnes-grundy presents the story of a very charming country girl. in the quiet humours of home life, in the antithesis of severe and buoyant character of familiar types, and in that ingenuous raillery for which an alert and good-tempered disposition can find so much opportunity, the novel is entirely agreeable. a very pretty love story, tinctured with humour, runs through the book, and any reader who fails to enjoy it may be dismissed as a hopeless frump." the baker & taylor co., publishers - east th st., union sq. north, new york folly by edith rickert _author of "the reaper"_ illustrated in color by sigismond de ivanowski $ . "folly" is a two-edged title--at the same time both the nickname of the charming, high-spirited heroine and the keynote of her life's actions. the story of folly's temptation and its disaster, of the man she married and the "other man" whom she loved, are told with a delicacy and subtle force which fulfill the extravagant prophecies made upon publication of "the reaper." to competent observers of tides in modern popular fiction "folly" embodies, in its artistic and thoroughly interesting handling of a great theme, the essence of present-day literary tendencies. it is a strong story, yet its problem is handled with great delicacy, so that it is, in fact, spiritual where many writers would have made it gross. the baker & taylor co., publishers - east th st., union sq. north, new york community property by alfred coppel _the first successful non-terrestrial divorce case! fame for legal eagle jose obanion for his generalship of a three-sexed, five venusian history-shattering precedent! habits are habits but--alas!--on venus they differ...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] one of these days an embittered lawyer is going to write a text on the effects of spaceflight on the divorce laws. this writer will be a terrie, about five ten, with blue eyes, black hair--turning grey very fast, and the unlikely name of jose weinberg obanion iii. me. i remember very well the day i was graduated from law school; the day my father gave me his version of the obanion credo. _always remember you live in a community property state--_ that simple phrase has kept three generations of obanions in the divorce trade. and only i have had cause to regret it. basically, i suppose, my troubles began the day the subversive party swept the joe macs out of congress and repealed the alien restriction act of . that bit of log-rolling gave the franchise to almost all resident aliens and resulted in a situation virtually destroying the sanctity of divorce as an institution. i'm a joe mac myself--politically, i mean. obanions have been voting the joe mac party ticket for more than a hundred years. red is our color. there are even family legends that say an obanion was with the first joe mac when he became president of that old unit the euse of aay. we have to rely on legends, unfortunately, because the joe mac party traditionally fed their rally bonfires with books, and when they won the election and took over the euse of aay they had a rally to end all rallies and somehow the government archives--books, you see, as well as punch cards and the like--got taken over by some very zealous party men. the records were always rather incomplete after that. only word of mouth information was available during that first joe mac administration, and that can be sketchy. for example, the party color is red. all we know is that first joe macs had something to do with red. you see how it goes. what i mean by all this, is that i can see the faults in my own party. i'm no diehard. nor am i a bad loser. the subs won control of congress by a landslide, so i guess the people wanted that sort of slipshod government. only they should have been more careful, dammit, when they started tampering with the laws. i'm not antispacegook, either. i have my framed legal eagle's oath right over my desk and i live up to it. and if congress sees fit to make any tmm, dccck, or harry a citizen of our great commonwealth--i account it my duty to see to it that they are not denied the benefits of our terrestrial divorce laws. but sometimes it can be _very_ trying. the new sub administration and their rash repeal of joe mac laws has had the effect of putting reverse english on the obanion credo. _always remember you live in a community property state...._ that wonderful phrase that encompasses so many great truths--that ringing statement that has made me rich and kept me a bachelor--now means something else. confusion. work. yes, and even spacegook depravity. * * * * * i should go back and pick up the story at the beginning before i get too upset. my name, as i said before, is jose obanion. i'm a licensed legal eagle, specializing in divorce law--and doing well at it. i have a good office on the th floor of the needle building, a damned fine address and a comfortable lay-out, too. a whole room to myself, a private visor service to the municipal law library, and a lap-desk for my secretary, thais orlof. on the day it began i was walking to work from the tubeway station and feeling rather pleased with myself. my income was high and steady, my protein ration account was in good shape and i was doing my bit as a civilized terrestrial. the morning was remarkably clear. you could make out the disc of the sun quite nicely through the smog, and there was a smogbow gleaming with carbon particles in the sky. i felt alert, expectant. something big was going to happen to me. i could feel it. even in the go-to-work press of people on montgomery street, i didn't get shocked once. that's the way my luck was running. and three characters brushed against me and got nipped by my new keep-a-way. there's been talk about making keep-a-ways illegal. just the sort of infringement on personal liberty the subversives are famous for. inconsistent, too. they pass laws letting every spacegook in the universe come here to live and then talk about taking away one of the things that makes the crowding bearable. i made a point of arriving at the office a little early, hoping to catch thais in the act of coming in late. my secretary was a hard girl to dock, but i never stopped trying. it was a game we played. if she came in late, i would be justified in docking a protein credit off her pay for every thirty seconds of office time she wasted. so far i had managed to keep her pay low enough so she couldn't think of leaving my employ--though she was earning a few prots on the side by acting as correspondent in divorce cases that couldn't be settled by collusion court and actually had to be tried before a judge and jury. thais and i were still haggling over the price of her services as part-time mistress, too. i couldn't see giving her her asking price, which was half again the regular market price. thais knew the value of a prot, all right. and of an erg, too. "take care of the ergs," she would say, looking at me meaningfully, "and the prots will take care of themselves." thais was a devout ben franklinist and she was full of aphorisms like that. i settled myself into my lowfer and glanced over the desk calendar. a full, profitable day ahead. tremmy jessup and his new fiancee were coming in at to sign the premarital divorce settlement. a wise couple, i thought approvingly. save a lot of trouble later. at truncott vs truncott and truncott. a multiple divorce case with two women involved. very lucrative sort of case. and then at gleda warick was coming in to have me validate her interlocutory decree. a formality. but i hoped to take her to lunch at the palace where they were advertising a five ounce portion of genuine horsemeat on their five prot dinner. that sort of thing would impress gleda and i rather hoped for great things from her. not only that, she was spending , prots yearly on divorces. no franklinist, she. it still lacked a minute to the hour so i switched on the tv to catch honest pancho's commercial. pancho was my most active competitor and he cost me plenty, but i couldn't suppress a grudging admiration of his enterprise. he had lyra yves doing his stuff for him, and anyone as socko as lyra was dangerous. sweetheart of the western hemisphere is the way she was billed, and her agent wasn't exaggerating too much. lyra was singing his come-on backed by a quartet humming a steady whap rhythm and doing a slow twitch. the lights were playing her daring costume big, accenting the fact that she had one breast almost covered. i frowned. how come the league of decency let her get away with anything as suggestive as an opaque breast covering. pancho must have friends in the censor's office. it was just another sign of the increasing degeneracy of our times. soon entertainers would be appearing clothed from head to foot, exploiting the erotic stimulation of imagination. "--whap me slap me baby doll," lyra was singing. "beat my head against the wall--lover, i don't care at all at all--_whap!_ honest pancho's on the ball!" now the announcer cut in with his insinuating voice explaining how you could get your divorces quicker, cheaper and twice as funny at honest pancho's big splitzmart in the flatiron building, as well as his legal eaglery just down from the county courthouse. "--yes, friends--two big locations to serve you. come in and see honest pancho today!" and then lyra again: "whap! honest pancho's on the baaalll! whap!" she faded doing a sinuous twitch. i turned the tv off feeling a little worse than when i turned it on. maybe, i thought, i've been too conservative. maybe _i'd_ better get on the baaaalll, too. or else. i shrugged the thought aside just as thais slipped through the door--exactly on time. i watched her strip off her smog mask and cinder cape--on office time--and place them carefully in the sterilizer. she was very careful not to smear the paint that was most of what she wore. i tapped a nokanse alight and inhaled deeply. "good morning, thais," i said. "whap!" she said in return. "i heard the tv all the way down the hall." she pulled a lowfer out of the wall and settled down with her lap-desk across her knees. the tip of one sandal was just brushing my shin. the office, unfortunately, could have been bigger, but with sixteen million people living in the city, space was rather costly even for a man with a better than average prot account. "new paint?" i asked. she smiled brilliantly at me. "nice of you to notice, boss." she fumbled in the pockets of the belt around her naked, cerise-painted middle and took out her pad and stylus. "on time and ready for work," she said. "a calorie saved is a calorie earned." but now, somehow, i didn't feel like attacking the day's schedule. not quite yet. pancho's commercial had disturbed me. "thais," i said. "i wonder if i'm--well, slowing down--" "you, boss?" she fluffed her green-tinted hair provocatively and raised an eyebrow at me. "i wouldn't say so." "i don't mean that way," i said. "i mean professionally. i wonder if i shouldn't seek wider horizons." "new cases? _different_ cases? give up divorce work? oh, _boss_!" "not give it up, thais. not that. i couldn't. divorce is my life. could a doctor give up healing? could a freudist give up lobotomy? no, i didn't mean that. frankly, i meant should i get more aggressive. go out and get cases that would have a certain advertising value." i didn't want to say i didn't feel like spending good protein on the sort of advertising pancho and some of the other legal eagles, an unethical lot really, were buying. besides, we obanions have always been rather frugal. thais' face had come radiantly alive. "oh, _joe_--" now, that should have been a tip-off, because she _never_ called me anything but boss. but i blundered right ahead because she was looking at me as though i were clarence darrow or somebody. "i have a case. a _real_ case. if you would--if you only _would_ take it, you'd be famous. more famous, that is. you'd be _really_ famous." i knew that thais had some rather questionable friends, being a franklinist and all. and i knew too that some of them were spacegooks. but the combination of lyra singing for pancho and the way thais was looking at me made me get careless. "tell me about it," i said in my best legal manner. her face fell. "non-terrestrial." and then she brightened. "but that's the whole point. these people are citizens of terra now ... and _think of it_--_you_ will be the very first legal eagle to represent them in a divorce case tried under our laws." _under our laws._ oh, i should have known. but almost all law is precedent. and i was blinded by trying a case that would _set_ a precedent instead of follow one. heaven help me, i said yes. "where are these spacegooks from? and what time can they be in the office tomorrow?" "the llagoe islands on venus," she said excitedly. "and they can be here anytime you say." "okay, ten hundred sharp. what do they do and how many people are involved?" "they're musicians. and, uh, there are three. and two correspondents." she looked rather sheepishly at me as i raised my eyebrows and commented that even in this day and age of easy morality that was quite a number of 'people' to be involved in one divorce case. too many, in fact. "well, they _are_ subject to our laws," she said doubtfully. "indeed they are--thanks to a subversive congress." i made a few notations on my desk pad. "five of them, eh? a multiple marriage." thais' voice was very low. "well, no. not exactly." "what then?" she looked at me resignedly. "three sexes," she said. * * * * * i gave up my luncheon with gleda; as much as i should have liked to split a five prot pony steak with her. instead of the palace, i went to the library. the _public_ library. and read about venerians. what i found out was interesting--and a little frightening, too. they were trisexual symbiotes. and they were only remotely humanoid. there were very few of them on terra--mainly because they relished their own planet's formaldehyde atmosphere so much they were extremely reluctant to leave it. when they did, ... and this really interested me--they generally became very wealthy as entertainers. they were accomplished musicians and--of all things--tumblers. for reasons that were only hinted at in the staid _encyclopedia terrestria_, venerians never entertained through the mass media such as the livies or tv. their stuff was limited to small, elite gatherings and it cost plenty. i thought of gleda warick and the party she was planning for later in the week. she'd asked me to be alert for some good entertainment. her friends were getting weary of games like lizzie borden and clobber. too many people getting hurt and all. venerian tumblers and minisingers would be just the thing. and it would assure solvency on the part of my clients-to-be. part of the legal eagle's oath binds us to be concerned over our customer's finances. the next morning, promptly at ten hundred, i was treated to the first sight of my clients. their names didn't transliterate into anything remotely pronounceable, so they were going by the names of vivian, jean and clare jones. after the first shock of seeing them wore off, i wrote on my pad: "names used by humans of both genders. significant." they spoke english, the current _lingua franca_, with only a trace of a sibilant accent and they smelled of formaldehyde. i explained their rights under our divorce laws. did the best i could, that is, not being quite sure who was married to whom and under what conditions their marriage functioned--if at all. finally i said, "tell me all about it." clare, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group and therefore assumed, in my mind, a male gender, waved a boneless arm excitedly. "had we known we were becoming subject to your terrestrial laws by residing here we would never have remained. our situation is desperate." i wrote on my pad: "situation desperate." "yes," hissed vivian breathlessly. "desperate." i underlined _desperate_. "we are, as you may know," clare continued giving vivian a dark look, "trisexual symbiotes. you do not have any analogous situation among mammals on terra." i glanced at thais. "we sure haven't," she said with feeling. "but it sounds _fabulous_." "it is not, i assure you," clare said running a four-fingered hand over his scaly crest in what i took to be a venerian gesture of distraction. "we are not _married_ as you people understand the term--" "not married," i wrote, underscoring it heavily. "but your law enforcement agencies insist that our symbiosis is analogous to marriage and therefore subject to the regulations governing that odd institution." "what a bore," thais said helpfully. "our problem is this. the three of us live in what you might roughly call a connubial state. we--what is your word?--co-inhabit?--" "that's close," i said. "we live together, that is. but more than eroticism is involved, i assure you." "of course." now it began to sound like most of my other cases and i could get my teeth into it. "you seem doubtful," the venerian said with a sharp-toothed frown. "let me reiterate that what i say is so. the three of us have spent a _ygith_ together--that is more than fourteen of your long years. but now the _ygith_ is over and we must seek another--how would you say it?--liaison?" "this is essential?" i asked. "not just a whim?" it is, you see, the duty of a legal eagle to make every effort to save a marriage. in view of the circumstances, i felt that surely this was a marriage unique and therefore _worth_ saving. "no whim," declared clare emphatically. "each _ygith_--or what you terrestrials would call 'mating period'--we must uh--realign. if we do not, deleterious effects are certain. our health goes bad. we may even die." "my friends," i said, "you have very little to worry about. there are many similar cases here on terra. just last week, for example, a divorce was granted in the case of nork vs. nork wherein it was established that the plaintiff, mr. nork was allergic to _mrs._ nork. a simple case, and not the first of its kind. i myself tried one such case wherein a wife broke out in a rash whenever her husband sought to question her about the household expenses. a divorce was granted on the grounds of basic incompatibility." "ah," clare said sadly. "if it were only that simple. our two correspondents, gail and evelyn, are ready to enter the realignment. but--" and here the venerian glared at the smallest of the trio. "_this_ ungrateful wretch is unwilling to adjust to the changed circumstances." great tears formed in jean's slotted eyes. "how can you speak that way to me? after we've been through so much together?" "now, now--" thais, who has a very soft heart, patted jean in an effort to make he she or it feel better. "get to the point, clare," vivian said testily. "it is our understanding that property held in joint tenancy by two contesting parties in a divorce case may be distributed at the discretion of the court." "that's correct," i said. "we contend, therefore, that jean--" clare pointed a scaly finger at the small venerian, "is community property. vivian's and mine. we wish to make an agreement between us for the disposal of it--" "wait a _minute_," i said, shocked. "i don't think you understand the community property laws at all. jean is, by definition, a person. a person cannot be considered property or chattel. oh, no--" the small venerian made a face at them. "i told you you couldn't get away with it," she said. "this isn't venus, you know." "on venus you would be property," declared vivian. and to me, he--she--i still get confused about this--added: "my sex was emancipated thirty _ygiths_ ago at home. but jean's is still considered--what did you call it?--chattel. no vote. no rights. nothing but symbiosis." "and clare's is still the--uh--dominant one?" i asked hesitantly. "that's the myth that's perpetrated," clare declared acidly. "we _guths_ do most of the work, if that means anything." i wrote on my pad: "guths--breadwinners." "and who--well, forgive my indelicacy, but--" i shrugged mundanely, "who bears the children?" "we all do," the three venerians chorused at once. well, that's the way the interview went. when the three venerians finally left i had a rough outline for the brief on my pad. besides the other comments, i had the following information: re jones and jones vs jones, trsex smbytes!! see ency clare--guth } terrestria vivian--warth } pp , jean--ith } vol , ed jean--community property? no. not under terr law see us vs ignatz wolk . what then? correspondents: evelyn (guth) gail (warth) any overt acts of infidelity? probable. no proof. only obstacle: jean. must reach agreement. important: plaintiffs and defendant or defendants and plaintiff not solvent. must arrange something. see gleda. and see gleda i did. i asked her if she could use not two, not three, but five venerian entertainers. she could and would. at , prots a head for an hour's entertainment. that took care of that much, anyway. i was, i felt, well on the road to making legal history. * * * * * the following day i made arrangements to meet jean alone in a little bistro down on the embarcadero. i felt the salt water air would make her-it feel more co-operative. but on the way down i became aware of someone following me. cinder-caped and smog-masked, the tail i was dragging was inconspicuous enough, but i figured the thing about right. it was a government man. there could be only one answer. honest pancho had tipped the tbi that i was doing something illegal or immoral. i was an active joe mac and that would be enough to put the witch hunt division of tbi on me even without pancho getting wind of my dealings with the spacegooks. the gimmick would be, of course, that i was taking advantage of them, violating their rights under the v amendment of the world constitution. pure falsehood, but my previous unwise political affiliations put me under suspicion. i looked up through the smog, and sure enough. an eyespy hung in the air just over my head--a tiny transmitter about as big as a half erg piece. if i spit on the sidewalk, i thought, they'll haul me in on the double. this was bad enough, but when and if i actually got the venerians an interlocutory decree, i'd really have to watch it--and them, to see that nothing went wrong. the wh boys would have pancho right at their shoulder watching for the slightest excuse to invalidate the decree. i could get used to the eyespy, and i thought i could convince jean. and above all, i had to keep the venerians from anything like sexual activity during the two day period of the decree. nothing--but nothing--will invalidate a decree quicker than _that_. and an invalidated decree is very bad for a legal eagle's reputation. i was, i thought darkly, getting into this thing deeper than i thought. but the rewards would be worth it. think of it. to legal eagle the _first_ extraterrestrial divorce case in the history of the world! holy protein, i'd be in song and story. i made my way through the press of people on the slidewalks, my keep-a-way crackling a jolly tune, and the eyespy hovering over my head. san francisco is a wonderful place. full of excitement and bustle. it's a port of entry, for one thing, with starliners letting down into the bay from all over the solar system. on the embarcadero there were sandies from mars, rooks from the jovian system--every sort of spacegook there is. except venerians. and mingled with the crowd i could make out the distinctive cinder capes of the longshoremen--absolute rulers of the district. the bistro i was looking for was a floating platform moored to the ancient wharves, the ones that were left after the tidal wave caused by the bomb back in ' . it was a nautilus type joint, most of it under water, called the deep six. an attendant took my cape and smog mask at the door and bowed me along to the maitre d'. "a table, sir?" he clapped his hands for a waiter. "may i order you something? a morphine syrette? phenobarb? we have a particularly fine aphrodisiac cocktail, sir. or shall i just send the hostess to you and you can order later?" i eyed the line up of girls regretfully. they were all lovely, all almost fully clothed--and what flesh was exposed was completely unpainted. if thais looked like that, i thought sadly, i wouldn't haggle about her price. but that was sheer depravity, i told myself sternly. that's what comes of associating with triple sexed spacegooks--i was here on business. not pleasure. "i'm meeting someone," i said. "a spaceg--a venerian uh--lady. miss jones." the maitre shrugged. "everyone to his taste. the person you wish is at the corner table, sir. near the window." and sure enough, there was jean, her crest waving agitatedly as she pressed her three nostrilled nose against the glass watching the sandsharks swimming gracefully among the mossy pilings outside. "oh, joe--just like _home_," she hissed softly as i sat down. she was very strong of formaldehyde today, i thought. i didn't quite know how to begin with her. i had to make her see reason, but she seemed to be unwilling to pay any attention to me at all except to comment that clare and vivian were very cruel to her. "and after i've given them the best ygith of my life." then she returned to her melancholy contemplation of the underseascape beyond the glass. i ordered an alkie-and-treacle and sipped it thoughtfully watching jean. an amber tear had formed in the outer corner of each slotted eye and was oozing gelatinously down her pale green cheeks. it was like someone turning on a light in my brain. the answer was plain as day. jean was homesick. miserable. and a miserable woman--or man--or--well, does it matter?--a miserable _person_ was always contrary. remove the misery and _voila_--gentle as a lamb. "jean," i said, "this case is important to me. you must help me get the decree. if you do--i'll do something nice for you." over my head the eyespy clucked reproachfully, but i ignored it. "agree to the divorce. we can settle it in collusion court. and i'll see to it you get passage back to venus on the first available starliner. how's that?" "back to venus? back home?" her eyes gleamed redly. "that's a promise," i said. this would cost me plenty of prots, but the fame would be worth it. you can see how far gone i was on this case. "just one thing," i added thoughtfully. "what will become of the rest _after_ the divorce? i mean, can two of each sex get along without a third? it sounds, well, almost unvenerian, if you know what i mean." "the mating wouldn't be a very high-type experience," jean said loftily, "without an _ith_--but it can take place. it's just the sort of disgusting business you could expect from people like clare and vivian. and those _other_ two--_well_--you haven't met them, but really--" "then you'll do as i ask?" jean waved her crest at me seductively. "joe obanion, you're really very nice." i backed away and swallowed hard as jean laid a slick, webbed hand on my wrist. "how about it? agreed?" "you know," jean said dreamily, "you remind me of a _warth_ i used to know back home. he and i and a really divine _guth_ called charlie had the most marvelous _ygith_ together. i wonder if he remembers little me--?" "i'm sure he does. how could she forget you?" i asked warily. jean blinked her slotted eyes at me and her thin lips split into a tusky smile. "you say the nicest things, joe. yes, baby, i'll do as you ask. i won't contest the divorce." "jean," i said with feeling, "you'll never regret this." and the eyespy clucked disapprovingly. drop dead, pancho, i thought. drop dead twice. i had made it. * * * * * gleda warick's house--mansion, really, lay sprawled over most of the twin peaks area. from her lunar room you could see the whole of the city stretched out as if for inspection. to the east, the bay and the floating housing developments, wharves and night spots on and under the water. to the west the transocean highways, ribbons of plastic floating on the still pacific. no one could afford to run ships now and almost all surface commerce was run over the highways in caravans of atomic trucks. to the orient, to alaska, to the pacific islands. a steady string of lights moving at two hundred miles per hour. rocket trails streaked the sky as starliners splashed into the bay and burbled to the surface, hissing and steaming. market street--all seven levels of it--ran from the base of the hills to the bay, a multilevel slidway jammed with people. the view from gleda's place was magnificent because of the infra-red antismog windows she had installed in the lunar room at a cost, incidentally, of , prots. she had three rooms and a kitchenette. you entered her place and almost had an attack of agoraphobia. it was that big. the place was overrun with people. i'd brought thais, of course, resplendent in red and silver paint. lyra yves appeared in a solid coat of gilt, with that one breast and her left arm sheathed in flexible vinyl. thais nudged me. "look at that. i think it's disgusting." i did look. i couldn't help myself. that shiny vinyl caught the eye of every man in the room. "depraved," thais sniffed. honest pancho came in with an older man who was pointed out to me as an ethnologist from the university of california across the bay. a professor cripps. pancho, dressed in his customary green and orange enamel and embroidered cowboy boots, stumped across the room to give me the big hello. "jose, my boy! good to see you...." he glanced up at the eyespy. "trouble with the witch hunters? tsk tsk--" "as if you didn't know," i snapped. "you think i'd do a thing like that to a _friend_?" "yes." he grinned a big toothy smile at me. "as a matter of fact, you're right. i hear you've got a big case. non-terrie. worth a lot to a legal eagle to be the first with a non-terrie case--" "you're too late, you vulture," i said. "interlocutory decree granted." i tapped my pouch. "right here." he shrugged. "hope nothing happens to void it, old sport." he winked at his silent companion, the staid and seemingly dumb professor. he turned back to me. "sorry. should have introduced you. prof cripps--this is my friend and competitor, jose obanion." "pleased," the professor said, looking fearfully at the government eyespy over my head. his fingers went automatically to the engraved tablet he wore on a chain round his neck--a validated loyalty oath--as though to show the unseen tbi observers he wasn't _really_ a friend of this joe mac's. "the prof," honest pancho said softly, "is a specialist in venerian ethnology. he'd like to meet your clients." that gave me a start. "he'll meet them. they're going to sing tonight." the professor's eyes widened. they looked shocked in his yellow painted face. "and dance?" i smirked happily at pancho. "and dance. at , prots each." if pancho had any reply for that, i don't know, for gleda came in. she was wearing her hair blue and she wore a really striking pattern of iridescent blue paint with a double snake pattern coiling up her legs and torso. the party got under way very quickly. gleda supplied the alkie and treacle and everyone nibbled their own synthetic protein out of their pouches. the combination soon had an hilarious effect on the gathering and a couple that i didn't know, a boy and girl in particolored green and blue, starting throwing small articles of furniture at the eyespy over my head. couldn't hurt the eye, of course, but i was kept pretty busy dodging. then thais suggested a quick game of clobber. i must confess, not without satisfaction, that i cheated a little and peeked through the bandage so i could land a real lulu on pancho's long pointed nose. when gleda stopped the bleeding and he was on his feet, someone asked lyra for a song and the cry was taken up by all. i caught a glimpse of the five venerians' round eyes peering at us out of the kitchenette. but gleda was saving them for the last--the _piece de resistance_. lyra tore down a drapery and staggering a bit from two or three too many alkie-and-treacles, wrapped herself in it from head to foot. there was a shocked sort of gasp from the watchers. professor cripps turned red under his yellow paint. gleda put a tape on the musikall and lyra went into her act. i've never seen anything like it. swaying like a cobra, her bare feet pounding out the beat on the plastic floor, she raised the temperature about ten degrees in that room. her green painted lips twisted in agony, her eyes rolled in the chromatic mask of her face. an old folk tune--not the sort of thing she generally did. something that really tore at the heartstrings. a song that dated centuries back. history and the sense of our way of life lived in that room for a few short moments. her voice was a blood-stirring trumpet-- "mairzy doats and lammsy doats and little kiddsie divy-- a kiddlee tivy tooo wouldn't you--?" when it was over, there was a breathless hush in the room. i wondered where in the world gleda had gotten that musikall tape--it had probably cost her plenty. there was only one thing, i thought, that could top that. "gleda," i said. "_now._" besides if the gooks didn't earn their prots, what about my fee? i was already losing protein on this deal. passage to venus isn't cheap. the venerians trooped in and squatted on the floor while gleda made the introductions. the room began to smell very like an embalming room must smell. "may i present clare, vivian, gail, evelyn and little jean. they're going to sing for us." cheers from the guests. i glanced triumphantly at pancho. the professor seemed fascinated. "and," added gleda archly, "they may even tumble for us." the venerians looked at one another, tittered and flushed dark green. i was glad to see they were all on friendly terms with jean. clare struck an attitude, crest erect, and waited until everyone quit shuffling around. presently, they sang. i think it was singing. very cultural. very esoteric. also very noisy. it sounded rather like they were all in pain. after what seemed to me a very long time, they grew silent. there was a smattering of discontented applause. gleda glared at me. i looked at thais in dismay. "they also dance," she said weakly. "yes," pancho said. "let's see them dance!" "by all means," gleda said, still eyeing me. "dance, fellows," i said hopefully. jean came over to me and whispered: "are you sure it will be all right?" "do you want to ruin me? dance. tumble. do something." jean shrugged and went back to where the venerians squatted. "he says dance." evelyn and gail stepped properly, i should say primly, aside and the other three began stomping about. the rhythm was infectious. the movements became more heated and shouts of approval began to ring out. "dance, gookie!" "whapperoonie!" "go go go gook!" i was delighted. so was everyone else. the dance grew more and more violent. there was a great deal of body contact in it. evelyn and gail looked longingly at the gyrating three, but kept out of it. i wondered why--never knowing that the venerians are a _very_ conventional people. pancho was delighted. so was the professor. in the middle of it, the prof raised his hands and made a signal. an earsplitting clangor broke from the eyespy. the venerians stopped. everyone stared at the eye. and at me. the professor stepped forward and flipped his loyalty oath over, it opened like a poison-ring. the engraving inside said tbi morals division. "the interlocutory decree, if you please," he commanded. stunned, i fished it out and handed it over. he glanced at it. "you realize of course that this is immediately invalidated." "_what?_" i couldn't believe my ears. "you know--as any legal eagle should know--that any re-stablishment of--uh--connubial rights abrogates an interlocutory." "of course i know that." he glanced at honest pancho and smiled. there was triumph flashing between them like a shuttlecock. "you joe macs never learn. the law is the law. what do you think your clients were just doing--and in front of a roomful of witnesses?" i felt my heart sink. "you mean--?" cripps nodded. "that?" i asked weakly. "_that_," he said, and tore up the paper. i watched my future as a legal eagle flutter down to the floor. "and i thought they were dancing," thais said sadly. * * * * * well, the story doesn't end quite there. gleda and i were arrested for running an obscene show. gleda doesn't speak to me anymore. nor do any of the people who were there that night. lyra and gleda get all their divorces at pancho's splitzmart now. it took most of my prot account to bail us out and pay our fines. thais is with me. we're married and we haven't a prot between us for a divorce, so we'll just have to _stay_ married. the venerians came out all right though. they were deported. google books (harvard college library) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=zk raaaayaaj&pg (harvard college library) the saintsbury affair [frontispiece: _as i came up, emptied a chatelaine purse upon barney's tray_. frontispiece. _see page _.] the saintsbury affair by roman doubleday author of "the hemlock avenue mystery," "the red house on rowan street," etc. with illustrations by j. v. mcfall boston little, brown, and company _copyright, , _, by little, brown, and company. ------ _all rights reserved_ published, february, _electrotyped and printed by the colonial press c. b. simonds & co., boston, u.s.a._ contents chapter i. the beginning of the tangle. ii. two lovely ladies. iii. the unexpected happens. iv. crossed wires. v. bertillon methods and some others. vi. the frat supper. vii. chiefly gossip. viii. some of jean's ways. ix. a gleam of light. x. ways that are dark. xi. the simmering samovar. xii. on the trail of diavolo. xiii. the samovar explodes. xiv. tangled heart-strings. xv. the outlaw. xvi. the gift-bond. xvii. a voice from the past. xviii. a rescue. xix. cards on the table. xx. the ultimate discovery. illustrations as i came up, his listener emptied a chatelaine purse upon barney's tray _frontispiece_ "he was diavolo's partner," he said vehemently _page_ "i believe it," said a voice that startled us all _page_ there lay a pathetic little heap on the daghestan rug on my floor _page_ the saintsbury affair chapter i the beginning of the tangle let me see where the story begins. perhaps i can date it from the telephone invitation to dinner which i received one monday from my dear and kind friend mrs. whyte. "and see that you are just as clever and agreeable as your naturally morose nature will permit," she said saucily. "i have a charming young lady here as my guest, and i want you to make a good impression." "another?" i gasped. "so soon?" "i don't wonder that your voice is choked with surprise and gratitude," she retorted, and i could see with my mind's eye how her eyebrows went up. "you _don't_ deserve it,--i'll admit that freely. but i am of a forgiving nature." "you are so near to being an angel," i interrupted, "that it gives me genuine pleasure to suffer martyrdom at your behest. i welcome the opportunity to show you how devotedly i am your slave. who is the young lady this time?" "miss katherine thurston. now if you would only talk in that way to _her_,--" "i won't," i said hastily. "at least, not until her hair is as white as yours is,--it can never be as lovely. but for your sake i will undertake to be as witty and amiable and generally delightful as i think it safe to be, having due regard for the young lady's peace of mind,--." i rang off just in time to escape the "you conceited puppy!" which i knew was panting to get on the wire. mrs. whyte's speech was at times that of an older generation. so that was how i came to go to mrs. whyte's dinner that memorable monday evening, and to meet katherine thurston. but now that i come to look at it in this historical way, i see that i shall have to begin a little farther back, or you won't understand the significance of what took place that night. i already had another engagement for that evening, but i thought i could fit the two appointments in, by getting away from mrs. whyte's by ten o'clock. under the circumstances she would forgive an early departure. my other engagement was of a peculiar and unescapable nature. it had come about in this way. there was a man in our town who had always interested me to an unusual degree, though my personal acquaintance with him was of the slightest. he was an architect, kenneth clyde by name, and he had done some of the best public buildings in the state. he had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, and was related to half a dozen of the "old families" of the town. (i am comparatively new myself. but i soon saw that clyde belonged to the inner circle of saintsbury.) and yet, with all his professional success and his social privileges, there was something about the man that expressed an excessive humility. it was not diffidence or shyness,--he had all the self-possession that goes with good breeding. but he held himself back from claiming public credit or accepting any public place, though i knew that more than once it had been pressed upon him in a way that made it difficult for him to evade it. he persistently kept himself in the background, until his desire to remain inconspicuous almost became conspicuous in turn. he was the man, for instance, who did all the work connected with the organization of our boat club, but he refused to accept any office. he was always ready to lend a hand with any public enterprise that needed pushing, but his name never figured on the committees that appeared in the newspapers. and yet, if physiognomy counts for anything, he was not born to take a back seat. he was approaching forty at this time, and in spite of his consistent modesty, he was one of the best known men in saintsbury. as i say, he had always interested me as a man out of the ordinary, and when he walked into my law office a few days before that telephone call from mrs. whyte, i was uncommonly pleased at the idea that he should have come to me for legal advice when he might have had anything he wanted from the older lawyers in town whom he had known all his life. i guessed at a glance that it was professional advice he wanted, from the curiously tense look that underlay his surface coolness. "i have come to you, mr. hilton," he said directly, "partly because you are enough of a stranger here to regard me and my perplexities in an impersonal manner, and so make it easier for me to discuss them." "yes," i said encouragingly. he had hesitated after his last words as though he found it hard to really open up the subject matter. "but that is only a part of my reason for asking you to consider my case," he went on with a certain repressed intensity. "i believe, from what i have seen of you, that you have both physical and moral courage, and that you will look at the matter as a man, as well as a lawyer." i nodded, not caring to commit myself until i understood better what he meant. "first, read this letter," he said, and laid before me a crumpled sheet which he had evidently been clutching in his hand inside of his coat pocket. it was a half sheet of ruled legal cap, and in the center was written, in a bold, well-formed hand,---- "i need $ . you may bring it to my office monday night at ten. no fooling on either side, you understand." "blackmail!" i said. clyde nodded. "what is the best way of dealing with a blackmailer?" he asked, looking at me steadily. "that may depend on circumstances," i said evasively. i felt that, as he had suggested, he was trying to appeal to my sympathies as a man rather than to my judgment as a lawyer. "i heard of one case," he said casually, "where a prominent man was approached by a blackmailer who had discovered some compromising secret, and he simply told the fellow that if he gave the story to the papers, as he threatened to do, he would shoot him and take the consequences, since life wouldn't be worth living in any event, if that story came out. i confess that course appeals to my common-sense. it is so conclusive." "i infer, however, that you didn't take that tone with this fellow when he first approached you," i said, touching the paper on my desk. "this is not his first demand." "no. the first time that it came, i was paralyzed, in a manner. i had been dreading something of that sort,--discovery, i mean,--for years. i had gone softly, to avoid notice, i had only half lived my life, i had felt each day to be a reprieve. then _he_ came,--and asked money for keeping my secret. it seemed a very easy way of escape. in a way, it made me feel safer than before. i knew now where the danger was, and how to keep it down. it was only a matter of money. i paid, and felt almost cheerful. but he came again, and again. he has grown insolent." he drew his brows together sternly as he looked at the written threat which lay before us. he did not look like a man afraid. "can you tell me the whole situation?" i asked. "if i know all the facts, i can judge better,--and you know that you speak in professional confidence." "i want to tell you," he said. "i--he knew--the fact is, i was sentenced to be hanged for a murder some fifteen years ago in texas. the sentence is still suspended over me. i escaped before it was executed." a lawyer learns not to be surprised at any confession, for the depths of human nature which are opened to his professional eye are so amazing that he becomes accustomed to strange things, but i admit that i was staggered at my client's confidence. i picked up and folded and refolded the paper before i could speak quite casually. "and no one knows that fact? your name--?" "i was known by another name at the time,--an assumed name. i'll tell you the whole story. but one word first,--i was and am innocent." he looked at me squarely but appealingly as he spoke, and suddenly i saw what the burden was which he had been carrying for fifteen years,--nearly half his life. "i believe you," i said, and unconsciously i held out my hand. he gripped it as a drowning man clutches a spar, and a dull flush swept over his face. his hand was trembling visibly as he finally drew it away, but he tried to speak lightly. "that's what i couldn't induce the judge or jury to do," he said. "let me tell you how it all came about. it was in august of . i had graduated in june,--i was twenty-three,--and before settling down to my new profession i went off on a vacation trip with a fellow i had come to know pretty well at the university during my last year there. he was not the sort of a friend i cared to introduce to my family, but there are worse fellows than poor henley was. he was merely rather wild and lawless, with an instinct for gambling which grew upon him. we went off avowedly for a lark,--to see life, henley put it. i knew his tastes well enough to guess beforehand that the society to which he would introduce me would not be creditable. the clydes are as well known in this state as bunker hill is in boston, and i felt a responsibility toward the name. so i insisted that on our travels i should be tom johnson." "i see. then when the trouble came you were known by that name instead of your own?" "yes. that's how i was able to come back here and to go on living my natural life." "that was fortunate. that situation was much easier to manage than if it had been the other way around." clyde had picked up a paper knife and was examining it with absent attention, and instead of answering my remark directly he looked up with a frank smile. "you can't imagine what it means to me to be able to talk this over with you," he said. "all these years i have carried it--here. why, it is like breathing after being half suffocated." "i understand." "you want to know the details, though," he went on more gravely. "we were together for several weeks, going from one city to another. henley had a special faculty for striking up acquaintance with picturesque rascals, and for a time i found it very interesting as well as novel. it was a side of life i had never before come close to. but gradually i couldn't help seeing that henley was helping out an uncommon knack with the cards by the tricks of a sharper. we quarrelled over it more than once, and things began to grow uncomfortable. the old irresponsible comradeship was chilled, though i didn't yet feel like cutting loose from him. one night we had been playing cards in a saloon in houston, texas,--henley and i and two men we had picked up. they were rough and ready westerners, and a sort to stand no fooling. we had all been drinking a little, but not enough to lose our heads. i saw henley make a misdeal and i told him so. he was furious, and we all but came to blows in the quarrel that followed. i left him with the others and went off by myself. that evening had finally sickened me with the swine's husks i had been eating, and i suddenly determined to quit it then and there and get back to my own life, my own name, and my own people. i walked down to the station, found that a train for the north was just about to pull out, and jumped aboard. i was an hour away from houston before i remembered something that made me change my hasty plan. i had left my bag in the room at the hotel, and though i didn't care about the clothes or the other things, there was-- well, there is no reason why i should not tell you. there was a girl's picture in an inside compartment, and some letters, and i couldn't leave them to chance. i had simply forgotten all about that matter in my angry passion, but the thought now was like a dash of cold water, bringing me to my senses. i got out of the train at the next stop,--a place called lester. it was just midnight. i found that the first train i could catch to take me back to houston would go through at five in the morning, and i walked up and down that deserted platform,--for even the station agent went off to sleep after the midnight train went through,--for five mortal hours. i had time to think things over, and to realize that i had been playing with pitch as no clyde had a right to." he paused for an instant, as though he were living the moment over, but i did not speak. i wanted him to tell the story in his own way. "i caught the five o'clock train back and was in houston soon after six. i went at once to the hotel and to my room. henley's room communicated with mine. the door between them was ajar, and i pushed it open to speak to him. he was leaning over the table, on which cards were scattered about, and he was quite dead, from a knife thrust between the shoulders." clyde had been speaking in a composed manner, like one telling an entirely impersonal tale, but at this point he paused and a look of embarrassment clouded his face. "i find it hard to explain to you or to myself why i did so foolish a thing as i did next, but i was rather shaken up by weeks of dissipation, and the racketing of the night before and my excited, sleepless night had thrown me off my balance. when i saw henley dead over the cards, i realized in a flash how bad it would look for me after my row with him in the saloon the night before. i jumped back into my own room and began stuffing my things into my bag pell-mell to make my escape." "the worst thing you could have done." "of course. and it proved so. i had left my room-door ajar, a sweeper in the halls saw my mad haste, and it made him suspicious. when i stepped out of my room, the proprietor stopped me. of course the whole thing was uncovered. i was arrested, tried for murder, and, as i told you, sentenced to be hanged." he finished grimly. his manner was studiedly unemotional. "and yet you had a perfect alibi, if you could prove it." "but i couldn't. no one knew i took that train. the train conductors were called, but neither of them remembered me. the station agent at lester, with whom i had had some conversation about the first train back, was killed by an accident the next day. the fact that i was out of houston from eleven until six was something i could not prove. and it was the one thing that would have saved me." "but neither could they prove, i take it, that you were in the hotel that night." "they tried to. the clerk testified that four men came in shortly after eleven and went up to henley's room. one of them was henley, two were strangers, and the fourth he had taken for granted to be me. my lawyer pressed him on that point, of course, and forced him to admit that he had not noticed particularly, but had assumed that it was i from the fact that he was with henley, and because he was about my size and figure. drinks had been sent up, and an hour later two of the men had quietly come down and gone out. nothing further had been heard from our room until the sweeper reported in the morning that he had seen me acting like a man distracted, through the partly open door. everything seemed to turn against me. i was bent on saving my name at any rate, so i could not be entirely open about my past history, and that prejudiced my case." "what is your own theory of the affair and of the missing third man?" i asked. "i suppose the men whom i had left with henley in the saloon had picked up a fourth man for the game and gone to henley's room. he probably tried to cheat again, and they were ready for him. one of them stabbed him. then the other two waited quietly in the room while the actual slayer walked out, to make sure that he had a clear passage, and then they followed after he had had time to disappear. they were hard-bitted men, but not thugs." "you were tried and sentenced. how did you get away?" "after the sentence, and while i was on the way back to jail, i made my escape. i have always believed that the deputy sheriff who had me in charge gave me the opportunity intentionally. certainly he fired over my head, and made a poor show at guessing my direction. i think he had doubts of the justice of the verdict and took that way of reversing the decision of the court, but of course i can never know." "then you came back here? this had been your home before?" "yes. it was the way to avoid comment. kenneth clyde was well known here, and nobody in saintsbury even heard of the trial of one tom johnson in houston. i have thought it best to go on living my life just as i should have done in any event. and i have done so, except that i have never-- but that doesn't matter." from the expression that swept over his face i guessed what the exception was. he had never dared to marry. "then this man--?" i prompted. a fleeting smile passed over clyde's face. he spoke with light cynicism. "as you say, then this man. i had almost come to believe that the past was dead and buried and that i would be justified in forgetting it myself. then this man came into my office one day, affected surprise at seeing me, called me tom johnson, and laughed in my face when i denied the name. i was panic-stricken. i bought his silence. of course he came again. as i said at the beginning, i am tired of the situation." there was a tone in his voice that would have held a warning for the blackmailer if he had heard it. "how much does the man know? do you know whether he has anything to prove his charges?" "it seems that he was in the court-house as a spectator during the trial. he didn't know me at the time, though he might, for he seems to have been in this neighborhood time and again,--at least in the state. he is a trouble man himself,--some ten years ago he shot and killed a state senator here in saintsbury. he was acquitted, because he got some friends to swear that senator benbow had made a motion as though to draw a gun, though he was found afterwards to be unarmed. but popular anger was so aroused against him, he had to leave the state, and he has drifted down stream ever since,--pretty far down, i imagine; fairly subterranean at times. all this i have found out since he forced his acquaintance upon me. i knew nothing of him before." "what is his name? where is he to be found?" "alfred barker. he has an office in the ph[oe]nix building at present. whether he has any legitimate business i do not know. he hangs out under the shingle of the western land and improvement co., but i have a feeling that that is only a cover." "a man who has lived that sort of a life is probably vulnerable," i said cheerfully. "i'll see what i can find out about him. in the meantime, i, as your attorney, will keep this appointment for you next monday evening." "i thought that would probably be your plan. but now that i have put it into your hands, i am more than half sorry i did not keep it to myself and meet him with a revolver." i shook my head. "for a burnt child, you have curiously little respect for the fire of the law." clyde had risen, and he stood looking at me with an impersonal sternness that made his eyes hard. "my life, and, what i value far more, my reputation, my name, are in that fellow's hands. and he is an unhung murderer,--his life is already forfeit." "his time will come," i said hastily. my new client looked altogether too much as though he were disposed to hurry on the slow-paced law! i could not encourage such reflections. clyde nodded, but with an absent air, as though he were following his own thoughts rather than my words, and soon took his leave. when i decided to take up the practice of the law, i had fancied, in my youthful ignorance, that it was a sort of glorified compound of a detective story and gems of oratory. i had now been at it for some years, and so far my detective instincts had been chiefly required in the search for missing authorities in the law books, and my oratorical gifts had been exercised almost exclusively on delinquent debtors who didn't want to pay their debts. you can therefore imagine that clyde's interview left me pleasantly excited. this was the real thing! this was the case i long had sought and mourned because i found it not! not for worlds would i have missed the opportunity of meeting his blackmailing correspondent. to face a rascal was no uncommon experience, unfortunately; but to face so complete and melodramatic a rascal, and to try to wrest from him some incriminating admission that would give me a controlling hold on him in my turn,--that was something that did not come often into the day's work. very much to my surprise, i found unexpected light upon the career of alfred barker not farther away than my own office. my first step was to set my clerk, adam fellows, to looking up the court and newspaper records of barker's connection with the killing of senator benbow. when i mentioned his name to fellows i saw by his sudden change of expression that i had touched some sore chord,--and if fellows had an ambition it was to conceal his feelings, moreover. "you know barker, then?" i said abruptly. "yes," he said, in a very low voice,--and i guessed in what connection. i may say here that fellows was a souvenir of my first trial case and of an early enthusiasm for humanity. one day, not long after my admission to the bar, (this was before i came to saintsbury,) the court assigned to me the defense of a young fellow who had no lawyer. he was a clerk in a city office, and was charged with embezzlement by his employers. the money had gone for race-track gambling, and he could not deny his guilt; but by bringing out the facts of his youth and his unfortunate associations, i was able to get a minimum sentence for him,--the best that could be expected under the circumstances. when his sentence expired, i was on the lookout for him, and took him into my own office as a clerk. i had nothing he could embezzle, for one thing, and the dogged stoicism with which he had met his fate interested me. besides, i knew it would be difficult for him to get work, particularly as he did not have an engaging personality. i think that in a manner he was grateful, but he never could forget that he carried the stigma of a convict, and he imagined that everyone else was remembering it also. this moodiness had grown upon him instead of wearing off. it used to make me impatient,--but it is easy enough for one whose withers are unwrung to be impatient with the galled jade's tendency to wince. "what do you know of him?" i asked. "i know that where he is, there is deviltry, but no one ever catches him," he said bitterly. "someone else will pay all right, but the law doesn't touch him." "did he get you into trouble?" i asked bluntly. "he made me believe he could make a fortune for me. he kept me going with hopes that the next time, the next time, i would win enough to square things up. it was his doing, not mine, really. but he did nothing that the law takes note of." he spoke with unusual excitement and feeling, and i didn't think any good would come of a discussion of moral responsibility at that time. "well, look up everything possible about that affair when benbow was killed," i said. "i want to see if there is anything in that which would give a hold on him." "oh, there won't be," he said, scornfully. "he plays safe. but if there is any justice in heaven, he will come a cropper some day. only it won't be by process of law. no convict stripes for _him_." "let me know as soon as you find the record," i said, turning away. his bitterness only grew if you gave it opportunity. i then took occasion to visit the ph[oe]nix building, in order to locate the office which i expected to visit the monday evening following. i wanted to know my way without wasting time. as i entered, i noticed a man standing before the building directory which hung opposite the elevators. he was a tall, athletic fellow, in clothes that suggested an engineer or fireman. his hat was pulled down over the upper part of his face, but his powerful, smooth-shaven jaw showed the peculiar blue tint of very dark men. all this i saw without consciously looking, but in a moment i had reason to notice him more closely. the elevator gate opened, and a man stepped out,--a rather shabby, untidy man, with a keen eye. he glanced at me carelessly, then his eye fell upon the tall young fellow before the bulletin board, and he smiled. he stepped up near him. "hello! you here?" he said, softly. then, deliberately, "are you married yet?" the tall fellow turned and lunged toward him, but the other ducked and slipped adroitly out of his way and ran down to the open doorway and so into the street. the tall fellow made no attempt to follow. i think that lurch toward the other had been partly the result of surprise. but not wholly. he stood now, leaning against the wall, apparently waiting for the elevator, but i saw that his two fists had not yet unclenched themselves, and his blue-black jaw was squared in a way that told of locked teeth. he jerked his hat down farther over his face as he saw me looking at him, and turned away. he was breathing hard. "can you direct me to mr. barker's office?" i asked the elevator man. "his office is in no. , second floor, but he ain't in. that was he that came down with me and went out." "oh, all right. i'll come again," i said, and turned away. the tall young fellow had gone. had he, too, come to look up mr. barker? at any rate, i should know barker when we met again. chapter ii two lovely ladies i am trying to give you this story as it opened up step by step before me and around me, not merely as i came to see it afterwards, looking backward. but of course i shall have to select my scenes. the story ran sometimes, like a cryptogram, through other events that seemed at the time to mean something entirely different, and i also did some living and working and thinking along other lines through those days. but these matters i eliminate in telling the tale. they were equally important to me at the time but now they are forgotten, and the links of the story are the only things that stand out in my memory. mrs. whyte's dinner was an important link, but before that there came another incident most significant, as i saw afterwards,--or, rather, two related incidents. there was an old beggar on the street-corner right across from my office for whom i had an especial affection. of course he made a show of being a merchant rather than a beggar, by having a tray of cut flowers in summer and hot peanuts in winter and newspapers at all seasons, on a tripod arrangement beside him; and the police knew better than to see if he sometimes held up a wayfarer for more than the price of his wares. i was fond of him because he was so imperturbably cheerful, rain or shine, and so picturesque and resourceful in flattery. he was an old soldier; and one leg that had danced in days agone, and that had most heedlessly carried him to the firing line in half a dozen battles of our own civil war was buried at gettysburg. barney seemed to regard this as a peculiarly fortunate circumstance, since it had made it possible for him to use a crutch. that crutch was a rare and wonderful possession, according to barney. hearing him dilate on its convenience and comfortableness, you might almost come to believe that he meant it all. well, you'll understand from this that i not only liked but respected barney, and i usually stopped to get a flower when i passed his stand on leaving my office. on that monday,--that eventful and ever-to-be-remembered monday,--i saw as i approached that barney was holding forth in the spell-binding manner i knew, to another listener,--a young fellow, i thought at first. but as i came up, his listener emptied a chatelaine purse upon barney's tray, and my surprised glance from the jingling shower of silver to the face of the impetuous donor showed me that it was a young girl,--a gallant, boyish-faced girl, whose eyes were shining into barney's with the enthusiasm of a hero-worshipper. "i'll never forget that,--never!" she cried, in a voice thrilled with emotion. "it was great." and on the instant she turned on her heel like a boy and marched off down the street. i looked at barney with suspended disapproval, and for once, to do him credit, he looked abashed. "faith, and who'd think the chit would have all that money about her and her that reckless in shcattering it about!" he exclaimed. then, recovering himself, he thrust the coins carelessly in his pocket (perhaps to get them out of my accusing sight) and ran on, confidentially,-- "it's the lord's own providince that she turned it over to me, instead of carrying it about to the shops where temptation besets a young girl on all sides. it's too full their pretty heads are of follolls and such, for it's light-headed they are at that age, and that's the lord's truth." "you worked on her sympathies," i said sternly. "you saw she was a warm-hearted young girl, and you played up to her. you made yourself out a hero, you rascal." "you're the keen gentleman," said barney admiringly. "sure and you'd make a good priest, saving your good looks, for you'd see the confession in the heart before a poor lying penitent had time to think of a saving twist to give it that might look like the truth and save him a penance." "never mind me and my remarkable qualities," i said severely. "what were you telling that girl?" barney bent over his flowers to shift the shades which protected them from the sun, but after a moment's hesitation he answered, without looking up. "she has the way with her, that bit! when she looked me in the eye and says 'tell me what i ask,' i knew my commanding officer, and it's not barney that risks a court-martial for disobedience! no, sir! if she didn't keep at me to tell her how i lost my leg, now! your honor couldn't have held out agin her, not to be the man you are." i knew the story of that lost leg, and how shy barney was of retailing that heroic bit of his history, and i wondered less at the girl's emotion than at her success in drawing the hidden tale from him. he didn't tell it to many. while i marvelled he looked up with the twinkle i couldn't help liking. "she didn't give me time to tell her that that bit story wasn't the kind you pay to hear, but it would maybe have chilled the warm heart of her to have me push her silver back, and i wouldn't do that even if i had to keep the money to save her feelin's, the darlin'." "awfully hard on you, i know," i said, letting us both down with the help of a little irony. "where's my rosebud, you rascal?" he lifted a slender vase from the covered box beneath his table and brought out the flower he had reserved for me. it was a creamy white bud, deepening into a richer shade that hinted at stores of gold at the sealed-up heart. as he held it out silently, something in his whimsical face told me his thought. "yes, you are right," i said casually, as i took the flower. "it _does_ look like her." barney's eyes wrinkled appreciatively. "there was a mistake somewhere, sir, when you were born outside of eire. but you got it straight this time." i went home to dress for mrs. whyte's dinner, and when i was ready i slipped into my pocket, to show my hostess, a little locket which held a miniature of my mother. mrs. whyte and my mother had been schoolmates,--that was why she was so much kinder to me than i could ever have deserved on my own account,--and i knew she would like to see the picture. i opened the case to look at it myself (my mother is still living, thank heaven, and unchangeably young) and i was struck with the youthful modernity of it. perhaps it was because the old style of dressing the hair had come back that it looked so of the present generation rather than of the past. it had been painted for my father in the days of their courtship, and on his death i had begged for the portrait, though my mother had refused to let me have the old case he carried. i had therefore spent some time and care in selecting a new case and had decided finally on one embellished with emeralds set in the form of a heart. i thought it symbolical of my dear mother's young-heartedness, but i found out afterwards that she especially objected to emeralds! such are the hazards run by a mere man when he tries to deal with the greater mysteries. i have dwelt on this locket because it played an important part in after affairs,--and a very different part from what i designed for it when i slipped it into my pocket to show it to mrs. whyte. it is a good two miles from my lodgings to mrs. whyte's, but i was early and i wanted exercise, so i walked. it was within a few minutes of seven when i came to her highly respectable street. as i turned the corner of her block my attention was caught by the sight of a young girl in excited colloquy with the driver of a cab, which stood before the house adjoining mrs. whyte's. i think i should have looked for a chance to be of service in any case, but when i saw, as i did at once, that the girl with so gallant a bearing was the same girl who had impulsively emptied her purse among barney's flowers, and that the driver seemed to be bullying her, i felt that it was very distinctly my affair. "but i tell you that i _have_ no money," she was saying with dramatic emphasis, "and there is nobody at home, and i can't get in, and if you will come to-morrow--" "gammon," the man interrupted roughly. (she had not chosen her jehu with discrimination.) "you can't work that game on me--" "i can give you my watch as a pledge," she said eagerly. by that time i was near enough to interfere. (i always was lucky. here i was ready if necessary to go through fire and water--a certain amount of each, at any rate--to get a better knowledge of the frank-hearted girl whose enthusiasm had so touched me in the afternoon, and all that fate asked was a cabman's fare and a few stern words delivered with an air! fate is no bargainer worthy the name.) "it was most awfully good of you to come to the rescue," said the girl, in the direct and gallant manner that i felt was a part of herself. "i was just beginning to wonder what under the sun i _should_ do. you see, i--i spent all my money down town, and i took a cab up, thinking i'd get the money here to pay the man, and now i find the house locked up and not a soul at home,--and me on the doorstep like a charity child without a penny!" "that, was unlucky, certainly," i said. "i am more than glad that i could be of service. but now that the cabman is disposed of, how are you going to get into the house?" she turned and looked at the house dubiously. "i--don't--know. unless i find an open window,--just a teeny one would be big enough. but gene is very particular about my not being undignified. i think," she added, with a delightfully confidential smile, "that gene would rather have me be dignified and hungry than undignified and comfortable. under those circumstances would you advise me to hunt for an open window?" "it's a delicate point to decide. who is gene? that might have some bearing on the question." she looked surprised at my ignorance. "oh, he's my brother,--my twin. he lives in that house. so does mr. ellison. he's my guardian. but it surely looks as though nobody were at home!" "don't you live there, too?" i demanded in surprise. "oh, no. i'm at miss elwood's school at dunstan. i don't mean i am there this minute, because of course i am here; but i'm supposed to be there. i just came down to surprise gene because it is our birthday--you see we have only one between us--and now i can't get in!" and she threw out her hands dramatically. (the worst part of trying to reproduce miss benbow's language accurately is that it sounds silly in type, but it never sounded silly when she was looking at you with her big, ambiguous eyes, and you were waiting, always in affectionate amusement, for the next absurdity. i sometimes wondered whether that frank air of hers was nature's disguise for a maid's subtlety, or whether her subtle witchery lay really in the fact that she was so transparent that you could see her thoughts breathe.) "i have always heard that it was wise," i said, with a grandfatherly air, "to save out at least a street-car fare before flinging all one's broad gold pieces to the beggar in the street." she looked a little startled, then swiftly comprehending. i knew she must have bit her inner lip to keep from smiling, but she spoke sedately. "a street-car fare wouldn't help me to get into the house, would it? and that's the trouble now. though of course if i had had a street-car fare i shouldn't have had any trouble with the cabman and you wouldn't have had to come to the rescue, so another time i'll be careful and remember--" "heavens, and they say a woman isn't logical!" i cried. "i hadn't thought out the sequence. i'm mighty glad that you were not wise when you flung away your purse since i was going to so profit by it. but now the question is, what are you going to do? i can't go off and leave you, like a charity child on the doorstep without a penny, not to mention a dinner. haven't you any friends in the neighborhood?" "not what you would call _friends_, exactly, though i suppose they wouldn't let me starve if they knew. there's a mrs. whyte,--" "of course! in that red brick house next door. what luck! i'm going there for dinner." she glanced at my evening garb and drew down the corners of her lips comically. "she won't like having a charity child thrust upon her when she is having a dinner party." "oh, that won't make the slightest difference in the world," i protested eagerly. "mrs. whyte is the kindest woman,--and besides, it's your birthday,--" she looked at me under her lashes. "you're just a man. you don't understand," she said, with large tolerance. "see how i am dressed,--shirt-waist and linen collar! i didn't prepare for a party. oh, i believe gene is having a birthday party somewhere,--that's why everybody is away! and me supperless! isn't it a shame?" she looked at me with tragedy on her face,--and a delicious consciousness of its effectiveness in the corner of her eye. "why didn't you come home earlier?" i asked, wondering (though it really wasn't my business) what she had been doing since i saw her leave barney. "you mean after i left that perfectly beautiful old soldier? how did you know about him and me, by the way?" "oh, i'm a friend of his, too. i happened to be quite near. my name, by the way, is robert hilton. i'll be much obliged if you'll remember it." "why, of course i'll remember. my name is jean benbow, and it is so nearly the same as gene's because we are twins, but really his name is eugene, and when he does something to make himself famous i suppose they will call him that. well, after the soldier, and i wish i had had fifty times as much to give him, though that makes a sum that i simply can't do in my head,--not that it matters, because he didn't get it,--i remembered that i was going to get a birthday present for gene, but i didn't remember, you see, that i hadn't any money. i don't think money is a nice thing to have on your mind, anyway. so i went to a bookstore and looked at some books and the first thing i knew they were closing up, and i hadn't yet decided. have you ever noticed how time just _flies_ when you are doing something you are interested in, and then if it is lessons or the day before a holiday or anything like that, how it literally _drags?_" "i have noticed that phenomenon,--and time is giving an example of flying this very minute. really, i think you'd better come over to mrs. whyte's--" "oh, there's minnie coming back now! she'll let me in," miss benbow interrupted me. a bareheaded young woman, from her dress evidently a housemaid, was hurriedly crossing the service court toward the ellison back door, and without further words miss benbow started toward her across the lawn. "wave your hand if it is all right. i'll wait," i called after her. the maid halted when she saw that fleet figure crossing the grass, they conferred a moment, then miss benbow waved a decisive hand to me, and they disappeared together in the rear of the house. something ran through my brain about the ceasing of exquisite music,--i wished i could remember the exact words, because they seemed so to fit the occasion. miss benbow certainly had a way of keeping your attention on the _qui vive_. even after i had made my bow before mrs. whyte and had been presented to the beautiful miss thurston, i had intervals of absent-mindedness during which i wondered what miss benbow could be doing all alone in that big house. this was all the more complimentary to her memory, because miss thurston was a young woman to occupy the whole of any man's attention under ordinary or even moderately extraordinary circumstances. i had to admit that this time mrs. whyte had played a masterstroke. and that does not spell overweening conceit on my part, either! it required no special astuteness to read the concealed cryptogram in mrs. whyte's plans. i had had experience! so, unless i made a wild guess, had miss thurston. there could be no other explanation, consistent with my self-respect, of the cold dignity, the pointed iciness, that marked her manner toward me. she was a stately young woman by nature, but mere stateliness does not lead a young woman to fling out signs of "keep off the grass" when a young man is introduced. i guessed at once that she had experienced mrs. whyte's friendly interest in the same (occasionally embarrassing) way that i had, and that she wished me to understand from the beginning that she was not to be regarded as _particeps criminis_ in any schemes which mrs. whyte might be entertaining regarding my life, liberty, and happiness. her intent was so clear that it amused as well as piqued me, and i set myself to being as good company as my limited gifts made possible. i knew that it was good policy, in such a case, to give mrs. whyte no reason for shaking her lovely locks at me afterwards; but partly i exerted myself to do my prettiest because miss thurston attracted me to an extraordinary degree. that does not indicate any special susceptibility on my part, either. she was (and is, i am happy to say,) one of the most charming women i have ever met. no, that is not the word. she made no effort to charm. she merely was. she wrapped herself in a veil of aloofness, sweet and cool, and looked out at you with a wistful, absent air that made you long to go into that chill chamber where she dwelt and kiss some warmth and tenderness upon her lips and a flash into her dreamy eye. i'm afraid that, in spite of my disclaimer, you will think me susceptible. well, you may, then. i admit that i determined, within five minutes after my first bow, that i was not going to lose the advantage of knowing miss thurston, or permit her to forget me. (i cemented this determination before the evening was over with an act which had consequences i could never have anticipated.) i am not going to dwell in detail upon the incidents of that dinner, because i want to get to the extraordinary events that followed it; but there were one or two matters that i must mention, because of the bearing they had on after events. "i hear," said mr. whyte at a pause in the chatter, "that they are talking of nominating clyde for mayor." i happened to be looking at miss thurston when he spoke, and i saw a sort of _breathless_ look come over her, as though every nerve were listening. "do you think he would take it?" mrs. whyte asked. "that's the rub, confound the man. i don't understand clyde. if ever there was a man fitted for public life, it is he. his father was governor, his grandfather was a united states senator, and he has all the qualities and faculties that made them distinguished. yet here he buries himself in a private office and barricades himself against all public honors and preferment. i don't understand it." (i did. i had wondered myself, but now i understood.) "perhaps he doesn't care for the sort of thing that other men value," said miss thurston. i fancied a trace of bitterness under her sweet indifference. "it isn't that," said mr. whyte, frowningly. "he is thoroughly alive. and he doesn't keep out of public matters so long as he can work behind a committee. everybody knows what he has done for the city without letting his name get into the papers. i think it's a crank notion he's got." "it probably goes back to some disappointing love affair," said mrs. whyte, impressively. "that sort of thing will take the ambition out of a man like--like poison." "but wouldn't we have heard of it?" asked miss thurston, lifting her penciled eyebrows. "we have known kenneth clyde all his life, you and i, and there never has been anything talked of--" "there wouldn't be," interrupted mrs. whyte. "he wouldn't talk. but what else, i ask you, could change the reckless, ambitious, arrogant boy that he was,--you know he was, katherine,--into the abnormally modest man he has become,--" "i don't think he is abnormally modest," miss thurston interrupted in her turn. "he merely doesn't care for newspaper fame,--and who does? he has grown into a finer man than his early promise. if saintsbury can get him for mayor,--" "he won't take it," mr. whyte said pessimistically. "you'd have to hypnotize him to make him accept." "do you believe in hypnotism, mr. hilton?" mrs. whyte turned to me, evidently fearing that i would feel "out" of this intimate conversation. "believe that it can be exercised? why, yes, i suppose there is no doubt of that. but i don't believe i should care to let anyone experiment on me. "fake. that's what it is," said mr. whyte. "superstition." "now, carroll, i know you're terribly wise, but you don't know _everything_," said mrs. whyte. "i'm sure i sometimes know what you are thinking--" "that's telepathy, my angel, not hypnotism. only you don't. you think you do, but i'll bet i could fool you nine times out of--nineteen!" "i once saw a girl who was hypnotized, and it was horrible," said miss thurston. "she was lying in a show window of a shop, home in blankville. she had been put to sleep, i learned, by some hypnotist who was exhibiting on the vaudeville stage, and who invited people to come up from the audience. i could just imagine how the pretty, silly, ignorant girl had been dared to go up. then he was to awaken her publicly on the stage after forty-eight hours, and in the meantime she was exhibited on a cot in the window of a shop as an advertisement. i can't make you understand how unspeakably _horrible_ it seemed to me." "where do you suppose her soul was?" asked mrs. whyte curiously. "i don't know. but i know that there is something wicked about separating the soul and body. it is a partial murder." "bet you she was shamming," said mr. whyte, cynically. "oh, no, it was real,--terribly real," she cried. i had no opinions on the subject, but i thought miss thurston's earnestness very becoming, it brought such a spark into her dark eyes and broke up her rather severe tranquillity by a touch of undeniable feeling. but mr. whyte was unmoved. "my dear katherine, if there were any secret means by which one person could control the will of another and make him do what the controlling will commanded, the trusts would have bought it up long ago. a knowledge of how to do that would be worth millions,--and the millions would be ready for the man who could teach the trick." "there are some things that money cannot buy," said miss thurston quietly. "i never happened to run across them," said the cynical whyte. "i have happened to run across things enough that money _wouldn't_ buy," said mrs. whyte, significantly. but miss thurston took up his challenge (which i guessed was flung out for that purpose) with a fervor that transformed her. "money cannot buy knowledge," she cried. "to know how to control another's soul may be wicked knowledge,--i believe it is,--but it is knowledge nevertheless, and it is not at the command of your millionaires. money cannot buy any of the best things in the world. it cannot buy love or loyalty or faith--or knowledge." "you talk like ellison," said whyte, with good-humored contempt. "he goes on about knowledge of hidden forces, and i believe he is ready to believe in every charlatan that comes along and claims to know about the mysteries of nature or how to extract gold from sea-water, or to use the sun's rays to run his automobile." "i'm glad he cares about something," said mrs. whyte, impatiently. "certainly he doesn't care about anything human. he is a cold-blooded machine." "well," said whyte, judicially, "he has done pretty well by the benbow children." "how has he done well by them? eugene has grown up in his house, to be sure, but he has grown up without much help from his uncle, i can tell you that. and jean has been poked off at school when she ought to have been coming out in society." "miss benbow is at home this evening," i contributed. "i happened to meet her on my way here. she said she had come down from school to celebrate her birthday with her brother." "oh, is that so? well, i'll warrant her uncle didn't know she was coming, nor will he know that she has been here when she is gone." "she strikes me as a young lady who would make her presence noticed," i suggested. "she is a dear child," said miss thurston, warmly. "i must look her up to-morrow. i haven't seen much of her, but i know gene, and i am devoted to him." now do you wonder that i liked miss thurston? i liked her so much that i renewed my vow that she should not slip off into the outer circle of bowing acquaintanceship; and if she was afraid to be nice to me because she regarded me as in sympathy with mrs. whyte's matchmaking schemes, i would clear her mind of that apprehension without delay. i seized the opportunity immediately we were alone together. "it is more than kind of mrs. whyte to give me such a chance to know her friends," i said. we were supposed to be looking at mr. whyte's books,--which were worth seeing. "just because a man is engaged is no sign that he doesn't enjoy pleasant society." "oh!" she breathed. "mrs. whyte doesn't know," i said, looking at her steadily. she laughed softly, and a color and kindness came into her face that made her deliciously human. "i see! but there _is_ someone--?" "there certainly is," i said, and drew the little miniature of my mother from my pocket. "don't let mrs. whyte see it." (she would have recognized it!) "how sweet she is!" she exclaimed. "i don't wonder!" "the sweetest woman i ever knew," i said, and took the locket back jealously. my jest somewhat irked me now, with those candid eyes looking surprise at me from the picture. "and now will you be friends with me, instead of treating me as though i probably needed a snubbing to keep me on my good behavior?" "the very best of friends," she cried, and laughed so merrily that mr. whyte, from the other side of the room, called out with interest,-- "you young people seem to be having a very good time. what's the joke?" "carroll!" mrs. whyte checked him in a warning undertone,--at which miss thurston and i looked at each other and laughed silently. i have no doubt the poor dear lady thought her plot was brewing beautifully. it was a shame to plot against her, but then it made her happy for the time. and it did most completely break down the icy barrier thrown out by miss thurston, so i tried to stifle the protests of my conscience. my judgment came later,--judgment, sentence, and execution. but i had a very good time that evening. i had ordered a taxicab at a quarter before ten, so that i might waste no time getting down to the ph[oe]nix building for the appointment with alfred barker. as i went down the walk to the street, i glanced at the silent house in the next lot. there was no light in any window. i indulged in a moment's conjecture as to where miss benbow could be, but even as the thought went through my mind, i saw a light flare up in the corner room downstairs. miss benbow was exploring, then. or the rest of the family had come home. certainly i must manage somehow to see her again. but i confess i completely forgot both miss benbow and miss thurston as my cab whirled me down to the business part of town. i concentrated my mind on the question of how to deal with the blackmailer, and tried to prepare myself beforehand for his probable lines of attack or defense. at the same time i told myself judicially that the situation might develop in some unexpected way. it did. most completely unexpected. i shall have to tell it in detail. chapter iii the unexpected happens i went directly to the ph[oe]nix building, on the second floor of which barker had his office under cover of the name of the western land and improvement company. the door was ajar, and the gas was burning inside, so i went in. the room was empty. i tried the door of an inner office, but found it locked, and by the curtained glass of the door i could see that there was no light in that room. i inferred that barker had been called away, and had left the door open for clyde. i closed the door, not wishing to have barker see me from the hall and turn back, and sat down by the desk under the gaslight to await his return. on the desk were a few circulars of the western land and improvement company which looked as though they had served the purpose of giving verisimilitude to mr. barker's office for a long time. i guessed the same theatrical and decorative mission in the display baskets of apples, sheaves of heavy-headed wheat, and samples of other grains and fruits which adorned the room--though somewhat dustily. i had soon exhausted the visible means of supporting meditation, and my thoughts went back to the evening at the whytes'. i took my mother's miniature from my pocket, and looked at it with a rueful consciousness that she would most sweetly and conclusively disapprove of the use which i had made of her counterfeit. she would ask if my legal training had so perverted my instinct for simple truth that i could justify sophistries like that! i had been lecturing myself in her name for some minutes, holding the miniature up before me to give point to the lesson, when i suddenly had that queer feeling--you know it--of being watched. i felt i was not alone. i jumped to my feet and looked about me. the room was quite empty except for the desk, a chair or two besides mine, and the baskets of fruit and grain which stood on a low table by the window. if there was any person on the premises, he must be in the unlighted inner room with the locked door. instantly it flashed upon me that barker was probably in there, waiting for clyde. he had so arranged things that, hidden himself, he could survey the outer room, and when i entered instead of clyde, he simply lay perdu. in that case, there was no use waiting for his return by way of the hall! i returned the locket to my pocket, looked ostentatiously at my watch, picked up my cane, and left the room. he would suppose my patience exhausted. but i did not go down the stairs. instead i walked to the end of a short diverging hall which commanded a view of the door. if barker was inside, he would have to come out sometime, unless he took the fire escape, and i could wait as late as he could. i wanted to meet him, also i wanted to see if my queer sensation of being watched had any foundation in fact. i had waited perhaps fifteen minutes when the rattle of the elevator broke the silence. it stopped at the second floor, and a man came rapidly down the main hall and turned toward the office of the w.l.&i. co. it was barker himself! i recognized him perfectly. so my intuitions had been merely a feminine case of nerves! i was not a little disgusted with myself. i lingered a few moments, (so as to give barker a chance to see that he had not kept me waiting), then i sauntered slowly in the direction of the office. i was opposite the elevator when i was startled by a shot. for a moment i did not realize that the sound came from barker's room. when i did, i made a jump toward it, and the elevator man, who had been waiting since barker got out, came only a step behind me. we pushed the door open,--it yielded at once,--and there, outstretched on the floor, lay barker. i dropped on my knee beside him and turned him over. he turned astonished and inquiring eyes upon me, and made a slight motion with his hand, but even while i was holding up his head, the consciousness faded from his eyes, his head fell forward, and i knew it was a dead man whom i laid down upon the bare floor of his dingy office. i had never before seen a man die, and the solemnity of the event swept everything else out of my mind for the moment. but soon i began to realize the situation. "do you see a weapon anywhere about?" i asked the elevator man, glancing myself about the room. "no, sir. there ain't none." "then he was murdered, and his murderer is in there," i said in a low voice, indicating the inner office by a glance. the man immediately backed toward the door,--and i didn't blame him. it gives one a curious feeling to think of interfering with someone who has no restraining prejudices against taking the life of people with whom he is displeased. but for the credit of my superior civilization, i could not join the retreat. "i'm going in," i said, and laid my hand on the doorknob. the door was locked. "is there anyone on this floor at this time?" i asked the elevator man. "no, sir." "or in the building?" "the watchman." "find him. or, first, telephone to the police station. then send the watchman here and then go out on the street and try to find a policeman. bring in anybody who looks equal to breaking in the door. i'll wait here and see that he doesn't get out--if i can prevent it." the man seemed glad to go, and i took a position at one side of the inner door with my hand on the back of a stout office chair. an unarmed man does feel at a disadvantage before a gun! the very silence seemed full of menace. in a few minutes there was a sound of running feet in the hall, and the watchman came in. "he won't be in there by this time," he said at once. "the fire escape runs by the window!" and with the courage of assured safety he opened the door with a pass key. the room was empty, and the window, open to the fire escape, showed that the watchman's surmise was justified. the escape ran down to an alley that opened in turn upon the street. the murderer could have made his descent and joined the theater crowds on the street without the slightest difficulty. he had had at least ten minutes' clear time before we looked vainly out into the night after him. we were still at the window when the police arrived,--the officer on the beat, whom the elevator man had soon found, and a sergeant with another man from the station. the sergeant took charge. "man dead," he said briefly. "and the murderer gone by the window, eh? tell me what you know about it." i told him the facts as i have given them above. he lit the gas in the private office and examined the door between the rooms. "easy enough," he said. the upper half of the door consisted of four panes of glass, behind which hung a flimsy curtain. but the lower right-hand pane was gone, leaving merely an open space before the curtain. "he sat here watching for him through the curtain,--dark in here, light on the outside,--and then, when he came in, he shot through this opening without unlocking the door, dropped the curtain, and quietly went out by the window. he could be five blocks from here by the time you telephoned, and where he may be now,--well, the devil knows. here is where he sat waiting." we all looked with interest at the inner room. a chair had been drawn up in front of the door and beside it was a table with a basket of apples on it. the murderer had been munching apples while waiting for his victim! the peelings and cores had been dropped into an office waste-basket beside the chair. it was a curious detail, gruesome just because it was so commonplace and matter of fact. i shivered as i turned away. by this time the coroner had arrived. he immediately took possession of the premises. i followed his every movement as he went from one room to the other, for i was by no means easy in my mind as to the revelations that might develop. if barker had committed any of his profitable secrets to writing, his death would not of necessity clear the slate for kenneth clyde! but they did not seem to make any compromising discoveries. the desk in the outer office held nothing whatsoever but the decoy circulars which i had already examined, a dried bottle of ink, and some unused pens and penholders. the inner office held a cheap wooden table, but the drawer in it was empty. there was nothing on the table but the basket of apples. the coroner then went through barker's pockets. he laid out on the floor, and then listed in a note-book, these items: a worn purse, with eighty dollars in bills. three dollars and fifteen cents in loose change. a ring with six keys. a narrow memorandum book, worn on the edges. a pocket-knife, handkerchief, and a small comb. there were no papers. barring the note-book, there was nothing identifying about the dead man's possessions. i longed to get that into my hands. "perhaps this will give some clue as to his associates," i said, boldly picking it up. but the coroner was not a man to be interfered with. he promptly took it out of my hands, and tied it with the other articles into barker's handkerchief with a severely official air. "that will be examined into in due time," he said. "officer, you can take the body down and then lock the rooms and give me the keys." i watched while they carried the limp form down to the waiting patrol wagon, and saw the police sergeant place the seal of the law upon the place. i was at least as much interested as the coroner in seeing that no enterprising reporter, for example, should have an opportunity to spring a sensational story involving more reputable people than barker. as i turned up the empty street, i looked at my watch. it was half past twelve. clyde's appointment with barker had been for ten, and i had heard the town clock strike as i turned into the ph[oe]nix building. when had he been shot? i could not be sure. i had waited for some time, perhaps an hour, before i had had that curious sensation of being watched and had gone out into the hall. i _had_ been watched! the eyes of the murderer in the darkened room had been fixed upon me under the gaslight, while he waited. what would have happened if i had stayed in the room? would he have shot his victim just the same? probably. the locked door between would in any event have given him the minute he needed to gain the fire-escape. he had planned it well. it was all so perfectly simple. a great criminologist once said that every crime, like the burrowings of an underground animal, leaves marks on the surface by which its course can be traced. perhaps. but it takes eyes to see. i didn't know whether i most hoped or feared that the course of barker's murderer would be traced. chapter iv crossed wires when i awoke the next morning from a short and unrestful interval of sleep, it was with an oppressive sense of something being wrong. then i remembered. wrong it was, certainly, but it was not my affair. the only way in which it touched me (so i thought then) was as it affected my client, clyde. how would he take the news? i imagined his receiving it in one way and another, and i felt that there were embarrassing contingencies connected with the matter. finally i determined to call him up by my room telephone, if possible, and tell him the news as news. i rang him up, therefore, before going down to my breakfast. perhaps "central" was sleepy or tired, or the wires were crossed at some unknown point on the circuit. i didn't get clyde and i couldn't attract central's attention after the first response, though i shook the receiver and made remarks. then suddenly, across the silence, out of space and into space, a man's voice spoke with passion: "but barker is dead, i tell you! you are free! now will you marry me?" and then again the buzzing silence of the "dead" wires! talk about the benefits of modern inventions! they don't come without their compensating disadvantages. i hung to that telephone till central finally woke up and sleepily inquired if i were "waiting." "who was on this wire just now?" i demanded. "nobody," she said sweetly. i called for "information," and laid the case before that encyclopedic sphinx. someone had been talking across my wire and in the interests of justice and everything else that would appeal to her, i must know who it was. with a rising accent and perfect temper she assured me that she didn't know, that no one knew, that if they knew they wouldn't tell, and that i probably had been dreaming, anyhow. i knew better than that, but i saw that there was no way of getting the information from her. i should have to go to headquarters,--and then probably the girl would not be able to answer. but who was it that knew, before the papers were fairly on the street, that barker was dead? who was it that would cry, with passion, "_now_ will you marry me?" i gave up the attempt to get clyde, and went down to breakfast. i had a suite of rooms in a private family hotel where everybody knew everybody else, and as i entered the common breakfast room i was assailed by questions. never before had i so completely held the center of the stage! i could hardly get a moment myself to read the account in the paper which had set them all to gossiping. it was fairly accurate. the police reporter had his story from headquarters. it was not until i read at the end, "at this writing the police have found no clue," that i realized, by my sense of relief, the anxiety with which i had followed the report. i wanted to see clyde, but i thought it best to go to my own office first, and communicate with him from there. fellows had not arrived when i reached there,--the first time in years that i had known him to be late. when he came he looked excited, though with his usual stoicism he tried to conceal all evidence of his feelings. "well, your friend barker has met with his come-up-ance," i said at last, knowing he would not speak. "yes," he assented, and a nervous smile twitched his lips involuntarily. "but not at the hands of the law. i told you the law couldn't reach him." "the law will probably reach the man who did it." fellows did not speak for a moment. then he said slowly, "he was killed as justly as though it had been done under the order of the court. shall i look up these cases for you now, mr. hilton?" "was barker married?" i asked abruptly, disregarding his readiness to get to work. "i don't know." he looked surprised. "i wish you would find out. also, if possible, who she is, where she lives, any gossip about her,--everything possible." "how shall i find out?" "oh, i leave that to you," i said confidently. fellows was not learned in law books, but he was a great fellow for finding out things. i was usually content to accept the results without inquiring too closely how he obtained them. "all right," he said, shortly. some minutes later he looked up from his work to remark, with his familiar bitterness, "i suppose, like as not, he has a wife who will be heart-broken over his death, scoundrel as he was, though if he had once been in prison no woman would look at him." i had been thinking. "i'm not so sure she will be heart-broken, but you might find out about that, with the other things. now call up mr. clyde's office, and find out if he can see me if i come over." "mr. clyde is ready to see you," he reported after a minute. i went over at once,--the distance was not great. clyde was alone, and he looked up and nodded when i entered. his manner was pleasant enough, yet i was instantly aware of something of reserve that had not been there at our former interview. "he is sorry he took me into his confidence, now that it has turned out this way," i thought to myself. "well, somebody saved us the trouble of paying further attention to mr. barker," he said lightly. "so it seems." "did you speak to him at all?" "no." "i didn't know but that you might have seen him since--since i spoke to you about him." "i did see him the other day, but not to speak to him." and i told him of the incident in the ph[oe]nix building. he listened with close attention. "i have no doubt he had enemies on all sides," he said with a certain tone of satisfaction. "from what we know of his methods, it is easy to guess that. he has lived an underground life for years, but always keeping on the safe side of the law. his end was bound to come sooner or later." "do you know whether he was married?" "i don't know. how should i?" "i merely wondered." for some reason i did not care to repeat that puzzling communication i had heard over the phone. "i know nothing about him. if he has any family, they will probably come forward to claim the body. but i doubt very much that the man who fired the shot will ever be taken." "what makes you so sure?" "he planned things carefully. and he is probably supported this minute by a sense of right,--and my sympathies are with him." he flung up his head with open defiance of my supposed prejudices. "don't forget that barker may have committed some of his valuable secrets to writing," i warned. he looked startled for a moment, then he threw up his head. "i don't believe it. he's dead, and a good job done." it was not my place to croak on such an occasion, but as i walked down the street to my own office, i reflected that the law would not look at a shot from ambush in that light, no matter what the judgment of the lord might be. i stopped at barney's stand for my buttonhole rose,--and at once i knew, by the gleam in his eye, that he had something special to tell me. "so it's yourself is the celebrity this morning, mr. hilton," he said eagerly. "i? oh, no. i wasn't killed and didn't kill anybody." "but ye know a power about the happenin's, i'll be bound." "yes, i know as much as anybody does," i said, supposing that he wanted to ask me about some particular. "it's the hard and revengeful heart he must have, and him so young, to shoot a man that the law has set right," said barney, craftily. "what?" i said sharply. "what do you mean, barney?--if you mean anything!" "sure, an' i can't be tellin' ye anything that ye didn't know!" "have they found the murderer?" i asked, yet with a nervous dread of his answer. "divil a bit. he found himself, and couldn't keep the secret," barney said, entirely happy in being able to give me this surprising information. "the officer on the beat this morning tould me that the whole departmint fell over itself when the young lad walked into the station with his head up like a play-actin' gossoon, and says, 'i killed him for that he killed me fayther.' the exthra will be out by now." i heard the boys calling an extra as he spoke, and i waited and beckoned the first one that hove into sight. there, on the glaring front, i read: "murderer confesses eugene benbow gives himself up to the police. fired the fatal shot to avenge his father. "barker killed senator benbow ten years ago and was acquitted on the plea of self-defense. "the slayer of alfred barker has been found. driven by the spur of a guilty conscience, he gives himself up to the police. the fatal shot was fired by eugene benbow, the son of senator josephus benbow, who was shot and killed by barker in saintsbury just ten years ago. "senator benbow, whose home was in deming, was in attendance on the state legislature when he fell foul of barker, who was trying to lobby through a measure which benbow did not hesitate to call a steal. he was instrumental in defeating barker's measure, and this led to bitterness and threats on both sides. one day they met on the street, and after some hot words barker drew his revolver and shot benbow dead. when brought to trial, he succeeded in convincing the jury that he believed (?) his life to be in danger from a motion which benbow made toward his pocket, although it was proved that the senator was, as a matter of fact, unarmed. "young benbow was at that time a lad of ten. the tragedy made a deep impression upon him, and he grew up, dreaming of revenge. yesterday he heard that barker was in town, and at once armed himself. last night he carried his deadly purpose into effect. "it seems that after shooting barker in his office in the ph[oe]nix building, young benbow returned to the rooms which he occupies in the house of mr. howard ellison, who is his guardian and a distant relative. he spent the night there, and apparently decided then to give himself up, for he appeared at police headquarters at half-past six, in a highly nervous condition, and astonished the sergeant by declaring himself the person who shot alfred barker. the special officers who had been detailed to investigate the murder have been recalled." "the poor little girl!" i said to myself. the vision of jean benbow as i had seen her last night, gallant and boyish, rose before me. this would be a terrible morning for her. i do not often make the mistake of rushing in where i know that only angels may safely tread, yet i was filled with a well-nigh irresistible impulse to go and look out for her. that was absurd, of course, since she was with friends,--only i should have liked some assurance that they would understand her! i hardly thought of her brother, though, since he was her twin, he could be nothing but a boy, and certainly presented a touching figure, with his medieval ideas of personal vengeance. but i was to have ample occasion to think of eugene. before the morning was over, mr. howard ellison's card was brought to me. mr. ellison, who followed his card, was elderly, rather small and somewhat bent, but alert mentally and active physically. he had the dry, keen, impersonal aspect of a student, and i could see at a glance why mrs. whyte thought him cold-blooded. he was given to a sarcastic turn of speech which heightened this impression--and did him an injustice if, as a matter of fact, he was especially tender-hearted. "you have probably seen the papers this morning, mr. hilton." i bowed. "i have come to see if you will undertake that young fool's defense. as his guardian, i suppose it devolves on me to see that he is provided with a lawyer." i am not in criminal practice, and ordinarily i should not have cared for such a retainer, but in this instance i did not hesitate for a moment. "i shall be very glad to do so." "that's all right, then. you look after things, and let me know if there is anything i have to know. i am engaged in some important researches, and it is most inconvenient to have interruptions, but of course in such a case i shall have to put up with it." "possibly you may even find them interesting," i said, in amaze. he took me up at once. "events are not interesting, mr. hilton. they are merely happenings,--unrelated and unintelligent. take this case. gene dislikes barker. that is interesting in a measure, although it is rather obvious. but he goes and shoots him, and what is there interesting in that? it is the mere explosive event. besides, gene was a fool to go and tell the police about it. that was hardly--gentlemanly." "i suppose it weighed on his conscience." "conscience,--fiddlededee! what is conscience? merely your idea of what someone else would think about you if he knew. if you are satisfied yourself that your actions are justified, what have you to do with the opinions of other people or the upbraidings of conscience? if it was right to kill barker, it was sheer foolishness to tell." "do you think it is ever right to kill?" "young man, your experience of life is limited if you can put that question seriously and sincerely. i studied surgery as a young man and spent three years in a hospital in vienna. after that i was for two years connected with the english army in india. i have no foolish prejudices left about taking life--when necessary." "you have belonged to privileged classes," i said, striving to match his nonchalance. "but unfortunately your young cousin does not." "no, he has been merely a young fool," he said concisely. "but jean insisted that i should come and see you about it. she is his sister." "i am honored by miss benbow's confidence," i said. i felt a good deal more than i expressed. if i didn't do the best that could be done for her brother, it would be merely because i didn't know how. "will you tell me something about the young man? he lives with you?" "yes. he has the library for his study. of course he has the run of the house. the only stipulation i ever made was that he should keep out of my way and not distract my mind. this is the consideration which he shows!" "how long has he lived with you?" "why, ever since the family was broken up. barker shot senator benbow, you know, and his wife died soon after. shock. you know, there is something interesting in the question how a purely mental blow can have effect on the physical plane. well, benbow was a cousin, and as my own wife was dead, there seemed to be plenty of room in the house for the boy, so i took him. i supposed he would grow up the way other boys did. i simply told him never to bother me. for the rest he could do as he liked." "he seems to have followed your teaching. how old is he?" "just twenty. it was his birthday yesterday. he was celebrating last night with some of his college mates." "how? where, and with whom?" "at his fraternity house. they had a supper for him. he is a senior at vandeventer college." "i see. you were out for dinner, too, last night, were you not?" he looked up sharply, surprised, almost suspicious. "how do you know that?" "i understood that no one was at home." "well, you are right, though i don't remember telling you. i had dinner at the club to meet a distinguished professor of psychology who is here. it is a subject in which i am interested." "may i ask who compose your household?" "me, first. then gene. then mrs. crosswell, the housekeeper, and minnie, the houseworker. there's a yardman and a laundress, but they don't live in the house." "were both the women away last night?" "no, minnie was at home. mrs. crosswell has been away for a few days." "miss benbow arrived last night." "yes, i believe so. i didn't see her till this morning. she came rushing into my room most inconsiderately with this confounded report in her hand,--the paper, i mean. what possessed gene to do such a thing--" "he must have been laboring under some excitement that carried him away--" "man, i am not talking about the shooting. that may or may not have been justified. but why he should make all this trouble by going to the police!" "do you know if anything happened at his supper to excite him?" "yes. his chum, al chapman, has been in to see me. it seems that some one spoke of seeing alfred barker, and it upset gene. he came away early." "what sort of a boy is he? violent? revengeful?" "i can't say that i have noticed. he never bothered me much. i have an idea that he is a pretty hard student,--" "has he been working hard?--overstraining himself?" he grinned. "brainstorm idea? well, perhaps you might work it. he has been doing a little extra latin with a tutor. you might make the most of that." "who is his tutor?" "mr. garney. one of the instructors at vandeventer." i made a note of mr. garney's name, also of al chapman's. "you don't think of anything else that i ought to know,--anything having a bearing on benbow's actions or his state of mind?" he hesitated, looked at me and shifted his eyes to the window, and finally pursed up his lips and shook his head. "no." "then let us go down to the jail so that i can meet my client." we went down together to the jail and were admitted to see eugene benbow. certainly he did not look like a murderer as we are apt to picture one. he was a tall, slender youth, with a sensitive face, and in spite of his nervousness he had the best manners i ever saw. he was sitting with his face in his hands when we came in, but he sprang to his feet at once with a self-forgetful courtesy that made him seem like an anxious host rather than a prisoner. "so good of you to come, uncle howard," he murmured. "i--i'm afraid i have disturbed you,--i'm so sorry,--" "sorry!" snorted mr. ellison. "much good it does to think of that now. and what you ever expected to have come from your going to the police with that story--well, there's no use talking. this is mr. hilton, gene. he is a lawyer, and he is going to look after your case, now that you're in for it." eugene bowed. "oh, that's most kind of you. it won't be any trouble? i'm so sorry to put you to any inconvenience--" "don't let that disturb you," i said. "mr. ellison was kind enough to think i might be of use,--" "and now i'll leave you to talk things over," said mr. ellison, plainly anxious to get away. "when i'm wanted, you know where to call on me, mr. hilton." and he hurried away. "that's what i wanted," i said, cheerfully. i could see that the boy was in so nervous a condition that the first necessity was to steady him. "we want to talk this over together. you know, of course, that anything and everything that you tell me is in professional confidence, and that you should not hesitate to be perfectly frank." "i have nothing to hide," he said. "if you will tell me what you want to know,--" "when did the idea of killing barker come to you?" i asked, watching him closely. an involuntary shudder ran through him at my words, but he answered at once and with apparent frankness. "i don't know. i don't remember thinking of it at all. beforehand, i mean." "when did you think of it?" "why, when i woke up. then i remembered." "you mean that you went home and went to sleep last night?" "yes. not to bed. i threw myself down on the couch in the library and went to sleep with my clothes on. it was about five when i woke up--and remembered. then i had to wait,--" he looked at me with anxious appeal for understanding,--"i _had_ to wait until some one would be up at the station,--" "tell me what you were doing yesterday. it was your twentieth birthday, mr. ellison says." "yes. why, i attended lectures at the u all forenoon. then after lunch mr. garney came over for an hour,--he's tutoring me in latin. at four i went to the gym,--guess i was there about an hour. then i went home and read awhile, until it was time to go to the frat house for supper. the fellows were giving me a spread because it was my birthday." "did anything come up that annoyed you? was anything said--about barker, for instance?" the boy frowned. "yes. grig--i mean jim gregory--said that he saw barker in town the other day. the other fellows shut him up. grig is new here. he didn't know how it would make me feel." "how _did_ it make you feel?" the boy's slim white hands were gripping the edges of his chair nervously. "desperate," he said, in a voice to match. "here i was, singing and laughing and drinking and having a jolly time, and there was my father dead, shot down and unavenged,--oh, it all seemed suddenly horrible to me. i couldn't stay." "you went away early, then. what time was it?" "i don't know. i never thought of looking. does it make any difference?" "i don't know that it does. then what did you do? did you go direct to the ph[oe]nix building?" he frowned thoughtfully. "no, i must have gone home first, mustn't i? yes, of course i went home. my revolver was there. i went into the library and threw myself down on the couch to think it out,--and then--why, then i must have got my revolver and gone out." "was your revolver in the library?" "yes. in the table drawer. uncle howard gave it to me that morning, in the library, and i just locked it into the drawer." "by the way, how did you know that barker's office was in the ph[oe]nix building?" "i don't know. i just knew it, somehow." "what made you think that he would be there at that time of the night? it wouldn't be likely, under ordinary circumstances." "i don't know. i didn't think. i suppose i just took it for granted." he looked puzzled and anxious, as though he were afraid that he was not answering my questions satisfactorily. "what did you have to drink at your spread?" i asked, thinking that perhaps there might be some explanation in that direction for his vague recollections. "oh, champagne," he said, quickly. "did you drink much?" "two glasses, i think." "are you accustomed to champagne?" "i've taken it only once or twice before." "then i don't wonder that your memory is not quite clear. but tell me what you can of your movements. i want to follow your actions from the time you left the house." he leaned forward, one elbow resting on the table between us, and fixed his eyes with anxious intentness on a crack in the floor. "i went down to the ph[oe]nix building--" "did you walk?" he hesitated a moment. "yes." "go on." "i went up to barker's office on the second floor,--" "how did you know that it was his office? excuse my interrupting, but i want to follow all the details. barker's name wasn't on the door." "i don't remember how i knew. perhaps i asked somebody." "whom?" "i don't remember that i did ask. but i knew the place. i went in through the outer office to an inner room. there was no one there. i locked the door between the two rooms and waited inside for barker to come. there was a light in the outer office, but the room i was in was lit only by the light that came in through the glass door between the two rooms. there was a curtain over this glass door, and i pulled it aside to watch. a man came in, sat down and waited awhile, and then went away. then barker came. i fired through the door,--one of the little panes of glass was broken, and i fired through that. then--then i opened the window and climbed down the fire-escape and got out into the street. there were crowds of people going home from the theaters, and i fell in with the crowd." "and went home?" "yes." he drew a sigh, as of relief, and looked up at me. it is one of the indications that this universe is under divine direction that a lie cannot masquerade successfully for the truth for an extended period. as eugene talked, it had been coming more and more strongly into my mind that he was not telling the truth. he was going too cautiously. he seemed to be picking his way among uncertainties with a studious design to present only irrefutable facts to my scrutiny. and yet the accident that had put me on the other side of that closed door should enable me to refute some of his facts, it seemed to me. i felt that i must make sure. "you say that a man came into the office and waited awhile and then went away. did you know him?" "no. he was a stranger." "would you know him if you saw him?" he hesitated. "no, i think not. i can't recall his face." "or how he was dressed? business suit, or evening dress?" "oh, business suit, i should think." "you naturally would think so,--unless you knew," i added to myself. then i asked abruptly, "are you fond of apples, mr. benbow?" he looked surprised and politely puzzled. "apples?" "yes. raw apples." "no, i don't care for them." "but you eat them?" "why, no, i don't, as it happens. i don't like them." "now let's go back to barker's office," i said, thinking hard. "can you describe the office,--the arrangement of the furniture, for instance?" he dropped his eyes again to the floor, and frowned intently, as though he were searching his memory. but in a moment he looked up with a whimsical, deprecatory smile. "i'm afraid i can't! i can't seem to remember things connectedly. do you suppose it was the champagne?" "that is possible," i said, thoughtful in my turn. it was quite possible that the champagne _was_ accountable for his vagueness. then i remembered another point. "you say that you went home after you climbed down the fire-escape." "yes. not at once, i think. i seem to remember walking the streets." "when you woke up this morning, where were you?" "on the couch in the library." "dressed?" "yes." "then you threw yourself down there when you came in and went to sleep, just as you did earlier in the evening, when you came home from the supper?" "i suppose so." "when you woke up and remembered what you had done, you wanted to give yourself up at once to the police?" "yes, of course. a gentleman would have to do that, wouldn't he?" "undoubtedly," i said, with gravity to match his own. "but why didn't you think of doing that last night?" he looked nonplussed. "i--don't know! i couldn't have been quite myself." then he looked up earnestly. "but if i remember shooting barker, that is the main thing, isn't it?" "i'm afraid so," i said, looking at him steadily. "you _do_ remember that?" "yes. distinctly." but he looked absent and thoughtful, as though the memory were not quite as clear as his words would imply. "by the way, how did you know barker when he came in?" a sharp change came over his expression. his young face looked set and stern as that of an avenging angel. "i was by my father's side when barker shot him," he said quietly. "i didn't know. i can understand your feeling. but this idea of avenging him,--have you cherished it all these years?" "no, not in that way," he said thoughtfully. "i think it just came over me of a sudden." "what did you do with the revolver afterwards?" "i threw it into an alley as i went by." (it was never found.) "you spoke to no one of your plan?" "no." "and there was no one with you? you were quite alone all the time?" "i was quite alone." i talked with him for some time, but there was nothing more definitely bearing upon the problem which was forming in my mind,--and which was a very different problem from the question how to handle the case of a confessed murderer. i went away with this new and puzzling question putting everything else out of my mind,--was his confession true? of course on the face of it, the question looked absurd. men don't go about confessing to crimes they have not committed,--unless there is some powerful reason for their belying themselves. if eugene benbow was lying, he had chosen his position well to escape detection. i could see that it would have been hard to defend him in the face of such circumstantial evidence as surrounded him, if he had been arrested on suspicion instead of on his own confession. and yet--i could not get rid of the idea that he was concealing or inventing something which might put a very different light on things. he might not have recognized me as the man who sat waiting in barker's office, he might even have failed to notice that i was in evening dress, but how explain away the eaten apple? a man very fond of apples might have eaten one while waiting and given no special thought to the matter, but a man who didn't like apples wouldn't pick one up casually and eat it without taking notice of what he was doing. and those apple parings were quite fresh. that was a small but obstinate fact. i could not forget it. had someone been with benbow? then i remembered his vagueness, his failure to identify me as the strange visitor, and i was inclined to change my question to--had benbow been there at all? and yet what possible motive could he have for making a false confession? the only reasonable explanation would be that he was trying to shield someone. but no one else had as yet been accused. the psychology of that situation was not complete. i must try to understand the boy's nature, before theorizing. and, first of all, i must verify my facts. chapter v bertillon methods and some others the first thing to do, i saw clearly, was to go back to barker's office and verify my recollections of the place, particularly of the apple peelings. fortune favored me. the rooms had been locked up the night before by the police, and were therefore undisturbed, and the chief did not hesitate, under the present conditions, to give me the keys. "our work is done," he said complacently. "the murderer is found." i didn't remind him that the force had had precious little to do with putting eugene benbow behind bars. i took the keys and went to the place of the tragedy. i let myself into the office, and locked the door after me, so that i might be undisturbed during my examination. it looked quite as bare and unattractive as i remembered it. here was the chair and table where i had sat examining my mother's locket when i had received that curious impression of being watched. i examined the glass door between the two rooms and sat down in the chair which had been drawn up near it, in the inner office. it commanded a full view of the outer office; and the curtain which fell over the glass made the fact that one pane was broken unnoticeable. here the assassin sat and watched me, and here he had sat when barker entered. i paused a moment to be thankful that the light in the outer office had been good! beside the chair, in a waste-basket, was the heap of apple parings i had noticed. it needed only a glance to show me that they had curled and withered and turned dark since i saw them. then they were freshly cut,--no question about that. the man who had sat there waiting and watching had been munching apples. and eugene benbow did not like apples! i carefully gathered up the parings and spread them out on the table. they showed two colors. plainly he had sampled different varieties. then i glanced at the basket of apples which still stood on the table. it was like the three in the other room. i picked up one of the apples--and whistled. cut sharply into the tough skin was the imprint of teeth! the murderer would seem to have tested this apple by the primitive method of biting it; and he had not liked the flavor. i picked up another. the mark of teeth was on this also, and even plainer. it struck me that the mark showed irregularities that ought to help in identifying the owner. they were evidently crowded teeth, with no space between them, and on both sides the crowding had forced two of the teeth outward in a wedge. if a man could be identified by his finger print, why not by the print of his teeth? especially when he had teeth so peculiar. i hastily locked the office, postponing further examination of the rooms until i should have had taken measures to preserve the records of the two bitten apples. i had an idea that my dentist could help me there. as i came out into the hall, i saw a man with gray hair and beard--a countryman, i gathered at first glance,--who stood looking at the door of the western improvement company in a dazed kind of way. i passed him, and then hesitated, wondering if i should, in common humanity, speak to him. he looked bewildered or ill. but he paid no attention to me or my halt, and i walked on, thinking that he was probably merely one of the morbidly curious who are attracted to the scene of any crime. it seemed strange, afterwards, when i realized that i had had the chance offered me of getting into touch with the man who was going to be so important a link in my chain of evidence, and that i had almost lost the chance. but as it turned out, it was as well. but i must tell things in order. i found dr. kenton more than ready to be interested. he was an enthusiast in his profession, and though his dissertations on acclusial contacts and marsupial elevations (i know that's wrong, but it sounds like that)--though these things bored me when i wanted to make a sitting short, i was now glad to draw upon his professional interest. "i want you to look at the marks of teeth in these apples," i said. "distinct, aren't they?" "beautiful! beautiful!" he murmured. "can you make a wax model like that, so as to hold that record permanently?" "certainly. nothing easier." "then i wish you would. could you, perhaps, make a set of teeth that would fit those marks?" he examined the apples carefully, and nodded his head. "i can." "then i commission you to do that also. should you say there was anything peculiar about those teeth? anything identifying?" "yes. certainly. the jaw is uncommonly narrow for an adult--" "but you are sure it is an adult?" i asked anxiously. the possibility that a child might have been sampling barker's apples struck me for the first time. but dr. kenton reassured me. "it is an adult, is it not?" "i don't know who it is. what i want to do is to use this record to identify the man who bit these apples,--let's call him adam for the present. i am hoping that his inherited taste for the fatal fruit may in time lead to his fall. in other words, dr. kenton, i am trying to identify a criminal of whom i have, at present, no information except that i believe him to be the man who put his teeth into these apples. if i find my suspicions focusing upon anyone in particular, i shall call upon you to examine his teeth. you understand, of course, that all this is in professional confidence and in the cause of justice." dr. kenton's eyes lighted up with a glow of triumph. he put out his hand. "let me shake hands with you. that is an idea which i have been urging through the dental journals for years. the insurance companies should require dental identification in any case of uncertainty. there is no means of identification so absolutely certain." "i am glad to have you confirm my impression, doctor. now, you will have to take this impression before the fruit withers, and then i want you to come with me to the morgue and get an impression of the teeth of alfred barker, the man who was killed last night in the ph[oe]nix building." "did he bite that?" dr. kenton asked, with a tone of awe. "i am sure he did _not_. i want to be able to prove he did not, if that claim should be made." and i explained to him enough of the situation to secure his sympathetic understanding. "i see. i see. well, nothing will be easier to establish than whether he did or didn't. whoever it was that left this record of an important part of his anatomy can be identified." "if we can first catch him," i said. "surely. but it is an uncommon jaw,--narrow and prominent." "then i shall want to have you see my client eugene benbow. it will not be necessary for you to do anything more than to look at him, will it?" "that will be enough. i can tell at a glance whether his jaw has this conformation. or, find out who his dentist is, and i will get the information from him without his knowing it." "good. now when can you go with me to the morgue? the sooner the better." he made an appointment for later in the day, and i left him. i hurried back to my office, for there were a number of things i had to see to before going to keep my appointment with dr. kenton. while i was yet a block away, i saw a young girl running down the street toward me. it did not occur to me that she was coming for me until she came near enough for me to recognize jean benbow. then i hastened to meet her. "what is it?" i asked anxiously. "come quick," she exclaimed--and even then i noticed that her swift run had not taken her breath away. "there's another one here to look after." i didn't understand what she meant, but i saw that i was needed somewhere and i broke into a run myself. she guided me to barney's stand. behind it, on the ground, lay a man, with a beautiful woman--katherine thurston it was--dabbling his head with a wet handkerchief while barney poured something out of a bottle into a tin dipper. (barney could be guaranteed to keep some of the joy of life with him under the most desolating of conditions.) "if you'll give him a sup of this, mr. hilton," he said confidentially, as i came up, "'tis all the poor cratur will need. a wooden leg is the divil for kneeling down, and i couldn't be asking a lady like that to handle the shtuff, ye understand." i took the dipper and knelt down beside the fallen man,--and at once i recognized him as the rustic whom i had seen, looking dazed and bewildered, outside of barker's office a few hours before. he opened his eyes, looked about vacantly, and made a feeble effort to rise. "drink this, and you will feel better," i said. (a sniff had convinced me that barney's prescription wasn't half bad.) he drank it and coughed. "he's coming around all right," i said. "what happened? faint?" barney rubbed his chin dubiously. "i'm thinking he had his wits about him all right when he made out to faint jist at the time the ladies was coming by. if it wa'n't for the sinse he showed in that, i'd say he was a bit looney." "why?" "he came down the street like a drunk man, but he wasn't drunk, begging the ladies' pardon, i could see that with me eyes shut. when he came by my bit of a stand he took hould of it with both hands and leaned across to look at me like i was his ould brother. 'he's dead,' he says. 'who's dead,' says i. 'he's dead,' says he again. 'he's escaped.' and with that he fell to the ground, and if the ladies hadn't come out that minute from yon door, and yourself came running, it's meself that would have had to go down on me wooden knee that don't bend, to lift his head off the stones." i spoke to the man, trying to learn his name and address. he was not unconscious but he seemed dazed or distrustful, and i could get nothing from him. by this time quite a group of people had gathered about us,--indeed, i wondered that they had not come before, but as a matter of fact the man had fallen only a few seconds before i came upon the scene. (miss thurston and jean had been up to my office, it appeared, and had been coming away at that moment.) the few words that barney repeated from the man's dazed remarks before he fell, and the fact that i had seen him in the ph[oe]nix building of course made me feel that i wanted to keep him under my own surveillance until i could find out what, if anything, he knew of barker. i therefore hurried a boy off to call a carriage, and when it came i helped the old man in and drove to the st. james hospital. "what's the matter with him?" i asked the attending physician--after i had got him installed. "hard to tell yet. he fainted on the street, you say? he is obviously exhausted, but what the cause or the outcome may be, i can't tell you yet." "i want you to let me know the minute he is sufficiently restored to talk. and don't let anyone talk to him until i have seen him." the doctor raised his eyebrows. i handed him my card. "there is a possibility that he may know something about the barker murder," i said. the doctor looked surprised. "why, i thought the murderer had confessed. is there anything further to investigate?" "we haven't all of the facts yet," i answered. "this man may know something, and again he may not. but don't let him talk to anyone until i have quizzed him. will you see to that?" "oh, all right," he said easily. "the old fellow isn't likely to be quite himself until he has slept the clock around, i judge. i'll telephone you when he is able to see visitors. what makes you think he knows anything about it?" "oh, just a guess," i said. really, come to look at it, i had very slight foundation for the feeling i had that something was going to come out of the old man's revelations; but that isn't the first or the last time that an unreasoning impulse has been of more value to me than all the learning of the schools. chapter vi the frat supper in the meantime, there were two people i wanted to question,--al chapman, the fellow who had told mr. ellison about the frat supper, and mr. garney, his tutor. i found al chapman at the fraternity house, where i had gone to make inquiries for him. he was a serious, studious-looking boy, and he came to meet me with his finger still marking a place in a copy of cicero's de senectute. "i am mr. hilton," i explained. "mr. ellison has asked me to act as eugene benbow's lawyer, and i wanted to ask you some questions about your birthday supper, you know." he nodded, solemnly. evidently he felt it a funereal occasion. "i have no doubt that you can give me some useful information that will help to explain benbow's actions," i said, as cheerfully as possible. "i wish you would tell me about the supper." "we didn't think it would end like this!" he said tragically. "it isn't ended yet. perhaps you can help me make a good ending. tell me what happened as far as you remember it." "nothing happened out of the ordinary until we were smoking after the banquet was over. then we got to telling weird stories--and someone told of a mountain feud, you know, and how they carried it on for years and years as long as anybody was left, and gene said he didn't blame anyone for feeling that way, and we talked back and forth, you know, some saying one thing and some another, and then one of the new fellows, gregory, sung out to gene and asked him when he was going to settle things with the man that shot his father. of course the other fellows tried to squelch him,--they all knew how gene would feel about that,--and gene, he got stiff, the way he does when he doesn't want to go to smash, and said he didn't know where the wretch was, and grig, the fool, says, 'why, he's here in town. i saw him on main street the other day, and a man pointed him out as the man that killed senator benbow.' then somebody threw a pillow at grig, and somebody else gave him a kick, and the fellows all began to talk loud and fast at once, and things passed off. i saw gene tried to stick it out, because he didn't want to break up the shindig, but after a little while he slipped out and i knew he had gone. i have wished a thousand times that i had gone with him, but just then i thought he would rather be alone. besides, i wanted to stay and help finish grig off." "have you any idea how benbow knew that barker was in the ph[oe]nix building? was that mentioned?" "no, i didn't notice that it was. but that's on main street, you know, and grig said main street." "yes, perhaps. had benbow been drinking,--enough to affect him?" young chapman looked somewhat embarrassed. "we don't--usually--" "but you did on this occasion?" "well, it was a birthday, you see,--rather special. and we only had two bottles--" "among how many?" "twelve of us." "well, if benbow didn't have more than his share, that ought not to have knocked him senseless." i rose. i hadn't learned anything that eugene had not already told me. chapman rose, also, but looked anxious and unsatisfied. "we've been wondering, sir," he broke out desperately. "will they--i mean, is it--will he--be hung?" (isn't that like youth? jumping to the end of the story, and considering life done at the first halt in the race!) "if he should be convicted of murder in the first degree, that is the penalty," i said. "but he hasn't been tried yet, much less convicted." "we didn't think on his birthday that he would go out like that," said chapman, solemnly. "it's as cicero says, even a young man cannot be sure on any day that he will live till nightfall." i glanced at the book in his hand. his classical quotation was obviously new! "are you reading de senectute?" i asked. "i'm doing it in latin,--yes, sir. this is an english translation which mr. garney lent me today to show me what a poor rendering i had made. this is translated by andrew peabody, and he makes it sound like english! gene was doing it with me. i don't suppose we will ever do any more latin together." "don't be too sure of that. you may both come to know more of old age, in latin, in english, and in life, than you now guess. but i want to ask you another question. do you know benbow's associates or friends outside of the university?" "what sort of associates?" asked chapman, looking puzzled. "any sort,--good, bad or indifferent. especially the bad and indifferent." the young fellow looked offended. "gene doesn't have associates of that kind," he said, indignantly. "nothing in his life to hide?" "no, _sir_. you wouldn't ask that if you knew him." "i'm glad to hear it," i said absently. of course i was glad to hear it, but it did not help out the half-theory i was considering that benbow might somehow have been "in" with barker's murderer, though not himself the active assailant, and have been forced, by fear or favor, to protect the criminal. but there was no use committing myself to any theory until i had more material to work with. "will you come down to my office this afternoon and let me take your deposition about what happened at the birthday supper? i want to get that on record while it is clear in your memory. and will you bring two or three others,--fellows who were there and heard it all? if worst comes to worst, i want to be able to prove that he acted under the immediate impulse of passion aroused by what gregory said." "yes, i see. i'll bring all of them, if you like." "bring as many as care to come. be there by four, if you can," i said. that would give me time for my interview with dr. kenton. i am not going to take time here to recount the details of that interview. suffice it to say that dr. kenton made an examination of barker's teeth which established clearly that he was not the man who had bit the apples i had found in his inner office. he took a wax impression which would be enough to make this fact indisputable thereafter. while he was engaged in this task, i took occasion to ask the coroner about the articles which had been found in barker's pockets. he was now willing to allow me to examine the little collection. in addition to the things which i had noticed in the evening, i now saw that there was a part of a worn time-table, and two empty envelopes with pencil figuring on the back. the small memorandum book which i had noticed before engaged my special attention. a number of the front pages had been torn out. on some of the other pages were pencil figurings which held no significance that i could see. on the last page was what appeared to be a summary. at any rate, i recognized in some of the figures the total of the scribbled sums in addition and subtraction on the inside pages. this list seemed to have some coherence, and as the coroner had doubts about the propriety of letting me have the book, i made a copy of it, as follows: deering . junius . dickinson . hawthorne . lyndale . sweet valley . illington . eden valley . (+ ) dunstan . i recognized the names as those of towns in the state, but that was not very illuminating. from the time-table, barker had probably swung around this circle, and the figures might mean the amount he had made at each town. or they might mean something entirely different. i needed more light before forming even a conjecture on the subject. as i was about to replace the memorandum book, i made a surprising discovery. running my finger over the edges of the leaves to see whether any other pages were used, i discovered a folded piece of paper stuck between two of the leaves, which had evidently escaped the casual examination the book had previously received. i unfolded it. it was an uncashed check for $ , made payable to "bearer" and signed by howard ellison! the date was only three days old. all this i saw at a glance. i was about to replace the paper when the coroner, who had been examining the other articles, looked up and saw it. he took it from my hand and examined it in turn. "that's curious," was his comment. "ellison is young benbow's uncle, isn't he?" "something of that sort." "he will be two hundred and fifty dollars ahead, since barker didn't cash the check, eh?" "i suppose the check belongs to his estate, in any event." "if he has one. no one has claimed the body." "what will become of it, then?" "oh, there was money enough in his pockets to pay for his burial. the authorities will see to it in any case." "by the way, if any relatives should turn up, i'd like to know. do you know whether barker was ever married?" "i have never heard. if he was, his wife will probably let us hear from her. this will be reported in all the papers everywhere." "true. there ought to be some news in a day or two, if she intends to come forward at all. i'll call your office up later." when kenton was through with his piece of work, i took him with me to the jail, and while i talked to eugene for a few minutes, dr. kenton stood by and took observations. when we were again outside he shook his head. "he's not the man. i don't need to examine his teeth. the shape of the jaw is sufficient. whom else do you suspect?" "no one in particular. but if it wasn't barker and wasn't benbow, it was someone else. who that someone is, i shall endeavor to find out." but though i spoke firmly, i had to acknowledge to myself that so far i had very little to go on. doubtless he had many enemies, as clyde had suggested, but they did not come forward. neither did his friends, if he had any. he was an isolated man. and yet he held many strings connected with other lives. that check of ellison's meant something. but gene had confessed! i felt that my only hope lay in finding out who, in eugene's circle of acquaintances, would have good reason to wish barker removed, would be unscrupulous enough to kill him,--and sufficiently influential with eugene to induce him to take another's crime upon himself. i gained little from the frat boys, though i examined them all that afternoon, and had my clerk fellows, who was a notary, take their formal depositions for future use if necessary. they all testified to the remarks made by gregory and the disturbing effect which the incident had had upon benbow, but when i tried to probe for outside entanglements, influences, or relations, i drew a blank every time. so far as his college mates knew, gene benbow was merely an exemplary student, more interested in his books than in athletics, but a "good fellow" for all that. it was evident that his shooting of barker had filled them not only with surprise but with secret admiration. they hadn't expected it of him. "i'll go to mrs. whyte," i said to myself. "she's a woman and his next door neighbor. more, she is mrs. whyte. she will know, if anyone does." chapter vii chiefly gossip i went accordingly to mrs. whyte's that very same evening. on the way i stopped at mr. ellison's to interview minnie, the maid. i didn't expect any very important evidence from her, but as she was the only one who could have seen benbow after he left the banquet, and would know whether or not he was alone, i wanted to hear what she had to say. she came into the library at mr. ellison's summons,--a very pretty girl, but also evidently a very timid girl. at each question i asked, she glanced mutely at mr. ellison, as if trying to read his wishes before venturing to answer. i guessed that mr. ellison might perhaps be somewhat severe with his servants, and that the timid minnie would far rather lie than encounter his displeasure. "this is nothing to frighten you, miss doty," i said gently, trying to draw her eyes to me from mr. ellison,--and without complete success. "i am not a policeman. i just want to ask a few questions that will help me to understand things myself. you were the only person in the house last night, i believe. is that so?" "yes," she said, drawing a quick breath, and with a darting glance at mr. ellison. "yes, gene and i were both dining out," mr. ellison put in, "and mrs. crosswell, the housekeeper, is away for the week. so minnie was left in charge of the house." "you weren't afraid?" i said smilingly, trying to ease her nervous tension. but the obtuse ellison again took the word from her mouth. "why should she be afraid? i told her to lock up the house and let no one in." "can you hear the door-bell from your room?" i asked, remembering jean benbow's vain efforts to make herself heard at the front door. minnie had evidently been gossiping in the neighborhood, instead of guarding the house! "yes--not always," she stammered, nervously. "you didn't hear miss benbow ring." "not at first," she said in a low voice. i guessed she was afraid of a scolding for being out of the house, and shaped my next question so as to spare her an explicit statement. "it was you who let miss benbow in, wasn't it?" "yes," she murmured, hardly above a breath. her eyes fell, and the color came and went in her face. "did you leave the house at all after letting her in?" "no," she said quickly, lifting her eyes. i was sure she spoke the truth that time. "then can you tell me when mr. benbow came in?" "no, sir. i--i don't know." "could he get in without your knowing?" "he has a latch-key to the side door,--the library door," said mr. ellison. "he uses the library for his study." "then you wouldn't know whether he came in at all last night?" i said to minnie. "oh, yes, he came in," she said quickly. "how do you know?" "i--i saw him--go out," she stammered, with sudden confusion. "when?" "i--didn't notice." "but you saw him leave the house?" "yes, sir. he came down--he went down the steps from the library, and went off." "off to the street, you mean?" "yes, sir." "did he speak to you?" "oh, no, sir. he didn't see me." "where were you?" she hesitated and stammered. "in the dining room." i felt sure that this time she was not telling the truth, but mr. ellison unconsciously came to her support. "there is a bay window in the dining room which overlooks the library entrance," he volunteered. "was mr. benbow alone?" "yes, sir." "you are sure about that?" "oh, yes, he was quite alone," she said positively. "you didn't see any stranger here during the evening, either with mr. benbow or otherwise?" "no, sir, there wasn't anybody here at all," she said with a definiteness that was convincing. i let her go at that,--to her evident relief. i had seen the trepidation of perfectly innocent witnesses too often to attach any great weight to her nervousness, but at the same time i had a feeling that she had not been perfectly frank. but probably the fact that she had been out of the house when she was supposed to be in it was enough to give her that atmosphere of something concealed. "that confirms mr. benbow's statement that he came home for his revolver," i said to ellison, who, i was sure, had listened carefully, though he had made a show of indifference and inattention. "i thought possibly someone might have seen him and talked with him who could throw some light on the matter, but it seems not. how is miss benbow?" "jean? oh, she's all right. no business to be here, mixing up in things that concern men, but what can you expect nowadays? of course she had to come interfering." "if you think she would care to see me,--" he shook his head impatiently. "miss thurston is with her. they are talking things over for all they are worth." i rose to depart. then the thought which had been in the background of my mind all along came forward. after all, i might as well be the one to tell him. "mr. ellison, they found a check signed by you in barker's pocket. you will probably hear of it, if you didn't already know." he puckered his eyelids and looked at me narrowly. "where did you get that bit of information?" "i saw the check." "a check payable to barker?" "no, it was made payable to bearer." "indeed?" he laughed a little maliciously. "i wonder how barker got hold of it!" "barker had ways of getting money," i said drily. there was no reason why he should take me into his confidence, of course--and, judging from what i knew of barker, probably there was every reason why he should not,--but his reserve was somewhat tantalizing! it would have been natural for him to mention the fact of his own acquaintance or business dealings with barker when he first interviewed me,--unless they were of the nature that people don't discuss. had barker been levying blackmail on him also? in spite of his inscrutability, i was sure my information had disturbed him, though he was not surprised. had he been nerving himself for the discovery? i reflected that ease, long continued, makes people soft. mr. ellison was probably less fit to meet trouble than jean. i went down the street to the next house, where mr. whyte and my dear white-haired friend were sitting on the front porch, taking in the pleasant evening air. (it was early in october.) they appeared to have been sitting quiet in the sympathetic silence of the long married, but from the way in which whyte wrung my hand i could see that the quiet covered a good deal of emotional strain. "what _can_ be done for the poor boy?" was mrs. whyte's first question. "i don't know yet. i am simply gathering the facts at present." "it's a terrible business," said mr. whyte. "ellison tells me that he has asked you to defend gene, but i don't see that the boy has left you much legal ammunition. he confesses the shooting." "the law will have to take cognizance of the facts attending the shooting,--his youth, the provocation, the circumstances. i don't despair. but i want to know everything possible,--his temperament, his associations, his friends. you can help me here, mrs. whyte." "how? dear knows i'll be glad to." "has he ever talked about avenging his father's death? has that been on his mind?" "he never spoke of it. i don't believe it was on his mind. you see, he was only ten years old at the time, and though it must, of course, have been a great shock, he was really nothing but a child, and a child soon forgets. senator benbow's death killed his wife, but i don't think gene realizes that. mr. ellison took eugene to live with him and put jean into a good boarding-school, and they both have been happy enough. eugene has grown up just like other boys, except that he has been more alone. i have made a point of having him over here a good deal, just because he was growing up with no women about, over at mr. ellison's. of course his sister has been here a good deal, holidays and so on, but that's different." "did he go anywhere else, so far as you know?" "i know that he did not. he is too shy and reserved to care much for society. he loves to read and dream, and aside from his college mates, i don't believe that he has any friends that you could call intimate. in fact, i can't flatter myself that he really cared to come over here to see me, except when katherine thurston was here visiting me." "he had the good taste then to admire miss thurston?" mr. whyte chuckled across the gloom. "he has been her devoted slave for a year past." "now, carroll," mrs. whyte began in protest, but before she could give it further expression we were interrupted by an approaching visitor. clyde came swinging up the walk with an eager stride. "good evening!" he called cheerily, lifting his hat. "what a perfect evening it is! i don't wonder you are all out of doors. evening, hilton." his vigorous, even happy, manner, was most alien to our mood. it struck us like laughter at a funeral. "we were just speaking of poor gene benbow," said mrs. whyte, with delicate reproof in her voice. "oh, yes, of course. he was a friend of yours, wasn't he?" he said, toning his manner down to a different key from that in which he had come. "was and is," said whyte simply. "yes, of course," said clyde, hastily, trying to right himself with the current. "poor fellow, as you say. he must have brooded over his father's death a great deal to have such a purpose develop in his mind. but barker richly deserved his fate, for that matter." "oh, i'm not wasting any sympathy on barker," said mrs. whyte, and something in her crisp tones told me that clyde was not wholly _persona grata_ with the warm-hearted lady. "it's gene i'm thinking about." "of course. naturally," he said, quickly. then, as the pause was beginning to be awkward, he asked tentatively, "i wonder if i might see miss thurston." "she isn't at home," said mrs. whyte (and i was sure from her voice that she found a certain satisfaction in denying his request). "she has gone to spend the night with jean." "with whom?" he asked sharply. "with jean benbow,--eugene's sister, you know. she is here at mr. ellison's,--came up home last night to celebrate their birthday, poor child." "this thing has been an awful blow to katherine," said mr. whyte, taking his cigar from his mouth, and dropping his voice. "i didn't know she had it in her to feel so deeply for a friend's trouble. she is always so self-possessed and calm that i suppose i thought she had no feelings. but, by jove, she was crushed. i never saw anyone look so overwhelmed with grief. she couldn't have felt it more if she had been eugene's mother." "heavens, carroll, katherine isn't as old as _that!_" said mrs. whyte impatiently. "well, then, his sweetheart!" said whyte, half-laughing. "i won't say as his sister. his sister was twice as plucky and sensible about it as katherine was, for that matter. _she_ didn't go all to pieces." "miss thurston is very sympathetic," said clyde, in a tone which did not wholly match his words. he rose and stood for a moment, hesitating, as though he had not yet said what he came to say. "they have been to see me again to-day about running for mayor on the citizens' ticket," he said at last, half-deprecatingly. "i--i almost think i will let them put my name up." (he glanced at me with a smile as he spoke, knowing that i would understand his new attitude in the matter.) "that is,--unless my friends dissuade me." "good enough!" cried whyte. "go ahead! we'll work for you to a man." "i wondered what you and mrs. whyte would say about it,--and miss thurston," he added, haltingly. "i can tell you that," said mrs. whyte, in her most decisive tones. "katherine won't care a pin who is mayor of saintsbury until she knows what is to come to gene benbow." "yes, of course," said clyde, uncomfortably. "i'm awfully sorry about all this distress. if there is anything at all that i can do,--" "thank you," said mrs. whyte, somewhat loftily. "i'll tell katherine." and clyde departed, knowing that in this quarter at least he was not quite forgiven for being alive and free and ambitious while gene benbow was lying in prison. i think that i, though his newest friend, was the one most sympathetic toward him that evening. i could understand how the relief, the new feeling of security, which had followed barker's death, had made the whole world seem new-made for him. besides, he had no such feeling of personal friendship for gene as the rest of the group had. "i'll tell katherine all right," said mrs. whyte, somewhat maliciously, i thought. "oh, yes, i'll tell katherine that he came around to talk about the political situation, this evening of all times." "now, clara," said her husband pacifically. "the nomination is an important matter, and we can't stop living just because gene benbow is in trouble." "he has never liked gene," said mrs. whyte, defensively. "whenever he finds gene here with katherine, or finds that he has taken her out walking, or anything like that, he just stands and glowers." "perhaps he is jealous," said whyte, with a subdued chuckle. "he has no right to be jealous. if katherine enjoys gene's society, she has a perfect right to choose it. not that there is anything of _that_ sort between them! katherine is not old enough to be gene's mother, but she is older, and she would never allow anything of that sort to happen. besides, if she had wanted kenneth clyde, she could have had him years ago." "i wonder why she has never married," said whyte, blowing smoke rings into the air. "too much sense," said mrs. whyte crisply. then, quite obviously recollecting that this was not the view to present to me, she added, significantly, "when mr. right comes, it will be a different matter." "she wouldn't have a word to throw to the rightest mr. right in the world just now," said mr. whyte. "she is taking gene's trouble pretty hard. but that little jean is a wonder! she will be a heart-wrecker all right." "now, carroll, don't put any such ideas into her head. she is a mere child." "she is gene's twin," said mr. whyte, shrewdly. "if his devotion to katherine is to be treated respectfully, you can't act as though jean were just out of the kindergarten. i'll bet she has had a broader experience with love-affairs than katherine has." "you don't know anything about it," was mrs. whyte's crushing response, and after that the conversation became more general. i had listened with the greatest interest, not only because of the light which the conversation threw on the character of the boy whom i wished to understand, but because of the vivid interest in jean benbow which my brief encounter with her had aroused. she was, as mrs. whyte said, merely a child, and even youthful for her years, but a sure instinct told me that she would be past mistress of the game where hearts are trumps. i was soon to prove this surmise correct! young garney, gene's latin tutor, fell a victim at sight. by chance (if there be chance, which i sometimes doubt,) that affair began in my own office--and ended where none of us would have guessed. i had asked garney to come to my office, to see if he could tell me anything helpful about gene, when jean stumbled in,--or ricochetted in, rather. jean never did anything that suggested stumbling. but that interview was too important to be dismissed in a few words. i shall have to tell it in detail, later on. but before i come to that, there was a strange event which i must record. it befell that same evening, after i left the whytes. chapter viii some of jean's ways i have noticed that ideas usually come to me at the moment of awaking. the next morning i came back to a consciousness of gene benbow's affairs with a perplexity which was momentarily illuminated by the thought, "why don't i look up barker's home? he must have been staying somewhere, and the people there may know something about him." why hadn't i thought of that before? however, yesterday had been a pretty busy day as it was. i turned at once to the city directory, and then to the telephone directory. there was no indication in either that such a person as alfred barker lived in saintsbury. the western land and improvement co. appeared in the telephone directory, but that of course was no help. i called up the police department and asked if they could tell me where barker had lived. yes, they had investigated,-- angus avenue, was the number. "and, by the way," my informant added, "barker's body has been claimed." "by whom?" i demanded. "collier, the undertaker. he says that a woman came to his place last night and gave him directions and money, but would not give her name. she was veiled, and he knows nothing about her, except that she paid him to see that the body was decently interred." "that's all you know?" "that's all anybody knows." "collier is in charge, then?" "yes." that was interesting, so far as it went. was the woman who had provided for barker's burial merely some benevolent stranger who had been emotionally stirred by the newspaper accounts, (that sort of thing happens more frequently than you would believe,) or was there some closer bond? the answer seemed as hidden as everything else connected with this strange affair. on my way to my office, i hunted up angus avenue. it was such a place as i might have expected,--a shabby house in a row, on a semi-obscure street. my ring was answered by a young woman of about twenty,--an unkempt, heavy-eyed young woman, who didn't look happy. she listened unresponsively while i preferred my request for some information about mr. barker, and left me standing in the hall while she returned to some dark back room. i heard her say, "ma! here's another wants to know things." and presently ma appeared, hot from the kitchen, and somewhat fretted. "i can't be answering questions all day," she said, at me rather than to me. "there was a string of people here all day yesterday, taking my time. just because mr. barker roomed here is no reason why i should know all about him." "you probably know more than any of the rest of us," i said, deferentially. "had mr. barker been long with you?" "long enough, but that don't mean that i know much about him. he was here awhile in the summer two years ago, and when he was in town afterwards he would come here to see if i could give him a room. but he never stayed long at a time. i think he was some kind of a traveling man,--here to-day and gone to-morrow. he has been here now for the last six weeks, but he never had any visitors or received any letters and i don't know the names and addresses of any of his relatives,--and that's what i told the police and all the rest of them!" she finished breathless but still defiant. "that seems to cover the ground pretty thoroughly," i laughed. "but i shall have to ask another question on my own account. was he married?" "no!" said the girl positively. i had not noticed that she had returned. she was standing in the doorway behind me. "not that we know," said the mother, more guardedly, and with an anxious look at her daughter. "did he leave any effects here?" "you can see the room, like all the rest," she said, with grim impartiality. "i'd like to." she led the way up a narrow stairway from the front hall to a rear room on the second floor. she opened the door with a key which she took from her pocket, and stepped inside. "land sakes!" she exclaimed. the reason was clear. the room was all upset. the contents of a trunk, which stood in one corner, were scattered upon the floor, the drawers of the bureau were open, and a writing desk near the window had evidently been thoroughly searched. every drawer was open, and papers were scattered upon the floor. "land sakes!" she repeated. "gertie, come here." gertie came, and swept the room with the unsurprised and comprehending eye of the practical young woman of to-day. "someone got in through the window," she said briefly. "you know that clasp doesn't catch, anybody could get in. well, i hope they are satisfied now!" from her tone i understood that she hoped just the opposite. "we might all have been murdered in our beds!" exclaimed the mother. "oh, it wasn't us they were after," said gertie carelessly. "it was him! i tell you,--" she stopped suddenly and bit her lip. "but who could ever have known that the catch didn't work?" demanded the mother in a baffled manner. "to whom did you show the room yesterday?" i asked. "anyone who had an opportunity to examine the room inside could have made plans for returning at night." "well, first it was the police, and they told me not to let anyone touch anything,--though i knew that myself. then there were people all day long,--curiosity seekers, i call them. there was one little old gentleman that came up first,--i say old, but he was as spry as any of them. something like a bird in the way he turned his head." it suggested mr. ellison exactly! "with spectacles?" i asked. "yes. gold-brimmed. gray hair that curled up at the ends." "anyone else you remember? was there a tall young man, fresh-shaven, with rather a blue-black tint where the beard had been taken off?" "there was!" cried gertie. "i saw that! he came last night, about seven." "well, i didn't let him go up," said the mother. "i was tired bothering with them." "but you told him which room mr. barker had," said gertie. "who was he?" "i don't know. i saw such a looking man with mr. barker the other day, and i just asked out of curiosity." "i will have to report this to the police," said the woman wearily. "no end of trouble. if you please, sir, i'll lock the door now." "one moment!" i had been standing beside the writing desk, and my eye had caught a few words written on a sheet of letter paper,--the beginning of an unfinished letter. "is this mr. barker's writing, do you know?" the letter read: "my dear wife:--so i have found my little runaway! did she think that she could hide away from her hubby? don't fool yourself, little one!" gertie had snatched the paper from my hand and read it with startled eyes. "i don't believe it," she said, violently. "that--is not his writing!" she flung the paper down, and left the room. "what is it?" asked her mother, fretfully. "an unfinished letter to his wife,--if it is his." "we never knew much about him," she said, looking troubled. i could easily guess a part of the story that troubled her. i had no excuse for further lingering, so i left mrs. barrows (she asked my name and gave me her own at parting) and went down to my office. fellows was waiting for me, and it struck me at once that his manner was weighted with unusual significance. "well?" i asked. he always waited, like a dog, for a sign. "barker was married," he said. "he married a mary doherty up in claremont four years ago, when he was forty. she was twenty." "is that all you have found out?" "all so far." "that's good, so far as it goes, but i can add to it. she ran away from him, is probably now in saintsbury, and the chances are that it was she who empowered collier the undertaker to arrange for his burial. advertise in the papers for mary doherty, and say that she will learn of something to her advantage by communicating with me. i'll make it to her advantage! keep the advertisement going until i tell you to stop. that's all." fellows went off and i knew the matter would be attended to faithfully and with intelligence. but several times during the day i noticed that he was unlike himself. he was absent-minded and he looked unmistakably worried. it frets me to have people about me who are obviously burdened with secret sorrows they will ne'er impart, and i finally spoke. "what in thunder is the matter with you today, fellows? what's on your mind?" "nothing," he said quickly. but after a minute or so he looked up with that same disturbed air. "who would have thought that he had a wife?" "that's not especially astonishing." "i never thought that there could be a woman--a woman who could care for him, i mean." "she probably didn't. she ran away." "still it must have been a terrible shock. and if she cared about burying him,--" "you're too tender-hearted, fellows," i said. but i confess that i liked his betrayal of sympathy. he was too unemotional as a rule. well, that brings me down to my interview with garney, which took place that afternoon. mr. garney was one of the regular faculty at vandeventer college, and to meet his convenience i asked him to fix the time and place for the interview which i desired. he said he would come to my office at four, and he kept his appointment promptly. i had told jean benbow that if she could come to my office at half past four, i would take her down to see her brother. she came fifteen minutes ahead of time,--and that's how she came into the story. into that part of the story, i mean. but i had all that garney could probably tell me before she came in and disconcerted him. i think my first question surprised him. "mr. garney, do you know anything to eugene benbow's discredit?" he looked at me with an intentness that i found was habitual with him, as though he weighed my words before he answered them. "you don't mean trivial faults?" "no. i mean anything serious." he shook his head. "no. he is an exceptionally fine fellow in every way. high-spirited and honorable. i suppose his sensitiveness to his family honor, as he conceives it, may be called a fault, since it has unbalanced him to the extent of leading him into a crime." "you know of no absorbing entanglement, either with man or woman?" "no," he said, evidently puzzled by my question. "have you ever heard him express vengefulness toward barker?" "oh, yes," he said, decidedly. "i know that he has brooded over that. he does not talk of it in general, i believe, but he has been a special pupil of mine, and he has taken me somewhat into his confidence. that barker should have escaped all punishment for the slaying of his father has worn upon him. he spoke of it only once, but then he expressed himself in such a way that i knew he had been carrying it in his mind a long time." "then you believe that he really shot barker?" he stared at me, amazed. "of course." "you think of nothing that would prompt him to assert his guilt, if, in point of fact, he should not be guilty?" i never saw a man look more astonished. "if you really mean that, i can only say that i can think of nothing short of insanity which would make him say he shot barker if he didn't. why, he has confessed. do you mean to say that you think the confession false? and if so, why?" "i am not thinking yet. i am merely gathering facts of all sorts. when i get them all together, i expect to discover the truth, whatever it may be." "i supposed his confession was conclusive. but i suppose you lawyers get to looking at everything with suspicion. have you anything to support your extraordinary hypothesis beyond your natural desire to clear your client?" i had no intention of taking him extensively into my confidence, but i was saved the necessity of answering at all by the opening of my office door. jean benbow put her head in, with a shy, childlike dignity. "am i too early?" she whispered. "i couldn't wait." "come in," i smiled. she came in, glanced carelessly at my visitor, and walked over to my window. she was dressed in an autumnal brown, with a trim little hat that somehow made her look more mature and less childish than she had seemed before, though still more like a frank brown-faced boy than a young lady. i saw that carney's eyes followed her to the window with a look of startled attention. "i think that is all i wanted to ask you at this time," i said, meaning to imply that the interview was ended. "yes," he said, irrelevantly, without taking his eyes from jean. i rose. "i may come to you again, mr. garney,--" at the name, jean turned swiftly and came to us. "oh, are you mr. garney?" she asked eagerly, putting out her hand. "i'm so glad to meet you. gene has told me about you. i'm gene's twin sister, jean." he looked like a man in a dream, and i could see that his voice had caught in his throat. he took her hand and held it, looking down at her. "i didn't know that gene had a sister," he said at last. "if that isn't like a boy!" she said with quick indignation. "at any rate, he has told me about you!" "nothing bad, i hope?" he smiled faintly, but i felt that he was almost breathlessly waiting for her reassurance. "mercy, no! he thinks you know an awful lot." then she drew back a step, threw up her head to look him steadily in the eye, and said clearly, "mr. garney, i think gene did exactly right. and i am proud of him." i saw that she meant to permit no misunderstanding as to her position but i doubted whether garney cared a rap what she might think. it wasn't her opinions that he cared about. it was herself. i admit that it annoyed me. i wanted to get her out of his sight. "it is time for us to go, miss benbow," i said abruptly. "you are going down to the jail?" asked garney quickly. i saw that it was on the tip of his tongue to propose going with us. "yes, we are going," i said, looking at him steadily. "you, i believe, are going back to your classroom." an angry look came over his face as he caught my meaning. i saw that he would not forget it, but i didn't care. was i to stand by and say nothing while he tumbled his wits at her feet? it was absurd. she wasn't old enough to understand and defend herself. we parted definitely at the street door, and i walked jean so fast down the block that i was ashamed when i suddenly realized what i was doing. "i beg your pardon," i said, slowing up. she had kept up manfully, though breathlessly. "oh, i like to walk fast," she said staunchly. "did you see your brother yesterday?" "yes. but only for a minute. and there was a horrid man who kept hanging around in a most ill-bred manner, so that i really couldn't talk to gene comfortably. i believe he did it on purpose!" "it is quite possible," i admitted. she looked at me sideways under her long lashes. "your voice sounds as though you were laughing at me inside." "let me laugh with you, instead," i said hastily. "the man was there on purpose. prisoners are not allowed to see visitors alone, speaking generally." she was thoughtful for a few moments. "then how are we going to arrange to get him out?" "i thought you were going to leave that to me." "not _leave_ it to you," she said gently. "of course i am glad to have you help, because there are lots of times when a man is very useful. but gene is _my_ brother, you know." "yes, of course," i said, trying to catch her thought. "so of course i am going to be in it. all the time." "in what, child?" "in the plans for his escape." she set her face into lines of determination which i saw was intended to overwhelm any vain opposition that i might raise to her plan. "a lawyer doesn't usually take that method of getting a man out of prison," i said apologetically. "i hadn't thought of it." "but isn't it the best way?" she said urgently. "of course i don't know as much about the law as you do,--of _course_ not,--but doesn't the law just _have_ to do something to a man when he shoots another man,--even if he is perfectly right to do it?" it was an appalling question. i could not answer. she did not need anything more than my face, apparently, for she went on quickly. "so that's why i thought it would be quicker and better, and would settle things once for all and be done with it," she explained. "now, there are lots of ways we can help him to escape. you know we are twins." "yes. what of that?" she hesitated a moment. "isn't there any way i could get into gene's room for a minute without having that horrid man watching?" "perhaps. what then?" "we could change clothes. i'd wear a rain coat that came down to the ground and a wide hat with a heavy veil, and extra high heels on my shoes. and you'd be there to distract the attention of the horrid man,--_that_ would be your part, and it's a very difficult and important part, too. then gene would just walk down the corridor,--i'd have to remind him to take little steps and not to hurry too much,--and then after awhile they would come and look into the cell to see if he was all safe and they'd see me. and i'd just say 'good day' politely, and walk off." she looked at me eagerly, waiting for my criticism. i looked as sympathetic as possible. "it's a very pretty plan, miss jean, but your brother is quite a bit taller than you are, isn't he? i'm afraid that might be noticed." she looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. "then i don't see but what we shall have to get him out through the window," she said. "i have read of such things," i granted her. "oh, yes, i have read quantities of stories where prisoners were helped to escape," she said eagerly. "it always can be done,--one way if not another. last night i was trying to think it out, and i had six plans all thought out. what's the use of being twins, if it doesn't count for something?" "i am sure it counts for a great deal, miss jean, even if--" "but i _shall_ be able to," she cried, cutting across my unspoken words. "i must. of course when i am talking to gene i am as cheerful as possible, and i don't let him see that i--i'm a _bit_ afraid, but truly, you know, i--i--i don't like it." her lips were quivering. "dear child! now, listen to me. we'll make an agreement. let me have the first shot in this business. if we can get him out through the front door, with everybody cheering and shaking his hands, that will be better than an escape through the window, and living in hiding and in fear the rest of his life, won't it? but if that doesn't work,--if i see surely that the only way to save him from the vengeance of the law is to steal him away,--then i am with you, to the bitter end. i'll meet you with disguise, rope ladder, anything you can think of. but let me have my chance first, in my own way. agreed?" she stopped in the street to put out her hand and shake mine firmly. her eyes were as bright and steady as pilot lights. "i think you are perfectly splendid," she said with conviction. i have forgotten some important things in my life and i expect to forget a good many more, but i shall never forget the thrill that came to me with that absurd, girlish endorsement! i think it was the way she said it that made it seem so much like a gold medal pinned upon my breast. "i shall arrange for you to have a quiet talk with your brother, and then i'll leave you for a while. you will probably be watched, but i think you can speak without being overheard. i want you to remember carefully what your brother says." "and tell you?" she asked doubtfully, leaping ahead of my words, as i found she had a way of doing. "if he asks you to send a message to anyone, or asks about anyone in particular, i want to know it. your brother is keeping something from me, miss jean, and i must find out what it is, in order to do him justice. i think there is someone else involved in this affair, and that he is keeping silence to his own hurt. just remember that this is what i must find out about, somehow, and if he says anything--_anything_--that would show who is in his mind, that you must tell me." "i understand," she said, wide-eyed. "but whom could he care for so much as that?" "you can't help me by a guess?" "no. i'm afraid not. gene writes beautiful letters when he wants to, but not like girls' letters, you know. not about every little thing." we found gene, as i had found him before, the polite, nice-mannered boy, evidently trying somewhat anxiously to deport himself as a gentleman should under unrehearsed conditions. "i have brought your sister for a little visit," i said. "i am coming for her after a little. i have arranged that you shall not be disturbed, so you may talk to her freely and without hesitation." "oh, thank you! i hope i am not putting you to any trouble. i'm so sorry, jean, that you should have to come here to see me. it isn't at all the right place for a girl." he looked as apologetic and disturbed as though he had brought her there inadvertently. i left them together for half an hour and then went back for jean. eugene detained me for a moment after jean had said her last cooing goodbye. "i wish you would tell her not to come here," he said anxiously. "it won't look well. i can stand it alone all right. honest, i can." i couldn't help liking the boy, though his anxiety to save his sister from unpleasant comment was somewhat inconsistent with his action in bringing this greater anxiety to her. "i don't believe i could keep her away," i said. "you will have to stand that as a part--of it all." he flushed in instant comprehension. i should have been ashamed of prodding him, if i hadn't felt that it was necessary to make him as uncomfortable as possible in order to get him out of his heroics and make him confess more ingenuously than he had done up to this time. i joined jean, and walked to the car with her. "well?" i asked. "he didn't say anything," she answered gravely. "of course i told him that i thought he had done exactly right, and that i was proud of him, and that you were going to take care of all the law business and make it all right, and he wasn't to worry and i would come and see him. of _course_ i am not going back to school." "you will live with your uncle, mr. ellison?" "yes." "i'm afraid it will be a lonely and trying time for you. i wish i might do something to make things easier for you. will you let me know if there ever is anything i can do?" "you can come and tell me how things are going," she said wistfully. "i don't understand about law, you know, and--it's lonesome waiting. if i could _do_ something,--" "you promised to leave that to me, you know," i said, anxious to keep her from forgetting what an important person i was in this affair! she did not answer for a moment, and then she looked up with a brave assumption of cheer. "i'd be ashamed to get blue when gene is so plucky. he doesn't think about himself at all. he is only worried to death for fear miss thurston should be disturbed." "is he great friends with miss thurston?" "oh, yes, indeed. he asked about her first of all, and over and over again. he wanted me to be sure and go and see her at once, and tell her that he is all right." "shall i put you on the car here, then? i am going down to st. james' hospital to see our man." "oh, mayn't i go with you?" she cried eagerly. "you know i have a share in him, too." "of course you have,--a very large share. yes, come on. we'll see what he has to say for himself." as it turned out, he had more to say for us than for himself. chapter ix a gleam of light the white-capped attendant at the hospital led us up a flight of broad, easy steps, to a large sunny room where convalescents were allowed to try their new strength. here "our man" was sitting in a large arm-chair, wrapped in a blanket. "he simply wouldn't stay in bed," the nurse explained in an undertone. "he says he must go home, but he really isn't strong enough to walk across the room without help." "is there anything the matter with him? beyond exhaustion, i mean," i asked. jean had run across the room and was bending over the old man with a coaxing concern in her face that was charming. she was like an elfin sprite trying to express sympathy for some poor, huddled-up toad. "that's enough," said the nurse crisply. "no, there doesn't seem to be anything else wrong. but it will take a week at least before he is able to take care of himself. his mind will grow stronger as he does." "isn't his mind right?" "you can talk to him," she said, non-committally. "don't tire him." and with that she left us. jean came running back to meet me and put me properly into touch with things. "he isn't happy," she explained hastily. "you must be cheerful, and not bother him.--here is mr. hilton who has come to see you, mr. jordan. now you can have a nice little talk with _him_." her tone indicated that this was indeed a privilege which might make up for many slings from unkind fortune. mr. jordan made an impatient gesture as though he would throw off the blanket which was binding his arms. "what am i doing here?" he asked querulously. "i want to get away. how did i get here?" "you fainted away on the street, mr. jordan," i answered. "we brought you here to have you taken care of. of course you may go as soon as you are able to. do you want to go home? wouldn't it be best for some member of your family or some friend to come for you?" [illustration: "_he was diavolo's partner," he said vehemently_. page .] he let his chin sink upon his breast, and closed his eyes. jean telegraphed me a look of comment, interpretation and exhortation. i half guessed what she meant, but i was too keen on my own trail to consider making things easy for the old man. "i believe you came to saintsbury to look up alfred barker," i said, quietly. he did not answer or open his eyes, but i felt that his silence was now alert instead of dormant, and presently a slow shiver ran over his frame. "it was a shock to you to find that he was dead, was it not?" he roused himself to look at me. "i can't get at diavolo except through him. he was diavolo's partner," he said vehemently. "i am quite ready to believe that," i said heartily. but jean had the good sense not to be frivolous. she was smoothing the old man's hand softly. "who is diavolo?" she asked simply. "if i knew! he was careful enough not to give his name." he was trembling with excitement and his voice broke in his throat. i began to see that this was a story which i must get, and also that i should have to get it piecemeal from his distracted mind. "where did you meet diavolo?" i asked. "why, at eden valley." the name struck an echo in my brain. of what was eden valley reminiscent? "what was he doing there?" i asked, questioning at hazard. the old man clutched the arms of his chair with his hands and leaned forward to look into my face. "you never heard of him?" "not a word." he nodded heavily and sank back in his chair. "he gave a show," he said dully. "in the opery house. to show off how he could hypnotize people." a slow tear gathered in his eye. i began to get a coherent idea. "oh, diavolo was the name assumed for show purposes by a man who went around giving exhibitions of hypnotism. is that it?" "yes." "what did alfred barker have to do with it?" "he was with him. he was the man that engaged the opery house and done the rest of the business. diavolo kep' in the background. nobody knows who diavolo was, but alfred barker left a trail i could follow." excitement had made his voice almost strong, and brought back a momentary energy. "what did you want to follow him for?" his face worked with passion. "to get back my thousand!" he cried, clenching his trembling hands. "how did he get your thousand?" "he got it from the bank, on a check he made me sign while i was hypnotized!" suddenly i remembered,--eden valley, . plus . that was a part of the memoranda in barker's note-book. a memorandum of the profits of their trip! but i must understand it better. "did you let diavolo hypnotize you?" i asked. "i didn't think he could," the old farmer admitted, hanging his head. "i thought my will was too strong for him to get control of me. he called for people to come up from the audience and i laughed with the rest to see him make fools of the boys,--making them eat tallow candles for bananas, and scream when he threw a cord at them and said it was a snake, and things like that. but i was mighty proud of my strong will, and the boys dared me to go up and let him have a try at me, so i went." "and did he make you sign a check?" i asked, incredulously. "not then. that was too public. he knew his business too well for that. but he got control of me." there was something pitiable in the man's trembling admission. "he hypnotized me before i knew it, and when i came to, i was standing on a chair in the middle of the stage, trying to pull my pants up to my knees, because he had told me that i was an old maid, and there was a mouse on the floor, and the boys out in front were rolling over with laughter." "that was very unkind," said jean, indignantly. "i was ashamed and i was mad," the old man continued, "and i knew the boys would make everlasting fun of me, so next day i went up to see him at the hotel. i thought if i could talk to him, man to man, and without the fancy fixings of the stage, i could maybe find out how it was did. he was pleasant and smiling and talked easy, and then i don't remember one thing after that. just a smoke in my mind. i suppose he hypnotized me without my knowing it." "that is possible, i suppose, since he had had control of your will before. what next?" "the next thing i knew, i was walking up the road home, feeling queer and dizzy in my head. i couldn't remember how i got out of the hotel, nor nothing. and i didn't know what had really happened until i went to the bank to draw some money a month afterwards, and they told me i had checked it all away." "is that possible?" i asked doubtfully. "easy enough," he said bitterly. "i could see it clear enough afterwards. if he could make me believe i was an old maid afraid of a mouse, couldn't he just as easy make me think i owed him a thousand dollars and was making a check to pay it? i had my check book in my pocket when i went there, and it showed my balance, of course, so it was easy enough for them to find out how much they could ask for and not get turned down by the bank. the last check was torn out but the stub not filled in. and the bank showed me the canceled check all right." "payable to whom?" "to alfred barker. but he was only the hired man, i could see that. diavolo was the real one. barker came and went when _he_ lifted his finger. but alfred barker's name was on the check, so _his_ name wouldn't show. i had time to think it all out afterwards." it was an amazing story, but i could not pronounce it incredible, especially when i recalled that significant "plus" of $ at eden valley, in barker's memorandum book. "what did you do about it? anything?" "i tried to follow them. diavolo showed in other places, and i thought i could find them. i see there wasn't no use going to law about it, because i couldn't deny that i had signed the check, and i understand it ain't against the law to hypnotize a man. but if i could find them, i bet i could get some satisfaction out of barker's hide, if i could catch him alone. i wasn't going to take any more chances with diavolo." he shuddered. "you never caught up with them?" "no. they had always just gone on. then they stopped the show business and i lost track of them, till i heard that barker was in saintsbury. i came as fast as i could, but--i was too late." his head fell forward on his breast, and he looked ready to collapse. his loss, the long pursuit, the disheartening ending, had broken him. jean looked at me anxiously, and i understood, but it seemed to be too important to get all the information possible from the old man at once to give more than the barest consideration to his feelings. i poured a little whiskey into the cup of my pocket flask, and after he had choked it down he looked more equal to further cross-examination. "did you ever hear barker address diavolo by name?" i asked. "no. i tell you he was the hired man." "what did diavolo look like?" "he was about your height and build. thin dark face. long black hair and a soft black beard. queer eyes that gave you the shivers." it was not an identifying description. probably nineteen men out of twenty are of my height and build, which is in all respects medium; the long hair and black beard were probably stage properties; and the queer eyes might be merely mr. jordan's afterthought of what the hypnotizer's eyes ought to be. "would you know him again if you saw him without his hair and beard?" he looked surprised, and then doubtful. "i don't know." but at this point the attendant nurse came up, and intimated plainly that i was a trespasser and transgressor, and that the interview was ended. "i'll come to-morrow and take you out for a drive, if the doctor thinks you are strong enough to go," i said, by way of keeping the door open for further details. "i must go home," he said, querulously. "the faster you get strong, the sooner you can go. till to-morrow, then." jean walked beside me quietly and sedately till we were outside. then she turned to me with a flash of intense feeling. "what are you going to do for him?" "find diavolo," i answered promptly. "and make him give back the thousand dollars?" "if possible," i answered absently. my mind was more actively engaged with other features of the story than with the defrauding of the old farmer, and i was not sorry when i could put jean on her car, so that i could wander off by myself to think the matter over. how far, if at all, this affair of diavolo might have a bearing upon the murder mystery was uppermost in my mind. suppose diavolo and his "hired man" had quarreled. suppose they had quarreled to the death? it was, of course, quite probable that a man of barker's type would have many enemies, but here i was dealing not with probabilities but with a fact, however small it might be. there had been, in the recent past, an intimate relation between barker and a man who was capable of touring the country as a hypnotist, a man who concealed his identity,--ha, a motive! they had quarreled over the division of the thousand dollars, and barker had threatened to expose him! his own death had followed! this chain had developed so rapidly and vividly in my imagination that it was a cold shock when my common sense recalled that i must establish some connection between diavolo and gene benbow to make the thread complete. whatever part gene had played or had not played in the tragedy itself, he had confessed to the shot. the confession itself was a fact and must be accounted for, whether the thing confessed was a fact or not. up to this time the only theory in my mind that was compatible with gene's innocence was the theory of romantic self-sacrifice on his part. i had felt that if he was not guilty he was trying to save someone who was. whom would gene benbow wish to save at any cost? who had killed barker? who was diavolo? would one name answer all three questions? that was what i must find out. chapter x ways that are dark my preliminary investigations along the diavolo trail extended over considerable time, and were intertwined with various other matters of more or less interest, but i shall condense the account here, so as to get on to the more intricate affairs that followed. to begin with, i wrote to the theatrical manager of each and every town that had been listed in barker's note-book, asking if "diavolo" had appeared there, under what management he had come, what his real name was, how he could be reached, and whether they had any letter, contract, or other writing of his. then i wrote to the metropolitan agencies, and to various bureaux of information in the larger cities, and to all the public and private societies and persons whom i knew to have an interest in the occult, asking, in a word, if they knew who "diavolo" was, and how and where one might come into communication with him. i threw out these baited lines in every direction that i could think of. very soon the first answers came in. after i had received three or four i began to make bets with myself on the contents of the next one, though it soon became obviously unsportsmanlike to wager on what was so near a certainty. they were all alike. the man who had been placarded as "diavolo" had never been seen anywhere until he had come to the theatre in the evening for the performance. all business matters had been handled by his agent, alfred barker. barker had made the arrangements beforehand, sometimes by letter, sometimes in person, and he had always accompanied diavolo at the time of the performance and looked after everything. "barker looked out for diavolo as carefully as though he were a prima donna with a $ , throat," wrote one imaginative manager. "shouldn't wonder but what he was a woman, come to think of it. he had a squeaky kind of voice on the stage, and he kept himself to himself in a very noticeable way. he wore a beard, but it may have grown in a store. i know his hair came out of a shop all right." most of the answers were less imaginative, but equally unsatisfactory. barker had stood in front of diavolo and shielded him from observation so effectively that no one but barker really knew what he looked like. and barker could not now be consulted! before long i began to receive answers to the inquiries i had flung farther afield as to the reputation of diavolo among those who might be supposed to know all professional hypnotists. these replies were also of a surprising and disappointing uniformity. no one working under that name was known. most of my correspondents contented themselves with this bald assertion, but some of them made suggestions which led me on to further inquiry. one man suggested that "diavolo" might possibly be one jacob hahnen, who had disappeared from the professional field some two years before, following his arrest on account of the death on the stage of one of his hypnotized victims, while in a state of trance. that looked like a plausible suggestion, and i at once engaged a detective to trace jacob hahnen. i may say here, (not to mislead you as far as i was misled,) that hahnen established a perfect alibi, so that pursuit went for nothing. i did not waste time or money on another suggestion, which was to the effect that a famous hypnotist who was supposed to have died in california some years ago, might have gone into retirement for reasons of his own, and have come out of it temporarily under an alias. it might of course be possible, but there was nothing tangible to work upon. one thing became clear to me in the course of this investigation. there were more professional hypnotists in the country than i had had any idea of, and their ways were dark and devious. they were accustomed to work under assumed names, and more or less to cover their tracks and hide in burrows. i came across some quite amazing literature on the subject,--circulars issued by schools of hypnotism, offering to teach, in a course of so many lessons, for so much money, the art of controlling people by occult power. "a knowledge of this wonderful faculty," one announcement claimed, "will enable you to control the will of the person to whom you are talking, without his consent or even his knowledge. think of the advantage this will give you in your business! all taught in twenty lessons, mailed in plain cover." "lies and nonsense," i said to myself. but something within me bristled uneasily, as at the approach of an evil spirit. it had not been nonsense to poor old william jordan. i took to reading scientific books on hypnotism, to discover what powers or disabilities were actually admitted or claimed for this abnormal state. it was not quite so bad as the commercial exploitation of the subject, but it was disquieting enough. in general it seemed to be assumed that a normal person could not be hypnotized without his consent the first time, but that if he once yielded to the will of the hypnotizer, his own will would be so weakened thereby that afterwards he might find it quite impossible to resist. it was a moot question whether a person could be compelled to commit a crime while in a hypnotized state. some writers insisted that a person's moral principles would guide him, even though his mind and will were paralyzed. i confess it looked to me to be open to question. morality is generally more of a surface matter than mind, and would therefore be more easily bent. it was a tremendous relief to get away from this commerce with the powers of darkness to talk with jean benbow,--though my part in the conversation was not conspicuous. i was rather like the wooden trellis upon which she could train her flowers of fancy! william jordan grew stronger under the care of the hospital, but he was not a young man, and he had had a heartbreaking experience. it was some time before he was equal to the return to eden valley, and in the meantime i saw as much of him as i could, encouraging him to talk about diavolo whenever he was in the mood, in the hope that something might develop which would serve me as a clue. several times i took him out driving, and whenever possible i got jean to go with us. this was partly because the old man had taken a fancy to her, and she put him at his talkative ease, and partly because she was a delightful little companion on her own account. one day, when we were out toward the suburbs, she said suddenly, "oh, let's go down that street." we went accordingly, and came presently to a quaint old church, covered with ivy. "that is where i am to be married," said jean with quiet seriousness. she leaned forward as we drew nearer to watch it intently. "really!" i exclaimed. "may i ask if the day is set?" "oh, no," she said simply. "i only mean that when i am married i shall be married in that church." "why, pray?" "my mother was married there," she said gently, and a look of moonbeams came into her eyes. "oh! that makes it seem more reasonable. but aren't you taking a good deal for granted in assuming that you are going to be married? maybe you will grow up to be a nice little old maid, with a tabby cat and a teapot. what then?" she did not answer my foolish gibe for a minute, and i feared i had offended her. but after a moment she said, with that quaint seriousness of hers: "do you know, that is a very hard question to decide. i have thought about it so often. it would be very splendid, of course, to fall in love with some great hero, and go through all sorts of awful tragedies, and then have it come out happily in the end, and of course one would have to be married if it came out happily, though it is kind of hard to think of what could happen next that would be interesting enough to make a proper climax, don't you think so? _just_ to live happy ever after seems sort of tame. so i have wondered whether, on the whole, it would not be more romantic to cherish a secret passion and grow old like withered rose leaves and have faded letters tied with a worn ribbon to be found in your desk when you were dead." i considered the situation with proper seriousness. "who would write the letters?" i asked. "oh,--" "some young man who was desperately in love with you, of course?" "why, yes," she admitted. "well, what would you do with him? i don't believe any young man with proper feelings on the subject would be willing to efface himself in order to let you cherish his memory. he'd rather you would cherish him. i'm sure i should, if it were i." "oh!" she murmured with a startled dismay that was delicious. "did you happen to have any young man in particular in mind," i asked, "or is the position vacant?" she looked up at me from under thick eyelashes in a rather bewildering way. "quite vacant," she said. "i'm supposed to be rather a good letter-writer," i suggested. "i should have to be particular, if they are going to last a long time and be read over and over again," she said demurely. "have you had any experience in writing that special kind of a letter?" (the sly puss!) "no experience at all. but you would find me willing to learn and industrious." "i'll consider your application," she said, with dignity. "but i haven't yet decided that on the whole i should not prefer a wedding to a package of yellow letters. i don't know. i can just see myself sitting by a window in the fading twilight, with those letters in my lap, and it looks awfully interesting. but it would be disconcerting--isn't that the right word?--if no one else saw how romantic and beautiful it was. of course i should know myself, and that counts for a good deal, but it does seem more _lonesome_ than a wedding, when you come to think of it, doesn't it?" "it certainly does. whatever you may have to say against weddings, they are not lonesome." "oh, well, i don't have to decide just yet," she said, with an air of relief. "it is a long way off. only, if i ever _do_ get married, it will be in that little church, no matter if i am off at the north pole when i am engaged and intend to go back there to set up housekeeping the next day. i made a vow about it, so as to be quite sure that i should have the strength of mind to insist on it. when you have made a vow, you just _have_ to carry it out, you know, in spite of torrents or floods or _anything_." i agreed heartily. and the time came when the memory of that foolish chatter just about saved my reason. chapter xi the simmering samovar one day it occurred to me to ask fellows if he was keeping up my advertisement for mary doherty, from which i had heard nothing so far. his start and confusion were an obvious confession. "n-no, not now. i did run it several times." "i told you to keep it in until further orders. don't you remember?" he did not answer. i could not understand his manner. "i am sorry if you didn't understand. we have probably lost an opportunity,--certainly have lost time. i count on getting important information from mrs. barker, if we can find her." "what sort of information?" asked fellows doggedly. i thought he was trying to minimize the results of his neglect. "well, almost any information that would enable us to fix barker's associates would probably be valuable. more particularly, i want to find out whether there is anyone who wants to marry her and couldn't while barker was alive." i succeeded in attracting fellows' attention, at least. he stared at me in silence, as though he were turning the thought over. "i'll advertise again," he said, but without enthusiasm. i think it was that day that i had a disconcerting interview with burleigh, the editor of the saintsbury samovar. i have mentioned, i believe, that some independent public-spirited citizens were trying to make clyde run for mayor. (it was one of those anti-ring waves of reform which strike a city once in so often, and are temporarily successful because good business men work at them for a season. the success is seldom, if ever, more than temporary, because the good business men go back to their jobs as soon as things are running smoothly, while the ring politicians never really drop their jobs for a minute.) well, clyde had cold-shouldered the proposition, but rather half-heartedly. probably there is no man living who does not have some political ambition. certainly clyde had it. with his wide interest in public matters, his natural power over men, and his ancestry and associations, i knew that nothing but the shadow of fear at his elbow had kept him out of the political game, and i was therefore not surprised when, a few days after the barker tragedy had ceased to occupy the upper right-hand corner of the first page of the newspapers, that space was given up to announcing that kenneth clyde had consented to accept the reform party's nomination. i sympathized with the relief which i knew lay back of the acceptance. this was the political situation when i met burleigh. he was the editor of the evening paper which supported the ring and damned reform, and of course i knew where he stood as regards clyde's candidacy. but when he stopped me on the street that noon, he didn't speak of clyde. "hello, how's the lawyerman?" he said, taking my hand where it hung by my side and shaking it without regard to my wishes in the matter. i resented his familiarity with my hand and with my profession, but the convention of politeness, which makes it impossible for us to tell people our real feelings about them, constrained me to civility. "very well, thank you," i said, carelessly, and made a move to go on my way. he turned and fell into step with me. "i'd like to ask what you lawyers call a hypothetical question," he said. "just a joke, you understand,--a case some of the boys were talking about in our office. read of it in some novel, i guess. some said it would be that way and some said it wouldn't. in law, you know." "well, what is the question?" i asked, as politely as my feelings would permit. (funny idea people have, that a lawyer learns law for the purpose of supplying gratuitous opinions to chance acquaintances! i shouldn't think of asking burleigh to send me the samovar for a year, just to satisfy my curiosity!) "why, it's this. if a man has been convicted of murder--the man in the story was--and then makes his escape and lives somewhere else for twenty years or so, and is finally discovered and identified, how does he stand in regard to the law?" you may guess how i felt! the hypothetical case was so exactly clyde's case that for a moment my brain was paralyzed. i was so afraid of betraying my surprise that i did not speak. i merely nodded and smoked and kept my eyes on the ground. "there's no statute of limitations to run on a sentence of the court, is there?" he asked, eagerly. "no," i said, with professional deliberation. "no, if you are sure that you have your facts all straight. but you don't often get law entirely disentangled from facts, and they often have unexpected effects on a question. what novel did you get that from?" "oh,--i don't know. i just heard the boys talking about it, and i wondered." but he looked so eager that i could not help feeling the question was more significant to him than mere literary curiosity would explain. "you think, then, that there might be some element in the situation that would perhaps complicate it?" he asked. "it is never safe to form an opinion without knowing all the facts," i said, oracularly. "but if the facts are as i stated them,--an escape from justice after conviction, and nothing else,--then the man is still liable to the law, isn't he?" "probably," i said, with a shrug intended to intimate that the matter was of no special interest to me. "how did it turn out in your story?" burleigh looked at me sideways for a moment. then he said, imperturbably, "why, i believe he made the mistake of going into politics, and so the thing came out. he was hung--in the story. politics is no place for a man who has a past that he doesn't want to have come out." "no doubt you are right about that," i said lightly. "of course i am. i'm in the business," he said emphatically. "if a man has a past--that sort of a past, i mean,--he ought to know enough to stick to--philanthropy or architecture or collecting, or something else nice and private. this your street? well, good day, mr. hilton. glad i met you." he tipped his hat and left me. you can imagine the state of my mind. i puzzled over the situation for an hour, and then telephoned clyde and asked him to drop into my office. clyde came that same afternoon. i told him of the burleigh interview as directly as possible. "now you can judge for yourself whether it means anything sinister," i concluded. "the samovar is for the ring, of course," he said, thoughtfully. "of course. and burleigh's recommendation that a man in that predicament should confine himself to architecture, or some kindred avocation, instead of trying to break into politics, didn't sound altogether accidental." he nodded comprehendingly, and smoked in silence for a few moments. then he looked up with a smile. "i think i'll go on the theory that it was accidental." i hadn't expected that, and i couldn't approve. "as your lawyer, i must warn you that you are taking a serious risk," i said earnestly. "if barker shared his secret with someone, who has gone with it to burleigh, you are exactly in your old situation. it would be better to let the sleeping samovar lie and give up the mayoralty." he continued to smoke for a minute, but i saw the obstinate look in his eye that a mettled horse tales on when he doesn't mean to heed your hints. "you don't understand, hilton," he said after a moment, "but since barker's death i have felt free for the first time in fifteen years. i like the sensation. very likely i have gone drunk on it and lost my senses, but i like the feeling so much that i am going to snap my fingers at burleigh and pretend that he has no more power to influence my actions than he would have had if--well, if tom johnson had never got into trouble." "you think the mayoralty is worth the risk?" i asked. "the mayoralty? no! not for a minute. but--this sense of freedom is." "but it is your freedom that you are risking." he stood up, and though i could not commend his judgment, i had to admire his courage. there was something finely determined in his attitude as he tossed away his cigar and put his hands in his pockets. "i am going to have it out with my evil destiny this time," he said, with a quick laugh. "better be hanged than to skulk longer. i shall go on the theory that burleigh has merely been reading some giddy detective stories." "don't forget that there are some crimes which don't achieve the immortality of a detective story, because they are never explained," i said warningly. he merely smiled, but i knew my warning would go for nothing,--and secretly i was glad. there are things more to be desired than safety. chapter xii on the trail of diavolo jordan gained rapidly in strength, and was soon in condition to return, a sadder, wiser, and poorer man, to eden valley. i determined, however, to accompany him, and see if i could gather on the ground any further details about the serpent, my inquiries by mail bringing, as i have told, but unsatisfactory answers. but before leaving saintsbury, i called again upon my client in the jail. i found him, as always, the gentle, nice-mannered, puzzling youth. "i am going away for a while in your interests," i said, by way of greeting. "that's awfully good of you," he said gratefully. then with polite concern he added, "i hope you aren't giving yourself any trouble--" "oh, i sha'n't mind a little inconvenience when it is in the way of business," i said drily. "it may be a matter of entire indifference to you, but i want to win my case!" "oh, yes, of course," he said with anxious courtesy. i could see that he had no idea what i meant! there was no use trying to arouse him in that way, and i might as well accept his attitude. "did you know that barker had a partner?" i asked abruptly. he shook his head with an air of distaste. "no. i know nothing about him. i shouldn't, you know." "you never heard of diavolo?" "not the opera?" he asked doubtfully. "no. a professional hypnotist with whom barker was connected in a business way." "no, i never heard of him." "did you ever hear of william jordan? or of eden valley?" "no." he looked puzzled. "i have an idea that it may have been diavolo who shot barker!" i said carelessly. he looked surprised, and then, deferentially and hesitatingly, he expressed his dissent. "i suppose you feel that you have to fight for me, as my lawyer, but--what's the use in this case? i don't understand these things, of course, but i'd rather have it settled with as little fuss as possible. i shot him, and i am not sorry, and--i'd like to have it all over with as soon as possible." his voice was steady enough, and the gallant lift of his head made me think of his sister, but i thought i saw a look of dread somewhere back in his eye. perhaps he was beginning to weaken! i determined to press the point a little. "and yet it is a pity to have your life run into the sand in that way," i said earnestly. "there might be much for you in the future,--success, love, honor,--" i watched him closely. his face quivered under the probe, but he did not speak. "miss thurston is heartbroken," i added, relentlessly. he looked at me as a dumb animal under the knife might look, and then he dropped his face into his hands. i pressed the matter while he was at my mercy. "if you did not shoot barker,--if you are in fact innocent,--don't, for heaven's sake, let any foolish idea of saving someone else lead you to lie about it. there could be no one worthy of saving at that cost. and, besides, if you are lying, i am going to find out the truth in spite of you." he lifted his head, but he did not look at me. "i am not lying. why should i? i supposed anyone would believe a man who said he had done--a thing like that." "i wish you would tell me about it again,--just what you did." (i wanted to see if his story would vary.) he dropped his eyes to the floor thoughtfully. "i went to his office," he said slowly. "i went through the outer office and into the inner office. they were both empty. i locked the door and waited. i watched through a hole in the curtain over the glass in the door. a man came in, waited a little, and went out. then barker came. i waited till he came close to the door. then i fired. i saw him fall. then i went down the fire-escape and got out into the street." as he finished, he raised his eyes from the floor and looked at me. his glance was not entirely frank, and yet i could not call it evasive. "there was no one else in the room with you?" "no one." "you saw no one else at any time except the man who came into the outer office?" "no one else." "and him you do not know?" "no." "if i should tell you it was i?" he looked at me, puzzled and doubtful. "was it you?" "wouldn't you know? didn't you see the man's face?" he hesitated. "n-no." "then how did you know it wasn't barker?" "why,--it wasn't." "since you meant to give yourself up to the police, why did you go down the fire-escape instead of out through the hall?" he looked distressed. "i--don't know." then he seemed to gather his ideas together. "my mind is confused about much that happened that night, mr. hilton. the only thing that stands out very clearly is the fact that i shot him. and that is the only thing that is really important, isn't it?" and that was the most that i got out of the interview. i had to admit, in face of this, that it was partly obstinacy which made me hold to the idea that he was not telling the whole truth. the fact that he had not recognized me, though he must have had me under close observation for a long time, and the fact that some one in the inner room had been eating apples, and that some one not he,--this was really all i had to support my point of view. but these were facts, both of them, and a fact is a very obstinate thing. a very small fact is enough to overthrow a whole battalion of fair-seeming fabrications. i felt that i was not throwing in my fortune with the weaker side when i determined to follow the lead of those two small facts to the bitter end. the pursuit led me in the first place to eden valley. i took poor william jordan to his home, a farm lying just outside of the village, (and not more than two hundred miles from saintsbury,) and then i returned to the village. it was a country town of about , with one main hotel. i judged that diavolo and barker would have to lodge there if anywhere, and on inquiry i found my guess correct. they were not forgotten. "oh, that hypnotist chap!" said the landlord. "yes, he was here in the summer. had a show at the masonic hall. say, that's a great stunt, isn't it? ever see him?" "no. what was he like?" "oh, he was made up, you know,--mephistopheles style. black pointed beard and long black hair and a queer glittering eye." "but when he was not made up? you saw him here in the hotel in his natural guise, didn't you?" "nope. funny thing, that. he kept in his room, and the man that was with him, barker i think his name was, he did the talking and managed everything. diavolo acted as though he didn't want to be seen off the stage. wore a long cape and a slouch hat when he went out, and had his meals all sent up." "was he tall or short?" "medium. rather slim. long, thin hands. say, when he waved those hands before the face of that old farmer sitting on a chair on the stage, it was enough to make the shivers run down your back. i don't know whether it was all a fake or not. most people here think it was, but i swan, it was creepy." "did you know the farmer?" "oh, yes,--old jordan. lives near here. terrible set up about having a strong will, and said nobody could hypnotize him. say, it was funny to see him think he was a cat, chasing a rat, and then suddenly believe that he was an old maid and scared to death of a mouse, and jumping up on a chair and screaming in a squeaky little voice." "diavolo woke him up, didn't he?" "oh, yes. and then the old man tore things around. he came here the next day to see the man in the daylight, and dare him to try it again." "did he do it?" i asked, wondering how much of jordan's story was known to his neighbors. "oh, i guess not. he went up to diavolo's room, i remember, and when he came out he wouldn't talk, but just went off home." "and you never heard diavolo's real name?" "nope. trade secret, i suppose. probably born bill jones, or something else that wouldn't look as well on the billboards as diavolo." i went to the masonic hall, where the "show" was given, but there i met the same difficulties. barker had made all the arrangements and been the mouthpiece. the mysterious diavolo had appeared only at the last moment, cloaked and made up for stage effect, and had held no conversation with anyone. they all thought his assumption of mystery a part of his profession. i saw in it a persistent care to hide his identity. i could only hope that some momentary carelessness or some accident would give me a clue. his very anxiety to hide his real name made more plausible my theory that barker's knowledge of it might have been the occasion of his death. in the olden times, the masons who constructed the secret passages under castle and moat were usually slain when the work was done, as the most effective way of ensuring their silence. from eden valley, i went to illington, the next place mentioned in barker's memorandum book. here it was much the same. the two men had stopped at the hotel over night, but diavolo had kept out of sight, while barker had transacted all the business and made all the arrangements. i realized that i was dealing with people who used concealment as a part of their business. the same story met me at sweet valley, at lyndale, at hawthorn, at dickinson. it was not until i reached junius that i found what i had hoped for and had begun to despair of finding,--a personal recollection of diavolo. "oh, yes," the landlady at the hotel said. "he was here. raised the--i should say, raised his namesake with a toothache." she was a jolly landlady, and she laughed at her own near-profanity till she shook. she had probably worked the same joke off before. i smiled,--it wasn't hard, in face of her own jollity. "what did he do?" i asked. "oh, tramped up and down his room just like an ordinary man. couldn't eat his supper. kept a hot water bottle to his face, though i told mr. barker it was the worst thing he could do. mr. barker was distracted. it was getting to be near the hour for the performance, and diavolo wouldn't go on. not that i blame him. a jumping tooth is enough to upset even a wizard." "how did it turn out?" "oh, he went to a dentist and had it out, and--" things danced before my eyes. i felt like shouting "now hast thou delivered mine enemy into my hands." it seemed almost incredible that what i could hardly have dreamed of as a possibility could be the plain actual fact. "do you know what dentist he visited?" i asked, trying to speak casually. "oh, yes. mr. barker inquired at the office, and went with him. diavolo was very careful about not being seen, and even then he wore a wig. i knew it was a wig, because he had got it crooked, tossing about, and some light hairs showed about his ear." "what dentist did you send him to?" i asked anxiously. "dr. shaw." "and he isn't dead or moved away or anything like that?" "oh, no! he has his office right around the corner. he boards in the house, and i always like to throw business in the way of my boarders when i can." "i think i shall have to see him on my own account," i said. i almost expected an earthquake to swallow up dr. shaw before i could get around the corner, but i found the office still in place, all right, and the doctor himself, looking rather pathetically glad to see some one enter. he was a dapper little man, with a silky moustache and an eternal smile. (not that his looks matter! but whenever i think of that interview, i see that humble, ingratiating smile.) "what can i do for you?" he asked gently and caressingly. "i am not in need of your professional services, doctor shaw, but i should like to obtain some information from you, if you will allow me to take some of your time at your regular rates. i am a lawyer, and i am anxious to establish the identity of a man who was here in the summer under the name of diavolo,--a professional hypnotist. mrs. goodell, of the winslow house, tells me that she sent him to you to be relieved of a toothache." "yes, i remember. i extracted a tooth for him," dr. shaw said at once. "i could perhaps have saved it, but it would have required treatment, and he insisted upon having it extracted, as he was to appear on the stage that evening." "was there anything peculiar about the formation of his jaw, do you remember? any irregularity, for instance?" the dentist smiled. "yes. decided irregularity. his jaw was peculiarly long and narrow, and the teeth, which were large, were crowded. on both sides the upper teeth formed a v." "like this?" i asked, taking the model which dr. kenton had made for me from my pocket. "exactly like that," he said, after examining it critically. "wasn't this made from his mouth?" "that is what i want to ascertain." "it would be extraordinary to find two persons with the same marked peculiarity," he said thoughtfully. "would that peculiarity be enough to establish the man's identity?" i asked. "perhaps not. but i could identify diavolo positively and beyond question, if that is what you mean. there were other distinguishing marks. the first lower left molar was gone, and replaced by a bridge, for instance. and the second molars in the upper jaw had both been extracted,--probably to relieve the crowding. the conformation was unmistakable, and very unusual." "then if i ever get my hands on diavolo, you can identify him, regardless of grease paint and wig?" "unquestionably." "i hope most heartily that i may be able to give you the opportunity. you have done me a great service as it is. for the present, i can only tell you that your information will serve the cause of justice." can you guess my elation? i should certainly have astonished the staid people of the prim little town if i had allowed myself to express the state of my feelings. my wild goose chase had not been so wild, after all! i had not yet bagged the game, to be sure, but i felt that i had winged it. certainly i ought to be able to convince any jury that if barker's former partner was in the room from which the fatal shot had been fired, the chances were strong that he had had something to do with it. and that he was there i could prove. the apple in which he had left the imprint of his curiously irregular teeth was freshly bitten; and the toothache which had driven the cautious diavolo from his cover of silence and forced him, by stress of physical agony, to the intimate personal relation of a patient with his dentist, had identified him as the man. it only remained to find--him! what eugene benbow's connection with the affair could have been was so much of a mystery that i could form no conjecture. one thing at a time. when i had unearthed diavolo, the other things might clear themselves up. sometimes one missing piece will make a puzzle fall into shape and everything appear coherent. i had been away from saintsbury on this search for over a week, and i was anxious to get back. i wanted to find out whether my advertisement for mary doherty had brought any answer. i wondered whether benbow had grown more communicative. i wanted to see jean, who must be having a time of it, living with her queer, unaffectionate guardian. i wondered whether fellows had attended to things at the office. but i didn't think of the one thing that had actually happened. i found out what it was when the newsboys came on the train with the saintsbury papers. the evening samovar had exploded. it had come out with clyde's story. chapter xiii the samovar explodes the saintsbury papers were thrown on our train several stations beyond the town. i bought one, of course, and unfolded it with a cheerful feeling of being near home again,--and there stared at me from the first page the glaring headlines,-- clyde a criminal the reform candidate for mayor a fugitive from justice amazing record of crime and concealment discovered by the samovar i tore my way through the leaded paragraphs. the only thing that was news to me was the clue on which the samovar had worked. according to the high-flown account, barker had left at the samovar office, on the night on which he was killed, a large sealed envelope addressed to himself, with the added direction: "if this is not called for within five days, it is to be opened by the managing editor of the samovar." it would appear that this was the errand that was occupying barker while i sat waiting for him in his office! i could not refrain from pausing to admire the rascal's cleverness. he was anticipating--not the death which came so swiftly, but--a visit from clyde, or possibly clyde's representative, and he had adroitly made it impossible for clyde to control the situation by force or coercion. the story was written out and in the hands of the paper which would most gladly profit by the disclosure, though it was still, for five days, subject to barker's own recall, if he were properly treated! it certainly was a reserve of the most unquestionable value in diplomatic negotiations. the samovar went on to say that after the sensation of barker's death, the envelope had been held inviolate for the specified time, and had then been opened by burleigh in the presence of witnesses. the story as written by barker was then set forth in full. it recited briefly that barker had been present at a court trial in houston, texas, some fifteen years before, at which one tom johnson had been convicted of the murder of a man named henley, and sentenced to death. the prisoner had escaped from the sheriff immediately after conviction, and had never been captured. then mr. barker proceeded: "two or three years ago i saw mr. kenneth clyde in saintsbury, and greatly to my surprise, i recognized in him the missing tom johnson. i charged him with the identity, and he did not deny it. he then and afterwards freely admitted to me that he was the man who, under another name, had been convicted of murder and had made his escape. i have refrained from making this information public out of consideration for mr. clyde, but i feel it a public duty to leave this record where, if certain contingencies should arise, it may be found." (the contingency which the writer had in mind was probably a refusal on the part of clyde to continue paying blackmail. that would undoubtedly have made mr. barker's public duty weigh upon his tender conscience.) the samovar then went on to say that the story at first seemed incredible, and therefore the witnesses were all sworn to secrecy until the matter could be investigated. a special representative had been sent to texas to look it up. the writer then modestly emphasized the difficulties of the undertaking, and his own astonishing cleverness in mastering them. he had actually found the court records to establish the tale of the late lamented mr. barker, whose untimely taking off with this public service still unperformed would have been nothing less (under the present political circumstances) than a civic calamity. tom johnson had been convicted of the treacherous and bloody murder of his friend. (the details were then given in substantial agreement with the story which clyde had told me.) "but who," the happy historian went on to say, "who would have guessed, who would have dared suggest, who would have ventured to believe, that this obscure criminal, snatching the stolen cloak of freedom from the heedless hands of careless officials, and skulking off with it by the underground passages known to the criminal classes,--who would have believed that this false friend, this wretch, this felon, was none other than the reform candidate for mayor of saintsbury? the charge is so incredible that we may well be asked,--where lies the proof of identity, beyond the word of alfred barker, now cold in death? the man who so long had successfully covered up his past, may well have felt, when barker met his tragic fate, that at last he could walk in security, since the one witness who, in a period of fifteen years, had identified him, was now disposed of. but murder will out. the truth, though crushed to earth, will live again. the sun in the heavens has been summoned as a witness. while tom johnson was in jail, awaiting trial, an enterprising paper of the place secured several photographs of the prisoner. these our representative found in an old file of the paper. we reproduce below, side by side, the photographs of tom johnson, lying under an unexecuted sentence for murder, and of kenneth clyde, reform candidate for mayor. they speak for themselves." they did, indeed. it was like a blow in the face to see the pictures side by side, even in the coarse newspaper print. the handsome, defiant face of the younger man had been softened and refined and had grown thoughtful,--but it was the same face. if clyde had wanted to deny the accusation (though i knew that he would not think for a moment of that course,) it would have been fruitless. the photographs made it impossible. as i studied them, i thought that any woman who loved him,--his mother or another,--should certainly be ready to give thanks on her knees for the changes that the fifteen years had wrought. as a young fellow he had clearly been rather _too_ handsome. that any man with so much of the "beauty of the devil" had been marked by the stars for a tumultuous career was most obvious. there was spiritual tragedy in every lineament. on the other hand, there was no deviltry in the seriously handsome face of the man of to-day. you did not even think first of his good looks, the deeper significance of character had so come to the surface. certainly, the shadow under which clyde had lived had fostered the best in him. the newspaper scribe ended his paragraph with a cruel innuendo: "the sudden death of alfred barker at a time when clyde had most to fear from the secret in his knowledge would have had a sinister appearance, if that apparent mystery had not been promptly solved by the confession of eugene benbow. clyde should acknowledge his indebtedness to the convenient benbow." the fact that i had had a bad quarter of an hour convincing myself that clyde had had nothing to do with the matter did not make me less indignant with the astute newspaper scribbler. and i saw further complications in the subject. if i cleared gene--as i fully meant to do--it would be necessary to do it by bringing the real murderer to light. to clear gene by simply proving that he was not on the spot (assuming that to be possible) would be merely to transfer the shadow of doubt to clyde. it was a bad tangle. the moment i reached the saintsbury station, i tried to get into communication with clyde. he might not care to have me act as his legal adviser in this more serious development of his case, but at least i must give him the opportunity to decline. it was eight o'clock when the train pulled in, and i went at once to the private telephone booth and tried to get clyde. his office was closed and did not answer,--i had expected that. his residence telephone likewise "didn't answer." then i called up the chief of police, and asked whether clyde had been arrested, basing my inquiry on the samovar story. he had not,--though it took me some time to get that statement out of the close-mouthed officials of the law. then i called up mr. whyte's residence, hoping to get some hint of the situation as it affected my friends. it was jean benbow's voice that answered my call. "oh, it's _you!_" she cried, and the intonation of her voice was the most flattering thing i have ever heard in my life--almost. "oh, i always did know that there must be special providences for special occasions, and if anybody ever thinks there aren't, i'll tell them about your calling up at just this moment, and they'll _know_. the most _dreadful_ thing has happened,--" "i have seen the evening samovar. is that what you mean?" "oh, _yes!_ mrs. whyte is at my elbow and she says i must tell you to come right up here in a jiffy--only she didn't say jiffy, but that is what she meant. she says now that i must not stand here and keep you talking, though really i know it is i that is talking,--or should i say am talking? but you understand. and mrs. whyte says you must jump into a cab and come up at once. mr. whyte wants to consult with you." the communication stopped with an abruptness that suggested external assistance. it was jean herself who admitted me. she must have been watching out for me, for she had the door open and was half way down the steps to meet me before i was fairly on mr. whyte's cement walk. "oh, but i am thankful to see you," she said earnestly. "ever since that paper came this afternoon, i have been in a dream! i mean an awful dream, you know,--almost a nightmare. it seemed so unreal. though i suppose that is what real life is like, maybe?" she looked at me inquiringly. "i never saw anything like it before, and i have lived a real life for many more years than you have," i answered, meaning to reassure her. she looked at me under her lashes. "oh, not so very many more! not enough to--to make any real difference. but you don't know how queer it seems to me to have things happening like this all around you. first gene, and now mr. clyde. do you believe it is true, mr. hilton?" "i can't form an opinion from newspaper tales alone," i said evasively. by this time we were at the door, where mrs. whyte was waiting, with mr. whyte at her shoulder. they both looked worried. "you have seen the paper?" whyte asked, while we were shaking hands. "yes. on the train. do you know where clyde is?" "no. i tried to get him by 'phone, but i couldn't find him, and he knows where to find me, if he wants to. what do you think of it?" i could only repeat that i could not express an opinion without more reliable information,--blessed subterfuge of the lawyer! mrs. whyte broke in emphatically. "well, i for one do not believe it. you needn't look so wise, carroll, as though you meant to imply that we can't be sure of anyone until he is dead. i knew kenneth clyde when he wore knickerbockers and i knew his father and his uncle, and i simply don't believe it. the samovar is nothing but a political scandal-monger, anyway." "it was a long time ago, clara," whyte said deprecatingly. "clyde was young, and you know he was a wild youngster. and there may have been provocations of which we know nothing." "you are trying to excuse him, as though you thought the story true," cried mrs. whyte indignantly. "i simply say that i don't believe it. not for a moment." "i believe it," said a voice that startled us all. katherine thurston was standing on the landing of the stairs, looking down upon us as we were grouped in the hall. there was a tall lamp on the newel which threw a white light on her face, but it was not the lamp-light which gave it the look of subdued radiance that held our gaze. i confess i stared quite greedily, careless of what she was saying. but mrs. whyte recovered herself first,--naturally. "katherine! what are you saying? come down!" she came down slowly. there was a curious stillness upon her, as though she had come strangely upon peace in the midst of a storm. [illustration: _"i believe it," said a voice that startled us all_. page _ _.] "i should think you would at least wait for a little better evidence before believing such a thing of--of _any_ friend!" mrs. whyte chided indignantly. something like a ripple passed over miss thurston's face. she was actually smiling! "i don't mean that i am eager to believe evil reports of mr. clyde," she said gently. "but--it explains so much. i think it probably is true because it would--explain. and, of course," she added, lifting her head with a proud gesture that would have sent clyde to his knees, "of course it makes not an atom of difference in our feeling toward _him_. we know what he is." man is a curious animal. i was not in love with katherine thurston. i had never come within hailing distance of her heart and would have been somewhat afraid of it if i had; i had even suspected that the artificial calm which lay between her and clyde covered emotional possibilities, past, present, or to come; and yet, now that i saw the whole tale written on her unabashed face, i felt suddenly as though a rich and coveted galleon were sailing away, forever out of my reach! it was probably only a bare moment that we were all held there silent, but the moment was so tense that its revelations were not to be counted by time. then jean, who stood beside me, suddenly clasped my arm with both her hands, in a gesture that i felt to be a warning. i looked down at her inquiringly. she nodded slightly toward the french window which opened from the library upon a side porch, and following her gesture i saw the shadow of a stooping man outside. before i could reach the window, it was pushed open from without, and kenneth clyde stepped into the room. i don't think we were surprised,--we had reached a state of mind where the unexpected seemed natural,--but when clyde stepped instantly aside from the window and stood in the shadow of the bookcase, we awoke to a realization of what his coming meant. "i beg your pardon for entering in this unceremonious way," he said (and there was a thrill of excitement in his voice that went through us all like a laughing challenge) "but i have been dodging the police for an hour, and i know i am followed now. if you would draw the curtain, hilton,--" i drew the curtains over the windows, and whyte closed the door into the hall. i think he locked it. the three women had followed us into the library, and though they stood silent and breathless, i do not think that clyde could have had much doubt in his mind as to whether he held their sympathy. "i had to come for just a moment before i got out of town," he said in a hurried undertone. he spoke to the room, but his eyes were on katherine thurston, who stood silent at a little distance. "tut, tut, man, you mustn't leave town," cried whyte. "the worst thing you could possibly do! ask hilton here. he's a lawyer." clyde smiled at me, but went on rapidly. "i am not asking advice of counsel on this,--i am acting on my own responsibility. i cannot take the risk of giving myself up to the authorities. i know what that means. i am going away,--there is nothing else to do. but i could not go without coming here for a moment. you--my friends--have a right to ask an account of me." he paused for a second in his rapid speech, and then went on with a deeper ring in his voice. "the newspaper story is true, so far as my conviction by a texas court fifteen years ago goes. but i was convicted through a mistake. i am innocent of murder. but i could not prove it. that--" he laughed somewhat unsteadily, and his eyes held miss thurston's,--"that is the story of my life." we had none of us moved while he spoke, partly because he was so still himself, partly from a feeling of overshadowing danger which might descend if we stirred. but now katherine thurston moved toward him and he took a step to meet her. i think they had both forgotten all the rest of the world. "couldn't you have trusted me?" she asked, in tenderest reproach. "i couldn't trust myself," he answered in a low voice. "ah, there you were wrong!" she said quickly. "so many years! and now--" "now i must go and see if there is any way to gather up the broken fragments." "could i not help in some way? may i not go with you?" she asked simply. "you _would_ do that?" he demanded. "anywhere," she answered. he lifted her fingers to his lips and hid their trembling upon her white hand. "no, you cannot go," he said, with a break in his voice. "then i will wait for you here," she said. "oh, my god!" he breathed. we came to our senses then, and mrs. whyte swept us out into the hall with one wave of her matronly arm. they must have that moment of complete understanding to themselves. we hovered at the foot of the stairs, waiting to speak again with clyde, yet too upset in our minds to have any clear idea of what we could suggest or needed to ask. mrs. whyte, in a surge of emotion, caught jean to her buxom bosom,--against which the child looked like a star-flower on a brocaded silk hillock. jean's eyes were shining,--and not her eyes alone; her whole face was alight with a tender radiance. whyte gripped my shoulder to turn my attention. "see here, hilton, he mustn't run away. it would look like guilt. you must tell him, as a lawyer, that it would be the worst thing he could do. if he is innocent, the law will protect him,--" "the law has already condemned him," i reminded him. "the situation is difficult. he is not a man merely accused, his defense unpresented. he has been tried, convicted, and sentenced." "good heavens!" he gasped. "then if he puts himself in the hands of the law, there will be nothing left but to see the execution of the sentence? is that what you mean?" "yes. that is the situation. there have been cases where men who had escaped from prison have lived for years exemplary lives and reached civic honors, yet, when recognized and apprehended, they had to go back to prison and serve out the unexpired sentence of the man condemned years before." "but if the sentence was unwarranted?" "of course we would try to make a fight on it," i said, but without much confidence. "but the sentence was pronounced by a duly qualified court, and it will not be easy to upset it at this late day. it would be a thousand times harder now to find any evidence there may be in his favor than it could have been then, when the events were fresh in the memory of everybody. and unless we can discover some new evidence having a bearing on the matter, we would have no ground on which to ask for a re-opening of the case." "that's terrible," he said. then, dropping his voice, "is the death penalty in force there?" i nodded. "the man was a fool to hang around home," whyte protested energetically, as he took the situation in. "why didn't he have sense enough to go to south america or africa, or the south sea islands when he first escaped?" as if in answer to his question, the library door opened, and katherine thurston stood framed in the doorway. she had the same curiously still air that i had noticed when she stood on the stairs,--as though her spirit had found the way into a region of mysterious peace. "he has gone," she said quietly. there was a sudden tap at the front door, and then, without further warning or delay, it was opened, and a police officer stood there. "is mr. clyde in the house?" he asked directly. "no," whyte answered. the officer glanced about the room with a swift survey of us all. "he's gone, then?" he said. no one answered. "sorry to have troubled you," he said, touching his helmet, and immediately went out. we heard low voices and hurried steps passing around the house. "oh, they'll find him!" cried mrs. whyte in dismay. "he can't have got a safe distance yet." "hush!" warned whyte. he stepped to the library and looked out. then after a moment he came back to us. "they are watching the house. the longer they watch, the better! do you know his plans, hilton?" i shook my head. miss thurston had faded away like a wraith but mrs. whyte and jean were hanging on our words. "no, i have no idea where he is going, or what he means to do. the police are very close on his heels. i confess it looks dubious that he will get very far." jean laughed out suddenly and clapped her hands together. "why, of course he will escape! after they have come to know about each other!" she exclaimed. "nothing else would be possible, _now!_" whyte and i exchanged glances. as a matter of fact, we would all like to live in a rose-colored world, where things would happen of necessity as they do in properly constructed fairy tales, but it takes the confidence of a jean to announce such faith in the face of unsympathetic experience. chapter xiv tangled heart-strings there was racing and chasing on saintsbury lea the next morning. the office of the samovar was besieged by people who wanted to know whether the charge against clyde was a campaign lie, a poor joke, or a startling truth. reporters and inquiring friends camped on clyde's doorstep, blockaded his office,--and insisted on extracting some information from his lawyer! information is a valuable commodity which a lawyer is trained not to give away for nothing, so my visitors went away not much wiser than they came. "has clyde been arrested?" was asked everywhere. apparently not. "but why didn't burleigh, in the interests of justice, give his information to the police before publishing it broadcast and giving clyde a chance to get away?" probably burleigh cared more for a samovar scoop than for the interests of justice, and more for helping the campaign against clyde than for either. possibly, also, he did not care to take upon himself the responsibility of lodging a formal accusation against clyde. he might, in that case, be held responsible for it. "but how had clyde got the warning?" nobody knew. he had simply disappeared. of course his disappearance was considered equivalent to a confession of guilt. the wires were hot with his description, and the noon editions had columns of conjecture and reassuring reports that the police were in possession of valuable clues which could not be made public. i could barely get time to run through my accumulated mail. a good part of this related to alfred barker. i had started inquiries backward along the shadowy track of that slippery gentleman's career, hoping that i might come across some trail of diavolo's in that direction. so far as results went, mr. barker might have been the most commonplace and harmless of mortals. he had lived here, he had done business there, he had been through bankruptcy and he had been promoter of several business schemes that were little better than bankruptcy, but chiefly he had managed to be unknown for long intervals. how some of those intervals were filled, i could in a manner guess. probably his venture as business manager for diavolo was an instance. and that one had not been particularly successful financially, except in the deal with jordan, if i might regard barker's note-book as an accounting of the profits. i was busy in an inner office, trying to assimilate my mail, when fellows, my clerk, brought me word that miss thurston was waiting to see me. as i knew we should be liable to interruptions in the outer office, i had him bring her in. i saw at a glance that this was a different woman from the self-possessed woman of the world i had known. she was human, womanly. her eyes met mine with a shy appeal for sympathy. "we all come to you for advice," she said with a deprecating smile. "that is the chief compensation of my profession." "there are three things that i want to speak to you about," she continued. "first, mr. clyde's safety. i have been thinking about things all night, turning them in my mind one way and another, and that is the point that must be considered first. if he is taken, or gives himself up, what prospect is there that he will ever be cleared?" "very little, miss thurston. you wish me to be frank." "i want to know the exact truth. in the eyes of the law, he is merely an escaped convict?" "yes." she was perfectly quiet and self-controlled. i could see that she merely expected me to confirm the impression which her intelligence had already discerned. she did not hesitate in her quiet speech. "then the second thing is to get word to him. i have written him a letter." (she laid it on my table,--a nice, thick letter it was, too!) "i have told him in this letter that i am ready to go with him to any island of the sea or desert jungle where he will be safe. i want you to know, because it may happen that you will get word to him only by telegraphing. but tell him what i have told you, if you cannot give him my letter. if you should see him, the letter will be enough to make him understand. and if he should hesitate on my account, and talk about not letting me sacrifice myself,--he may, you know,--will you make him--understand?" there was a mist in her eyes as she finished. if she looked at clyde with that look, he would have to be a man of iron not to yield! "trust me to do the very best i can to deliver your commission. but clyde has disappeared, as you know. i may not hear from him before you do." "yes, i know. i am only providing for the chance,--in case you do. i have been thinking of everything, trying to put myself into his mind, and i think he will come or send to you." she spoke with quiet assurance. "i shall be only too glad to serve you--or him." "then there is another matter." a slightly embarrassed air replaced the fine lack of self-consciousness which i had been admiring. "i wish that you would tell eugene benbow." i felt myself stiffen. unconsciously i was politely obtuse. "tell him what? i beg pardon!" "tell him about mr. clyde's escape and--everything that has gone before." "oh, yes, certainly. he will be interested." "and tell him--about my message." "you wish him to know?" i asked, in a matter-of-fact manner. "yes, i wish him to know,--but i don't want to be the one to tell him." "you think it will hurt him?" i asked, determined to draw her out, since she had given me the opening. i realized that to women emotions are facts, and that impressions, attitudes and relations are quite as substantial as any of the more material things of which the law takes notice. it might be that the key to gene's mysteriousness lay in emotions rather than in facts. she lifted her eyes with something of an effort, but i saw that she had determined to treat me with frankness. "it probably _will_ hurt him," she said, "but it will be salutary." "in the long run, yes. but--poor fellow!" "i know! but it wasn't my fault. you know a boy of his poetic and romantic sort simply has to adore someone, and i even thought it was better for him to waste his emotional efflorescence on me than on some woman who might not have understood." "i am quite sure you are right," i said. but at the same time i could not help a feeling of dumb sympathy with poor gene, and a certain impatience with her philosophic view of the situation. as kipling says, it is easy for the butterfly upon the load to preach contentment to the toad. the toad, too, has some rights. "besides, he knew always--or, at least, for a long time--that mr. clyde was more to me than anyone else. he always was," she continued bravely, "even in the old times, before--anything happened. and i knew, as a girl does, that i was more to him than anyone else. then, when he drew away and would not say what i had expected, of course i was hurt and angry and very, very unhappy. but when years and years had gone by, and i saw that what i wanted was not coming, i determined to keep him as a friend. i knew that something had happened, something against his will. so i realized that it was wrong to blame him, and that i must keep what i could have, on the best terms possible. it was really eugene that made me come to this understanding of myself." "i see." "of course gene knew from the beginning that it was a case of the moth and the star,--don't smile! i mean simply on account of our respective ages, of course. but to make sure that he should not misunderstand, i--told him something about mr. clyde." "that was fine and generous of you," i cried warmly, ashamed of my momentary reproach. she flushed with sensitive appreciation of my change of attitude. "i even told him that if he could ever render a service to mr. clyde, it would be the same as if he did it for me. i thought it would be a good thing to awaken his chivalry in that way." "but you had no reason at that time to suppose that mr. clyde was in danger?" "no specific reason," she said, with some hesitation. "but i felt that something overshadowed him. a woman knows things without reason, sometimes." "and you told eugene?" "yes. partly i wanted to let him feel there was something he could do for me,--you understand. and partly, too, i wanted to enlist his interest for mr. clyde, if an opportunity should ever come up where he needed help that eugene could give. you never can tell." "you can't ordinarily," i admitted. "but at present poor gene has put himself out of the way of doing a service for anyone. his hands will be tied for a long time." "but--you do think there is a possibility of getting him off, don't you? he is so young!" miss thurston rose as she spoke, and in spite of her kindly tone in regard to gene, i could see that the important part of the interview was over when clyde passed out of our conversation. "of course i should not admit anything else," i answered, and she departed, leaving me impressed anew with the important part which women play in the affairs of men. truly, sentiments may be stronger than ropes, and emotions more devastating than floods. and the woman who is all tenderness and quivering watchfulness for one man will be as indifferent as nature to the sufferings of another. i was sorry for gene. prison was not the worst of his trials. it was not a particularly pleasant mission on which miss thurston had sent me. i went to the jail for an interview with gene with very uncomfortable anticipations. it isn't pleasant to hit a man whose hands are tied,--and that my communication would be in the nature of a blow to him i could not doubt. he looked nervous and harassed, and the innate courtesy which characterized him was, i felt, the only thing that kept him from resenting my visit. "i hope you haven't come to talk about that wretched barker," he said at once, trying to smile, but betraying the effort in the attempt. "not unless you wish to." he shook his head. "no. i told you all about it once. i don't want to think about it any more. it makes me--ill." "very well. we'll gossip about our friends instead. have you heard about clyde?" he half turned aside, but answered with apparent indifference. "yes, they let me see the papers." "he has disappeared, it seems. there has been no trace of him, yet." there was a hint of youthful scorn in his voice as he answered. "well, if he likes to live that way. i think on the whole i should prefer to give myself up and have it over with." "clyde insists that he is innocent. that would of course make a difference in the feeling about giving oneself up. his conscience is not involved in the question. besides," i added, seeing my chance to discharge miss thurston's commission, "he has to think not alone of himself. miss thurston's happiness is bound up in his safety." the boy did not speak. i could feel, however, that he was holding every nerve tense. i knew what he wanted to know, and i went on, with as casual an air as i could muster. "it seems that they have been in love with each other for years, but of course with the knowledge that this possibility of exposure was hanging over him, he could not speak. now that it is out, and the worst is known, they have come to an understanding. it was inevitable, under the circumstances." "do you mean she will marry him?" he asked, in a low voice. "probably, in time. for the present, of course his whereabouts are unknown. but i should think that probably, in the end, she will go to him. at her age," i added deliberately, "a woman has a right to choose her fate. she will not go to it in ignorance." he laughed, but without mirth. "as you say, she is old enough to know her own mind," he said, somewhat brutally. then he added, bitterly, "it seems i did not shoot barker quite soon enough." "why _did_ you shoot him?" i asked. his eyes fell. "because he killed my father." then he turned his shoulder to me with an impatient gesture. "i told you i would not talk about that any more." and he wouldn't. for all his good manners, my client had a vein of obstinacy that was almost as useful, in case of need, as plain rudeness would have been. when i left gene, i fell in with some friends who insisted upon having me give an account of myself over a dinner at the club, so it was something after nine when i reached my rooms. i lived at that time, as i think i may have mentioned, in an apartment hotel. my own suite was on the third floor. as i stepped out of the elevator, i saw three men lounging in the neighborhood of my door. they saw me, and set up a shout of "here he is," which brought in two more who had apparently been taking the air on the fire-escape. "to what am i indebted,--?" i began. they grinned cheerfully and simultaneously. "oh, we just wanted to find out if you couldn't give us a story about clyde," the foremost explained,--and i recognized the clan. they were reporters on the trail of breakfast food for the great american public. "come in, and tell me what you want to find out," i said resignedly. "if you can extract any information from my subconscious self, i hope you will share it with me." "you'll read it in the papers to-morrow," said the cheerful tall one. "have you any idea where clyde is?" "why, yes," i answered thoughtfully,--and they all leaned forward like dogs on a leash. "of course it is only a guess,--" "yes, yes, we understand," they chorused eagerly. "well, gentlemen, i figure it out this way. mr. clyde did not possess an aeroplane, and it is extremely doubtful that he was able to borrow one before he left. the most rapid means of transportation available to him would therefore be the automobile or the chou chou cars. he has been gone about twenty-four hours. multiply twenty-four hours by forty miles and you get the radius of a circle of which saintsbury is the center--" they interrupted my demonstration with shouts and jeers. "you trifle with the power of the press," said the tall one. "wait till to-morrow morning and you will see what happens to your remarks. the public will have reason to understand that we have reason to understand that mr. hilton has reason to understand that mr. clyde is not a thousand miles distant from saintsbury at this time!" while i had been speaking, my eye had fallen upon the stub of a cigar on the mantel. now, i had not been in my room since morning,--and i do not smoke before luncheon. while i talked nonsense to the men, my mind was engaged with that cigar stub. i had no reason to suppose that the chambermaids on that floor smoked, and nobody else was supposed to have access to my rooms. i sauntered across the room and picked up the stub and tossed it in the grate. it was fresh and moist. my eye went about the room. half a dozen books from my shelves were lying about,--and it was absurd to suppose that the chambermaids had been indulging in my favorite brands of literature. "let me offer you a cigar, gentlemen," i said, and went to the adjoining bedroom, closing the door behind me. my cigars were not in the bedroom, but the excuse served. there, with his feet on my best embroidered cushions, with my choicest edition de luxe on his knees and a grin on his face, sat clyde. chapter xv the outlaw i shook my head at clyde, and returned to the sitting room. "have you seen clyde since the news came out, mr. hilton?" the energetic reporter demanded, as i was passing the cigars around. "i have been out of town. i only returned last evening." "it seems that he left his office without any instructions, and nobody knows how to get his orders. and at his home nothing is known. he simply walked out of the door and disappeared." "then the chances are that he is far enough away by this time." "but he'll be caught," the man said confidently. "it is one of the hardest things in the world for a man to be lost in this world of rapid communication. his description has been wired all over the country. the police in every city in the land will have their eyes open. sooner or later--and the chances are that it will be sooner--some one will tap him on the shoulder and say, 'you're wanted, mr. clyde.' and he'll forget himself and answer to the name. they all do it. sooner or later." he wagged his head wisely. "that's so," chimed in the others, and story after story was told of the unconscious way in which men in hiding would betray themselves. it was entertaining enough, but i was on needles to have them go, and i got rid of them as soon as i could. i waited until i saw them actually leave the building before i dared let clyde out of the bedroom. he came out smiling and undisturbed. "are your prophetic friends safely out of the way?" he asked. "all gone. how in the name of mystery did you get in here?" "you look more surprised than hospitable!" "and more anxious than either, i dare say, if my looks show my feelings. how are you going to get away?" "walk away. and very soon. but first, i wonder if you could get me something to eat. absurd how dependent we civilized beings are on our meals! there may be more serious matters to be considered, but at present my chief anxiety is as to whether you happen to have a box of crackers and a piece of cheese in your rooms." "we'll do better than that," i answered, and i promptly telephoned to a near-by restaurant for a substantial meal. "now, while we are waiting, tell me how you got in," i said. "oh, that was easy. i simply walked up. i thought i should find you, but you are an abominably early riser. the maids were cleaning the rooms, and so i simply watched for an opportunity to slip into one room while they were in the other. you have comfortable diggings here, and i commend your taste in pictures, but i vow i never saw so hungry a place in my life." "have you really had nothing all day?" "nothing since yesterday noon. it was about the middle of the afternoon yesterday that a fellow came to my office,--a man i had never seen. he told me that he was a typesetter on the samovar. 'beg pardon,' he said, 'but you're mr. clyde, aren't you?' i acknowledged it. he said, 'i'm a machine operator on the samovar, and i had a "take" just now that had a story about you in it. some dirty story about your having been convicted of murder and escaping before you were hung.' 'indeed?' i said. 'it was kind of you to warn me. to whom am i indebted?' he looked down and shuffled his feet. 'oh, i'm nothing but a machine operator, but i don't want to see a man that is bucking the ring knifed.' and that is all that i know about him." "some local politician, probably." "yes," he laughed. "it is a queer world, the way we are bound up with each other. if i hadn't accepted that nomination on the citizens' ticket, that bow-legged little machine man, who probably had to lose a day's wage to get away and warn me, would never have bothered. he took the trouble because i was _his_ candidate." "by the way, i saw miss thurston to-day. she gave me this letter to get to you if i should have a chance." and i gave him her letter and turned away to arrange his supper while he should read it. i rather fancy he forgot his hunger for a few minutes. i could guess something of what miss thurston must have written by his face. it was white with emotion when he finished. he put the letter into his pocket-book, carefully. then he turned to me, half laughing but without speaking, and wrung my hand. we understood each other without anything further. "what, specifically, did you come back for?" i asked, while he was eating. "well, partly because the enemy would be looking for me elsewhere, but chiefly because i had to get some money. how much have you about you?" i emptied my pockets and spread the loot before him. "not so bad," he said. "i'll give you a check for it, and date it yesterday. then i should like to have you, as my lawyer, take possession of the papers in my desk. there are insurance policies that have to be taken care of, and some other matters that can't be neglected. and the lord knows when i can come back." "no one else knows," i assured him. he smiled. i could see that he was too uplifted to really care very much about such trivialities as i had my mind upon. "you don't advise me to stay and brazen it out, then?" he said, quizzically. "on the contrary, i advise you to clear out. i don't see the ghost of a chance for you if the law gets its hands upon you." "then a judicial error can never be corrected?" "the only thing that would give us any excuse for reopening the case would be some new evidence having a bearing on the situation. have you any reason to suppose that you can unearth any significant facts now which you could not discover when the affair was fresh in the memory of everyone?" he shook his head. "no. that looks hopeless, i must admit. you advise me, then, to bury myself somewhere beyond reach of the extradition laws?" "exactly. and, considering everything, i can imagine worse fates." he smiled. "so can i," he said musingly. for a man with a price on his head, he seemed singularly happy. it was clear that the letter in his pocket was the most potent writ in the world just then. then he put dreams aside, and gave me specific directions as to certain matters of business that he wished looked after. it was on toward eleven o'clock before our talk was finished, and he rose to his feet. "what are your plans now?" i asked. "to get out of town, first. i must walk. let me have that stick of yours, will you? i think i shall have to go stooping over a cane, to escape notice. and when i have an address to give you, i'll let you know." "all right," i agreed. he pulled his hat into a bedraggled shape over his ears, and walked stiffly about the room, bent over the cane. i had not guessed him so good an actor. i walked with him down the street a few minutes later,--and i knew that he carried a lighter heart into exile than he had carried through all the popularity and success of the last fifteen years. after making sure that he was not followed or observed, i left him, and returned home. i took a different route, one that brought me through a little park, where a fountain plashed in the soft night air, and the trees bent over the benches whereon homeless tramps and cosy "twos" enjoyed the last minute of freedom. as i crossed the park by one of the diagonal asphalt paths, my eye was caught by the familiar aspect of the drooping shoulders of a man who sat beside a girl on a secluded bench. it looked like fellows. he moved slightly, and i saw that i was not mistaken. that he should be spending the evening in the park was not remarkable, but that he should be in close conversation with a girl was distinctly surprising. but i was very glad to see it. a girl would be the best panacea for his moodiness. i would not embarrass him by giving any sign of recognition. i therefore walked past with my eyes ahead, but just as i came opposite, the girl moved and the light of the street lamp fell on her face. i had seen her before,--for a minute i could not remember where. then it came to me. she was minnie doty, mr. ellison's housemaid. how in the name of wonder had fellows picked up an acquaintance with her? i wished afterwards that my delicacy had not led me to go by without speaking. chapter xvi the gift-bond for some days i was so much occupied with clyde's affairs, and other business matters which demanded my professional attention, that i saw little of any of my friends in a social way, but toward the end of the week mr. whyte asked me over the telephone to come up to dinner. i was only too glad to go, but i confess that when i saw jean was not expected, i was so disappointed that i began wondering how i could cut the evening short enough to give me a chance to run in at the next door. "i asked jean to come over," said mrs. whyte, unconsciously answering my unspoken question, "but the dear child had something else on for this evening." mr. whyte chuckled without disguise. "jean has a beau," he said, with an air. "and if she has, carroll," mrs. whyte took him up, with instant sex-championship, "it is nothing to make remarks about. jean is quite old enough to receive attention, and he is an unexceptionable young man. i don't think it is delicate of you to make comments." "who is making the comments?" he demanded good-humoredly. "well, you _implied_ comments, and i don't want you to do it when jean is around. when a girl has no mother and is, besides, as wilful as jean is,--and she _is_ wilful, katherine, although i admit she is charming about it, and i should be in love with her myself if i were a man,--the sooner such a girl is married to a steady young man, the better." "is the steady young man mr. garney?" i asked. the annoyance with which i had observed his prostration before jean probably betrayed itself in my voice, for miss thurston looked up to answer reassuringly. "oh, it is not a serious matter. mr. garney was a friend of eugene's, and jean, bless her heart, would listen to a jointed doll if it could say 'gene.' besides, it was mr. ellison who asked him to come over this evening. he seems to have quite taken mr. garney up,--has him over frequently." "by the way, clara," said mr. whyte, "i asked ellison for that contribution to your day nursery. you would have done better to ask him yourself. he turned me down hard,--said he had just had to make a thousand dollar payment unexpectedly and was hard up." the talk shifted, but i confess it had made me uncomfortable. i had had nothing against garney until i saw him bowled over by jean, and then i immediately took a violent dislike to him. yet she probably regarded his devotion merely as pleasantly flattering. i was uncommonly glad, therefore, to find jean waiting for me in my office the next afternoon. fellows was away, and she was sitting at my desk in a stillness that was more than patient. it was tense. an odd-shaped package was clasped in her hands. "well, little story-book girl, are you waiting for the prince?" i hailed her. there was something in her sweet absurdities that always made me feel as though we were playing a game. "i was waiting for you," she said sedately. "lucky me! and poor disappointed prince! i can see him, in a green velvet suit, with a long, dejected feather in his drooping cap, waiting around the corner of your imagination for you to give a glance in his direction. that's all that would be necessary to bring him to life. instead of that, you are wasting your thoughts--wasting them according to _his_ notion, of course, not mine!--on a chap who is already alive!" she smiled perforce at my foolery, but her smile was a trifle tremulous. i felt a trouble back of it, that must be treated respectfully. "is there anything the matter, miss jean?" i asked. "there's gene!" she said, a little reproachfully. her eyes searched mine. "oh, i know! of course! but there isn't anything new?" she hesitated the barest moment. "that's enough," she breathed. "but _that_ is coming out all right!" i said reassuringly. she turned her questioning eyes upon me again, and her look went deeper than ever before. it suddenly struck me that i was foolish to insist upon regarding and treating her as a child. her eyes were unfathomable, but the mystery that veiled them belonged to womanhood, rather than to childhood. "do you say that just to keep me from fretting," she asked gravely, "or do you really know anything that is going to save gene? really and truly clear him and--and give him back to me?" the seriousness and maturity of her manner had so impressed me--i was on the point of saying "had so imposed on me," and i don't know but what that would be the right word--that i took the hazard of answering her with the bare and simple truth. "no, i don't know anything that is going to clear your brother. but i have a confidence which i feel sure is going to mean a victory. i can't say anything more. but it is a long time yet to the trial." she seemed to shiver a little at the word, and withdrew her eyes. i waited for a moment, thinking that if she had any special anxiety on her mind she would of necessity betray it if left to herself, but when she spoke it was on a totally different matter. "you are going away?" it was a statement rather than a question. "what makes you think that?" i parried. i had indeed a very definite intention of going away, but i hadn't mentioned it to anyone, and i didn't care to have my plans known. "why, i thought you would probably go to hunt up mr. clyde. when you find him, i wish you would give him this." and she handed me an old letter in a faded envelope. "but you are quite likely to see mr. clyde as soon as i do," i protested. "i'd rather you had it," she said vaguely. "there is no hurry. sometime he would like to have it. it is an old letter that my father wrote to my mother many years ago. he mentions mr. clyde in it, and says nice things about him, so i thought he might like to keep it." "i am sure he would," i said warmly. "you are a dear little girl to think of it. and if you really want me to take charge of it, i will. i shall probably see mr. clyde sometime, or at least hear from him. but i shall be jealous of mr. clyde pretty soon. here you give me an interesting letter, to be handed on to mr. clyde. and miss thurston gives me a lovely thick letter--but not for me at all, only for me to hand to mr. clyde. happy mr. clyde!" she listened with an uncertain smile and wistful eyes, as though she were holding back some brooding thought. there was something odd in her manner that half worried me. "i have something for you, too," she said after a moment. "i have been looking through an old trunk of keepsakes that i keep at uncle howard's,--things that belonged to my mother, mostly,--letters and presents from my father, and all marked. she had kept that letter because it was written on her birthday, once, when he was away from home. and then--" he hesitated a moment, and then extended the package to me,--"this is for you, if you will please take it, as a keepsake." "how sweet of you," i murmured. but when i unwrapped the packet, i was dumbfounded. it was a beautiful mother-of-pearl cigar case, mounted in silver, and set with an elaborate monogram in small diamonds. "why, child!" i exclaimed in protest. "it was my father's," she explained. "it was a presentation thing,--he was always getting them. you see, he was always doing splendid things for people. i like to remember that he was that kind of a man." "but shouldn't it go to gene?" "no, he gave it to me for my very own, because i was so proud of it. i want you to have it,--to remember me by." "i'm not going to forget you,--ever," i said, taking both her hands in mine. forget her! i realized at that moment that i had taken her for granted as belonging in my life permanently. i simply could not imagine having her go out of it. the idea raised a queer sort of tumult within me. "then you will take it," she said, again pressing the case upon me. "because i want you to have it,--i want you to." "i am very proud to have it," i said gravely. to refuse that urgent voice, those beseeching eyes, would have been impossible. i'm not a graven image. she beamed at my acceptance. it was exactly like a rain-drenched flower lifting its head again. "and i want a good-bye present from you to me, too," she said with a sort of breathless haste, leaning toward me in her eagerness. "a 'good-bye' present! why, my going away is not serious enough for all that ceremony. i shall be back before you really know that i have gone." "but you'll give me something, won't you?" she persisted, putting my disclaimer aside. "some little thing, you know! your pencil, or something like that." "i can do better by you than that," i cried gaily. i opened my office safe and took from it' the locket with the emerald heart of which i have already spoken. it was the only thing i possessed which could by any stretch of courtesy be considered a worthy exchange for the cigar case. her eyes widened like a child's at the sight of the trinket. "but not for me, surely," she cried. "for no one else in the world. i got it, intending it for this portrait of my mother,--which you see i am going to take out; it doesn't fit very well;--and then i discovered that my mother hated the idea of emeralds. so you see it hadn't been intended for her, really. it was waiting for you,--if you will accept it. you don't dislike emeralds?" she did not answer except by a little choked laugh, but her face was eloquent for her. suddenly she lifted the locket to her lips. "oh, come!" i cried, feeling that i must somehow break the tension under which she was laboring. "perfume on the violets is nothing to such extravagance as kisses on the emeralds. speaking of violets, let us go down and see if barney has any to-day. he might, by luck. if he has, we'll buy him out." i picked up the cigar case to put it away, and i confess i was on the point of putting it into my safe when some instinct struck me between the eyes and i pretended i had only gone there to lock up. i brought the case back in my hand, then formally transferred the cigars from my own case to it, tossed that into the waste-basket, and slipped the be-diamonded thing into my pocket as calmly as though diamonds were my daily wear. she beamed, and for the first time the trouble that had been hovering in her eyes seemed to melt quite away. "oh, thank you!" she cried. "you _do_ understand beautifully. i think you are a story-book man yourself." "do you know, i always have felt that i had undeveloped capacities in that direction," i admitted confidentially. "only it took a story-book girl to find them out. come, we will celebrate the day with violets." barney had heaps of violets, fortunately, and we had great fun finding places to fasten them upon her. barney needed only a crumb of encouragement to show himself up picturesquely, and i was glad to set him going, for i wanted to see the shadow on jean's face entirely disappear. they had become good friends on their own account, it seemed, and jean was cheeking him delightfully in return for some of his sly remarks, when suddenly she stopped and i felt a little shiver run through her. another man had stopped before barney's stand,--mr. garney, the latin tutor. his eyes were so eagerly intent upon jean that he hardly took note of my presence. "you look like flora herself, miss benbow," he said, raising his hat. "are violets your favorites?" (i saw that he was laying the information away for future reference, and i wanted to choke him on the spot.) "they are to-day," she answered, demurely. "but i may prefer something else to-morrow." (wasn't that neat, and dear of her?) i was very glad to have this opportunity of seeing jean and mr. garney together, because i admit that mrs. whyte's gossip had disturbed me. i therefore made no move to hurry jean away, but pretended to talk to barney while i watched the other two together. i fancy barney understood the situation pretty well, for he glanced shrewdly from me to mr. garney and back, as though he would see if i, too, understood. but the result of my observation of their mutual attitude was wholly reassuring. garney was crazy about her, of course,--that was obvious. but jean was heart-whole and unimpressed. of that i felt quite sure, and i recognized the fact with a relief that measured my previous disturbance. so long as she was not dazzled, no harm could come of it. he couldn't marry her against her will! how well i remember all the trivial events of that afternoon! after loading her down with violets, we went to a confectioner's and had some gorgeous variety of ice-cream, and i did my best to restore her to her usual rose-colored view of life. she responded beautifully, and we had a very gay time. but when i left her at her own door, finally, the wistfulness returned. "you _are_ going away, aren't you?" she asked. "why, i shall have to, in order to feel that i have a right to keep that cigar-case, since it was given to me as a good-bye present." she stood very still for a moment, searching me with her deep eyes. then she put out her hand impulsively. "good-bye," she said breathlessly, and fled into the house. chapter xvii a voice from the past the next day brought me a strange letter from william jordan, the defrauded farmer whom i had left in eden valley. he wrote: "dear mr. hilton:--i don't know as i ought to say anything, because maybe it ain't you after all, and if it be you, i suppose you don't want me to know or you would have guve your name, but at the same time i don't see who else it could be, and i ain't used to taking presents without saying thank you. this is what i mean. i got a letter from the first national bank at saintsbury the other day and there was a cashier's check for $ in it, for me, and nothing to explain why they sent it. i wrote to find out if it was a mistake and they say no they sent it per instructions but can't give no names. i suppose it is meant to make up for the thousand that diavolo got, but nobody knows about him but you. anyhow i am very thankful, and if you don't want the thanks yourself you can pass them on to the right party if you know who he is. "your respectively, "william jordan." i wrote promptly to mr. jordan telling him that i was not his unknown benefactor and that i was almost as interested as he could be in learning who the donor was. it was clearly significant. whoever had sent it _knew!_ whether the restitution was prompted by remorse or by benevolence, it indicated knowledge of the loss. i laid the situation before fellows, who already knew about jordan. "do you think you can possibly discover who bought that check?" he looked dubious. "bank business is always confidential." "well, it's up to you, because i am going away for a trip. but i'll give you a starter. howard ellison's account may possibly show a similar debit." "mr. ellison has been buying some new microscopes and other apparatus," fellows said casually. "how in the world do you know that?" i asked. fellows was the most surprising fellow. he flushed and looked embarrassed. i did not press the point, because i knew if he didn't want to answer he wouldn't. "ellison certainly had some connection with barker," i said, watching him. "there was a check of ellison's in barker's pocket when he was killed." fellows looked up with interest. "then that would belong to his widow. if he has one," he added, as an afterthought. "undoubtedly it would." "may i ask if you know the amount?" "two hundred and fifty." he looked disappointed. "you think that isn't enough to induce her to come forward?" "oh, i suppose it might be worth claiming," he said slowly. "but i think his widow's chief gain is in her freedom from a rascal." "you can't help sympathizing with the man who shot him, can you?" i said. his cheek twitched. perhaps it was a checked smile. "i sympathize with him and i think he did a service to the community," he said in a low voice. "you are probably quite right," i mused. "and yet the law would not see it in that light." "oh, the law!" he said, with the contempt that the blind goddess never failed to arouse. jean had been right in guessing that i meant to go away, but she was wrong in thinking that it was on clyde's account. probably i should have taken her more into my confidence, but it is always my impulse, both personally and professionally, to work out my theories by myself, without discussing them. the truth of the matter was that i was still on the trail of diavolo. i had found, in my accumulated mail, a report of his appearance in a small missouri town at a date somewhat later than the shows on the route i had already traced. it struck me that there might be significance both in the date and the distance. the jordan coup had probably frightened them a little. they had jumped to this far-away point for one engagement, and then had retired to private life, barker coming to saintsbury. on the bare chance of discovering some particulars that might have significance, i set out for this town. i believe that i was upheld secretly by a feeling that somewhere, somehow, sometime, the truth would be revealed, if i only followed the trail long enough. at first i was met with the same baffling haze of obscurity. the local manager had taken diavolo on as an emergency to fill a blank caused by the illness of a scheduled performer for that week. he doubted that he had appeared anywhere else in the state. he had never heard of him before, but was persuaded by barker's fluency to give him a show, especially as his price was cheap. "that manager of his, barker, said that diavolo was a great man who had given shows long ago but was getting too high up in the world now to have his name connected with the business. said he was really out of the business, but was making a little tour incog. to get some ready money, and as he had the newspaper reports to show from other places, i took him on." "did he make good?" "you bet. he's the goods, all right. say, it's a funny stunt, isn't it? i'm used to fake mysteries, of course,--i see enough of that sort. but when you run up against the real thing, like what diavolo put up, it makes you feel the devil is in it, for a fact. don't it, now?" "it does. and i want to catch him. do you know anything that would help me to identify him? if you wanted him again, how would you go to work to find him?" "look up barker." "but barker is dead, and his knowledge has died with him." the manager shook his head. "you've got your work cut out for you, then. barker was the only one to come into the open. diavolo always stood back and let barker do the talking. might have thought diavolo was deaf and dumb for all you heard of him until he stepped out on the stage. then he talked all right,--stage patter, of course, but clever." "you think then that this was not his first appearance on the stage?" "hard to say. barker said he was an old un, but that he had given it up to go into something else,--something respectable. i didn't believe it at the time, on general principles, but maybe he was giving it to me straight." i then followed the trail to the hotel where diavolo had stopped, and here i encountered a girl who had her wits about her and knew how to use her eyes. she was the daughter of the landlady, and she acted as clerk, waitress, or chambermaid, as occasion required. she looked up with more than professional interest when i mentioned diavolo's name. "you mean that dude that was here in the summer and read people's thoughts at the orpheum? say, wasn't he great! know him?" "not so well as i hope to. what did he look like?" "oh, he had black hair and a beard, and eyes that kind of looked through you. say, it's hard to describe a man, you all look so much alike,--oh, _dress_ so much alike, you know. but diavolo was different, though i don't just know how to explain it. he was a sure-enough swell off the stage, wasn't he?" "what makes you think that?" "why, i heard that man that was with him,--barker, his name was,--i heard him say--you see, i was in the hall, and the transom of that room won't shut, so you just can't help hearing,--and barker had a high voice anyway, and he said, 'you're a fool to give it up.' i didn't know what he was giving up, of course, but barker went on, 'you can make money at this business hand over fist if you let me manage things, and you aren't making any money being respectable. what's respectability compared to the coin?' i often thought of that afterwards. there's something in it. and still, respectability is worth something," she added thoughtfully. "was that all you heard? what did diavolo say to that?" "oh, i couldn't hear anything he said, because he spoke so low, but barker said, kind of laughing, 'just remember that i've got you on the hip, my boy. if i mention in the right place that you and the hypnotist diavolo are one and the same, where will you be then?' and diavolo must 'a' said something angry, for i heard mr. barker say, kind of sarcastic, 'no, you won't kill me, nor you won't do any other fool thing. you'll join in with me for good and all and we'll gather in the shekels.' and then i heard something that sounded uncommon like a chair swung over a man's head,--i've seen them do that in the bar room when they got excited,--and mr. barker popped out of the room in a hurry. he was pretending to laugh but i could see that he was some scared inside. and i don't blame him. when diavolo looked at you, you didn't want to say that your soul was your own unless he gave you leave." "did he ever look at you?" i asked curiously. she tossed her saucy head. "that's different! no, he didn't try any of his hypnotizing tricks on me." "did you see any signs of bad feeling between them afterwards? was there any more quarrelling?" "not that i heard. i guess the little man knew better." "which one do you mean by the little man?" she shrugged her shoulders. "oh, mr. barker, of course. not that he _was_ much smaller than mr. diavolo if you weighed them, perhaps, but you know what i mean. mr. barker made me think of the man showing off the tiger at the circus. you could see that for all his show of not being afraid, he didn't dare turn his back for a minute." that remark seemed to me to express the situation very vividly, and i had no doubt that her native shrewdness had correctly grasped the relation between the two men. and her positive testimony that diavolo had threatened to kill barker if the latter divulged his identity was certainly significant. was it not most probable that that was what had happened later? how eugene benbow had become involved in the fatal affair i could not even guess. after my interviews with the manager and the landlady's daughter, i seemed to have sucked oakdale dry so far as information concerning diavolo went. but instead of returning at once to saintsbury, i determined to run on to houston. i wanted to go over the records of clyde's trial there, with a view to seeing whether there was any flaw or technicality of which it might be possible to take advantage. clyde was probably fleeing the country as fast as he could make his way by the underground, but there was always the possibility that his affairs might be brought to a sudden climax. i thought that the critical moment had arrived with unceremonious haste when, after registering in a houston hotel, i looked up and saw clyde himself crossing the lobby to take the elevator. for a moment i hesitated whether to accost him or not, but he saw me and at once turned back and came over. "hello! you here?" he said easily. "come on up to my room, if you aren't busy." "all right," i responded, making an effort to match his casual manner. when we reached his room, i saw that despite his self-possession he looked harassed and worn. the long inner strain had suddenly come to the surface. "you didn't come for me?" he asked nervously as we shook hands. "certainly not. i had no idea that you would be so rash, to use no stronger word, as to come here." he threw out his hands with a helpless gesture. "i couldn't help it. it seemed all along as though i _must_ be able to find some evidence in my favor if i came myself. i didn't dare to come before, for fear of a chance recognition, but now that the danger had appeared, i was driven to taking chances." "how long have you been here?" "twenty-four hours." "you are lucky to have remained undetected so long. now i hope you'll stay in your room till night and then get away as quickly and quietly as possible." "there's nothing else to do," he said heavily. "i have been to lester. the places are all changed and the people are new. everything has passed away--except the official record of the trial and the sentence." "of course it would all be changed," i said, as lightly as possible. "but i am going to examine the account of the trial and see if there was anything in the procedure which will give us a loophole. but you mustn't stay here to complicate matters. you must get away,--as i have told you before." he did not answer for a moment, but sat with bent head. then he spoke slowly. "i wonder if life would be worth having on the terms you suggest. expatriation, separation from everything that you care for, everyone who makes your public, from all your associations and ambitions,--" "you could establish new associations. you would see life from a different angle, and that is no small advantage. and--pardon me--you would not need to go alone." he looked up swiftly at that. "never! do you think that i would let--_anyone_ make so mad a choice?--dower her with such a life as i must live henceforward, dodging in the shadows, afraid of hearing my own name, an outlaw and a skulker? if i regard life for myself as of dubious value under such conditions, do you think i am so hopelessly mean as to ask anyone to share it with me?" of course i could understand his point of view, though he looked so handsome as he repudiated the idea that i guessed miss thurston would not have regarded the lot as wholly forlorn. "no," he said, walking restlessly up and down the narrow room, "i'll take my medicine, but i won't involve anyone else. i'll make as good a fight as i can, and i won't skulk,--" he was interrupted. there was a tap at the door, and immediately it was opened and a police officer stepped inside. he glanced from me to clyde and picked his man unerringly. "mr. clyde, i presume?" clyde nodded. "yes. you want me?" "yes, sir,"--deprecatingly. "you mean i am to go with you now?" "yes, sir,"--firmly. clyde smiled at me wryly. "i suppose i ought to know something of the etiquette of these affairs, but i am afraid i am not up. how about my personal papers? will i be allowed to turn them over to you?" "certainly, unless the officer has a warrant for them," i said, with an assured air, intended to impress the officer. clyde took from an inner pocket a packet of letters, old and worn. "these are the letters that took me back from lester," he said with a smile. "they were in the bag which i had left in my room at houston. that was the only reason i went back that morning. if--well, if the time should come when you think best, give them to k. t., and tell her that i have carried them always. she will understand then,--" "i will not fail," i said, much moved. so it had been katherine thurston all the time! "and that reminds me that i have here a letter which miss benbow charged me to give you,--an old letter written by her father. she thought you might care to keep it. perhaps, under the circumstances, you'd better read it and then return it to me for safe keeping." "i remember senator benbow very well,--a fine man!" clyde said. he spoke absently, and i guessed that his mind was on other matters, but i had no intention of letting him disregard jean's remembrance, or of letting the letter which she had treasured go into the hands of any careless court official. "it concerns you, she said. read it, and then i will take charge of it." i handed him the old letter in its faded envelope, and turned to speak to the officer while clyde should read it. the detective had watched us closely, but so long as clyde made no move to leave the room--or to draw a revolver--he showed no disposition to interfere with our arrangements. "how did you get information about him?" i asked the officer, merely to leave clyde to himself for a moment. "from saintsbury. the police there are looking for him, and they wired us to be on the lookout." "then you agree with jerome's theory that the villain always returns to the scene of his crime in the last act?" i said. "jerome? does he say that?" the man looked puzzled. "well, maybe he has found it so in new york. but i don't quite know what you mean by the last act." a faint sound from clyde made me turn. he was standing, supporting himself against the table, with a face so marked by emotion that i was startled into a cry. whether his emotion was terror or joy or merely awe, i could not tell from his look, his face was so curiously changed. he held out to me the letter which he had been reading, and when i took it he dropped into the chair by the table and let his head fall upon his arm. i felt that it was the unconscious attitude of prayer, and i unfolded the letter with more anxiety than i can express. this is what i read: "on the train, near lester, texas, "august th, ." "my dear love:--midnight has just blown across the sky, and here is the thirtieth,--the day for which i always stay awake so that i may send you a birthday greeting on the very first minute of time that has a right to carry it. i am throwing a kiss in your direction now, and if you are not conscious of it this minute, you will know when you receive this missive that although your devoted husband was traveling (and dead tired) he waited awake for the express purpose of saying 'happy birthday' to you into space. "i left houston an hour ago on my way to st. louis, and we have just passed lester, a little way station and our first stop. whom do you think i saw there, of all persons in the world? kenneth clyde! i didn't know that he was in this part of the country, and i can't imagine what he could want of lester, which, to judge from what i saw of it, consists of a platform, a freight shed, and three houses. he evidently had come up from houston on my train, though i didn't know it until i saw him jump off at lester and rush for the station agent, who was lounging by the shed. whatever he wanted he didn't get it, for he was rowing the agent so hard that he didn't see or hear me, though i hallooed to him. i suspect that he found he had got on the wrong train by mistake and wanted to get back. if so, he will have to wait until morning, when the local comes along,--long enough to cool his fit of temper. i like kenneth and believe he has the makings of a man in him, for all that he is somewhat unbroken. if i ever have a chance to hold out a helping hand to the boy, i'll certainly do it. "i'll be home in a fortnight, and i count the days until i shall see you, my own. kiss the two ingenious gene-iuses for their dad. joe." i caught clyde's hand and wrung it. "it's a miracle! that is, it is the new evidence which will give us a chance to re-open the case. and it is conclusive. man, there could never have been anything more complete. and to come now, at this moment!" "it is the helping hand that he offered," clyde said, with an unsteady laugh. "and little jean sent it to me, you say?" "yes. she had been looking over some old mementoes of her father, and she merely thought this letter might interest you because you were mentioned in it." the officer apparently thought we were taking too much time mooning over old family letters. "if you are ready, mr. clyde,--" he suggested courteously. "yes, all right. i'm ready. you will take the necessary steps, hilton?" "of course. i can't at this moment think of anything that would give me more pleasure. i'll go down with you at once." but i didn't. as we stepped into the hall, a boy with a telegram came toward me. it was a forwarded message from oakdale, where they had failed to find me: "come back to onct. there is a trouble on the girl. barney." "he means jean," i exclaimed, handing the slip to clyde. "i know he means jean. confound him for not being more explicit. what can have happened?" "you'll go at once, of course?" said clyde promptly. "i can't go till a train starts." and then i remembered how my going would affect clyde. "i'll have time to lay this letter of yours before the court before i go, in any event. and i shouldn't want to take any chances of a train wreck with that document in my pocket." but you can imagine the fever i was in till i could get off. i saw the proper officials and took the necessary steps to secure judicial recognition of the important paper which was to restore clyde's life, liberty, and happiness, and though he could not, of course, be released at a moment's notice, i had the satisfaction of seeing the procedure started that would enable him in a short time to face the world a free man, with the secret terror that had shadowed his life for fifteen years forever laid. but i went through it all like a man in a dream. through all that was said and done i was hearing every moment, like a persistent cry,-- "come back at once! jeans needs you,--jean needs you!" after leaving the court house i still had hours--ages!--to wait at the station, and the pictures my imagination conjured up were not soothing company. i had telegraphed barney that i was coming, but after that i could do nothing but fret myself to a fever waiting. i got off, finally, but all through the night and all the next day the singing wheels of the train were beating out the refrain,-- "she _needs_ me! she _needs_ me!" chapter xviii a rescue i had rather expected that when i reached saintsbury, barney would be on hand to give an explanation of his urgent message, but no barney was to be seen. i took a taxi to my office, which was across the street from barney's stand. for the first time within my memory, barney's stand was shut up and the owner gone. i told the chauffeur to wait and went up to my office. perhaps fellows could throw some light on things,--unless he too had disappeared. someone was there. i heard talking before i entered,--the loud and unfamiliar tones of a man's voice. i went in without knocking. fellows was there, at my desk. his start of surprise turned into unmistakable confusion as he saw me. his own chair was occupied by a pretty girl, whom i recognized at once as minnie doty, the houseworker at mr. ellison's, and the girl whom i had seen with fellows in the park. the third person in the room was a tall man who stood before the window, hat in hand. evidently he was the man whose voice i had heard. "well, i must be going," he said now after a moment's awkward pause, and moved toward the door. as he turned from the window the light fell upon his shaven jaw, blue-black under the skin, and i recognized him. he was the man barker had addressed with a taunting question about his marriage. "don't leave the room," i said quietly, keeping my position before the door. "fellows, introduce me." a gleam of amusement crossed fellows' sardonic countenance. leaning against the edge of my desk, he indicated the seated girl with a slight gesture. "mr. hilton, allow me to present you to mrs. alfred barker!" "how do you do?" the girl said nervously, trying to rise to the social requirements of the occasion. "how long have you known this fact, fellows?" i asked, watching him closely. "for some time," he said easily. "miss doty--mary doherty her name was originally, but she changed it to minnie doty when she ran away from her husband and got a position as houseworker at mr. ellison's--she answered our advertisement for mary doherty, to learn something to her advantage. i talked with her,--she didn't want to be known as barker's wife or in any way connected with the inquest, so i agreed to keep her secret for a short time, because--" "because she was afraid this man, whose name i don't know,--" "it's timothy royce, and i'm in the fire department. anything else you would like to know?" the tall man threw in defiantly. "yes. i'd like to know if it was you who telephoned to miss doty, early in the morning after barker was killed, 'barker is dead and now you must marry me.' was that you?" "oh, tim!" cried miss doty,--or whatever she preferred to be called. "oh, tim, i knew they would find it out!" "what of it?" said royce doggedly. "anybody is welcome to know that i want to marry you." "i see. and when barker asked you in the hall that day if you were married yet, and you drew back to hit him,--" "it was his devilishness," said royce concisely. "he had just spotted min and me, and he knew well enough i couldn't marry while he was above ground, and he was rubbing it in. that night that he was killed, min and i had gone out to talk things over. i wanted her to run away with me, but she said she couldn't while he was alive, and the next morning, when the patrolman on our beat told me barker was dead, i tried to telephone min. i couldn't go to her, because i was on duty. i knew it would break her up, being a woman, even though he was ugly as sin to her. women are that way, i suppose. she even saw about getting him buried. but she was scairt to death of having to come forward and tell things and be talked about and have to appear at the inquest and all that, and letting it be known about her and me,-- "where were you the night that barker was killed?" i asked abruptly. the man looked honest, there was an honest ring in his voice,--but suppose that after all i had the real murderer here in my office, covering his trail with palaver? fellows' eyes were on the floor. "we went out to lake park on the electric, min and me," he answered promptly. and then he added unnecessarily, "we went out on the seven o'clock car and stayed there all evening." "now i know you are lying," i said coolly. "minnie was at home a few minutes before seven. i saw her let miss benbow in." "there's a lie somewhere, but i'm not fathering it," royce retorted hotly. "miss benbow was waiting in the back entry to be let in when we got there, and it was nearer three than two, because the power gave out and we were tied up for over two hours half way between here and the park, waiting every minute to go on." "good heavens! was miss benbow waiting outside till three in the morning?" "not outside,--in the back entry. it seems that she came home unexpected, and finding the house shut up, she waited, thinking of course min would come home some time. and so she did. you see, everybody was away from home that evening, so minnie was free. but miss benbow is a good sort all right. when min said she'd lose her place if mrs. crosswell found out about her going off, miss benbow said right off that she wouldn't tell." i held down any adequate expression of my feelings. i merely asked, "what sort of a place is the back entry?" "oh, it was quite clean and nice," minnie spoke up from the depths of her handkerchief. "there's an old rocking chair that i sit in to peel potatoes and things like that. she went to sleep in the old chair and didn't come to no harm. we leave the entry unlocked so that the iceman can get at the refrigerator in the morning." the thought of jean cooped up in that dark back entry until three in the morning, even admitting the comfort of the old rocking chair, was sufficiently disturbing, but aside from that there was something perplexing about the story. somehow it did not fit in with my previous idea of the events of that night. i struggled to fix the discrepancy. "how about mr. benbow?" i asked minnie suddenly. "you told me you saw him leave the house." "i did!" "when? if you were away from the house before seven,--" "it was just as i was taking min back home,--a little before three," royce interrupted. "just as we were going along the side of the house, past the room min said was the library, the door opened, and mr. benbow came out and ran down the steps. min didn't want him to see her, so we stood still in the shadow till he was in the street. then we went on to the back of the house." "you gave me to understand that it was earlier in the evening," i said reproachfully. "i didn't say when," she murmured miserably. "and i couldn't tell you it was at three o'clock, or it would all have come out! and it is nobody's business, anyhow. i wish i had never answered that advertisement of yours!" fellows stirred slightly and his eye met mine. i caught his hint not to frighten the timid minnie if i wanted to get any information from her. "did you tell miss benbow that you had seen her brother leave the house at three?" i asked, to fill time. "not then," she said meekly. "i didn't think about it. i told her the other day." "well, now you know the whole story, and i guess min and i will go," said royce,--and this time i did not try to prevent his departure. "min wanted me to come, because that young man was hanging around to make her tell about things, and she didn't know what she had ought to tell and what not. but there ain't nothing we need to be afraid of coming out, only min hates to be in the papers." "good day," i said. "and thank you for coming." as the door closed behind them, i turned to fellows. "follow them. don't lose sight of him. i don't feel sure yet that he has told the truth. we may need him." "all right," said fellows. "i've been having her watched for weeks to find out who her young man was. i just worked it out yesterday, and got them here five minutes before you came in." "well, make sure that we can locate him if necessary," i said. this was not the time to discuss his method of handling things. the door had hardly swung shut behind him when it opened again and barney stumped in,--an anxious-looking barney. "you're here! i missed you," he said. "barney, what is it?" i cried. to wait for him to put what he had to say into words seemed suddenly next to impossible. "i don't know wot it is, sir, but it's trouble," he said doggedly. "she guv me a letter for ye, and here it is." i tore it open, and behind the incoherent words i seemed to hear jean's serious, appealing voice: "dear mr. hilton:--i just must write to you, because i couldn't bear it if you should ever think back and feel hurt because i hadn't. i can't tell you all about it, but i want you to remember that i have a reason, a very important reason, for what i am going to do. i can't explain, but it is on account of gene. you will know afterwards what i mean. "but there is one other thing i want to tell you. i have just found out that minnie told you she saw gene leave the house that night, as she was coming in. that is a mistake,--i didn't tell her so, because i didn't know what difference it might make. but gene was fast asleep on the couch in the library when minnie and i came into the house (and that was three o'clock) so if she saw someone going off by the side door just before, it wasn't gene. you see, it was this way. when i ran back to speak to the girl i thought was minnie, i found it wasn't minnie but a friend of hers who works in the next house, and she said minnie had gone out but would be right back, so i went into the back entry and waited for her, because i wouldn't go to mrs. whyte's when she was having a party. and minnie didn't come till three. when we got in i saw a light in the library, and i went in, and there was gene asleep. i kissed him very softly but i didn't wake him up, because you know how boys are, wanting their sisters to be so awfully dignified. and though i was perfectly safe and comfortable waiting beside the refrigerator, it wasn't exactly dignified, and minnie was scared to death about being found out. so i didn't wake gene. and it has been a great comfort ever since to me to remember how peaceful he looked, because that shows he felt innocent in his mind and not with a guilty conscience to keep him awake like lady macbeth. "i can't say anything more, because i have promised over and over again not to say a thing about the plan to save gene, but i will just say this,--if you should happen to hear that i was married, will you please, _please_ understand and believe that it was to help gene, and that of course i must do anything for him. "yours faithfully" (a blot made it look like "tearfully"), "jean benbow." it was incoherent enough (except for the part about gene, which i put aside in my mind to think out later,) but one thing seemed clear,--that she was married or about to be married, and that she had been lured into this madness by some delusion that in this way she was going to be able to help her brother. i glanced at the envelope. it had not been through the mails. "when and where did you get this, barney?" "yisterday, yer honor. she brought it to me herself. an' she wanted to bind me by great oaths out of a book that i wouldn't give it to you till afther to-day had gone by. sez i, how can i give it to him till he comes here, an' his office man sez he won't be here for a week yet,--for i had been to find out on my own account,--god forgive me for deceivin' the innocent." "it wasn't her letter, then, that made you telegraph, if you only got it yesterday. was there anything else?" his eyes fell, and he shifted his weight on his crutch uneasily. "i saw her cryin' and i knew she was carryin' sorrow," he said at last, defiantly. "when? where? tell me everything, can't you? did you know anything of her plan to be married? do you know where she is?" "i know only what i see,--an' that was that she was unhappy. it was this way. she came by my stand many a time, asking this about you and that about you, an' when would you be back, an' i cud see that there was more on her heart than a gurrul like her should be carryin'. then one night i saw her cryin',--" "where?" "'twas in her own home, sure. her head was down on the windy-sill, an' it was dark, and she never mistrusted there was anybody about the place watchin',--an' no more there was, seein' i wouldn't count an old codger like meself anybody. she was sobbin' and talkin' aloud to herself,--" he broke off and looked at me with fierce reproach. "i telegraphed for ye then, sor." "and i came at once. then this letter,--she brought you this yesterday?" "that was it. an' if you hadn't come by this train, sor, i would have opened it meself." he looked at me defiantly. "she says here--at least, i think she means to say, that she is going to be married,--and in mad foolishness. wait till i see what i can learn by telephone." i got mr. ellison's house first. mrs. crosswell, who answered, was sure that miss benbow was not at home, but did not have any idea where she was. did not know whether she had taken anything with her when she left the house or not. i then called up mrs. whyte, explained that a letter from jean suggested a possible elopement, and begged her to go over and see if she could find out where jean went, when she left the house, and whether she had taken any things that would indicate a contemplated permanent departure. i then took my head in my hands and thought, holding down the terror that surged up every other moment and almost made thinking impossible. "if you hear that i am married," she had said. was it garney? never mind. garney or anyone else, people could not be married without certain preliminaries, without leaving certain records. there must have been a license. i took barney with me in the cab, and we whirled up to the court house. "have you any record of issuing a marriage license for jean benbow within the last few days?" i demanded of the clerk. why has the lord made so many stupid people? my question had to be handed on from one clerk to another and record after record after record examined,--and here every wasted minute was wearing away this "day," this critical day, over which jean had wished her secret to be kept. i held my watch in my hand while they searched. at last they found it. "looks like jack put this memorandum where it wouldn't be found too easy," the successful searcher said significantly to his fuming superior. it was quite possible,--for the memorandum showed the issue of a license for the marriage of allen king garney and jean benbow, and it was dated the day before. she had stipulated with barney that i should not receive her letter till after to-day, which meant that this was _the_ day. and here it was drawing toward five o'clock. then, out of the intense anxiety which fused all thought and feeling into one passionate will to save her, came the inspiration. she had said, on that drive when i took her and old william jordan out into the country, that if ever she were married it would be _there_, in the vine-covered church of the old suburb where her mother had stood a bride. the recollection was almost like a voice,--"don't you remember?" i did,--oh, i did! every word, every look. my hand was shaking as i turned the pages of the city directory, trying to identify the church which i knew only by its location, and to discover the name of its minister. then i turned again to the telephone. there was no connection with the church, but i succeeded at last in getting the minister's house. "no, mr. arnold is not at home," a gentle feminine voice answered. "he has gone to the church to perform a marriage ceremony." "can you catch him?--stop him? is it too late?" i cried desperately over the wire. "oh, the wedding was at four o'clock," the shocked voice answered. "oh, is there anything wrong? i am sure henry didn't know,--we thought it so romantic, a secret wedding,--" i hung up the receiver regardless of her emotions and went back to my cab on the run, while the listening office force enjoyed the sensation. "go to the little church at the corner of olympia and hazel streets," i said to the chauffeur, "and get there as soon as you can without being arrested. _get_ there." then i told barney what i had discovered. there was no reasonable ground for supposing that i would be in time to prevent disaster, yet i must go on, even against reason. and surely providence would interfere to save her! i could so easily understand how she had been misled. garney had made her believe that he could help gene. perhaps he had suggested that i was not giving the case proper attention. he had offered some impossible assistance if she would marry him, and she, with her romantic, schoolgirlish, unreal ideas of the way things were done in the world, had consented all the more readily because it involved a sacrifice on her part. the cab swung up to the curb, i jumped up the church steps, and pushed my way through the swinging baize doors. the room was dim, but i could see a group of three before the altar,--garney, yes; and the minister; and jean. they turned to look as i stormed down the aisle, and moved slightly apart. i caught jean's hands in mine and looked into her eyes. "jean! are you married?" a mist of tears dimmed the brightness of her eyes. "oh, i'm _glad_ you've come," she said, quiveringly. still holding her hands i turned to the minister. "have you married these two, sir?" "not yet. the young lady appears to have been detained,--" "i took the wrong car! i was just explaining,--" for a moment the room swam before my eyes. i was in time! "it was just an accident," jean was saying. "then when i found i was wrong, i came back as soon as possible and--now i am ready!" "ready!" i crushed her hands until she drew them away with a little gasp. i turned impatiently to garney, who stood motionless, white-faced, watching her. of course he knew the game was up, but he did not move. "go!" i said. "i'll settle with you later." i don't know whether he heard me. his eyes were fixed upon jean with mingled anger, longing, and despair. "you waited till he should come! you left word for him to follow you!" he said pantingly. "in spite of your promises, you never meant to keep your word. you do not care about your brother. you thought you could trick me--" "oh, no, no!" she cried, breaking from me and going to him with hands extended. "i am here! i am ready. i will marry you now,--" "jean!" i cried. "you don't understand," she said, turning breathlessly to me. "he is going to help us save gene. he knows something,--he said he would tell me if we were married,--" "nonsense. it was a trick. if mr. garney has any information that will benefit your brother,--" "he might hand it over to you, i suppose!" garney said with a sneer. "very well, i will. investigate that ex-convict that you keep in your office. you may find something that will be of interest. but if you hadn't come--" he moistened his dry lips, then turned abruptly and walked up the aisle. i saw that he tried to hurry, but he walked unsteadily and steadied himself by the pews. i once saw a gambler who had staked everything on a desperate game, and lost, stagger like that from the room. "what did he mean about an ex-convict?" jean asked in a shocked voice. "not mr. fellows? and what would he have to do with it?" "nothing," i said promptly, putting certain uncomfortable recollections out of my mind. "don't you see that mr. garney was merely deceiving you? he had nothing to tell, no help to give you. he merely wanted to marry you. jean, jean! how could you do so mad a thing?" "for gene!" she said reproachfully. "why, i'd do anything. and mr. garney said he surely would tell me when we were married, and if i cared for gene i would do it. he wouldn't tell me beforehand, because he--he doesn't like you!" she dropped her eyes in delicious confusion. "you see, he is--_jealous_ of you! he didn't want me to wear this!" she touched the locket she wore on a chain about her neck,--the locket i had given her just before leaving saintsbury. "how did he know i had given you the locket?" i asked. "i don't know. he just guessed." she looked shy and conscious--and charming. but something puzzled me. "you didn't tell him? you are sure of that?" "why, yes," she said, looking surprised. "i never told anybody. not anybody at all. it was a kind of a--secret." how do ideas come to us? i thought i was wholly absorbed in jean, and was conscious merely of a desire to soothe and calm her by taking things naturally, but now something seemed to nudge my attention and to urge, "don't you see what that means? don't you see? don't you see?" i did see--in a flash. that locket! it had not been out of my locked desk until i gave it to jean, except once,--the night of barker's murder. i had taken it to mrs. whyte's that evening, and had shown the portrait to miss thurston for a minute. i was sure she had not even seen the outside of the case, which was out of my hand but a moment. but later that evening, while i sat in barker's office waiting, i had taken the locket from my pocket and had sat under the gaslight examining it--in full view of the concealed murderer who had watched me from the dark inner room, and who, a few minutes later, shot barker from that same concealment. the whole thing flashed before my mind. "wait here," i said, and dashed for the door by which garney had left. he was a block away, evidently waiting for a street car which i could see approaching. "take me down to that car," i said to the chauffeur, and we were off at the word. barney was still in the cab. "you go back with the cab, barney, and take miss benbow home. i must see garney before he gets away." we reached the street just as the car, which had halted to take on garney, started up again. i sprang from the step of the cab to the rear platform of the car. garney turned and looked at me with surprise that changed quickly to anger. "are you following me?" he demanded under his breath. "i told you we should have to have a settlement." "settle what? you've won," he said, with a shrug. he went inside, while i remained on the platform, thinking out a plan of action. when the conductor came for my fare i said a few words to him. he looked amazed. "when we pass a policeman, slow up a bit," i continued. "if the man tries to get off before we pick up an officer, help me stop him. that's all." we swung around a corner, saw a policeman standing outside the curb,--and the car stopped without signal. i jumped off and explained the situation to him in a word. he at once boarded the waiting car with me and approached the unconscious garney. "you're wanted," he said quietly. garney rose, furious but also frightened. he looked at me. "what damn foolishness is this?" he said, trying to bluster. "i haven't time for any nonsense. i have to catch a train. i'm going away." "come on, and don't make a disturbance," the officer said. "but i tell you it is a mistake. you'll suffer for it. it is not a criminal offense to try to get married." "perhaps not," i said, taking the word from the police officer without warrant. "you are under arrest because i charge you with the murder of alfred barker." i never saw a man faint before. he crumpled up like a collapsed balloon. we lifted him to the sidewalk so that the car could go on, and the patrolman called up the wagon. but before garney came back to consciousness, i had lifted the moustached lip that masked his narrow jaw. the crowded teeth were pushed out on each side to form a v, exactly like the model made from the apple bitten in barker's office. chapter xix cards on the table the crowd dispersed as the patrol wagon took garney and the officer away, but one man lingered and fell into step with me as i turned away. it was mr. ellison. i had not noticed him in the crowd. "what's all this?" he asked, twisting his head to look up at me, bird-fashion. "walk with me, and i'll tell you," i said. "i am going down to see benbow." and as we walked i told him of the surprising developments of the last few hours,--that garney, the latin tutor, and gene's friend, was the man with crooked teeth who had been eating apples in barker's inner office while waiting for his victim, who had observed and recognized my locket; and that garney was diavolo the hypnotist who had threatened to kill his partner, barker, if his identity were disclosed. (i may say here, to anticipate events which befell later, that this identity was absolutely established by dr. shaw, the dentist who had extracted a tooth for diavolo,--the first case in the law reports, i believe, where identity was established by the teeth. by that time every link was so clear that garney's confession was hardly needed,--though he did break down in the end and make a plea of "guilty.") ellison listened with his peculiar interest,--an interest in events rather than in persons, and in ideas more than either. at the end he nodded his alert head rapidly. "yes, i knew garney had practised hypnotism but i thought it was years ago. barker told me, in strict confidence." "barker!" he nodded. "yes. i didn't say anything about it, because people seemed to think it wasn't good form for me to have any civil relations with the man who had killed my second cousin, but as a matter of fact, i knew him fairly well. gene would turn white at the mention of his name, so i didn't mention it. that check for $ --you remember?" "yes." "well, that was to pay for a course of lessons in hypnotism. he promised to get me a practical teacher who had been a public performer,--garney, in fact. he hadn't made the arrangements yet, but he was confident that he could bring it about. and i was eager to have the opportunity to investigate the matter, scientifically, you understand. if he could teach me how to do it, i would understand the thing,--the rationale of it, i mean. but it was strictly confidential, because of garney's position in the university." "did he know you knew?" "no. barker was killed before he could arrange it. i went to his room the next day, to see if i could by chance recover that check, which hadn't been presented at the bank, but his dragon landlady gave me no chance,--and then you told me that you saw it in his pocket the next day. so i let things take their own course." "somebody did break into his rooms that night," i said. "that has never been cleared up." "garney!" said ellison, shrewdly. "he has in his possession certain books which i know barker had in his room the day before. he undoubtedly removed them, with any papers or other matters that might have connected him with barker or revealed his practices." "how do you know he has them?" i asked, amazed. "oh, i have made a point of seeing a good deal of garney lately. you see, i am interested in the occult, scientifically. and since barker couldn't act as go-between, i have been cultivating garney on my own account." "yes, and given him a chance to work on miss benbow's feelings," i groaned. "why, it never occurred to me that he was interested in her," he said blandly. "that was too obvious to attract your attention, doubtless," i could not refrain from saying. "well, you have cleared up a good many points, mr. ellison, but i'd like to ask another question. did you send a thousand dollars to william jordan, and if so, why?" for the first time he looked embarrassed. "why yes," he said, nodding his head deliberately. "jean told me about him and his loss. it struck me that it was an unnecessary piece of hard luck that he should suffer as an individual for an advancement of knowledge which will benefit the race. he didn't care anything about hypnotism scientifically. i did. i had fostered its development, so far as lay within my power. so, in a manner, i was responsible for his loss. not immediately, of course, and yet not so remotely, either, since i was encouraging barker. at any rate, i felt that i should be more comfortable if i made it up to the old farmer. when hypnotism is no longer a mystery but an understood science, such things won't happen!" he beamed with enthusiasm, and i saw that i had never understood the man. he was an idealist. "i hope they won't," i said doubtfully. "but hypnotism seems to me devil's work, both for the hypnotizer and the victim. think of jordan, and look at garney. aside from his crimes, the man is somehow abnormal. he has the look of a haunted man. he faints like a woman when he is discovered. no, no hypnotism for me, thank you. but in any event, your action in reimbursing poor old jordan does you credit." he waved that aside. "what i should like to know," he said, changing the subject, "is how gene became involved in this affair. if garney shot barker, why did gene say he did? he isn't as fond of garney as all that. you don't suppose--" he stopped suddenly and looked at me hard. "you don't suppose that garney hypnotized him, _and sent him to shoot barker?_ that would be neat! damnable, of course, but damnably neat!" "i don't know," i said slowly. i had been afraid to face that idea myself. "i am going to see him now. perhaps, with the news of garney's arrest for a lever, i may get the truth from him. if you don't mind, i want to see him alone." "all right. i'll leave you here." but as he turned away, fellows came up from behind and fell into step with me. i think he had been watching for the chance. "royce's story is all right, mr. hilton," he said. "the cars _were_ tied up on the park line the night that barker was shot. and i have seen the conductor. he knows royce, who is a fireman at engine house no. , and he remembers seeing him on the stalled car, with a girl." "a good alibi, but he won't need to prove it now," i said. "we have found barker's murderer. it is a man named allen garney." "oh, ho!" fellows exclaimed, in obvious surprise. "do you know him?" i asked, recalling the damaging charge which garney had made against fellows. "i know who he is, and i know that there was something between him and barker in the old days,--on the quiet. garney didn't care to be seen with him, but in a way they were pals. in fact, i went to see him the other day to make some inquiries about barker's past. he was rather rude in getting rid of me." "you frightened him. he didn't want to be identified as having any connection with barker. i see. that's why he used your name as a scapegoat to turn my attention from himself. he suggested that you might have shot barker yourself, fellows!" "did he?" said fellows, grimly. "well, if i had, it would only have been the execution of justice. barker was a murderer." "you mean in killing senator benbow?" "more than that. do you remember the story that the samovar printed about mr. clyde?" "well, rather!" "it brought to my mind a story that barker once told me. when i was a fresh kid from the country and he was teaching me the ways of the world and of the race-track, he told me that he had once stabbed a man in a texas hotel for cheating at cards. he said that he and three other men were playing in the room of one of them, and that was the one that was killed. he told me that another man was arrested, tried and convicted, while he sat in the court room and watched the proceedings." "what a monster!" "he told the story merely to point out that every man had to take his chances,--good luck or bad,--just as it came. he was a great believer in luck. it was his luck to escape and the other man's luck to be convicted by mistake. but he said that the man escaped and was not hung. the clyde story was so much like barker's story that i wondered whether it might not be the same, and i went to garney to ask if he knew whether barker was the man who killed henley. he would not admit knowing anything, but he let slip a word in his first anger that he could not take back. it _was_ barker." "the villain! and he claimed to be merely a spectator in the court room, and that that was how he came to recognize clyde! he probably studied his face pretty carefully during the days when he was watching clyde in the dock where he knew he should have been himself! i don't wonder he recognized him. what a man!" "i wonder if we can prove it," exclaimed fellows. "we have just discovered an old letter which will completely establish an alibi for clyde,--i'll tell you the details later. but whether we can get your story before the court or not, it is undoubtedly the inner truth of the matter and it rounds out the story of barker's villainy very completely. and he met the treachery he dealt out to others. he was slain by the hand of the false friend he trusted and whom he probably had never wronged." "but if garney killed him, what about benbow?" "i am going to see him now, and see if i can find out what it is that he is concealing. i'm glad i don't have to swear out a warrant against you, fellows!" fellows smiled quite humanly as he turned away. i found benbow thinner, more nervous, and less self-possessed than i had ever seen him before. i was glad to see these signs of disintegration in his baffling reserve. "i have had a strenuous afternoon," i said, as we shook hands. "since four o'clock i have discovered barker's widow, spoiled an elopement, and had your latin tutor, garney, arrested." he looked surprised, naturally, but nothing more. "what for?" he asked. "for complicity in a murder," i said, watching him closely. "oh, impossible!" he exclaimed. "not mr. garney!" his natural manner, his genuine look of surprise and inquiry, were disconcerting. i saw i must work my way carefully. "did you know that mr. garney had hypnotic powers?" i asked. ah, there my probe went home! his tell-tale face flushed and his eyes evaded mine. "i can tell you nothing about that," he said, with dignified reserve. "perhaps i may be able to tell you something that will be news to you, even though you knew of his practices. he is known on the vaudeville stage as diavolo, and he has toured, giving exhibitions in hypnotism." "i didn't know that," he said,--and i could not doubt his sincerity. "it must have been a long time ago." "no longer ago than last summer. he kept his own name from the public. but i infer that you did know something of his practices in private?" "yes," he said, hesitatingly. "did you ever allow him to hypnotize you?" i asked abruptly. he was obviously discomposed, but he tried to cover his embarrassment by assuming an air of careless frankness. "oh, yes. i believe i was a good subject. mr. garney was trying to develop my mental powers by hypnotism. he told me some remarkable accounts of idiots who had been mentally stimulated by hypnotic suggestion to do creditable work in their classes." "was that the direction in which his suggestions were made?" i asked, as casually as possible. i must try to get from him, without disturbing his sensibilities, as clear an account as he could give me, or would give me, of his peculiar relations with garney. "oh, yes. it was just to help me with my latin. and it did help," he added, defensively. i could see that he was not entirely at ease over the admission. "how often did you put yourself under his influence?" "oh, i don't remember. half a dozen times, perhaps." "did you remember afterwards what he had said or done to you while you were hypnotized?" "not a thing! i just went to sleep, and woke up. it isn't different from any other kind of sleep," he explained, with a youthful air of wisdom, "only that a part of you stays awake inside and takes lessons from your teacher while you don't know it." "so i understand," i said gently. his assumption of superior knowledge touched me. "was it hard to go to sleep?" "the first time it wasn't easy. something inside of my brain seemed to snap awake just as i was going off,--over and over again. but at last i went off. after that it was easier each time. once he hypnotized me in class and i found i had been making a brilliant recitation, though i didn't remember anything about it myself. and once he hypnotized me while i was asleep, and i never knew it at all until he told me afterwards and showed me some things i had written while asleep." "did mr. garney ever speak to you of alfred barker?" "no." his manner froze, as it always did at any mention of barker. "you did not know, then, that there was enmity between the two men?" "no. i didn't know that mr. garney knew--_him_--at all." he swerved from pronouncing the name. "yes, barker had acted as his business manager in the vaudeville business, and they had quarreled. now tell me something else. did garney hypnotize you the day that you hunted up barker to shoot him?" "no." a look of dawning uneasiness and indignation crossed his face. "did you see him that evening at all?" "no," he said, with obvious relief. "now will you tell me again just what happened that evening,--the order of the events?" (my object really was to see whether he would change his story. i had no need to refresh my own memory, as his former account was entirely clear in my mind.) "beginning with the banquet?" he asked. "yes, begin there." "well, everything went smoothly until jim gregory mentioned seeing barker on the street. that spoiled the evening for me. i got away as soon as i could." "alone?" "yes." "just where did you go?--what streets?" "oh, i don't know. i didn't notice. i went home and threw myself down on the couch in the library and read cicero to get my mind quiet. things were whirling so in my brain!" this was new! evidently his memory was clearer than when he made his first statement to me. "do you remember what you were reading?" i asked, to pin his recollection definitely. "yes, it was de senectute,--an english version mr. garney had lent me." i stopped to think. that was the book young chapman had had in his hand the day i hunted him up,--the day after the murder. "are you certain it was that book and no other you read?" i asked. i felt that i had a thread in my fingers,--a filmy thread that might break if i did not work carefully. "quite sure. i picked it up at first just to read anything, because it was lying there. mr. garney had left it that afternoon. and then i became interested in it. it was quieting. it made me feel that after all life is short and what was the use of cherishing ill-will and bitterness towards--well, even a rascal like barker. it would all be over so soon." "and with that thought in your mind, you went off and shot him, did you?" i asked with a smile. he looked perplexed, and did not answer. "you didn't have another copy of de senectute about? i want to be sure." "i am sure. mr. garney left it with me that afternoon and asked me to pass it on to chapman when i had looked it over." "and you did?" "no. i--i haven't been back to the house, you know, since--since that morning." "but chapman had it the next day. he said mr. garney had given it to him." gene looked puzzled and thoughtful. "i don't see--" "as i understand it, the servants were away that evening. mr. garney could not have come in unless you yourself admitted him, could he?" "oh, for that matter, he had my latchkey for the side door,--directly into the library. he used to drop in--" he hesitated, and his momentary embarrassment gave me the clue. "when he came to try his hypnotic stunts?" i asked lightly. "yes," gene nodded, looking relieved at my manner. "but he didn't come that evening?" "no. i dropped asleep. i slept awfully hard. when i woke up the gas was on full blaze." he caught himself up and looked startled. "it was morning, then?" i said, quickly. "yes," he said slowly, evidently trying to puzzle something out. "i must have gone to sleep--again." "but you don't remember that, do you?" i asked. "you think you must have,--but do you _remember_ it, as you do the first?" the perspiration sprang out on his white forehead. "i remembered when i woke up that i had killed barker in the night." "you remember that you thought in the morning that you had killed barker in the night," i said sharply, "but do you remember killing him? do you remember, as a matter of fact, going to his office? tell me something you saw or did, to prove that you actually remember the events of the night." his face was pitiable. "i can't! i remember going to sleep over the de senectute and i remember waking up in the morning with the gas burning in the sunshine,--and i know, of course, that i went out in the night and killed barker,--_but i can't remember it!_ do you suppose i am losing my mind?" "i think you are just recovering possession of it," i said, unsteadily. "by the way, i told you a few minutes ago that garney had been arrested for complicity in a murder. you don't ask whose." "whose?" he demanded, startled. "alfred barker's." "i don't understand--at all," he faltered. "garney was in barker's inner office the night barker was shot. if you were there, you saw him." he shook his head. "i did not see him." "did you see me?" "where?" "in barker's outer office." "no." "yet i was there. i was the strange man who came in and waited. do you remember you told me you saw a stranger come in?" "i--remember that i told you." "but you don't remember what the man looked like? you didn't recognize me as the man?" he put his hands up suddenly and clutched his head. "do you think i was out of my head that night? was i--was i--under his influence? do you mean that i was hypnotized when i shot barker?" "that is what i have thought possible, but i have changed my mind on that point. benbow, i don't believe that you were out of your room that night after you returned from the frat supper." he was shaking so that he could not speak, but i saw the piteous questioning of his eyes. "i'll tell you briefly the points that have made the matter at last clear, in spite of yourself," i said, reassuringly. "tell me this, first,--when you came into the house that evening, after you left the boys at the banquet, was the house lit up or dark?" "dark. i lit the gas in the library. i did not go into the rest of the house." "exactly. well, i saw the gas lit in the library that evening, and it was just a few minutes before ten. i had supposed that your sister and at least one servant were in the house, but i have learned they were not. therefore, when i saw the light flare up just before ten in the library, you were there." "yes," he said, trying to follow. "you threw yourself down on the couch and read cicero from a book which the next day was in the hands of chapman. you don't know how long you were reading, but you were sound asleep on that couch at three o'clock the next morning, for your sister came in and saw you." "jean?" he murmured, perplexedly. "yes, jean. never mind the details. now it is not humanly possible that after reading yourself quiet at ten you could have reached barker's office by foot before i reached there in a taxicab so as to secrete yourself in the inner room before i came. neither is it humanly possible that after shooting him at eleven, you could have fled for your life down the fire-escape, skulked through the streets, and then come home and gone composedly to sleep by three, only to wake at six and remember for the first time that a gentleman who has had the misfortune to shoot a man is in honor bound to give himself up to the law." he drew his hand over his eyes in a dazed fashion. i went on. "minnie, the maid, and her escort, came home at three that night and saw a man leaving the house by the library door. she took for granted that it was you. but your sister came into the room a few minutes later and saw you asleep on the couch. the man who left the house was not you." "who was it?" he asked, very low. "it was the man who had your latchkey to the library door. it was the man who picked up the de senectute which you had been reading and passed it on to chapman the next day. it was the man who knew how to hypnotize you in your sleep and make your brain believe what he wished it to believe. _it was the man who had just shot barker from his inner office and who impressed upon your dormant brain the scene he had just been through and made you believe you had acted his part in it_. it was allen garney." benbow looked too paralyzed to really understand the situation. that didn't matter. all the missing pieces of the puzzle were now in my hands and i saw that i could prove my case and clear gene in spite of his false confession and his traitorous memory. i thought of jean! it was another and the most convincing indication of garney's abnormality that he should have desired to wed the sister of his victim. that was strangely revolting. but his passion had carried him beyond his judgment. "the chances are that hypnotizing you was not a part of his original plan," i said thoughtfully, going over the links in my own mind. "he shot barker because barker knew too much about his past, and was not to be trusted to keep it a secret. and his suspicion was justified. barker had already given his secret away to mr. ellison. whether he knew that instance of bad faith or not, he evidently felt that there was no real safety for him until barker was dead. so he laid a careful plan to kill him, and carried it out. but an unsolved murder mystery never ceases to be a menace to the murderer. the police would make investigations, and his past connection with barker might possibly come out. the fact that he searched barker's rooms the next night shows that he was not easy on that point, even then. there might have been papers in barker's possession which would turn inquiry upon him. so,--you offered him the opportunity of making him secure." "i? how?" "he saw the light burning in your study. he came in,--perhaps to establish an alibi, perhaps merely to get away from himself. he found you asleep,--a condition in which he had already hypnotized you. he saw his opportunity. by making you believe that you had shot barker, by making you confess, he would forever turn the possibility of inquiry from himself. there would be no mystery to provoke backward inquiries along the past. and, if i may say so, you had made it easier for him to fix that idea in your mind because, as a matter of fact, you had harbored ideas of vengeance against barker. the thought of killing him was not wholly alien to you. you had prepared the way for the impression garney wanted you to have,--and he knew that fact. you had revealed that side of your mind to him. he used the bitterness which was already there as the foundation for the idea of revenge. therefore, when you awoke, and came back to your senses, the idea that you had shot barker did not strike you as an impossibility. you remembered it dimly, but there was no intrinsic impossibility in it. do you see that?" "yes," he said, in a low voice. "i never could understand why some points were so clear and positive in my mind, and yet i could not remember the connecting links. it was like remembering spots in a dream." "those spots were the points garney had emphasized to you, undoubtedly. he took you with him, mentally, step by step, but things he failed to touch upon would be blank in your mind. how about your revolver, gene? did he know where you kept it?" "yes. i showed it to him that afternoon." "then undoubtedly he took it away when he left. and he remembered to impress upon you the thought that you had thrown it away. he was careful,--yet he betrayed himself unconsciously. those apples which he ate without thought were a stronger witness against him than his careful tissue of lies. but it's all right now. take my word for it. it was the cleverest scheme a criminal brain ever worked out, but the righteousness on which the world is built would not permit it to triumph. as soon as we can get the matter before the court, you will be free." "mr. hilton, there is a telephone call for you at the office," interrupted an attendant. i shook hands with gene and went to the office, where i found the receiver down, waiting for me. i hardly recognized katherine thurston's voice at first. "is that you, mr. hilton? oh, thank goodness i have found you! jean has gone away. i'm terribly worried--" "what makes you think she is gone? didn't barney bring her home in a cab an hour ago? i told him to." "he did. i was waiting at mr. ellison's for news when she came. she told me everything,--the poor child had been terribly imposed on. that man made her believe that he could clear gene,--" "so he could have done, if he had wanted to!" "well, that is what she believed, and so she consented to marry him. but of course she was dreadfully worked up over it all, and when she came home with barney and told me about your coming and saving her at the last moment, she was so excited that she was hardly coherent. so i made her lie down and try to rest, and i left her in her room. just now i went back to see her, and she was gone. minnie says she went away, with a handbag, immediately after i left, and said that she was not coming back. when i remember the nervous and excited state she was in, i am dreadfully worried." "how long ago did she leave the house, according to minnie?" "nearly an hour ago. do you think she could possibly have gone to that man?" "not at all," i said promptly. "he is in custody." "but he might have some agents--" "i think not. and jean is a wise child in her own way. the chances are that she is safe somewhere. but i'll let the police know, and i'll go down to the railway station myself. i'll call you up from time to time to see if you have any news." i reported the matter to police headquarters, and while i could see that they were not greatly impressed with the urgency of discovering a young woman of twenty who had been lost sight of for less than an hour, i confess that i felt more apprehensive than i had admitted to miss thurston. you see, jean wasn't a reasonable young woman. she was--jean. chapter xx the ultimate discovery jean had so few acquaintances in saintsbury that there was little chance of finding her off on a visit. i went to the railway station and tried to discover whether anyone there had seen her or sold a ticket to dunstan, but i found nothing. i believe it was superstition more than anything else that sent me finally to barney. he was at his stand, selling papers as calmly as though this chaotic day were like any other. "barney, miss benbow is lost," i said, without preliminary. "she has left mr. ellison's house, and told the maid she was not coming back. i have been to the station to inquire. for heaven's sake, suggest something that i can do." barney listened sympathetically, but without any manifestation of concern. "gone, has she? and not coming back! and i'll warrant you haven't had a chance to talk to her since i got her home from the church." "of course i haven't. i've been at the jail. barney, we've arrested garney, and he is the man that killed barker, and benbow will be cleared. but i am not going to talk about anything until i find that girl. so don't ask questions. tell me something to do." barney's eyes grew round as saucers, but he was an old soldier. he knew when to obey. but he would do it in his own way. "i'm thinking, mr. hilton, that if ye mind your own affairs, ye'll best be mindin' hers." "is that impertinence, barney?" "divil a bit, your honor, and you with a face on you that would scare a banshee into saying prayers!" "then, i am in no mood for guessing riddles." he gave me a glance that made me feel inexpressibly young. "i'm thinkin' i saw the young leddy go up yonder," he said, nodding toward the building where i had my office. "if she was goin' away forever, maybe she wanted to say good-bye!" could it be possible? i dashed across the street and up the stairs without waiting for the slow elevator. i opened the door,--and there lay a pathetic little heap on the daghestan rug on my floor. [illustration: _there lay a pathetic little heap on the daghestan rug on my floor_. page _ _.] it was a moment before i realized that the tired child was merely asleep. i had dropped down beside her and lifted her head upon my arm, when she opened her eyes with a start. then something wonderful and dazzling swam up from her unconscious eyes to meet my gaze,--and i knew in a bewildering flash that it was no child but a woman that i held in my arms. my heart went from me. i did not realize that i had kissed her. she lay quite still for a moment, but her white eyelids fell slowly to hide her eyes from mine. "thank heaven you are safe!" i murmured. "how could you frighten me so?" she withdrew herself gently from my arms and rose. her hat was on my desk, between the inkstand and the mucilage. she picked it up and proceeded to stab it to her head. "i must have fallen asleep," she murmured, keeping her downcast eyes from me. "i just came in to say good-bye, and i waited, and told mr. fellows he could leave the door unlocked, because i was sure you would come, and i was so tired,--" "good-bye indeed! where do you think you are going?" "i am going back to miss elwood's school," she said, with the gentle inflexibility i always enjoyed. "i seem to do nothing but get into trouble when i am away from there. i didn't tell anyone but minnie, because i didn't want to have to argue about it, but i thought i ought to say good-bye to you,--" "i am glad you remembered to be polite to me," i said, getting possession of her hands, "because i have a lot of things to tell you. that is,--if you will promise to marry me first!" "don't!" she said, breathlessly, drawing away. "you--forget!" "forget what?" "the other girl!" "there is no other girl,--never was and never will be," i protested. "what in the world do you mean, child?" she looked at me with troubled eyes. "katherine thurston said that you said there was--someone." "oh!" i gasped. that foolish, forgotten incident of the locket! i felt myself blushing,--at least i had that grace. "let me explain, dear. when mrs. whyte introduced me to miss thurston, i thought she would be more willing to be friends if she were assured that i was not going to bother her with any love-making. so, just to make things pleasant, i showed her a miniature which i had in my pocket and told her that it was a picture of the only woman in the world to me." "and wasn't that true?" she asked gravely. "it was,--but it isn't true now. darling, it was my mother's face,--the one i took out of this locket." i touched the jeweled trifle which lay upon her breast. "oh!" a look of terror came into her eyes, as though she drew back from an abyss. "oh, and i might have married that man!" "jean! did that have anything to do with it?" "why, i thought that, since i should never marry anyone else, it would be awfully selfish to refuse to save gene," she said simply. "and if you were going to marry some strange person, why,--it didn't matter. that's what i _thought_." "oh, jean, jean!" i cried, taking her into my arms. what was the use of talking common-sense to a creature like that? i gave it up, and talked her own tongue instead! but after awhile she looked up under her lashes. "was i foolish to believe mr. garney?" "of course you were, my darling. but perhaps it was a guided foolishness. jean, what you told me about his recognizing that locket gave me a clue to the man who shot barker. dear, it was not gene. it was mr. garney himself." "oh! can it be true?" "only too true." i told her some of the strange disconnected links which had at last been knit into a strong chain of evidence. "was that what he meant to tell me when we were married?" she asked, her eyes full of horror. "no, i do not believe he ever meant to tell you anything,--or at most some wild tale like that one about fellows,--which might have made trouble for us, too, if the real discovery had not come so soon. he merely wanted to get you to marry him, by hook or crook. he felt perfectly safe, i am sure. he thought he had the whole thing in his hands when he forced gene to believe and to confess what would forever close future investigation." "and gene will now go free?" "perfectly free,--free to dance at our wedding. don't forget that," i said. she laughed,--which was what i wanted. i could not let her break nervously under all this emotional strain. "then everything has turned out happily except for poor mr. clyde!" she said, clasping her hands hard together. "oh, my precious child, i quite forgot all about mr. clyde! he is just as happy as the rest of us. that letter of yours, you angel of all good tidings, is going to save him. it was from your father, you know, and it proves that mr. clyde was not in houston that fatal night. i had to leave him to come back to look after you, but that is going to be all straightened out in a very short time. all because of that letter, dearest girl! see how things have worked out!" she looked at me, breathless, bewildered, trying to understand all these marvels. then suddenly she burst into nervous tears. it was just as well. it relieved the emotional strain--and it gave me a chance to comfort her. it was some time before i remembered that miss thurston and mr. ellison and mrs. whyte and the police department were still uninformed that miss jean benbow need not be the object of further search. "you see!" i pointed out to her. "you put all the rest of the world out of my mind. now stand here and tell me what i shall say to mrs. whyte." and i took down the office telephone. "tell her that since i have lost my train, i'll come back for awhile," she said demurely. "is that your only reason for staying, young lady?" "isn't that enough?" "there are other trains!" "but i have lost the one i wanted!" "what have you found instead?" she would not answer. "what have you found?" i insisted, drawing her to me. but what my story-book girl told me i shall not repeat. the end. a young man's year by the same author the god in the car a change of air a man of mark the chronicles of count antonio phroso simon dale the king's mirror quisantÉ the dolly dialogues a servant of the public tales of two people the great miss driver mrs. maxon protests a young man's year by anthony hope methuen & co. ltd. essex street w. c. london _first published in _ contents chapter page i. of the middle temple, esquire ii. miss sarradet's circle iii. in touch with the law iv. a grateful friend v. the tender diplomatist vi. a timely discovery vii. all of a flutter viii. nothing venture, nothing have! ix. a complication x. the hero of the evening xi. household politics xii. lunch at the lancaster xiii. settled xiv. the battle with mr. tiddes xv. the man for a crisis xvi. a shadow on the house xvii. for no particular reason! xviii. going to rain! xix. the last entrenchment xx. a prudent counsellor xxi. idol and devotee xxii. pressing business xxiii. facing the situation xxiv. "did you say mrs.?" xxv. the old days end xxvi. rather romantic! xxvii. in the hands of the gods xxviii. taking medicine xxix. tears and a smile xxx. a variety show xxxi. start and finish xxxii. wisdom confounded xxxiii. a new vision xxxiv. the lines of life xxxv. hilsey and its fugitive xxxvi. in the spring a young man's year a young man's year chapter i of the middle temple, esquire it was a dark, dank, drizzly morning in march. a dull mist filled all the air, and the rain drifted in a thin sheet across the garden of the middle temple. everything looked a dull drab. certainly it was a beastly morning. moreover--to add to its offences--it was monday morning. arthur lisle had always hated monday mornings; through childhood, school, and university they had been his inveterate enemies--with their narrow rigorous insistence on a return to work, with the end they put to freedom, to leisure, to excursions in the body or in the spirit. and they were worse now, since the work was worse, in that it was not real work at all; it was only waiting for work, or at best a tedious and weary preparation for work which did not come and (for all that he could see) never would come. there was no reason why it ever should. even genius might starve unnoticed at the bar, and he was no genius. even interest might fail to help a man, and interest he had none. standing with his hands in the pockets, listlessly staring out of the window of his cell of a room, unable to make up his mind how to employ himself, he actually cursed his means of subsistence--the hundred and fifty pounds a year which had led him into the fatal ambition of being called to the bar. "but for that it would have been impossible for me to be such an ass," he reflected gloomily, as he pushed back his thick reddish-brown hair from his forehead and puckered the thin sensitive lines of his mouth into a childish pout. henry the clerk (of whom mr. arthur lisle owned an undivided fourth share) came into the room, carrying a bundle of papers tied with red tape. turning round on the opening of the door, arthur suddenly fell prey to an emotion of extraordinary strength and complexity; amazement, joy, excitement, fear, all in their highest expression, struggled for mastery over him. had he got a brief? "mr. norton ward says, will you be kind enough to protect him in court iii, in case he's on in the court of appeal? it's a very simple matter, he says; it's the divisional court, sir, third in the list." henry put the papers on the table and went out, quite disregardful of the storm of emotion which he had aroused. though keenly interested in the fortunes of his employers, he did not study their temperaments. it had happened, the thing that arthur knew he ought always to hope for, the thing that in fact he had always dreaded. he had not got a brief; he had to "hold" one--to hold one for somebody else, and that at short notice--"unhouseled, disappointed, unanealed!" that is to say, with no time to make ready for the fearful ordeal. it was nearly ten o'clock, at half-past he must be in court; at any moment after that the case might come on, its two predecessors having crumpled up, as cases constantly did in the divisional court. the fell terrors of nervousness beset him, so that he was almost sick. he dashed at the brief fiercely, but his fingers trembled so that he could hardly untie the tape. still, he managed a hurried run through the papers and got the point into his head. lance and pretyman, jj. took their seats punctually at ten-thirty. arthur lisle, who felt much interest in judges as human beings and would often spend his time in court studying them rather than the law they administered, was glad to see lance there, but feared pretyman to the bottom of his heart. lance was a gentle man, of courtly manners and a tired urbanity, but pretyman was gruff, abrupt, terribly anxious about saving public time, and therefore always cutting into a man's argument with the stand-and-deliver of a question to which, in pretyman's opinion, there was no answer. it would be an awful thing if pretyman set on him like that! because then he might be incapable of speech, although he knew that he was in the right. and he believed that his case was good. "all the worse then, if you lose it!" said a mocking voice within him. henry had taken him over to the court and had done everything possible for him--had told the solicitor who had briefed norton ward how the matter stood and how very safe he would be in mr. lisle's hands if it came to that, had given his name to the usher so that the usher could, if necessary, give it to the bench, and had even introduced him to mr. o'sullivan, who was on the other side, a tall and burly irishman, famous for defending criminals, but not credited with knowing much law. as the first two cases proceeded, arthur read his brief again and again, and, when he was not doing that, he read the reported case which (in the opinion of the pupil who had got up norton ward's brief and had made a note of it for him) was decisive in his favour. all the while he was praying that the first two cases might last a long time. they did not. pretyman, j., smashed the pair of them in three-quarters of an hour. "brown and green" called the usher, and o'sullivan was on his legs--and there was no sign of norton ward. henry nodded to arthur and left the court; he was going to see how matters stood in the court of appeal. "this is an appeal from the west hampstead county court, my lords," began mr. o'sullivan, "which raises a question of some importance," and he went on in such a fashion that arthur hoped he was going to take a long time; for henry had come back, and, by a shake of his head, had indicated that there was no present hope of norton ward's arrival. mr. o'sullivan meant to take a decently long time; he wanted his client to feel that he was getting his money's worth of argument; therefore he avoided the main point and skirmished about a good deal. above all he avoided that case which norton ward's pupil had considered decisive. mr. o'sullivan knew all about the case too, and had it with him, but he was in no hurry to get to it yet. lance, j., was leaning back, the picture of polite acquiescence in a lot assigned to him by providence, a position wherein dignity was tempered by _ennui_. but pretyman, j., was getting restive; he was fingering his beard--he committed the solecism of wearing a beard on the bench; then he picked out a book from the shelf by him, and turned over the leaves quickly. mr. o'sullivan came, by a series of flourishes, a little nearer the point. and norton ward did not come; and arthur lisle felt no better. "what about watkins and chichester?" demanded pretyman, j., with a sudden violence that made arthur jump. "i have that case here, my lord, and----" "you don't seem in a hurry to cite it, mr. o'sullivan. it seems to me dead in your teeth." "let us hear the headnote, mr. o'sullivan," said lance, j., suavely. then they got to it, and pretyman, j., and mr. o'sullivan had a fine wrangle over it, worrying it up and down, one saying that this was that case, the other that this case was not that case, because in that case that happened and in this case this happened, and so forth. mr. o'sullivan "distinguished" valiantly, and pretyman knocked his distinctions into a cocked hat. lance, j., sat on smiling in silence, till at last he asked blandly: "if we think the cases indistinguishable, watkins and chichester binds us, i take it, mr. o'sullivan?" that mr. o'sullivan had to admit, and on that admission down he sat. the moment had come--and norton ward had not. with an actual physical effort arthur rose to his feet; a strange voice, which did not seem to belong to him, and sounded quite unfamiliar, said, "my lords----" he saw lance and pretyman, jj., in the shape of a grotesque, monstrous, two-headed giant; for the latter was leaning over to the former, who sat listening and twice nodded his head. a slip of paper was handed up to lance, j. he glanced at it and from it to arthur. again that strange voice said, "my lords----" but lance, j., interposed suavely, "i don't think we need trouble you, mr. lisle," and he proceeded to say that not even mr. o'sullivan's ingenious arguments could enable his brother or himself to distinguish brown and green from watkins and chichester, and therefore the appeal must be dismissed with costs. "i concur," said pretyman, j., with contemptuous curtness; in fact he did not say "i" at all; he merely grunted out "concur." of course such a thing happened often, and was quite likely to happen; very probably norton ward, after glancing over his pupil's note and at _watkins v. chichester_, had seen that it might happen here and had the less scruple about entrusting his case to hands so inexperienced. none the less, arthur lisle felt that the gods had played a cruel game with him. all that agony of apprehension, all that tension of desperate coward's courage, endured for nothing and gone for nothing! all to be endured and achieved again--how soon? he got out of court he hardly knew how, and made his way hurriedly across the strand. he would have that wig and gown off, or somebody else would be tapping him on the shoulder, arresting him with the stern command to hold another brief! now, back in chambers, with the strain over, he was furious with himself, savage and furious; that mood follows hard on the paroxysms of the malady. he began to attribute to it all the failures of his past life--quite unjustly, for in most cases, though it had tortured him, he had overcome the outward manifestation of it. he could not see his life as liveable if it were to meet him at every turn. what made him a prey to it? self-consciousness, silly self-consciousness, his wise elders had always told him. but what made people self-conscious? self-conceit, the same wise mentors had added. his soul rose in a plain and sincere protest, certain of its truth: "but i'm not conceited." "yes, but" (he imagined the mentors' argument now) "you really are; you think everybody's looking at you and thinking of you." "well, but so they are when i'm on my legs speaking; and beforehand i know they're going to be." the mentors did not seem to have anything to say to that. in the afternoon norton ward came into his room to thank him for holding the brief; he was a man of punctilious courtesy, as indeed he was master of most of the arts and gifts that make for success in life. at little more than thirty he had already a fine practice; he was on the edge of "taking silk"; he had married well--the daughter of a peer, with a substantial portion; he was a "prospective" candidate for parliament. a favourite of nature and of fortune indeed! moreover he was a kindly man, although a ruthlessly ambitious one. he and arthur had become acquainted merely through the accident of arthur's renting the spare room in his chambers, when he had been called to the bar a twelve-month before; but the landlord had taken to his tenant and would gladly have done him a turn. "i thought the case quite plain," he said; "but i'm sorry you were done out of your argument." "i wasn't sorry," arthur confessed, with a frankness habitual to him. "you weren't? oh, i see! nervous!" he laughed gently. "beyond belief. did you used to be?" "just at first. i soon got over it. but they say one oughtn't to get over it. oh, you've heard the stories about big men, haven't you? anyhow some men never do. why, i've sat behind huntley and seen his hand tremble like our old friend the aspen leaf--and that when he was attorney-general!" "lord!" was arthur's despairing comment; because a malady which did not spare an attorney-general must surely be unconquerable by lesser folk. "but i expect it's not quite the same sort," norton ward went on, smiling. "it's rather like falling in love, i expect. a man's excited every time he falls in love, but i don't think it's the same sort of excitement as he suffers when he falls in love for the first time--i mean badly." now the last word of this observation so struck arthur that he forgot all the earlier part of it--nay, he forgot his malady itself, together with the truth or falsity of the parallel norton ward suggested. "badly? what do you mean by falling in love badly?" "i'm not speaking with regard to morals, lisle. i mean severely, or utterly, or passionately, or, if you prefer, idiotically." arthur's lips puckered about his pipe-stem; it was a trick he had. "i think i should call that falling in love well, not badly," he observed gravely. it was the gravity of the speaker, not the import of the thing spoken, which made norton ward laugh again and heartily. his was one of those temperaments--sane, practical, concrete, equable--which regard the affairs of love as a very subsidiary matter in real life, in the real life of any individual, that is, for of course they possess a national and racial importance when reduced to statistics. he did not quarrel with the literary convention which exalted love to the highest place--the convention made good reading and produced exciting plays--but it did not answer to real life as he knew it, to the stern yet delightful fight which filled his days, and really filled his wife's too, since she was a partner wherever she could be, and an eager encourager in all things. but what of the great amorists who were also great men and women? well, how much of that too was play-acting--to the public and to themselves? that was the question his mind instinctively put about such cases. as he looked at arthur lisle's slight figure and sensitive face, he felt a compassion for him, a pitying doubt whether so frail a vessel could live in the rough sea on which it had embarked. characteristically this friendly impulse expressed itself in an invitation to dinner, which was received by arthur with surprise, delight, and gratitude. "of course i will, and it really is most awfully kind of you," he said. norton ward went off to a consultation with a smile of mingled pity and amusement still on his lips. his invitation to dinner really pleased arthur very much, not only as a sign of friendship, but for its own sake. he had found his early days in london lonely--in depressing contrast with the full social life of school and oxford. the glowing anticipations with which imagination had invested his coming to the metropolis had not stood the test of experience. for some young men family connections, or notable achievements and high reputation, provide a ready-made place in london. others possessed of ample means can make a pretty good one for themselves speedily. but arthur's university career, though creditable and to him delightful in the highest degree from its teeming fulness of interests, had not been conspicuous; he had no powerful friends, and he was very poor. after his chambers were paid for, and his share in henry, and his lodgings in bloomsbury street, there was left not much margin beyond the necessities of life--food, raiment, and tobacco. the theatre, even the pit, could not be indulged in often. he had many solitary evenings. when it was fine, he often walked the streets; when it was wet he read--and often stopped reading to wish that something would happen. his vague and restless longings took no form more definite than that--wanting something to happen. he was in london, he was young, he was ready--and nothing happened! consequently an invitation to dinner was a prize in the daily lottery of life. when he got back to his 'diggings' in the evening, he found a letter from home. his mother and sister had continued to live on in the old house at malvern wells after the death of his father, who had enjoyed a fairly good practice as a doctor there, but dying comparatively early had left a slender provision for his family. mrs. lisle preferred to be poor, since poor she had to be, in a place where she was already known and respected. the school too was a great attraction; there arthur had been educated as a day boy, and thence had proceeded to oxford with an exhibition, to which he added a second from his college, thus much easing the family finances, and indeed rendering oxford possible. there had been talk of his people's migrating to london and making a home for him there, but in fact none of the three had been zealous for the change. mrs. lisle was frail and clung to her accustomed hills and breezes; anna had her friends, her circle, her church work, her local importance; and arthur was at that time too full of those glowing anticipations of london life to press the project of a family villa somewhere in the suburbs and a season-ticket to take him out of town at the precise hour of the evening when town began to be amusing. for all that, he was an affectionate son and brother, and he smiled sympathetically over anna's home gossip. only the postscript made him frown rather peevishly. it ran: "mother wants to know whether you have called on the godfrey lisles _yet_!" mother wanted to know that in pretty nearly every one of her own and anna's letters; hence the italics which distinguished anna's "yet." and the answer still had to be in the negative. why should he call on the godfrey lisles? he knew his mother's answer; a thoroughly maternal answer it was. godfrey lisle, though only a distant cousin, was the head of the house, squire of hilsey manor, the old family place, and a man of considerable wealth--altogether, in fact, the personage of the family. most families have a personage, to them very important, though varying infinitely in significance or insignificance to the world outside. on the whole the lisle personage was above the average from the outside point of view, and mrs. lisle's anxiety that her son should pay him proper attention, and reap therefrom such advantage as might accrue, was no more than natural. but to arthur all the reasons why he ought to call on his cousin were reasons why he could not do it. just as, while mr. o'sullivan was arguing, his imagination was picturing what a young fool pretyman, j., would soon be thinking him, so here, whenever the question of this call arose, the same remorselessly active faculty rehearsed for him all the aspects in which he would appear to the godfrey lisles--a poor relation, a tiresome duty, a country cousin, a raw youth--oh, in fine and in the end, a bore of purest quality and great magnitude! that, and nothing else, the godfrey lisles would think him. still, if his mother persisted, the thing might have to happen. he had a vision of himself watching the godfrey lisles out of their house, and then diving across the road to deposit furtive cards with the butler. a funny vision, but with him quite capable of turning into reality! his brow cleared as he took up a second letter which awaited him. he knew the hand: "dear mr. lisle, "do drop in to-morrow evening after dinner. we shall be having cards and perhaps a little music. about . . do as you like about dressing. "yours sincerely, "marie sarradet." the sarradets lived in regent's park--rather far from any underground station. "i'll dress if it's fine, and not if it's wet," thought arthur. the balance of profit and loss as between paying a cab-fare on the one hand and taking the shine out of his patent leathers on the other presented a problem of constant difficulty in connection with his evening gaieties. chapter ii miss sarradet's circle a hundred and fifty years ago or thereabouts a certain jacques sarradet had migrated from his native lyons and opened a perfumer's shop in cheapside. the shop was there still, and still a sarradet kept it, and still it was much esteemed and frequented by city men, who bought presents or executed commissions for their wives and daughters there. to folk of fashion the bond street branch was better known, but which was the more profitable only the master knew. together, at all events, they were very profitable, and the present mr. clement sarradet was a warm man--warmer than he let the world know, or even his own family, so far as he could keep the knowledge from them. he had preserved his french frugality, and, although his house in regent's park was comfortably and hospitably conducted, the style in which he lived was a good deal less sumptuous than english notions would have considered his income to warrant. he had preserved too, in spite of mixed marriages in the family history, something of his french air, of the appearance of a prosperous _bon bourgeois_, with his short thick-set figure, his round paunch, his stiff upstanding white hair (he had married late in life and was now over sixty), his black brows and moustache, and his cheeks where blue and red seemed, after a tussle, to have blended harmoniously into a subdued purple. something french, though differently french, survived also in his cherished daughter marie, writer of the note already set forth, and mistress of the house in regent's park since her mother's death five years ago. here it was manner rather than looks (she was a brunette, but not markedly); she had a vivacity, a provocativeness, a coquetry, which in less favoured races often marks a frivolous or unstable character, but in the french finds no difficulty in blending with and adorning solid good sense, sturdy business-like qualities, and even sometimes a certain toughness of tissue more certainly valuable than attractive. the evening party to which arthur lisle had been bidden was drawing to its close. they had played cards; they had had some music; they had ended up with a couple of "topping" comic songs from joe halliday, and they were still laughing over these as they munched sandwiches and sipped, according to sex, lemonade or whisky-and-soda. mr. sarradet watched them benevolently, thinking them a very pleasant set of young people, and admiring the way in which his daughter exercised a pretty dominion over this little band of chosen friends. the two girls, mildred quain and amabel osling, openly acknowledged her leadership; the men deferred to her, not only as the hostess (a position which she generally occupied), but as the centre of attraction and the deviser of pleasures, the organiser of visits to theatres and concerts, and of their lawn-tennis at the acton ground in the spring and summer. but there was a touch of shrewd anxiety in his watching. young men were wont to aspire to more than friendship where they found metal attractive to their eyes. mr. sarradet was ambitious for his daughter. "next monday, then, we'll all meet at his majesty's," marie announced--or commanded. she turned to joe halliday. "you get the tickets. and anybody who likes can come back here to supper afterwards." "splendid, dear!" said amabel osling, a dark girl with large eyes and a rather intense manner; she wore what might be described as an art-frock. "an evening out, an evening out!" chanted joe halliday, a big young fellow with a shock of light brown hair and a manner of exuberant good-nature and heartiness. "i'm afraid i can't come," said arthur lisle apologetically. "why not, mr. lisle?" marie's voice sounded certainly disappointed, perhaps rather resentful. "i'm dining out." sidney barslow looked at him with a smile, in which arthur detected an ironical flavour. between these two members of the circle there was, in truth, no love lost. barslow resented in arthur a superiority of breeding which all his own vanity could not enable him to ignore. arthur found this handsome fellow, with his carefully sleek hair, his bold challenging eyes, his lady-killerish airs, in the end a 'bounder' with only a veneer of elegance; all the same he wished he had half barslow's easy assurance and self-confidence. "oh, learned counsel is dining out?" in the sarradet circle, being of the bar was felt to be enough of a distinction to warrant a little chaff. "may one ask who with? the lord chancellor perhaps?" they all laughed. "presently, presently!" said joe, patting arthur's head. "the lad will make his way in society." "don't be an ass, joe." but arthur liked joe as much as he disliked barslow, and his protest was quite free from annoyance. "don't you want to tell us who it is, mr. lisle?" asked amabel. "well, i don't suppose you'll be any the wiser; it's the man whose chambers i share--norton ward." now, as it chanced, mildred quain's uncle lived in the suburban constituency which norton ward was 'nursing' and was of the same political colour as the prospective candidate. mildred had heard the candidate speak at the opening of a bazaar--and had seen the honourable mrs. norton ward perform the ceremony. "you are among the swells, mr. lisle!" said mildred, and proceeded to describe the extreme political and social eminence of the norton wards. arthur, who had gratefully accepted his invitation as a human kindness, was amused at finding it regarded as a promotion, as a cause for congratulation and envy; he grew afraid that his mention of it might be taken for a boast. "i think it was pure charity on norton ward's part," he laughed. "i expect he thought i was lonely." "i dare say. he couldn't be expected to know about the likes of us," said barslow. "oh, shut up, sidney!" cried joe halliday. "can't arthur go out to dinner without your permission?" a sudden flush spread over barslow's face; he glared angrily at joe. mr. sarradet had taken up the evening paper, and noticed nothing; but all the rest were conscious that a storm threatened the serenity of the gathering. on a trivial occasion latent jealousies had leapt to light. marie looked round her company with a smile which included all and betrayed no partisanship. "we'll choose another night for his majesty's," she said. "that's quite simple. then we can all go. and now shall we have one more song before we break up? one more from you, joe!" as they moved towards the piano, she contrived to touch the irate mr. barslow lightly on the arm, to give him an arch glance, and to murmur--very low--the word "silly!" mr. barslow's brow cleared wonderfully. she wanted no quarrel and was confident of her ability to prevent one. if one came, she would have to be arbiter; she would have to take sides, and that must almost certainly mean the loss of one of her friends--either sidney barslow or arthur lisle. she did not want to lose either, for each had an attraction for her--an attraction not of mere solid friendship such as bound her to joe halliday, but an appeal of man to woman. barslow's boldness, his challenge, his powerful virility drew one side of her nature with a strong magnet; to what was 'second-class' and tawdry in him she was not, by birth or breeding, very sensitive herself. on the other hand she knew that arthur lisle was, and admired him because he was. nay, in a sense she was afraid of him because he was; if she did or said anything in his eyes amiss--if she shewed too much favour to sidney barslow, for instance--he might feel about her much as he did about the man himself. she knew all about barslow, and all about what barslow felt for and about herself; it was very familiar, one might say inherited, ground. with regard to arthur lisle all this was different; he was still, in spite of their apparent intimacy, _terra incognita_. though he constantly frequented the house, though from a chance acquaintance of her brother's he had grown into a familiar friend, though they were fast comrades, even though she knew that he admired her, there was so much about him which she vaguely divined to be there, but could not value or analyse--notions, instincts, spots of sensitiveness, to which she remained really a stranger. how strong were they, what was their verdict on her, what their influence on him? would a tide of admiration or passion sweep them all away? or would they make such a tide impossible, or, even if it came, dam its course with impalpable insurmountable obstacles? in fine, would he, in spite of any feeling for her that he might have, hold her "out of the question"? he was the last to leave that night--as he often was, for the solitude of his lodgings had no attraction for him--and she went with him to the door. the stars shone now over regent's park, and they lingered a moment in astronomical conversation. then she gave him her hand, saying: "i'm so sorry about monday. but you must tell me all about your party afterwards!" "i don't suppose there'll be anything to tell. well, mildred quain may be interested, because of her uncle!" "i shall be interested too--though not because of my uncle," she said with a laugh and a fleet upward glance at him. "i consider i've introduced you to london society, and i take a maternal interest in you, mr. lisle." "why do you say 'mr. lisle' to me? you always say 'joe' and 'sidney' to the others." "so i do. i don't know!" "well, then, don't do it," laughed arthur. "it makes me jealous, you know." she looked at him for a moment, not now in provocation, rather in thought, perhaps in puzzle. "it needn't do that, anyhow," at last she said. "is it then a mark of respect?" he asked banteringly, finding pleasure in the perplexed little frown which persisted on her pretty face. "well, i speak of you as i feel about you, and i can't say any more," she answered, half laughing, but protesting too that this sort of inquisition was unfair. "you shall do as you like then! what you do is always right." he spoke affectionately and held out his hand to her again. she did not give him hers. she drew back a little, blushing. "ah, if you really thought that!" after a pause, she said rather sharply, "why don't you like sidney barslow?" "i don't exactly dislike him, but sometimes he----" he waved his arm, wanting a word. "grates?" she suggested briefly. "thank you," said arthur with a laugh. "just every now and then, perhaps!" she stood there a moment longer with an expression on her face which was new to him there; she looked as if she wanted to say something or ask him something, but did not dare. though her lips smiled, there was appeal, almost timidity, in her eyes. but she turned away with no more than "well, good-night." scores of times in the last year-and-a-half, since he had come to know her, he had called her "a good sort" for all the kindness and friendship she had shewn him; he had conceived for her, and her clever capable ways, an amused admiration. after these feelings there had grown up in him, by familiarity, a sort of mental friendship for her face and figure too. he never reckoned her beautiful or even very pretty, but she had a piquancy of face and a grace of figure which had gradually become very pleasant to him. that she was physically attractive had been an after-thought, but, when once it had come, it stayed. to-night he was particularly conscious of it, perhaps because of the air of timidity or self-distrust which softened her, and, softening her, flattered in him the latent masculine pride. though not entirely, he had been to a large extent free from boyish flirtations and philandering. the necessity of hard work, shyness and fastidiousness, bodily temperament, had all combined to keep him out of such things. one passion of a glorious oxford summer term he had counted the real thing and remembered even now with a tender exultation; for the girl's heart had been touched, though not to the point of defying either prudence or propriety--even had he ventured to urge such courses. save for this episode, now remote since such age quickly, he was in essence a stranger in the field of love. he did not recognise nor analyse the curious little stir which was in him as he walked home that night--the feeling of a new gaiety, a new joyfulness, a sense of something triumphant and as it were liberated and given wings. he did not even get so far as to associate it explicitly and consciously with marie sarradet, though he did know that never had she seemed a dearer friend or a more winning girl than she had that night. he stood by the brink of the spring of love, but had not yet drunk of it nor recognised the hand that had led him there. the girl had gone back to her father and mixed him his 'night-cap' of hot toddy, as her custom was. while he sipped it, she stood beside him, looking down into the fire, still and meditative. presently she became aware of his bright beady eyes set on her with a glance half-apprehensive, half-amused; she interpreted it easily. "a long time saying good-night, was i, pops? and you think i've been flirting? well, i haven't, and i couldn't have if i'd wanted to. mr. lisle never flirts. joe pretends to sometimes, and sidney--does. but mr. lisle--never!" "that needn't mean that a man has no serious intentions," mr. sarradet opined. she smiled. "with the english i think it does. we're not quite english, even after all this time, are we? at least you and i aren't; raymond is, i think." "raymond's a goose, english or not," said the father impatiently. "he's in debt again, and i have to pay! i won't leave my business to a spendthrift." "oh, he'll get over it. he is silly but--only twenty-two. pops!" "and at twenty you've as shrewd a head as i know on your shoulders! get over it he must or----!" an indignant gulp of his 'night-cap' ended the sentence. "if you let him go in for something that he liked better than the business----" she began. "what business has he not to like the business! it's kept us in comfort for a hundred and fifty years. isn't it good enough for him? it's been good enough for me and my forefathers. we've known what we were; we've never pretended to be anything else. we're honest merchants--shop-keepers. that's what we are." "have patience, dear, i'll talk to him," she promised gently, and soothed the old fellow, whose bark was worse than his bite. "well, he'll come to me for a cheque once too often, that's all," he grumbled, as he kissed his daughter and took himself off to bed. "honest merchants--shop-keepers. that's what we are." the words echoed through marie sarradet's head. it was easy to smile at them, both at their pride and at their humility, easy to call ideas of that kind quite out of date. but what if they did represent a truth, irrelevant perhaps nowadays for public or political purposes, but having its relevance and importance in personal relations, in its influence on mind and feeling? this was the direction her thoughts took, though she found no words, and only dim ideas by which to grope. presently the ideas grew concrete in the word which she had herself suggested to arthur lisle and he had accepted with alacrity. sidney barslow 'grated' on arthur. it was not impossible to see why, though even this she acknowledged grudgingly and with a sense of treachery--she herself found so much to like in sidney! exactly! there she seemed to lay her finger on the spot. if she liked sidney, and sidney grated on arthur lisle so badly--the question which she had not dared to ask at the door rose to her lips again--"do i grate?" and was that why arthur lisle never flirted? never with her, at least--for that was all she could really know on the subject. chapter iii in touch with the law arthur lisle arrived on the pavement in front of norton ward's house in manchester square five minutes before the time for which he was invited, and fifteen before that at which he would be expected to arrive. painfully conscious of this fact, he walked first down duke street, and then back up manchester street, trying to look as if he were going somewhere else. nor did he venture to arrive at his real destination until he had seen three vehicles deposit their occupants at the door. then he presented himself with the air of having hurried a little, lest he should be late. none of this conduct struck him as at all unusual or ridiculous; not only now but for long afterwards it was his habit--the habit of a nervous imaginative man. the party was not a large one--only twelve--and it was entirely legal in character. besides host and hostess there were three couples--two barrister couples and one solicitor couple. one of the couples brought a daughter, who fell to arthur's lot. arthur got on very well with his girl, who was fortunately an enthusiast about lawn-tennis; she interested without absorbing him; he was able to be polite without ceasing to watch the two people who really arrested his attention, his hostess and--most strangely, most wonderfully!--mr. justice lance. for at half-past eight the old judge, by his arrival, completed the party. a catalogue of mrs. norton ward's personal attractions would sound commonplace enough. she had small features, was fair, rather pretty, rather pale, and rather short; there seemed no more to say. but she possessed a gracious candour of manner, an extreme friendliness and simplicity, a ready merriment, and together with these a complete freedom from self-consciousness. somehow she struck arthur as a highly refined, feminised, etherealised counterpart of joe halliday--they were both such good human creatures, so superlatively free from 'nonsense' of all sorts. he took to her immensely from the first moment and hoped very much that she would talk to him a little after dinner. he felt sure that he could get on with her; she did not alarm or puzzle him; he knew that he had "got her right." when norton ward moved, according to ritual, into his wife's vacant place beside mr. justice lance, he beckoned to arthur to come and sit on the judge's other side and introduced him. "you just missed the pleasure of hearing his maiden argument the other morning, judge," he added, laughing slyly at arthur, who had not got over the surprise of encountering lance, j., as a private--and harmless--individual. "ah, i remember--a case of yours! but o'sullivan wouldn't give mr. lisle a chance!" he spoke in the same soft, rather weary voice that he had used in court; with his sparse white hair he looked older than when he was in his wig; he was very carefully dressed, and his thin fine hands wore a couple of rather ornate rings. he had keen blue eyes and a large well-shaped nose. "i don't know that lisle was altogether sorry! the first time! even you remember the feeling, i dare say?" "nervous? was that it, mr. lisle?" he smiled faintly. "you must remember that we're much inured to imperfection." he looked on the young man with a pleasant indulgence, and, at the same time, a certain attention. "you always remember our frailty, but there are others!" said the host. "ah, ah! i sat with my brother pretyman, so i did! perhaps he does forget sometimes that one side must be wrong. hence the unpopularity of litigation, by the way." arthur was gaining his ease; the friendliness of both his companions helped him; towards the judge he was particularly drawn; he felt that he would be all right before lance, j., in future--if only pretyman, j., were elsewhere! but, alas, a question was enough to plunge him back into trouble. norton ward had turned to talk to his other neighbour, but sir christopher lance spoke to him again. "are you any relation to godfrey lisle? lisle of hilsey, you know." "yes, sir christopher, i'm--i'm a distant cousin." "well, i thought you had something of the family look. i've not had the pleasure of seeing you at his house--in town, i mean--i haven't been to hilsey lately." "i--i've never been there," arthur stammered. he was blushing very red. here he was, up against this terrible business of the godfrey lisles again--and just as he had begun to get along so nicely! his confusion, nay, his distress, could not escape the judge. "i hope i haven't made a _faux pas_, mr. lisle? no quarrel, or anything of that sort, i hope?" "no, sir, but i don't know them. i haven't called yet," arthur blurted out; he seemed to himself to be always having to blurt it out. sir christopher's eyes twinkled, as, following the host's example, he rose from the table. "if i were you, i should. you don't know what you're missing." upstairs mrs. norton ward was better than arthur's hopes. she showed him at once that she meant to talk to him and that she expected to like doing it. "i'm always friends with everybody in frank's chambers," she said, as she made him sit by her. "i consider them all part of the family, and all the glory they win belongs to the family; so you must make haste and win glory, if you can, for us!" "i'm afraid i can't win glory," laughed arthur. "at least it doesn't look like it--at the bar." "oh, win it anyhow--we're not particular how--law, politics, literature, what you like! why, milton longworth was frank's pupil once--for a month! he did no work and got tipsy, but he's a great poet now--well, isn't he?--and we're just as proud as if he'd become attorney-general." "or--well--at all events, a county court judge!" arthur suggested. "so just you do it somehow, mr. lisle, won't you?" "i'll try," he promised, laughing. "the other day i heard of you in your glory. you sounded very splendid," he added. then he had to tell her all about how he had heard, about mildred quain, and so about the rest of the circle in regent's park. his shyness vanished; he gave humorous little sketches of his friends. of course she knew sarradet's shop, and was amused at this lifting of the veil which had hidden the sarradet private life. but being the entirely natural creature she was, talking and thinking just as one of her class naturally would, she could not help treating the sarradets as something out of her ordinary experience, as something rather funny--perhaps also instructive--to hear about, as social phenomena to be observed and studied. without her own volition or consciousness her mind naturally assumed this attitude and expressed it in her questions and comments; neither were cruel, neither malicious, but both were absolutely from the outside--comments and questions about a foreign country addressed to a traveller who happened to have paid a visit there; for plainly she assumed, again instinctively, that arthur lisle was no more a native of that country than herself. or he might almost have been an author presenting to an alert and sympathetic reader a realistic and vivacious picture of the life of a social class not his own, be it what is called higher or lower, or just quite different. whatever the gulf, the difference, might be--broad or narrow, justly felt or utterly exaggerated--arthur lisle would have been (at twenty-four) more than human not to be pleased to find himself, for mrs. norton ward, on the same side of it as mrs. norton ward. she was evidently quite genuine in this, as she seemed to be in everything. she was not flattering him or even putting him at his ease. she talked to him as "one of ourselves" simply because that seemed to her what he undoubtedly was--and what his friends undoubtedly, though of course quite blamelessly, were not. they were thus in the full swing of talk--arthur doing most of it--when the judge came across the room and joined them. arthur at once rose, to make way, and the lady too seemed to treat his audience as finished, although most graciously. but the judge took hold of his arm and detained him. "do you know, esther," he said, "that this young man has, by right of kinship, the _entrée_ to the shrine? and he doesn't use it!" "what?" she cried with an appearance of lively interest. "oh, are you related to the godfreys, mr. lisle?" arthur blushed, but this time less acutely; he was getting, as the judge might have put it, much inured to this matter of the godfrey lisles. "don't ask him questions about it; for some reason or another he doesn't like that." "i don't really think my cousin godfrey would care about----" "not the least the point, is it, esther?" said the judge with a twinkle. "not the least, sir christopher. but what's to be done if he won't go?" "oh, you must manage that." he squeezed arthur's arm and then let it go. here, plainly, though no less graciously than from the hostess, was his dismissal. not knowing any of the other women, he drifted back to the girl who was enthusiastic about lawn-tennis. the judge sat down and stretched out his shapely thin hands towards the fire; his rings gleamed, and he loved the gleam of them. to wear them had been, from his youth, one of his bits of daring; he had, as it were, backed himself to wear them and not thereby seem himself, or let them seem, vulgar. and he had succeeded; he had been called vain often, never vulgar. by now his friends, old and young, would have missed them sadly. "what do you make of that boy, esther?" he asked. "i like him--and i think he's being wasted," she answered promptly. "at our honourable profession?" "you and frank are better judges of that." "i don't know. hardly tough enough, perhaps. but huntley was just such a man, and he got pretty well to the top. died, though, not much past fifty. the climb killed him, i think." "yes, frank's told me about him. but i meant wasted in his own life, or socially, or however you like to put it. he's told me about his friends, and----" "well, if you like him enough, you can put that right, esther." "i like him, but i haven't much time for young men, sir christopher. i've a husband, you may remember." "then turn him over where he belongs--to bernadette." she raised her brows a little, as she smiled at him. "oh, the young fellow's got to get his baptism of fire. it'll do him good." "how easily you judges settle other people's fortunes!" "in the end, his not going to his cousin's house is an absurdity." "well, yes, so it is, in the end, of course," she agreed. "it shall be done, sir christopher." while his fortunes were thus being settled for him--more or less, and as the future might reveal--arthur was walking home, well pleased with himself. the lady's friendliness delighted him; if he did not prize the old judge's so highly, he had the sense to perceive that it was really a more valuable testimonial and brought with it more substantial encouragement. from merely being kind to him the norton wards had come to like him, as it seemed, and their liking was backed by sir christopher's endorsement. he did not regard these things from a worldly point of view; he did not think of them as stepping-stones, or at any rate only quite indirectly. they would no doubt help him to get rid of, or at least to hold in subjection, his demon of self-distrust; but still more would they comfort him and make him happy. the pleasure he derived from mrs. norton ward's liking, and the judge's approval, was in quality akin to the gratification which marie sarradet's bearing had given him a few nights ago in regent's park; just as that had roused in him a keener sense of marie's attractiveness, so now he glowed with a warm recognition of the merits of his new friends. walking home along oxford street, he had almost reached the corner of tottenham court road when his complacent musings were interrupted by the sight of a knot of people outside the door of a public-house. it was the sort of group not unusual at half-past eleven o'clock at night--a man, a woman on his arm, a policeman, ten or a dozen interested spectators, very ready with advice as londoners are. as he drew near, he heard what was passing, though the policeman's tall burly figure was between him and the principal actor in the scene. "better do as she says and go 'ome, sir," said the policeman soothingly. "'ome, _sweet_ 'ome!" murmured somebody in tones of fond reminiscence. "yes, do now. you don't really want it, you know you don't," urged the lady in her turn. "whether i want it or not----" at the sound of this last voice arthur started into quick attention and came to a halt. he recognised the full tones, now somewhat thickened, with their faint but unmistakable suggestion of the cockney twang. "whether i want it or not----" the man spoke slowly, with an effort after distinctness which was obvious but not unsuccessful--"i've a right to have it. he's bound to serve the public. i'm--i'm member of the public." "'ad enough for two members, _i_ should sye," came in comment from the fringe of the group. "that's it! go 'ome now," the policeman suggested again, infinitely patient and persuasive. the man made a sudden move towards the door of the public-house where an official, vulgarly known as the 'chucker out,' stood smiling on the threshold. "no, sir, you _don't_!" said the policeman, suave but immensely firm, laying a hand on his arm. "the officer's quite right. do come along," again urged the lady. but the movement towards the public-house door, which revealed to arthur the face of the obstinate lingerer, showed him to the lingerer also--showed arthur in his evening uniform of tall hat, white scarf, and silk-faced coat to sidney barslow in his 'bowler' hat of rakish cut, and his sporting fawn-coloured coat, with the big flower in his buttonhole and his stick with a huge silver knob. the stick shot out--vaguely in arthur's direction. "i'm a gentleman, and, what's more, i can prove it. ask that gentleman--my friend there----" arthur's face was a little flushed. his mind was full of those terrible quick visions of his--a scuffle on the pavement, going bail for sidney barslow, giving evidence at the police court. "a friend of the prisoner, mr. arthur lisle, barrister, of garden court, middle temple"--visions most terrible! but he stood his ground, saying nothing, not moving a limb, and meeting barslow's look full in the eyes. all the rest were staring at him now. if he remained as he was they would take it as a denial of barslow's claim to acquaintance. could he deny it if barslow challenged him? he answered--no. but some change of mood came over sidney barslow's clouded mind. he let his stick fall back to his side again, and with an angry jerk of his head said: "oh, damn it, all right, i'm going! i--i was only pulling your leg." "that's right now!" applauded the policeman. "you'd better take 'im in a taxi, miss." "and put a ticket on 'im, in case 'e falls out, miss," some friendly adviser added. arthur did not wait to see the policeman's excellent suggestion carried into effect. the moment that sidney barslow's eyes were off him, he turned quickly up a by-street, and took a roundabout way home. he had much to be thankful for. the terrible visions were dissipated. and--he had not run away. oh, how he had wanted to run away from the danger of being mixed up in that dirty job. he thanked heaven that he had stood his ground and looked barslow in the face. but what about the next time they had to look one another in the face--at the sarradets' in regent's park? chapter iv a grateful friend marie's remonstrance with her brother was not ill-received--raymond was too amiable for that--but it was quite unsuccessful. just emerged from an exhaustive business training on the latest lines at home and abroad, able (as he pointed out in mingled pride and ruefulness) to correspond about perfumes in french, german, spanish, and italian, and to talk about them in three of those languages, he declared openly not for a lifetime of leisure but for an hedonistic interval. further, he favoured a little scattering of money after so much amassing. "if pops," he observed, "would only go back to his balzac, he would see how much harm and sorrow this perpetual money-grubbing causes among the business classes of our beloved france. in england a more liberal spirit prevails, and after a hundred and fifty years we ought to be able to catch it. in fact i have caught it, marie." "you have; and you'll catch something else--from pops--if you don't look out," said marie, who could not help smiling at the trim, spry, gay little fellow. like herself, he was dark and lively, but of the two she was the manager, the man of business. "besides it does the house good. 'who's that?' they ask. 'young sarradet.' 'what, the scent and soap people?' 'the same.' 'dashed fine business that!'" he enacted the dialogue with dramatic talent. "as an advertisement i'm worth all my debts, dear sister." marie was too much amused to press her point further. "you rather remind me of bob sawyer," she remarked. "but, anyhow, be here oftener in the evenings, if you can. that'll go a long way towards pacifying pops. when you're away, he sits thinking of the money you're spending. besides, he does like to have you here, you know." "you tell me when amabel osling is coming, and i'll be here." "i'm glad you like amabel. she's pretty, isn't she?" "she's all right. otherwise i didn't think it was very lively." "n-no. it was hardly one of our best evenings," marie admitted reluctantly. it hadn't been--that first meeting of her circle after arthur lisle's dinner party. they had all been there, including raymond, whose exchanges of wit and chaff with joe halliday were generally of themselves enough to make the evening a success. it had not been a success--at least from the moment of arthur's arrival. mildred quain had started off about the party at once; her curiosity concerning the norton wards was insatiable--she seemed to be working up a regular cult of them. marie herself had been benevolently inquisitive too, hoping to hear that arthur had had a grand time and made a great impression. but the topic had seemed distasteful to arthur, he tried to get away from it directly; when the persevering mildred dragged him back, his replies grew short and his manner reserved; he seemed ill at ease. as for sidney barslow, as soon as ever arthur and his party came on the scene, he turned sulky--indecently sulky. it was painful as well as absurd, and it got worse when joe halliday, trying (in justice let it be said) to lighten the atmosphere by jocularity, suggested, "and, after it all, i suppose some beautiful lady took you to your humble home in her six-cylinder car?" arthur answered dryly, with a pointed ignoring of the joke, "i walked home by oxford street." joe, still persevering, asked, "no romantic adventures on the way?" "nothing out of the common," arthur replied in a cool hard voice which was very rare in his mouth, but meant, marie knew, serious displeasure. in fact she was just going to make some laughing apology for the catechism through which he had been put when sidney barslow, who had been glowering worse and worse every minute, suddenly broke out: "there's an end of the thing, at all events, at last!" and he looked at arthur, as it seemed to her, with a curious mixture of anger and fear, a sort of snarling defiance. "it was not i who introduced the subject or was responsible for its continuance," said arthur, in the iciest of all his cool voices. "that you must do me the justice to admit, barslow." then an awful pause--even joe gravelled for a joke--and the most obvious clumsy resort to "a little more music"! the strains failed of soothing effect. on the one side a careful but disdainful courtesy, on the other a surly defiance--they persisted all the evening, making everybody uncomfortable and (as marie shrewdly guessed) inquisitive. this was something much worse, much more pronounced, than mere 'grating.' there was, on sidney's side at least, an actual enmity; and arthur, noting it, treated it with contemptuous indifference. "have you had a row with sidney about anything?" she managed to whisper to arthur. "no." "have you said anything to annoy him, do you think?" he looked straight into her eyes. "i haven't spoken to him since we were last here." sidney she did not venture to approach in confidence; he was altogether too dangerous that night. she did not know the occasion which had fanned a smouldering hostility into flame, which had changed a mere 'grating' of the one on the other, an uncongeniality, into feelings much stronger and more positive. even had she known it, perhaps she was not well enough versed in the standards and the moods of men to understand all that it carried with it. sidney barslow was not particularly ashamed of what had happened to him in itself: in suitable company he would have found it a story he could tell and be sure of a humorous sympathy; there was nothing to be remorseful or miserable about. as long as a man did his work and earned his 'screw' (and sidney held a good position in a wholesale linen-merchant's business and was doing well) he was entitled to his amusements--if you like, his dissipations--while he was young at all events. if indiscretions marked them, if one sometimes tumbled over the line, that was in the nature of the case. he would not have minded an encounter with joe halliday outside that public-house in the least--no, nor even with young raymond sarradet, marie's brother though he was. nay, he would not much have minded being seen even by arthur lisle himself; for if arthur had been shocked, sidney would, in all sincerity, have dubbed him a milksop; the man who would be shocked at a thing like that was certainly a milksop. he was not even afraid of arthur's betraying him to marie--not because he thought his enemy above that, but because he had an easy confidence that he could put the matter right with marie, and a strong doubt whether women objected to that sort of thing so much as they were in the habit of pretending; in their hearts they like a man to be a man, sidney would have told himself for comfort. the poison lay elsewhere. under the influence of his liquor and the stress of his plight--wanting to prove to the policeman, to the 'chucker-out,' to the interested bystanders, that he was not a common tap-room frequenter but a 'gentleman'--he had let himself appeal for his warrant of gentility to the man whom he had derided for thinking himself so much (if you please!) a gentleman. arthur lisle's acquaintance was to prove to bystanders, policeman, and chucker-out, that he, sidney barslow, though drunk and in queer company, was yet a gentleman! and how had the appeal been received? he could not charge arthur with cutting him, or leaving him in the lurch. he hated far worse the look he had seen in his enemy's eyes as they gazed steadfastly into his--the fastidious repulsion and the high contempt. true, on the sight of them he had withdrawn his appeal; he had preferred to accept defeat and humiliation at the hands of chucker-out and constable; but the fact of the appeal having been made remained with all its damning admission of inferiority. and that look of contempt he had seen again when arthur lisle, in answer to joe halliday's clumsy jokes, replied in his cool proud voice that, as he walked home by oxford street, he had met with "nothing out of the common." he had met a common fellow with a common woman, and, as was common, the common fellow was drunk. with all the sharpness wherewith humiliation pricks a man, with all the keenness wherewith hatred can read the mind of an enemy, he pointed for himself the meaning of arthur's careless-sounding words. he was in a rage, not only with arthur lisle, but with himself and his luck--which had indeed been somewhat perverse. lashing himself with these various irritants, he soon produced another sore spot--marie sarradet's behaviour. he was an older friend than arthur; she had, he declared, backed arthur up in his airy insolence; he swore to himself that he had seen her smile at it. at any rate she had not backed him up; to a man in a rage, or several rages, it was enough--more than enough for a man of his temper, to whom the desire for a woman was the desire for a mastery over her. and in the end he could not believe that that fragile whipper-snapper with his hoity-toity effeminate ways (the point of view is sidney's) could be weighed in the balance against his own manly handsomeness, his dashing gallantry; why, he knew that he was a conqueror with women--knew it by experience! marie and raymond, amabel osling and himself had made up a four to play lawn-tennis on the hard courts at acton. they had enjoyed their game and their tea. he and marie had won after a close match, and were in a good humour with themselves. he was forgetting his grievance against her. she liked him playing games; he was a finely built fellow and looked really splendid in his white flannels; if he ordered her about the court like a master, it was a legitimate sway; he knew the game and played well. when, after tea, the other two sauntered off--for an open and unashamed flirtation--marie had never felt more kindly towards him; she had really forgiven the bearishness of his behaviour, and was prepared to tell him so after a little lecture, which, by the way, she quite looked forward to giving; for she too was fond of domination. she started leading up to the lecture. "you seem to have found something since we last met, sidney. i'm glad of it." "what do you mean?" he asked carelessly, as he filled his pipe. he did not see her drift. "hadn't you mislaid something the other night?" her dark eyes were dancing with mockery, and her lips twitched. now he looked at her suspiciously. "i don't understand." "you might. i'm referring to your temper." "i'm not aware that i said anything rude to you. if i did, i apologise." "i'm not speaking of myself, but of my friends--my guests." he leant his arm on the table which stood between them. "meaning mr. arthur lisle?" "the smoke of your pipe blows in my face when you lean forward like that." "sorry!" he laid his pipe down beside him. "well, the fact is, i'm about fed up with lisle." and arthur lisle was much in the same case--allowing for the difference of expression--as to sidney! marie smiled, but her brow wrinkled. "sorry you don't like him, but it costs nothing to be polite." "well, all i can say is that i shall be very much obliged if you'll ask us on different evenings." "that's assuming that i'm going to ask you on any evenings at all." she thought this smart flick of her whip would bring him to reason. "oh, perhaps lisle's going to be there every evening?" "any evening that he likes, pops and i will be very pleased to see him--with or without an invitation." she relented a little; he looked angry and obstinate, but he looked handsome too. "you too, if you won't be silly. why do you dislike him so much?" he could not give her the whole reason; he gave what he could. "i see his game. he's always trying to come the swell over me and the rest of us." "i'm sure he doesn't mean to; it's just----" "his naturally aristocratic manner?" he sneered. marie sat up straight and looked composedly at him. by now she was angry--and she meant to hurt. "that's exactly it, sidney," she said, "and it's a pity everybody hasn't got it." she did hurt sorely. he had no code to keep him from hitting back, and his wrath was fierce. "where did you learn so much about aristocratic manners? behind the counter?" she flushed hotly; tears came in her eyes. he saw what he had done, and was touched to a sudden remorse. "oh, i say, marie, i didn't mean----!" "i shan't forget that," she said. "never!" he shrugged his shoulders and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. he was ashamed, but obstinate still. "you brought it on yourself," he grumbled. "yes, i forgot that i wasn't talking to a gentleman." he made one more effort after reconciliation. "look here, marie, you know what i think of you----" "yes, i do--you've just told me." "damnation!" he muttered, pulling at his pipe. marie, looking carefully past him, began to put on her gloves. thus amabel and raymond found them--with things obviously very wrong. amabel diagnosed an offer and a refusal, but raymond thought there must be even more behind his sister's stormy brow and clouded eyes. the journey back was not cheerful. marie was indeed cut to the quick. even to herself it was strange how deeply she was wounded. the sarradets had never been ashamed of the shop; rather they had taken an honourable pride in it and in the growth of its fortunes from generation to generation. yet sidney barslow's gibe about the counter was to her now unforgivable. it brought into coarse and vivid relief her secret doubts and fears. it made her ask whether she, having made a friend of the man who had used a taunt like that, must not have something about her to justify it. it set her on fire to put an utter end to her friendship and association with sidney barslow--and thereby to prove to herself that, whatever her manners might be they were at least too good for such company as his. hitherto pretty equally balanced between the two young men, or at all events wistfully anxious that friendship with arthur should not make impossible her old and pleasant comradeship with sidney--in whom she found so much that she liked--she became now arthur's furious partisan. with him and his cause she identified herself. she declared that it was purely for his sake, and not at all in the interest of her own domination and authority, that she had rebuked sidney, and for his sake solely that she had suffered insult. by a natural turn of feeling she asked in her heart for a reward from him, a recognition of her championship, gratitude to her for having preferred him to his would-be rival; if he were not at least a little pleased and proud, she would feel disappointment and humiliation. but he would be. and why? because that was the right thing for him to be, and now in her eyes, at this moment, he could do no wrong. sidney was all wrong, therefore arthur must be all right. she could not bring herself to doubt it. and, being all right, he must do and feel all the right things. so he would--when he knew what she had done and suffered for him. her heart cried out that somehow (as delicately as possible, of course) he must be made to know, to know the full extent of her service and her sacrifice; he must know the insult she had received; and he must consider it as great and wanton an insult as she did. so her feelings formulated their claim upon him, with an instinctive cunning. it was a claim to which no chivalrous-minded man could be insensible; it was one that would appeal with commanding force to arthur lisle's impulsive generosity. "for you i have quarrelled with my old friend--for you i have endured insult." what could he answer save that in him she should find a better friend, that his appreciation should efface the insult? "don't be afraid to come. there will be nobody here that you don't like this time." with these words her next invitation to arthur lisle ended. he read them with a quick grasp of her meaning--of the essential part of it at least. she was on his side! he was glad. neither for his own sake, nor for the sake of the idea that he had of her, would he easily have endured that she should be on sidney barslow's side and against him. although she did not know what he knew, and had not seen what he had seen, her instincts and her taste were right! he looked forward eagerly to letting her perceive, in some way or other, that he recognised this, to congratulating her somehow on it, to sealing the pact of a natural alliance between them. how he would do this, or how far he might seem to go in the course of doing it, or what further implications might be involved in such a bond between man and maid, his young blood and his generous impulses did not pause to ask. it was the thing to do--and he wanted to do it. chapter v the tender diplomatist the coming of the easter legal vacation set arthur free for the time from professional hopes and fears. he was due on a visit to his mother and sister at malvern, but excused himself at the last moment. it was not in him to leave london. the temple indeed he forsook, but he abode in his lodgings and spent his spare time with the sarradets. amabel osling was staying with them, and raymond was now in close attendance on her. there were two young couples, then, ready for lawn-tennis, for theatres, for concerts, or any other diversion. yet pleasantest of all were the walks in regent's park on the offdays, when nothing special had been arranged, but arthur would happen to stroll up to the broad walk, and marie would chance to be giving her dog a run. then they would saunter about together, or sit on a seat in the spring sunshine, talking of all manner of things--well, except of the particular form which sidney barslow's rudeness had taken. somehow, in the end, marie never could bring herself to tell him that and ask him to be indignant about it. she left the enormity vague and undefined; it was really none the less effective left like that, just as provocative of reprobation for the sinner and sympathy for the ill-used friend. and it was safer to leave it like that; she could never rid herself of the fear that the actual thing, if revealed, might appear to arthur rude indeed--rough, ill-mannered, as much of all this as one could conceive--but not so overwhelmingly absurd and monstrous as it ought to seem, as the demands of her uneasy heart required that he should find it. for she could hardly believe in what looked now like coming to pass. she had known him for a long time--more than a year--as a good friend but rather a reserved one; cordial and kind, but keeping always a certain distance, actually, if without intention, maintaining a barrier round his inner self, refusing to abandon the protective aloofness of a proud and sensitive nature. was he changing from this to the opposite extreme--to that most open, intimate, exposed, and unprotected creature, a lover? well as she had known him, she had not thought of him as that. but her mind fastened on the idea eagerly; it appealed to more than one side of her nature. "as a rule i just can't talk about myself," he said once. "how is it that i can to you?" "it's because i love you, and in your heart you know it," she wanted to say, but she answered, laughing, "i've always been rather a good listener." "if you tell most people a single thing about yourself, they bombard you with a dozen silly questions. now you never do that." "that's because i'm afraid of you, if you only knew it," she wanted to say, but she answered merrily, "i find out more by my way in the end, don't i?" for every step forward his feelings had taken, hers had taken ten. she knew it and was not ashamed; she gloried in it. from the moment she had come over to his side, making herself his champion and asking for his gratitude in return, her heart had brooked no compromise. hers was a mind quick of decision, prompt in action. to romance she brought the qualities of business. a swift rush of feeling had carried her to the goal; she watched him now following in her steps, and was tremulously careful not to anticipate by an iota the stages he had yet to pass. she marvelled that she had not loved him from the beginning, and almost convinced herself that she had. she could scarcely persuade herself to accept even now the signs of his nascent love. thus in truth, though all unknown to him, she did the wooing. her answer was ready before his question. she watched and waited with a passivity that was to a man of his disposition her best lure. some of this fine caution she learnt from her observation of him, and some of it from sidney barslow's taunt. she subdued her natural coquetry lest, even in eyes the most unfriendly and malicious, it should seem forwardness. she gave always just a little, little less than his words and eyes asked. schooling herself after this fashion, modelling her behaviour to what she conceived to be his ideals, she sought to win him. if she succeeded she would achieve not only her heart's desire, but a great triumph over those disturbing doubts. his approval would, she felt, set on her the stamp that she longed to wear--the social diploma to which she aspired. a fine slap in the face for sidney barslow it would be, for instance! arthur's generous impulse, the desire to show himself a warm and grateful friend to his champion, was merged now in a great and absorbing contentment. it prevented him from considering how an engagement and a marriage would consort with his prospects and his career; it narrowed his vision of his own life and mind to the present moment. he had got what he had been pining for--that intimate and (so to say) ministering sympathy which a man perhaps can get, and certainly can ask, from a woman only. that had been a need so great that its satisfaction seemed to satisfy all the needs of his being, and deluded him into thinking that all his instincts and aspirations asked no more than this, that his keen appetite for beauty could be fed on her vivacious prettiness, that all his impulses, wayward, fanciful, sometimes extravagant, could be lulled to sleep by the spell of her shrewd and pleasant common sense. it made him forget that the prime function of a lover and his supreme expression lie in giving, and that the woman truly makes the man in love with her when she makes him give all he has and think that he is giving brass for gold. but if this it is to be a lover, arthur lisle was no lover now; if this it is to be a lover, marie sarradet had never seen and scarce imagined one. but the spring sunshine, the impulses of youth, the ministering sympathy blinded his eyes. he seemed to have all because he liked so much that which he had. gaily and happily, with that fine gallantry which she so admired, on he came, step by step. she grew secure. by now father and brother were on the alert. they had canvassed the matter in all its bearings. raymond was arthur's enthusiastic adherent. old mr. sarradet affected reserve and doubt; he complained that the suitor was far from rich. but in his heart he was delighted at the prospect. he admired arthur, he believed in his abilities, he thought the marriage would be a "step up" for his darling daughter--and perhaps for her family. above all he saw the time draw near when he should enjoy the greatest pleasure that he had to look forward to in life--surprising marie by the handsome dimensions of her dowry. he hugged the thought of it; he loved her, and he knew she was a good woman of business. it would be a great moment when she saw in him, at one and the same moment, a more munificent father and a cleverer man of business than ever she had thought. incidentally the disclosure might cause master raymond to realise what very considerable things he stood to lose if he did not mind what he was about. the old fellow had no real thought of disinheriting his son, but he loved the power his money gave him, and would now and again flourish the sword that he would have been most loth to use. so all things promised bravely--marie, the tender diplomatist, held a winning hand and was playing it well. leave her to the skill that her heart taught her, and the game was won! among the accidents of life are relatives appurtenant to but ordinarily outside of the family circle. mr. sarradet owned one--an elder sister--in his eyes, by early memory and tradition, exceptionally endowed with the knowledge of the way to look after girls, and the proper things to be done in the interest of their dignity and virtue. she came up from manchester, where she lived, to have her teeth seen to--not that there were not excellent dentists in manchester, but her father had always gone to mr. mandells of seymour street and she had a fancy to go to mr. mandells's son (of seymour street still)--and stayed with her brother from friday to tuesday. having seen what she saw, and had her doubts, and come to her own conclusions, she sat up late on monday night, sat up till arthur lisle had departed and marie was between the sheets, and even raymond had yawned himself on to bed; and then she said abruptly to her brother mr. sarradet: "it's a settled thing, i suppose, though it's not announced yet?" mr. sarradet passed his hand over his hair-brush of a head, and pulled his moustache perplexedly. "i suppose it is," he answered lamely, quite conscious that mrs. veltheim possessed knowledge and commanded deference, but conscious also that, up to now, matters had gone on very well without her. "you suppose!" said the lady. the two words carried home to a conscience hitherto guiltily easy. but mrs. veltheim left nothing to chance; she rammed the charge in. "if dear marie had a mother!" she alarmed the cautious old _bourgeois_--to the point of protesting that he felt no alarm whatever. "he's a gentleman." he took a sip at his toddy. "no girl in the world has more self-respect." another sip ended in "perfect confidence!" vaguely murmured. "young men are young men." "not at all! i don't believe it of him for a minute." his protest was against the insinuation which even an identical proposition may carry. "i rescued my harriet just in time!" "damn your harriet, and i wish you'd go back to manchester!" it was not what he said to his respected sister. "cases differ," was the more parliamentary form his answer took. but the seed was sown before mrs. veltheim did go back to manchester. it germinated in the cautious suspicious soul of the old shopkeeper, so trustful of a man's credit till the breath of a suspicion blew upon it, then so acute to note every eddying current of the air. he grew minded to confront arthur lisle with the attitude of mrs. veltheim--a lady for whom arthur, on the strength of one evening's acquaintance, had conceived a most profound aversion. she was a fat woman--broad, heavy, fair and florid, married to an exceedingly prosperous german. to mr. sarradet her opinion was, like her person, weighty; not always agreeable, but never unimportant. to arthur she was already--before ever he had conceived of her as having or being entitled to have an opinion about him, his sentiments, or his intentions--an appreciable drawback, though not a serious obstacle, to the alliance which he was contemplating. he was, in fine, extremely glad that she and her husband, whom he defined and incarnated with all his imagination's power of vividness, lived in manchester. if they too had dwelt in regent's park, it would not have been the same place to him. collateral liabilities would have lurked round every corner. by now, and notwithstanding a transitory disturbance created by the revelation of mrs. veltheim, arthur's mind had subconsciously chosen its course; but emotionally he was not quite ready. his feelings waited for a spark to set them in a blaze--such a spark as might come any moment when he was with marie, some special note of appeal sounded by her, some quick intuition of him or his mood, raising his admiration and gratitude, even some especially pretty aspect of her face suddenly striking on his sense of beauty. any one of these would serve, but one of them was needed to change his present contentment into an impulse towards something conceived as yet more perfect. the tender shrewd diplomatist divined pretty well how things stood; she would not hurry or strive, that way danger lay; she waited, securely now and serenely, for the divine chance, the happy coincidence of opportunity and impulse. it was bound to come, and to come now speedily. alas, she did not know that clumsy hands had been meddling with her delicate edifice! two days after mrs. veltheim had gone back to manchester, old sarradet left his place of business early, travelled by omnibus from cheapside to the corner of bloomsbury street, and presented himself at the door of arthur's lodgings. arthur was at home; marie had told him that she would not be able to meet him in regent's park that afternoon, as some shopping business called her elsewhere, and he was lounging through the hours, not (as it happened, and it does happen sometimes even when a man is in love) thinking about her much, but rather about that problem of his legal career which the waning of the vacation brought again to his mind. the appearance of mr. sarradet--who had never before honoured him with a visit--came as something of a surprise. "as i was passing your corner, i thought i'd look in and see if you were coming up to our place this afternoon," mr. sarradet explained. "because, if so, we might walk together." arthur said that he understood that marie would be out, and therefore had not proposed to pay his friends a visit that day. "out, is she? ah, yes!" he smiled knowingly. "you know what she's doing better than her father does!" he was walking about the little room, looking at arthur's pictures, photographs, and other small possessions. "well, you'll be coming again soon, i expect?" "i expect so, if you'll have me," said arthur, smiling. mr. sarradet took up a photograph. "that's a nice face!" "it's my mother, mr. sarradet." "your mother, is it? ah, well now! and she lives at----? let me see! you did mention it." "at malvern--she and my sister." "your sister? ah, yes! unmarried, isn't she? have you no other brothers or sisters?" under these questions--and more followed, eliciting a good deal of information about his family and its circumstances--arthur's face gradually assumed its distinctively patient expression. the patience was very closely akin to endurance--in fact, to boredom. why did the fussy old fellow worry him like that? instinctively he hardened himself against sarradet--against sarradet's implied assertion of a right to ask him all these questions. perhaps he knew that this resentment was not very reasonable. he felt it, none the less. to put him in any way to the question, to a test or a trial, was so entirely contrary to what had been marie's way. "and you're practising at the bar, mr. lisle, eh?" the infusion of obstinacy in the patience grew stronger. "i'm what is commonly called a briefless barrister." now old sarradet knew that--and did not mind it under the circumstances. but the thought of that dowry was too much for him. he could not resist a little flourish. "briefless! oh, come, don't say that!" he pursed up his lips and shook his head humorously. "it's unfortunately the case, mr. sarradet. i hope it won't always be so, of course." "we must hope that, we must all hope that!" said sarradet, rubbing his hands slowly together. "and in any case we none of us know what fortune has in store for us, do we?" he smiled, looking at arthur with an interrogative air. he thought he had given the young man a lead, a good cue on which to speak. arthur said nothing, and sarradet's smile gradually vanished, being replaced by a look of some perplexity. he did not know how to go on; mrs. veltheim had told him what to do but had not told him how to do it. there was an awkward silence. sarradet had taken up his hat and stood in the middle of the room, fingering it and eyeing arthur with an air that seemed almost furtive. "well, i must be going," he said at last. arthur moved towards the door of the room and opened it. sarradet stepped into the hall, saying, "perhaps you'll be looking in on us to-night?" "thanks awfully, but i've arranged to go to the theatre with a man to-night." "to-morrow then?" sarradet's tone sounded persistent. arthur had meant to look in to-morrow. it had been a pleasant prospect. why was the old fellow making an obligation, a duty, of it? "yes, i'll come to-morrow," he said, rather curtly. "ah, that's right, that's right!" arthur had opened the hall door by now. sarradet took his hand and pressed it hard. "that'll be good news for marie, won't it?" he had at last got a little nearer to what mrs. veltheim wanted. "i'm very much flattered by your putting it like that." arthur was still distant and defensive. but sarradet was desperate now--he must get out what he wanted to say before the door was shut on him. "oh, nonsense! come, mr. lisle, as man to man, we understand one another?" the question was out at last. if he had put it a quarter of an hour earlier, arthur lisle would have answered it to his satisfaction, however little he relished its being put. but now it was not fated to have an answer. for on the very moment of its being put, there came interruption in a form which made the continuance of this momentous conversation impossible. a barouche with a pair of fine bay horses, a barouche on cee-springs, sumptuously appointed, clattered up the street and to the common amazement of the two men stopped at the door. the footman sprang down from the box and, touching his hat to a lady who occupied the carriage, waited for her instructions. but she paid no heed to him. she leant over the side of the carriage and looked at the two men for a moment. sarradet took off his hat. arthur lisle just stared at the vision, at the entire vision, the lady, the carriage, the footman--the whole of it. the lady's face broke into a bright smile of recognition. "i came to call on mr. arthur lisle. you must be arthur, aren't you?" she said. no, there was no possibility of mr. sarradet's getting his question answered now. chapter vi a timely discovery when arthur ran down the step and across the pavement, to take the hand which his visitor held out to him over the carriage door, mr. sarradet bowed politely, put his hat on, and turned on his heel. he was consumed with curiosity, but he had no excuse for lingering. he walked up bloomsbury street and along the east side of bedford square. but then, instead of pursuing a north-westerly course towards his home, he turned sharply to the right and, slackening his pace, strolled along montague place in the direction of russell square. he went about twenty yards, then turned, strolled back to the corner of bedford square and peered round it. he repeated these movements three or four times, very slowly; they consumed perhaps six or seven minutes. his last inspection showed the carriage still at the door, though neither the lady nor arthur was visible. evidently she was paying a call, as she had intimated; no telling how long it might last! "well, i must go home," thought mr. sarradet, as he strolled slowly towards the east once more. he turned and walked briskly back. just as he reached again the corner from which he had taken his observation, he made a sudden backward jump. he was afraid that he was caught! for the barouche dashed by him at a rapid trot, and in it sat the lady and arthur lisle. they did not see him; their heads were turned towards one another; they appeared to be engrossed in a lively conversation. the carriage turned westward, across bedford square; sarradet watched it till it disappeared round the corner into tottenham court road. "that's quick work!" thought mr. sarradet; and in truth, if (as the visitor's words implied) she had never seen arthur lisle before, the acquaintance was going forward apace. who could she be? he was vaguely troubled that arthur lisle should have--or make--a friend like that. the barouche somehow depressed him; perhaps it put him a little out of conceit with the dimensions of that precious dowry; it looked so rich. and then there had been the reserve, the distance, in arthur's manner, his refusal to follow up leads and to take cues, and the final fact that the important question had (even though it were by accident) gone unanswered. all these things worked together to dash mr. sarradet's spirits. he told marie about his visit to arthur. she was rather surprised at a sudden fancy like that (for so he represented it) taking hold of him, but her suspicions were not roused. when he went on to describe the arrival of the other visitor she listened with natural and eager interest. but the old fellow, full of his perplexities, made a false step. "she was in the house nearly ten minutes, and then--what do you think, marie?--they drove away together!" "in the house ten minutes? where were you all that time?" "i was--er--strolling along." "you must have strolled pretty slowly. where did they overtake you, pops?" he grew rather red. "i can't remember exactly----" he began lamely. she knew him so well; his confused manner, telling that he had something to conceal, could not escape her notice. "i believe you waited round the corner to see what happened! why did you spy on him like that?" "i don't see any particular harm in being a little curious about----" but she interrupted him. his spying after the carriage threw suspicion on his motives for his visit too. "didn't you really go and see mr. lisle about anything in particular?" "anything in particular, my dear? what do you mean? i asked him to drop in to-morrow----" "did you talk about me?" "oh, well, you were mentioned, of course." she leant her arm on the mantelpiece and looked down at him gravely. he read a reproachful question in her glance, and fidgeted under it. "have you been meddling?" was what her gravely enquiring eyes asked. "meddling as well as spying, pops?" he was roused to defend himself. "you've got no mother, marie, and----" "ah!" she murmured, as a quick flash of enlightenment came. that was aunt louisa's phrase! she saw where it came from in a minute; it had always supplied mrs. veltheim with a much desired excuse for interfering. she went on in a hard voice--she was very angry--"did you ask mr. lisle his intentions?" "of course not. i--i only took the opportunity of finding out something about his people, and--and so on. really, i think you're very unreasonable, marie, to object----" and he wandered or maundered on about his paternal rights and duties. she let him go on. she had no more to say about it--no more that she could say, without revealing her delicate diplomacy. she would do that to nobody alive; she had never stated it explicitly even to herself. there she left the affair, left the last word and a barren show of victory to her father. how much mischief he had done she would find out later--perhaps to-morrow, if arthur lisle came. but would he--now? it was the effect of her father's meddling she feared, not that matter of the lady's visit. she knew that he had other friends than themselves. why shouldn't one of them come and take him for a drive? it was mrs. norton ward, very likely. her quarrel with her father about his meddling even prevented her from asking what the visitor was like; whatever he might do, she at least would show no vulgar curiosity. yet it was the coincidence of the visit with the meddling that did the mischief. without the first, the second would have resulted in nothing worse than a temporary annoyance, a transitory shock to arthur's feelings, which a few days' time and marie's own tact would have smoothed over. as it was, his distaste for old sarradet's inquisition, an angry humiliation at having the pistol held to his head, a romantic abhorrence of such a way of dealing with the tenderest and most delicate matters, a hideous yet obstinate suspicion that marie might be privy to the proceeding--all these set his feelings just in time for the unexpected visit. the visit had been delightful, and delight is an unsettling thing. as mrs. godfrey lisle--or bernadette, as she bade him call her--purred about his room (so he put it to himself), still more when she declared for sunshine and carried him off to drive with her--in regent's park too!--he had felt a sudden lift of the spirit, an exaltation and expansion of feeling. the world seemed wider, its possibilities more various; it was as though walls had been torn down from around him--walls of his own choice and making, no doubt, but walls all the same. this sensation was very vague; it was little more than that the whole atmosphere of his existence seemed fresher, more spacious and more pungent. he owned ruefully that the barouche, the cee-springs, the bay horses and the liveries, might have had something to do with his pleasure; he knew his susceptibility to the handsome things of material life--the gauds and luxuries--and ever feared to catch himself in snobbishness. but the essential matter did not lie there; his company was responsible for that--bernadette, and the way she had suddenly appeared, and whisked him off as it were on a magic carpet for a brief journey through the heavens; it seemed all too brief. "i came as soon as ever i could," she told him. "i got esther norton ward's letter about you after we'd gone to hilsey for easter, and we got back only yesterday. but i had terrible work to get leave to come. i had to go down on my knees almost! cousin arthur, you're in disgrace, and when you come to see us, you must abase yourself before godfrey. the head of the house is hurt because you didn't call!" "i know. it was awfully wrong of me, but----" "i understand all about it. but godfrey's a stickler for his rights. however sir oliver and i managed to bring him round ("who's sir oliver?" asked arthur inwardly), and when you've eaten humble pie, it will be all right. do you like humble pie, arthur?" "no, i don't." "no more do i." but she was smiling still, and he thought it was little of that stuff she would have to consume. "you see, you made quite an impression on esther. oh, and sir christopher came down for a week-end, and he was full of your praises too." she put on a sudden air of gravity. "i drove up to your door in a state of considerable excitement, and i had a momentary fear that the fat man with the black moustache was you. however it wasn't--so that's all right." she did not ask who the fat man really was; arthur was glad--all that could come later. in fact she asked him no questions about himself. she welcomed him with the glee of a child who has found a new toy or a new playmate. there was no hint of flirtation, no effort to make a conquest; a thing like that seemed quite out of her way. there was no pose, either of languor or of gush. the admiration of his eyes, which he could not altogether hide, she either did not notice or took as a matter of course--something universal and therefore, from a personal point of view, not important. on the other hand he caught her looking at him with interest and critically. she saw that she was caught and laughed merrily over it. "well, i do feel rather responsible for you, you know," she said in self-defence. life does do funny things all of a sudden! he drove with her past the sarradets' house. he seemed, for the moment, a world away from it. they drove together for an hour; they arranged that he should come to lunch on a day to be fixed after consultation with godfrey--it appeared that godfrey liked to be consulted--and then she set him down in the marylebone road. when he tried, rather stammeringly, to thank her, she shook her head with a smile that seemed a little wistful, saying "no, i think it's i who ought to thank you; you've given me an afternoon's holiday--all to myself!" she looked back over her shoulder and waved her hand to him again as she turned down harley street and passed out of sight. when she was gone, the vision of her remained with him, but vaguely and rather elusively--a memory of grey eyes, a smooth rich texture of skin, mobile changeable lips, fair wavy hair--these in a setting of the richest apparel; an impression of something very bright and very fragile, carefully bestowed in sumptuous wrappings. he went to the sarradets' the next evening, as he had been bidden, but he went with laggard steps. he could not do what seemed to be expected of him there--not merely because it was expected, though that went for something considerable, thanks to his strain of fastidious obstinacy, but because it had become impossible for him to--his feelings sought a word and found only a very blunt and ungracious one--to tie himself up like that. his great contentment was impaired and could no longer absorb him. his sober scheme of happiness was crumbling. his spirit was for adventure. finality had become suddenly odious--and marriage presents itself as finality to those who are not yet married. if he had not been ready for the plunge before, now he was a thousand times less ready. the evening belied the apprehensions he had of it. there was a merry party--mildred quain, amabel osling, joe halliday, and half-a-dozen other young folk. and mr. sarradet was out! dining at his club with some old cronies, marie explained. there were games and music, plenty of chaff and a little horseplay. there was neither the opportunity nor the atmosphere for sentiment or sentimental problems. in gratitude to fate for this, and in harmony with what was his true inward mood behind and deeper than his perplexity, arthur's spirits rose high; he chaffed and sported with the merriest. marie was easy, cordial, the best of friends with him--not a hint of anything except just that special and pleasant intimacy of friendship which made them something more to one another than the rest of the company could be to either of them. she was just as she had always been--and he dismissed his suspicion. she had known nothing at all of mr. sarradet's inquisition; she was in no way to blame for it. and if she were innocent, why, then, was not he innocent also? his only fault could lie in having seemed to her to mean what he had not meant. if he had not seemed to her to mean it, where was his fault,--and where his obligation? but if he acquitted marie, and was quite disposed to acquit himself, he nursed his grudge against old sarradet for his bungling attempt to interfere between friends who understood one another perfectly. marie watched him, without appearing to watch, and was well content. her present object was to set him completely at his ease again--to get back to where they were before mrs. veltheim interfered and her father blundered. if she could do that, all would be well; and she thought that she was doing it. had mrs. veltheim and mr. sarradet been the only factors in the case, she would probably have proved herself right; for she was skilful and tenacious, and no delicacy of scruple held her back from trying to get what she wanted, even when what she wanted happened to be a man to marry. there that toughness of hers served her ends well. when he said good-night, he was so comfortable about the whole position, so friendly to her and so conscious of the pleasure she had given him in the last few weeks, that he said with genuine ruefulness, "back to the temple to-morrow! i shan't be able to play about so much!" "no, you must work," she agreed. "but try to come and see us now and then, when you're not too busy." "oh, of course i shall--and i'm not at all likely to be busy. only one has to stop in that hole--just in case." "i mean--just when you feel like it. don't make a duty of it. just when you feel inclined for a riot like this, or perhaps for a quiet talk some afternoon." this was all just what he wanted to hear, exactly how he wanted the thing to be put. yes, but mr. sarradet would not always be so obliging as to be out! the thought of mr. sarradet, whom he had really forgotten, suddenly recurred to him unpleasantly. "that's what i like--our quiet talks," she went on. "but you've only to say the word, and we'll have company for you." her tone was light, playful, chaffing. he answered in the same vein. "i'll send my orders about that at least twelve hours beforehand." "thank you, my lord," and, laughing, she dropped him a curtsey. he left them still at their frolic and went home rather early. he had enjoyed himself, but, all the same, his dominant sense was one of relief, and not merely from the obligation which officious hands had sought to thrust on him, regardless of the fact that he was not ready to accept it and might never be. it was relief from the sense of something that he himself had been doing, or been in danger of doing, to his own life--a thing which he vaguely defined as a premature and ignorant disposal of that priceless asset. together with the youthful vanity which this feeling about his life embodied, there came to him also a moment of clear-sightedness, in the light of which he perceived the narrow limits of his knowledge of the world, of life, even of himself. he saw--the word is too strong, rather he felt somehow--that he had never really wanted marie sarradet to share, much less to be the greatest factor in, that precious, still unexplored life; he had really only wanted to talk to her about it, with her to speculate about it, to hear from her how interesting it was and might become. he wanted that still from her. or at all events from somebody? from her or another? he put that question behind him--it was too sceptical. he wanted still her interest, her sympathy. but he wanted something else even more--freedom to find, to explore, to fulfil his life. so it was that mr. arthur lisle, by a fortunate combination of circumstances on which he certainly had no right to reckon, found out, just in time, that after all he had never been in love--unless indeed with his own comely image, flatteringly reflected in a girl's admiring eyes. poor tender diplomatist! but possibly she too might make her own discoveries. chapter vii all of a flutter "bernadette's got a new toy, esther." "i know it," said mrs. norton ward, handing her visitor a cup of tea. "do you mean that you know the fact or that you're acquainted with the individual?" "the latter, judith. in fact i sent him to her." "well, it was she who went to him really, though godfrey made some trouble about it. he thought the young man ought to have called first. however they got round him." "they? who?" "why, bernadette and oliver wyse, of course. and he came to lunch. but godfrey was quite on his high horse at first--stroked his beard, and dangled his eye-glass, and looked the other way when he was spoken to--you know the poor old dear when he's like that? luckily the young man could tell leeds from wedgwood, and that went a long way towards putting matters right. godfrey quite warmed to him at last." "we like him very much, and i hope you did--even if you won't admit it. he's got a room in frank's chambers, you know." "i didn't speak more than six words to him--he was up at the other end of the table by bernadette. but i liked the look of him rather. of course he was all of a flutter." "oh, i daresay," smiled esther. "but i thought we ought to risk that--and sir christopher felt quite strongly about it." judith arden appeared to reflect for a moment. "well, i think he ought to be," she said judicially. "i wouldn't give much for a man who didn't get into a flutter over bernadette, at first anyhow. she must seem to them rather--well, irresistible." "she's wonderfully"--esther norton ward sought for a word too--"radiant, i mean, isn't she?" "and there isn't a bit of affectation about her. she just really does enjoy it all awfully." "all what?" "why, being irresistible and radiant, of course." "that's looking at it entirely from her point of view." "what point of view do you suppose she looks at it from? that is, if she ever looks at it at all. and why not? they ought to be able to look after themselves--or keep away." "i really think you're a very fair-minded girl," laughed esther. "very impartial." "you have to be--living with them as much as i do." "do you like it?" judith smiled. "the situation is saved just by my not having to do it. if i had to do it for my bread-and-butter i should hate it like poison. but, thank heaven, i've four hundred a year, and if i spend the summer with them, it's because godfrey and margaret want me. the winter i keep for myself--switzerland part of the time, then rome, or florence. so i'm quite independent, you see. i'm always a visitor. besides, of course, nobody could be more gracious than bernadette; graciousness is part of being irresistible." "i really do think that being pretty improves people," said esther. "well, as far as i can see, without it there wouldn't _be_ any bernadette," judith remarked, and then laughed gently at her own extravagance. "at any rate, she'd be bound to turn into something absolutely different. something like me even, perhaps!" she laughed again, a low, pleasant, soft laugh, rather in contrast with the slightly brusque tone and the satiric vein which marked her speech. the laugh seemed to harmonise with and to belong to her eyes, which were dark, steady, and reflective; the tone and manner to fall into line with the pertness of her nose, with its little jut upwards, and with the scornful turn of her upper lip. her figure and movements perhaps helped the latter impression too; she inclined to thinness, and her gestures were quick and sometimes impatient. "come, you're not so bad," said esther with her pleasant cordial candour. "now i'm quite insignificant." "no, you're not. you've got the grand manner. i heard godfrey say so." esther laughed both at the compliment and at the authority vouched in support of it. "oliver wyse was at lunch too on the occasion, was he? how is he getting on?" "sir oliver is still his usual agreeable, composed, competent, and, i'm inclined to think, very wilful self." "patient, though?" the question came with a mischievous glance. judith's retort was ironic, both with eyes and tongue. "i permit myself any amount of comment on character but no conjecture as to facts. that's the distinction between studying human nature and gossiping, esther." "don't snub me! and the distinction's rather a fine one." "no, gossip's all right for you, living outside the house. i live so much inside it that i think it wouldn't be fair in me. and above all, owing to the footing on which i'm there--as i've told you--i am emphatically not a watch-dog." "where's the child?" "she's down at hilsey--with the old housekeeper mrs. gates--by doctor's orders." "again! have you any comment to make on the doctor's character?" "i think you're being malicious. it's really better for the child to be in the country. we're very busy, all of us, and very gay--a bustle all the time. if she were here, she'd only be with a nurse in the park or in the nursery. and we're only just back from three weeks at hilsey ourselves." "yes, i think i was being malicious," esther admitted. "i suppose we're all jealous of bernadette in our hearts, and talk like cats about her! well, you don't!" "it would be ungrateful of me. she affords me a very great deal of pleasure. besides, she's my aunt." "well--by marriage." "oh yes, entirely by marriage," miss arden agreed with one of her fleeting smiles. she implied that no other form of auntship would be, as the advertisements say, "entertained" by bernadette. "and even as to that i have, by request, dropped the titles, both for her and godfrey," she added. though judith arden was only just out of her teens, she was older in mind and ways; she ranked herself, and was accepted, as contemporary with women in the middle and later twenties, like bernadette and esther norton ward. she had had to face the world practically by herself. an epidemic of fever in an italian town had carried off father and mother when she was fifteen. she had got them buried, herself quarantined and back to england, unaided, as she best could. that was a developing experience. at home she came under the guardianship of her uncle, godfrey lisle, which was much the same thing as coming under her own. godfrey was not practical; the care of a growing girl was hopelessly beyond him. judith put herself to school at paris; that finished with, she tried cambridge for a term, and found it too like going back to school. she kept house for a while with an old school-comrade, an art-student, in paris. the friend married, and she was by herself again. a visit to hilsey led to the sort of semi-attachment to the godfrey lisle household which she described to esther; from the position of a "poor relation" she was saved by her four hundred pounds a year--her mother's portion; the late mr. arden, author of books on art, and travel in the interests of art, had left nothing but some personal debts behind. to the maturity of her world-experience there was one exception; she had never been in love; the transitory flirtations of ball-rooms and studios had left her amused but heart-whole. her guardian had come by degrees to let himself be looked after by her a good deal. the inheritor of an old family estate worth some ten thousand pounds a year, godfrey lisle had been bred for a country squire, a local man of affairs, or (given aptitude for the wider sphere) a politician; such were the traditions of the lisles of hilsey. in him they found no continuance. he was a shy quiet man, tall but rather awkward in person, and near-sighted; his face was handsome and refined and, when he was not embarrassed (he often was), his manner was pleasant, if too soft. but he did not like society, and was shy with strangers; he would fumble with the black ribbon from which his glasses hung, and look the other way, as judith had described. he was fond of beautiful things--pictures, china, furniture--but had not the energy to make himself a real amateur of any of them. his nature was affectionate--calmly affectionate, and the affections were constant. once, and once only, he had blazed into a flame of feeling--when he courted bernadette and in the early days of his marriage with her. the beautiful penniless girl--she would have stirred even a fish to romance; and it would not have been fair to call godfrey fish-like. but ardours were not really in his line; too soon the rapturous lover subsided into the affectionate husband. bernadette had shown no signs of noticing the change; perhaps she did not wish to check it. it may be that it coincided with a modification of her own feelings. at any rate, thus acquiesced in, it had gone further. little of affection survived now, though they treated one another with the considerate politeness of an extinct passion. he gave her everything that she desired--even to the straining of his income; he was the only person for whom she ever "put herself out." here were reciprocal, if tacit, apologies for a state of affairs which neither of them really regretted. she had loved him, though, once. she did not claim it as a merit; there it was, a curious fact in her past life at which, in her rare moments of introspection, she would smile. she had loved not only all that he brought--ease, wealth, escape from sordidness; she had also loved him for bringing them. even now sometimes she would love the memory of him as he had seemed in those days; then the considerate politeness would be coloured by a pretty tenderness, a sort of compassionate affection as for a man who had fallen from high estate, inevitably fallen but blamelessly. however these recrudescences on the whole embarrassed godfrey lisle, and bernadette, laughing at herself, withdrew to a safe distance and to her real interests. godfrey was not one of the interests of her life; he was only one of its conditions. into this household--though not, of course, below the surface of it--arthur lisle now made joyful and tremulous entry. his eyes were in no state to see clearly or to see far; they were glued to the central light, and for him the light burned bright to dazzling. behold the vision that he saw--the vision of a reigning beauty! it is a large party. there is no getting near her--at least no staying near. the crush forces a man away, however politely. but perhaps a far-off corner may afford a view, for a dexterous servant keeps clear a space just in front of her, and the onlooker is tall. they all come and speak to her, by ones and twos--ex-beauties, would-be beauties, rival beauties; for the last she has a specially cordial greeting--sometimes, if she knows them well, a word of praise for their gowns, always a quick approving glance at them. the great ladies come; for them a touch of deference, a pretty humility, a "who am i that you should come to my house?" air, which gracefully masks her triumphant sense of personal power. the men come--all the young men who would adore if they might, and are very grateful for their invitations; they pass quickly, each with his reward of an indolent smile of welcome. the choice young men come; them she greets with a touch of distance lest they should grow proud in their hearts. no favour in them to come--far from it! then an old man, a friend. mark now the change; she is daughter-like in her affection and simplicity. then perhaps a little stir runs through the company, a whisper, a craning of necks. a great man is coming--for beauty can draw greatness. there comes a massive white head--a ribbon and star perhaps, or the plain black that gives, not wears, such ornaments. he stays with her longer: there is no jostling now; the dexterous servant delays the oncoming stream of guests. royal compliments are exchanged. it is a meeting between potentates. in some such dazzling colours may the ardent imagination of youth paint the quite ordinary spectacle of a pretty woman's evening party, while an old lady on one side of him complains that "everybody" is there, and an old man on the other says that it is a beastly crush, or damns the draught from a window behind him--lucky, perhaps, if he does not damn the potentates too, the one for keeping him from his bed, the other for marching through rapine to dismemberment, or some such act of policy plainly reprehensible. strange to think--it is youth that holds the brush again--strange and intoxicating--that this is the woman with whom he drives in the park, of whose family luncheon he partakes, with whom he had tea yesterday, who makes a friend of him. she talked to him an hour yesterday, told him all about that hard childhood and girlhood of hers, how she had scanty food and coarse, had to make her own frocks and wash her own handkerchiefs; she said that she feared the hard training had made her hard, yet hoped with a sigh that it was not so, and seemed to leave the question to his sovereign arbitrament. she had made the little narrow home she came from real to him with cunning touches; she had made her leap of escape from it so natural, so touching. of what the leap had brought her she had made light, had spoken with a gentle depreciation of the place her beauty had won--"such looks as i have helped, i suppose, besides godfrey's position"--and let him see how much more to her taste was a quiet talk with a friend than all the functions of society. how much better than the receiving of beauties and potentates was a quiet hour in the twilight of her little den with cousin arthur! could it be the same woman? yes, it was. there was the wonder and the intoxication of it. he was quite unknown to all that throng. but to himself he stood among them, eminent and superior. see, hadn't she thrown him a glance--right across the room? well, at any rate he could almost swear she had! arthur lisle--in the flesh at his cousin's evening party, in the spirit anywhere you like--felt a hand laid on his arm. he turned to find sir christopher lance beside him. "ah, mr. lisle, aren't you glad you took my advice? i told you you were missing something by not coming here. don't you remember?" "yes, sir, but you see, i didn't know--i didn't quite understand what you meant." "you might have thought it worth while to find out," said the old man, smiling. "as it was, i'm told you had to be fetched." arthur laughed shamefacedly but happily. that was already a standing joke between him and bernadette; hence the associations of it were altogether pleasant. sir christopher's way was not to spoil joy in the name of wisdom nor to preach a safety that was to be won through cowardice. he saw the young man's excitement and exaltation, and commended it. "take as much of this sort of thing as you can get," he counselled, nodding his head towards the crowd and, incidentally, towards bernadette. "take a good dose of the world. it'll do you good. society's an empty thing to people with empty heads, but not to the rest of us. and the more you go about, and so on--well, the fewer terrors will my brother pretyman possess for you." arthur lisle caught at the notion eagerly. "just what i've had in my own mind, sir," he said gravely. "i thought from the look of you that you had some such wise idea in your head," said sir christopher with equal seriousness. arthur blushed, looked at him rather apprehensively, and then laughed. the judge remained grave, but his blue eyes twinkled distantly. _o mihi praeteritos_--that old tag was running in his head. "it's getting late; only bores stay late at large parties. come and say good-night to our hostess." "do you think we might?" asked arthur. certainly he was all of a flutter, as judith arden said. chapter viii nothing venture, nothing have! arthur lisle sat in his chambers with a copy of the current number of the law reports (k.b.d.) before him and with utter discouragement in his heart. this mood was apt to seize him in the mornings, after the nights of gaiety which (obeying mr. justice lance's advice) he eagerly sought. to-day it was intensified by the fact that bernadette had gone to paris for a fortnight. she bade him an affectionate, almost a tender, farewell, but she went, and was obviously glad to go. though he asked nothing from her except to let herself be adored with a dog-like adoration, a shamefaced wonder that she should be so glad to go hid in his heart; mightn't she feel the loss of the adoration just a little more? however there it was. and he had nothing to do. also he was hard up. the men he met at his parties had things to do and were doing them--interesting things that they could talk to women about, things they were actually doing, not mere hopes and dreams (such as had, not so long ago, been good enough to talk to marie sarradet about). they were making their marks, or, at least, some money. talking of money, it was annoying, indeed humiliating, not being able to ask bernadette to lunch at the resorts and in the style to which she was accustomed. he had done this once, and the same afternoon had suddenly been confronted with an appalling shininess in the back of his dress-coat; the price of the lunch would pretty well have paid for a new coat. but there--if you gave parties you could not have new coats; and what was the good of new coats unless you could give parties? a vicious circle! stagnation! that was what his life was--absolute stagnation. no avenues opened, there were no prospects. stagnation and vacancy--that's what it was! a strange contrast is this to the young man at the evening party? nay, no contrast at all, but just the other side of him, the complement of the mood which had pictured potentates and thrilled over the reigning beauty. the more ardently youth gives one hand to hope, the more fiercely despair clutches the other. suddenly--even as martin luther flung his inkpot at satan--arthur lisle with an oath seized the law reports (k.b.d.) and hurled them violently from him--across the room, with all his force, at this demon of stagnation and towards the door which happened to be opposite. they struck--not the door--but the waistcoat of henry who at that moment opened it. henry jumped in amazement. "beg your pardon, henry. it slipped from my hand," said arthur, grinning in ill-tempered mirth. "well, i thought no other gentleman was with you," remarked henry, whose ideas of why one should throw books about were obviously limited. "a mr. halliday is here, sir, and wants to know if you'll see him." "of course i will. show him in directly." as henry went out, arthur ejaculated the word "good!" anybody would have been welcome--even luther's antagonist himself, perhaps--to arthur in that black mood of his. joe halliday was a godsend. he carried cheerfulness with him--not of the order commended by moralists and bred by patience out of trouble, but rather a spontaneous hilarity of mind, thanks to which he derided the chances of life, and paddled his canoe with a laugh through the rapids of fortune. joe had no settled means and he scorned any settled occupation. he preferred to juggle with half a dozen projects, keeping all of them in the air at once. he had something to sell and something to buy, something to find or something to get rid of; something had just been invented, or was just going to be; somebody needed money or somebody had it to invest. and all the somebodies and somethings were supposed to pay a toll to joe for interesting himself in the matter. generally they did; when they failed to, he paddled gaily on to another venture--cantabat vacuus. but on the whole he was successful. the profits, the commissions, the "turns" came rolling in--and were rolled out again with a festive and joyous prodigality that took no thought for a morrow which, under the guidance of an acute and sanguine intelligence, should not have the smallest difficulty in providing for itself. he bustled in and threw his hat on arthur's table. "morning, old chap. sorry to interrupt! i expect you're awfully busy? yes, i see! i see! look at the briefs! mr. arthur lisle--with you the right hon. sir richard finlayson, k.c., m.p.-- guineas! whew! mr. arthur lisle--with you----" he fingered the imaginary briefs, rolling his eyes at arthur, and scratching his big hooked nose with the other hand. "go to the devil, joe," said arthur, smiling, suddenly able to smile, at the demon of stagnation as represented by his empty table. "have a cigarette?" "the subject of my call demands a pipe," and he proceeded to light one. "have you got any money, arthur?" "i think you're roughly acquainted with the extent of my princely income." "income isn't money. capital is. turn your income into capital, and you've got money!" "it sounds delightfully simple, and must work well--for a time, joe." "i've got a real good thing. no difficulty, no risk--well, none to speak of. i thought you might like to consider it. i'm letting my friends have the first chance." "what is it? gold, rubber, or a new fastener for umbrellas?" arthur was not a stranger to joe's variegated ventures. "it's a deal safer than any of those. did you ever see _help me out quickly_?" "yes. i saw it at worcester once. quite funny!" "well, a fellow who put five hundred into _help me out quickly_ drew seventeen thousand in eighteen months and is living on it still. arthur, i've found a farce compared to which _help me out quickly_ is like the dead march in saul played by the vicar's wife on a harmonium." "and you want money to produce it?" "that's the idea. two thousand or, if possible, two thousand five hundred. we could get the burlington in the autumn--first-rate theatre. lots of fun, and mints of money! the thing only wants seeing, doesn't it?" "what's the use of talking to me, joe? i haven't got----" "we're all of us going in--quite a family affair! raymond's in it, and old pa sarradet has put a bit in for marie. and mildred's governor has come in; and amabel has begged a pony of her governor, and put it in--just for a lark, you know. i'm in--shirt, and boots, and all. we're all in--well, except sidney. that chap's got no spunk." the inference about arthur, if he did not "come in," was sadly obvious to himself, though joe had not in the least meant to convey it. but that did not much affect him. the idea itself filled him with a sudden, a delicious, tingle of excitement. lots of fun and mints of money! could there be a programme more attractive? vacancy and stagnation could not live in the presence of that. "just for curiosity--how much more do you want, to make it up?" asked arthur. "a thousand." joe laughed. "oh, i'm not asking you to put down all that. just what you like. only the more that goes in, the more comes out." he laughed again joyfully; his prophetic eyes were already beholding the stream of gold; he seemed to dip that beak of his in it and to drink deep. arthur knew what his income was only too well--also what was his present balance at the bank. but, of course, his balance at the bank (twenty-six pounds odd) had nothing to do with the matter. his mind ran back to _help me out quickly_. how mother, and anna, and he had laughed over it at worcester! one or two of the "gags" in it were household words among them at malvern to this day. now joe's farce was much, much funnier than _help me out quickly_. "i know just the girl for it too," said joe. "quite young, awfully pretty, and a discovery of my own." "who is she?" joe looked apologetic. "awfully sorry, old fellow, but the fact is we're keeping that to ourselves for the present. of course, if you came in, it'd be different." the law reports still lay on the floor; joe halliday sat on the table--sacred love and profane, stern duty and alluring venture. "i'm putting up five hundred. be a sport, and cover it!" said joe. something in arthur lisle leapt to a tremendous decision--a wild throw with fortune. "you can put me down for the thousand you want, joe," he said in quite a calm voice. "christopher!" joe ejaculated in amazed admiration. then a scruple, a twinge of remorse, seized him for a moment. "that's pretty steep, old chap--and nothing's an absolute cert!" temperament triumphed. "though if there's one on god's earth we've got it!" "in for a penny, in for a pound! nothing venture, nothing have!" cried arthur, feeling wonderfully gleeful. "but, i say, wouldn't you like to read it first?" conscience's expiring spark! "i'd sooner trust your opinion than my own. i may read it later on, but i'll put down my money first." "well, i call you a sport!" joe was moved and put out his hand. "well, here's luck to us!" arthur had plunged into deep water, but it did not feel cold. he suffered no reaction of fear or remorse. he was buoyant of spirit. life was alive again. "of course i shall have to sell out. i haven't the cash by me," he said, smiling at the idea. the cash by him indeed! the cash that ought to keep him, if need be, for six or seven years, pretty near a quarter of all he had in the world, representing the like important fraction of his already inadequate income. why, now the income would be hopelessly inadequate! his mind was moving quickly. what's the use of trying to live on an inadequate income? while joe was yet in the room, arthur formed another resolution--to realise and spend, besides joe's thousand (as his thoughts called it), another five hundred pounds of his money. "by the time that's gone," said the rapidly moving mind, "either i shall have made something or i shall have to chuck this--and thank heaven for it!" but all this while, notwithstanding his seething thoughts, he seemed very calm, gently inhaling his cigarette smoke. joe thought him the finest variety of "sport"--the deadly cool plunger. but he also thought that his friend must be at least a little better off than he had hitherto supposed--not that he himself, having the same means as arthur, would not have risked as much and more without a qualm. but that was his temper and way of living; he had never credited arthur with any such characteristics. however his admiration remained substantially unchanged; many fellows with tons of money had no spunk. "may i tell them in regent's park?" he asked. "it'll make 'em all sit up." "tell them i'm in with you, but not for how much." "i shall let 'em know you've done it handsome." "if you like!" laughed arthur. "how are they? i haven't seen them just lately." "they're all right. you have been a bit of an absentee, haven't you?" "yes, i must go one day soon. i say, joe, who are your stockbrokers?" joe supplied him with the name of his firm, and then began to go. but what with his admiration of arthur, and his enthusiasm for the farce, and the beauty and talent of the girl he had discovered, it was, or seemed, quite a long time before he could be got out of the room. arthur wanted him to go, and listened to all his transports with superficial attention; his real mind was elsewhere. at last joe did go--triumphant to the end, already fingering thousands just as, on his entrance, he had so facetiously fingered arthur's imaginary briefs. arthur was left alone with the law reports--still on the floor where they had fallen in rebound from henry's waistcoat. let them lie! if they had not received notice to quit, they had at least been put very much on their good behaviour. "prove you're of some use, or out you go!"--arthur had delivered to them his ultimatum. so much, then, for his stern mistress the law--for her who arrogated the right to exact so much and in return gave nothing, who claimed all his days only to consume them in weary waiting, who ate up so much of his means with her inexorable expenses. she had tried to appease him by dangling before his eyes the uncertain distant prospect that in the space of years--some great, almost impossible, number of years--he would be prosperous--that he would be even as norton ward was, with briefs rolling in, "silk" in view, perhaps a candidature. it seemed all very remote to arthur's new impatience. he set his mistress a time-limit. if within the time that it took him to spend that five hundred pounds--he did not decide definitely how long it would be--she did something to redeem her promises, well and good, he would be prepared to give her a further trial. if not, he would be take himself, with his diminished income, to fresh woods and pastures new, lying over the back of beyond in some region unexplored and therefore presumed to be fertile and attractive. he would indeed have no choice about the matter, since the diminished income would no longer meet her exactions, and yet enable him to live. a break with the stern, and hitherto ungrateful, mistress would be a matter of compulsion. he was very glad of it. what of that other--the mistress of his fancy, delicate sumptuous cousin bernadette? vaguely, yet with a true instinct, he felt that she was at the back of this mood of his and the impulses it inspired. she was the ultimate cause, joe halliday's sanguine suggestions but the occasion. had he not outbid joe's daring with a greater of his own? she it was who had stirred him to discontent, be it divine or a work of the devil's; she it was who braved him to his ventures. she showed him the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them--or, at least, very tempting glimpses thereof; would she not herself be his guide through them, conferring on them thereby a greater glory? in return he was ready enough to fall down and worship, asking for himself nothing but leave to kneel in the precincts of the shrine, not touching so much as the hem of her garment. in response to her beauty, her splendour, the treasure of her comradeship, he offered a devotion as humble and unselfish as it was ardent. but he burned to have an offering to lay at her feet--a venture achieved, the guerdon of a tournament. the smaller vanities worked with these high-flying sentiments. for her sake he would be comely and well-equipped, point-de-vice in his accoutrements; not a poor relation, client, or parasite, but a man of the world--a man of her world--on equal terms with others in it, however immeasurably below herself. if she thought him worthy of her favour, others must think him worthy too; to which end he must cut a proper figure. and that speedily; for a horrible little fiend, a little fiend clever at pricking young men's vanity to the quick, had whispered in his ear that, if he went shabby and betrayed a lack of ready cash, cousin bernadette might smile--or be ashamed. adoration must not have her soaring wings clipped by a vile economy. all these things had been surging in him--confusedly but to the point of despair--when he threw the law reports across the room and hit henry in the waistcoat; he had seemed caught hopelessly in his vicious circle, victim beyond help to the demon of stagnation. not so strange, then, his leap for life and freedom, not so mad could seem the risks he took. joe halliday had come at a moment divinely happy for his purpose, and had found an audacity greater than his own, the audacity of desperation. arthur himself wondered not at all at what he had done. but he admired himself for having done it, and was deliciously excited. before he left the temple--and he left that day for good at one o'clock, being by no means in the mood to resume the law reports--he wrote two letters. one was to the firm whose name joe had given him; it requested them to dispose of so much of his patrimony as would produce the sum of fifteen hundred pounds. the other was to his mother. since it contained some observations on his position and prospects, an extract from it may usefully be quoted:-- "since i last wrote, i have been considering what is the wisest thing to do with regard to the bar. no work has appeared yet. of course it's early days and i am not going to be discouraged too easily. the trouble is that my necessary expenses are heavier than i anticipated; chambers, clerk, circuit, etc., eat into my income sadly, and even with the strictest economy it will, i'm afraid, be necessary to encroach on my capital. i have always been prepared to do this to some extent, regarding it as bread cast upon the waters, but it clearly would not be wise to carry the process too far. i must not exhaust my present resources unless my prospects clearly warrant it. of course i shall come to no hasty decision; we can talk it all over when i'm with you in the summer. but unless some prospects do appear within a reasonable time, i should be disposed to turn to something else while i still have enough capital to secure an opening." ... "you were quite right, dear mother, about my calling on the godfrey lisles, and i was quite wrong--as usual! i'm ever so glad i've made friends with them at last. they are both delightful people, and they've got a charming house. i've been to several parties there, and have met people who ask me to other houses, so i'm getting quite gay. cousin godfrey is quiet and reserved, but very kind. cousin bernadette is really awfully pretty and jolly, and always seems glad to see me. she says she's going to launch me in society! i don't object, only, again, it all costs money. well, i think it's worth a little, don't you?" and there was a postscript: "don't worry over what i've said about money. i'm all right for the present, and--_between ourselves_--i've already something in view--apart from the bar--which is quite promising." "what a wise, prudent, thoughtful boy it is!" said the proud mother. chapter ix a complication bernadette lisle's foray on the shops of paris, undertaken in preparation for the london season, was of so extensive an order as to leave her hardly an hour of the day to herself; and in the evenings the friends with whom she was staying--mrs. and miss stacey jenkinson, europeanised americans and most popular people--insisted on her society. so it was with the greatest difficulty that she had at last got away by herself and was able to come to lunch. "though even now," she told oliver wyse, as they sat down together at the café de paris, "it's a secret assignation. i'm supposed to be trying on hats!" "all the sweeter for secrecy, and i suppose we're not visible to more than two hundred people." he had a fine voice, not loud but full and resonant. there were many things about him that bernadette liked--his composure, his air of being equal to all things, his face and hands browned by the sun in southern climes, his keen eyes quickly taking in a character or apprehending a mood. but most of all to her fancy was his voice. she told him so now with her usual naturalness. "it is pleasant to hear your voice again." she gave him a quick merry glance. "do you mind my saying that?" "yes, i hate compliments." "i'm sorry." she was chaffing him, but she did it with a subtle little touch of deference, quite unlike anything in her manner towards either her husband or her new toy, cousin arthur. in this again she was, while pretty, natural. oliver wyse was a dozen years her senior, and a distinguished man. he had a career behind him in the colonial service, a career of note, and was supposed to have another still in front of him in the directorate of a great business with world-wide interests. to take up this new work--very congenial and promising much wealth, which had not hitherto come his way--he had bade farewell to employment under government. some said his resignation had been hailed with relief since he did not count among his many virtues that of being a very docile subordinate. his representations were apt to be more energetic, his interpretation of orders less literal, than official superiors at the other end of the cable desired. so with many compliments and a knight commandership of the appropriate order he was gracefully suffered to depart. "but a jolly little lunch like this is worth a lot of meetings at squashes and so on, isn't it? by the way, you didn't come to mine the other day, sir oliver." (she referred to the party which mr. arthur lisle had attended.) "i don't like squashes." "compliments and squashes! anything else? i want to know what to avoid, please." she rested her chin on her hand and looked at him with an air of wondering how far she could safely go in her banter. "i'm not sure i like handsome young cousins very much." "i haven't any more--at least i'm afraid not! even arthur was quite a surprise. i believe i should never have known of him but for esther norton ward." "meddling woman! for a fortnight after his appearance i was obviously _de trop_." "i was afraid he'd run away again; he's very timid. i had to tie him tight at first." "suppose i had run away? you don't seem to have thought of that." her changeful lips pouted a little. "i might run after you, i shouldn't after arthur--and then i could bring you back. at least, could i, sir oliver? oh, dear, i've very nearly paid you another compliment!" "i didn't mind that one so much. it was more subtle." "i don't believe you mind them a bit, so long as they're--well, ingenious enough. you've been spoilt by begums, or ranees, or whatever they're called, i expect." "that's true. you must find me very hard to please, of course." "well, there's a--a considering look in your eyes sometimes that i don't quite like," said bernadette. she laughed, sipped her wine, and turned to her cutlet with good appetite. she spoke lightly, jestingly, but she laid her finger shrewdly on the spot. she charmed him, but she puzzled him too; and oliver wyse, when he did not understand, was apt to be angry, or at least impatient. a man of action and of ardour, of strong convictions and feelings, he could make no terms with people who were indifferent to the things he believed in and was moved by, and who ordered their lives--or let them drift--along lines which seemed to him wrong or futile. he was a proselytiser, and might have been, in other days, a persecutor. not to share his views and ideals was a blunder bordering on a crime. even not to be the sort of man that he was constituted an offence, since he was the sort of man of whom the empire and the world had need. of this offence godfrey lisle was guilty in the most heinous degree. he was quite indifferent to all oliver's causes--to the empire, to the world, to a man's duty towards these great entities; he drifted through life in a hazy æstheticism, doing nothing, being profoundly futile. his amiability and faithful affections availed nothing to save him from condemnation--old maids' virtues, both of them! where were his feelings? had he no passion in him? a poor, poor creature, but half a man, more like a pussy-cat, a well-fed old pussy-cat that basks before the fire and lets itself be stroked, too lazy to catch mice or mingle in affrays at midnight. an old house-cat, truly and properly contemptible! but inoffensive? no, not to oliver's temper. distinctly an offence on public and general grounds, a person of evil example, anathema by oliver's gospel--and a more grievous offender in that, being what he was, he was bernadette's husband. what a fate for her! what a waste of her! what emptiness for mind and heart must lie in existence with such a creature--it was like living in a vacuum! her nature must be starved, her capacities in danger of being stunted. surely she must be supremely unhappy? but to all appearances she was not at all unhappy. here came the puzzle which brought that "considering look" into his eyes and tinged it with resentment, even while he watched with delight the manifold graces of her gaiety. if she were content, why not leave her alone? that would not do for oliver. she attracted him, she charmed his senses. then she must be of his mind, must see and feel things as he did. if he was bitterly discontented for her, she must be bitterly discontented for herself. if he refused to acquiesce in a stunted life for her, to her too the stunted life must seem intolerable. otherwise what conclusion was there save that the fair body held a mean spirit? the fair body charmed him too much to let him accept that conclusion. "enjoying your holiday from home cares?" he asked. "i'm enjoying myself, but i haven't many home cares, sir oliver." "your husband must miss you very much." she looked a little pettish. "why do you say just the opposite of what you mean? you've seen enough of us to know that godfrey doesn't miss me at all; he has his own interests. i couldn't keep that a secret from you, even if i wanted to; and i don't particularly want. you're about my greatest friend and----" "about?" "well, my greatest then--and don't look as if somebody had stolen your umbrella." he broke into a laugh for an instant, but was soon grave again. she smiled at him appealingly; she had been happier in the light banter with which they had begun. that she thoroughly enjoyed; it told her of his admiration, and flattered her with it; she was proud of the friendship it implied. when he grew serious and looked at her ponderingly, she always felt a little afraid; and he had been doing it more and more every time they met lately. it was as though he were thinking of putting some question to her--some grave question to which she must make answer. she did not want that question put. things were very well as they stood; there were drawbacks, but she was not conscious of anything very seriously wrong. she found a great deal of pleasure and happiness in life; there were endless small gratifications in it, and only a few rubs, to which she had become pretty well accustomed. inside the fair body there was a reasonable little mind, quite ready for reasonable compromises. they had finished their meal, which bernadette at least had thoroughly appreciated. she lit a tiny cigarette and watched her companion; he had fallen into silence over his cigar. his lined bronzed face looked thoughtful and worried. "oh, you think too much," she told him, touching his hand for an instant lightly. "why don't you just enjoy yourself? at any rate when you're lunching with a friend you like!" "it's just because i like the friend that i think so much." "but what is there to think so much about?" she cried, really rather impatiently. "there's the fact that i'm in love with you to think about," he answered quietly. it was not a question, but it was just as disconcerting as the most searching interrogatory; perhaps indeed it differed only in form from one. "oh, dear!" she murmured half under her breath, with a frown and a pout. then came a quick persuasive smile. "oh, no, you're not! i daresay you think me pretty and so on, but you're not in love." she ventured further--so far as a laugh. "you haven't time for it, sir oliver!" he laughed too. "i've managed to squeeze it in, i'm afraid, bernadette." "can't you manage to squeeze it out again? won't you try?" "why should i? it suits me very well where it is." she made a little helpless gesture with her hands, as if to say, "what's to be done about it?" "you're not angry with me for mentioning the fact?" "angry? no. i like you, you see. but what's the use?" he looked her full in the eyes for a moment. "we shall have to discuss that later." "what's the use of discussing? you can't discuss godfrey out of existence!" "not out of existence--practically speaking?" "oh, no! nonsense! of course not!" she was genuinely vexed and troubled now. "all right. don't fret," he said, smiling. "it can wait." she looked at him gravely, her lips just parted. "you do complicate things!" she murmured. "you'd rather i'd held my tongue about it?" "yes, i would--much." "i couldn't, you see, any longer. i've been wanting to say it for six months. besides, i think i'm the sort of fellow who's bound to have a thing like that out and see what comes of it--follow it to the end, you know." she thought that he probably was; there lay the trouble. the thing itself was pleasant enough to her, but she did not want to follow it out. if only he would have left it where it was--under the surface, a pleasant sub-consciousness for them both, blending with their friendship a delightful sentiment! dragged into the open like this, it was very hard to deal with. "can't you try and forget about it?" she whispered softly. "oh, my dear!" he muttered, laughing in a mixture of amusement and exasperation. she understood something of what his tone and his laugh meant. she gave him a quick little nod of sympathy. "is it as bad as that? then my question was stupid," she seemed to say. but though she understood, she had no suggestion to offer. she sat with her brows furrowed and her lips pursed up, thoroughly outfaced by the difficulty. "you go back home to-morrow, don't you?" he asked. "yes. and you?" "in a few days. i've not quite finished my business. do you want me to come to the house as usual?" "oh yes," she answered quickly, her brow clearing. "in the hope that i shall get over it?" "yes." "i shan't, you know." "you can never tell. godfrey was in love with me once. i was in love with him too." her expression plainly added what her lips refrained from: "isn't that funny?" he shrugged his shoulders, in refusal to consider so distasteful a subject. her mind appeared to dwell on it a little, for she sat smiling reflectively. she had recovered quickly from her alarmed discomfort; in fact she seemed so at ease, so tranquil, that he was prompted to say--saying it, however, with a smile--"i didn't introduce the topic just to pass the time after lunch, you know." he paused and then added gravely but simply, "i want you to look back on this as the greatest day in your life." ever so slightly she shook her head. the room was nearly empty now; the few who lingered were no less absorbed than themselves. he put his hand on the top of her right hand on the table. "there's my pledge for life and all i'm worth--if you will," he said. at this she seemed moved by some feeling stronger than mere embarrassment or discomfort. she gave a little shiver and raised her eyes to his with a murmured "don't!" it was as though she now, for the first time, realised to some extent not only what he meant but what he felt, and that the realisation caused her a deeper alarm. she sighed as though under some weight and now, also for the first time, blushed brightly. but when they were going to the door, she put her arm inside his for a moment, and gave him a friendly little squeeze. when he looked round into her face, she laughed rather nervously. "we're dear friends, anyhow," she said. "you can walk with me to my hat shop, if you like." "i won't come in," he protested, in a masculine horror that she liked. "nobody asked you. i expect to find laura jenkinson waiting for me there. as it's your fault i'm so late, she'd be very cross with you." they walked up the street together in silence for a little way. then his attention was caught by a wonderful gown in a shop-window and he turned to her to point it out, with a laugh; he had determined to press her no further that day. to his surprise he saw that her eyes were dim; a tear trickled down her cheek. "why, bernadette----!" he began in shocked remorse. "yes, i know," she interrupted petulantly. "well, you frightened me. i'm--i'm not used to things like that." then she too saw the startling frock. "look at that, sir oliver! i don't believe i should ever dare to wear it!" "i fancy it's meant to appeal to ladies of another sort." "is it? don't they wear just what we do? well, just a little more so, perhaps!" she stood eyeing the gown with a whimsical smile. "it is rather naughty, isn't it?" she moved on again. he watched her face now. she had wiped away the tear, no more came; she was smiling, not brightly, but yet with a pensive amusement. presently she asked him a question. "by what you said there--in the café, you know--did you mean that you wanted me to run away with you?" he was rather surprised at her returning to the subject. "i meant that i wanted to take you away with me. there'd be no running about it." "what, to do it,--openly?" "anything else wouldn't be at all according to my ideas. still----" he shrugged his shoulders again; he was not sure whether, under stress of temptation, he would succeed in holding to his point. she began to laugh, but stopped hastily when she saw that he looked angry. "oh, but you are absurd, you really are," she told him in a gentle soothing fashion. "i don't see that anybody could call it absurd," he remarked, frowning. "some good folk would no doubt call it very wicked." "well, i should, for one," said bernadette, "if that's of any importance." she made him laugh again, as she generally could. "i believe i could convince you, if that's the obstacle," he began. "i don't suppose it is really--not the only one anyhow. oh, here's the shop!" she stopped, but did not give him her hand directly. she was smiling, but her eyes seemed large with alarm and apprehension. "i do wish you'd promise me never to say another word about this." there was no doubt of her almost pitiful sincerity. it made him very remorseful. "i wish to god i could, bernadette," he answered. "you're very strong. you can," she whispered, her face upturned to his. he shook his head; now her eyes expressed a sort of wonder, as if at something beyond her understanding. "i'm very sorry," he muttered in compunction. she sighed, but gave him her hand with a friendly smile. "no, don't be unhappy about it--about having told me, i mean. i expect you couldn't help it. _au revoir_--in london!" "couldn't we dine, or go to the play, or something, to-night?" it was hard to let her out of his sight. "i'm engaged, and----" she clasped her hands for a moment as though in supplication. "please not, oliver!" she pleaded. he drew back a little, taking off his hat. her cheeks were glowing again as she turned away and went into the shop. chapter x the hero of the evening that same afternoon--the day before bernadette was to return from paris--marie sarradet telephoned to arthur asking him to drop in after dinner, if he were free; besides old friends, a very important personage was to be there, mr. claud beverley, the author of the wonderfully funny farce; marie named him with a thrill in her voice which even the telephone could not entirely smother. arthur was thrilled too, though it did cross his mind that mr. claud beverley must have rechristened himself; authors seldom succeed in achieving such suitable names as that by the normal means. though he was still afraid of mr. sarradet and still a little embarrassed about marie herself, he determined to go. he put on one of his new evening shirts--with pleats down the front--and one of his new white evening waistcoats, which was of extremely fashionable cut, and sported buttons somewhat out of the ordinary; these were the first products of the five hundred pounds venture. he looked, and felt, very well turned-out. old mr. sarradet was there this time, and he was grumpy. marie seized a chance to whisper that her father was "put out" because raymond had left business early to go to a race-meeting and had not come back yet--though obviously the races could not still be going on. arthur doubted whether this were the whole explanation; the old fellow seemed to treat him with a distance and a politeness in which something ironical might be detected; his glance at the white waistcoat did not look wholly like one of honest admiration. marie too, though as kind and cordial as possible, was perhaps a shade less intimate, less at ease with him; any possible sign of appropriating him to herself was carefully avoided; she shared him, almost ostentatiously, with the other girls, amabel and mildred. any difference in marie's demeanour touched his conscience on the raw; the ingenious argument by which he had sought to acquit himself was not quite proof against that. nothing, however, could seriously impair the interest and excitement of the occasion. they clustered round mr. beverley; joe halliday saw to that, exploiting his hero for all he was worth. the author was tall, gaunt, and solemn-faced. arthur's heart sank at the first sight of him--could he really write anything funny? but he remembered that humorists were said to be generally melancholy men, and took courage. mr. beverley stood leaning against the mantelpiece, receiving admiration and consuming a good deal of the champagne which had been produced in his special honour. joe halliday presented arthur to him with considerable ceremony. "now we're all here!" said joe. "for i don't mind telling you, beverley, that without lisle's help we should be a long way from--from--well, from standing where we do at present." arthur felt that some of the limelight--to use a metaphor appropriately theatrical--was falling on him. "oh, that's nothing! anything i could afford--awfully glad to have the chance," he murmured, rather confusedly. "and he did afford something pretty considerable," added joe, admiringly. "of course i can't guarantee success. you know what the theatre is," said mr. beverley. they knew nothing about it--and even mr. beverley himself had not yet made his bow to the public; but they all nodded their heads wisely. "i do wish you would tell us something about it, mr. beverley," said impulsive amabel. "oh, but i should be afraid of letting it out!" cried mildred. "the fact is, you can't be too careful," said joe. "there are fellows who make a business of finding out about forthcoming plays and stealing the ideas. aren't there, beverley?" "more than you might think," said mr. beverley. "i much prefer to be told nothing about it," marie declared, smiling. "i think that makes it ever so much more exciting." "i recollect a friend of mine--in the furniture line--thirty years ago it must be--taking me in with him to see a rehearsal once at the--now, let's see, what was the theatre? a rehearsal of--tut--now, what was the play?" old mr. sarradet was trying to contribute to the occasion, but the tide of conversation overwhelmed his halting reminiscences. "but how do you get the idea, mr. beverley?" "oh, well, that may come just at any minute--anywhere, you know." "where did this one come?" "oh, i got this one, as it happens, walking on hampstead heath." "hampstead heath! fancy!" breathed amabel osling in an awed voice. "and you went straight home and wrote it out?" asked mildred quain. "oh, i've got my office in the daytime. i can only write at nights." "bit of a strain!" murmured joe. "it is rather. besides, one doesn't begin by writing it out, miss quain." he smiled in condescending pity. "one has to construct, you see." "yes, of course. how stupid of me!" said mildred, rather crestfallen. "not a bit, miss quain. you naturally didn't realise"--mr. beverley seemed genuinely sorry if he had appeared to snub her. "and i--i should like to tell you all how much i--i feel what you're doing. of course i believe in the thing myself, but that's no reason why--well, i tell you i do feel it. i--i feel it really." they had admired him before; they liked him the better for this little speech. he came off his pedestal, and made himself one of them--a co-adventurer. his hesitation and his blush revealed him as human. they got a new and pleasantly flattering sense of what they were doing. they were not only going to make money and have fun; they were helping genius. joe raised his glass. "here's luck to the author and the syndicate!" "the what?" asked amabel osling. "i mean, what is a syndicate?" "we are!" answered joe with mock solemnity. "fill your glasses--and no heel-taps!" they drank to mr. claud beverley and their enterprising selves. joe clasped the author's hand. mr. beverley drained his glass. "here's luck!" he echoed. there was just a little shake in his voice; the occasion was not without its emotions for mr. beverley. never before had he been the hero of the evening. his imagination darted forward to a wider triumph. arthur was moved too. he felt a generous envy of mr. beverley, awkward and melancholy as he was. beverley was doing something--really off his own bat. that was great. well, the next best thing was to help--to be in the venture; even that was making something of life. as he listened to the talk and shared in the excitement, his embarrassment had worn away; and old sarradet himself had clinked glasses with him cordially. just on the heels of mr. beverley's "here's luck!"--almost clashing with it--came a loud ring at the front door. "why, who's that?" exclaimed marie. they heard the scurry of the maid's feet. then came a murmur of voices and the noise of the door closing. then a full hearty voice--known to them all except mr. beverley--said: "that's better, old chap! you're all right now!" the maid threw open the door of the room, and the festive and excited group inside received a sudden shock that banished all thought of author and syndicate alike. very pale, very dishevelled, and seeming to totter on his feet, raymond sarradet came in, supported by sidney barslow's sturdy arm round his shoulders. sidney was dishevelled too; his coat was torn all down the front, his hat was smashed. he had a black eye, a cut on the lip, and a swollen nose. they were a dismal battered pair. "that's right, old chap! here's a chair." sidney gently deposited his friend in a seat and looked round at the astonished company. "they gave him a fair knock-out," he said, "but he's come round now." then he spoke to marie directly. "still i thought i'd better see him home--he's a bit shaky." "oh, but you too!" she exclaimed. and to the maid she added: "bring some hot water and a sponge quickly--and towels, you know--oh, and plaster! be quick!" "what the devil is all this?" demanded old sarradet, very red and very bristly. "they'd have had everything out of me, but for sidney. lucky if they hadn't killed me!" said raymond, resting his head on his hand. "gad, how my head aches!" amabel came and laid her hand on his forehead. "poor boy! what can have happened?" "give them some champagne, joe. oh, sidney, you are hurt! here's the hot water! now let me!" sidney gave himself up to marie's ministrations. amabel and mildred bathed raymond's head with eau-de-cologne. joe poured out champagne. the other men stood about, looking as if they would like to do something, but could not think of anything to do. in the course of the ministrations the story gradually came out. the two had gone to a suburban race-meeting together. fortune favoured raymond, and he came away with considerably more money than he started with. three agreeable strangers got into their carriage, coming home. raymond joined them in a game of cards, sidney sitting out. on arrival at waterloo the agreeable strangers proposed a "bite" together--and perhaps another little game afterwards? sidney tried to persuade raymond to refuse the invitation, but raymond persisted in accepting it, and his friend would not leave him. the story continued on familiar lines--so familiar that sidney's suspicions were very natural. there was the "bite," the wine, the game--sidney still not playing. there was the lure of temporary success, the change of fortune, the discovery of the swindling. "sidney was looking on, you know," said raymond, "and he nudged me. i had an idea myself by then, and i knew what he meant. so i watched, and i saw him do it--the big one with the red hair--you saw him too, didn't you, sidney? well, i was excited and--and so on, and i just threw my cards in his face. the next minute they rushed us up into a corner and went for us like blazes, the three of them. i did my best, but i'm only a lightweight. the big chap gave me one here"--he touched the side of his chin--"and down i went. i could call 'murder!'--i wasn't unconscious--but that's all i could do. and the three of them went for sidney. by jove, you should have seen sidney!" "rot!" came in a muffled tone from sidney, whose lips were being bathed and plastered. "he kept them all going for the best part of five minutes, i should think, and marked 'em too; gave 'em as good as he got! and i shouted 'murder!' all the time. and that's what it would have been, if it had gone on much longer. but the waiters came at last--we were in some kind of a restaurant near waterloo. i don't fancy the people were particular, but i suppose they didn't want murder done there. and so they came, and our friends made a bolt." "but did nobody call the police?" asked marie indignantly. "well," said raymond, "they'd gone, you see, and----" he smiled weakly. "it doesn't do any good to have that sort of thing in the papers," sidney remarked. "there you're quite right," said old sarradet with emphasis. he came up to sidney and laid his hand on his shoulder. "thank you, barslow, for looking after that young fool of mine," he added. "you showed great courage." "oh, i don't mind a scrap, sir," said sidney. "i like the exercise." "oh, sidney!" murmured marie, in a very low voice, not far from a sob. the other girls clapped their hands; the men guffawed; mr. claud beverley made a mental note--not a bad line that! amidst the clash of arms the laws are silent, and even the arts do not go for much. not arthur's legal status nor yet his new elegance, no, nor mr. claud beverley's genius, had any more chance that evening. the girls were aflame with primitive woman's admiration of fighting man--of muscles, skill, and pluck. joe was an amateur of the noble art and must have every detail of the encounter. old sarradet fussed about, now scolding his son, now surreptitiously patting him on the shoulder, always coming back to sidney with fresh praises and fresh proffers of champagne. marie took her seat permanently by the wounded warrior's side, and delicately conveyed the foaming glass to his lacerated lips. more than admiration was in her heart; she was a prey to severe remorse. she had sent this man into banishment--a harsh sentence for a hasty word. his response was to preserve her brother! marie would have been more or less than human if she had not, by now, experienced a certain reaction of feeling in regard to arthur lisle. her resentment she kept for mrs. veltheim and her father, and their bungling. towards arthur she remained very friendly, even affectionately disposed. but a sense of failure was upon her, and there came with it a diffidence which made her, always now, doubtful of pleasing him. her old distrust of herself grew stronger; the fear of "grating" on him was more insistent. thus her pleasure in his company was impaired, and she could no longer believe, as she used, in his pleasure in being with her. she thought she saw signs of uneasiness in him too sometimes--and she was not always wrong about that. in the result, with all the mutual goodwill in the world, there was a certain constraint. save in such moments of excitement as had arisen over mr. beverley and his farce, neither could forget that there lay between them one of those uncomfortable things of which both parties are well aware, but which neither can mention. it was a consciousness which tended not indeed to hostility, but to separation. arthur's new preoccupations, resulting in his visits to regent's park being much less frequent, intensified the feeling. inevitably, as her dreams day by day faded, some of the bright hues with which they had decked arthur lisle faded from him also. he retained his own virtues and attractions; but gradually again it became possible for there to be other virtues and attractions in the world which were not his and which might advance rival pretensions. her natural affinities with sidney barslow, checked and indeed wilfully, if reluctantly, suppressed for the last few weeks, would have revived in any event so soon as the counter-attraction lost its monopolising power. the event of this evening--the dramatic and triumphant return of the banished friend--brought them to a quick and vigorous life again. to forgive was not enough. she burned to welcome and applaud--though still with a wary uneasy eye on arthur. yet she was--perversely--glad that he was there, that he should see what manner of man had suffered dismissal for his sake. this desire to magnify in his eyes a sacrifice which had proved useless was a subtle reproach to arthur--the only one she levelled against him. he had been among the first to shake the warrior by the hand. "splendid, my dear fellow! splendid!" he exclaimed with a genuine enthusiasm. "i wish i'd been there too--though i should have been of jolly little use, i'm afraid." his humility was genuine too; at that moment he would have given a great deal to be as good a fighting man as sidney barslow. sidney gave his hand readily, but he looked apologetic amidst all his glory. "serves us right for taking up with those chaps and going to the beastly place. but after the races sometimes, you know--." he was trying to convey that such associates and such resorts were not habitual with him. he was remembering that unhappy encounter in oxford street far more painfully than arthur. "why, that was all raymond's fault, anyhow," marie interposed indignantly. "you couldn't desert him!" but arthur did remember the encounter and with some shame. if there were occasions on which a man might not wish to know sidney barslow or to vouch for his respectability, there were evidently others on which he would be glad to have him by his side and to be recognised as entitled to his friendly services. very likely the latter were really the more characteristic and important. at all events here he was to-night, a gallant spirit, brave and gay in battle--no small part of what goes to make a man. arthur himself felt rather small when he remembered his fastidious horror. "we're all proud of you, barslow," said old sarradet in his most impressive manner. "we are, we are, we are!" cried joe, and regardless of poor raymond's aching head, he sat down at the piano and thumped out "see the conquering hero comes!" mr. claud beverley was robbed of the honours of the evening, but, to do him justice, he took his deposition in good part. in fact, as he walked home to those northern heights whence had come his wonderful inspiration, he found and hailed yet another hero of the evening. neither gifted author nor splendid warrior! "put in as much as that, did he! just made it possible! i should like to do that chap a turn if i could!" joe halliday--his heart opened by emotion and champagne--had told him the secret of the thousand. chapter xi household politics for the next three months--through the course of the london season, a fine and prosperous one--arthur lisle played truant. the poison of speculation was in his veins, the lust of pleasure in his heart; romantic imaginings and posings filled his thoughts. the temple saw little of him. more than once norton ward would have offered him some "devilling" to do, or some case to make a note on; but henry reported that mr. lisle was not at chambers. norton ward shrugged his shoulders and let the thing drop; the first duty of an earnest aspirant in the temple is to be there--always waiting in the queue for employment. "you can't help a man who won't help himself," norton ward observed to his wife, who pursed up her lips and nodded significantly; she knew what she knew about the young man's case. informed of his missed chances by a deferentially reproachful henry, arthur was impenitent. he did not want to make notes on cases and to do devilling; not so much now because of his terrors (though he still felt that pretyman, j., was formidable) as because his own interests were too enthralling; he had no time to spare for the quarrels of john doe and richard roe and the rest of the litigious tribe. there were roads to fortune shorter, less arid and less steep. also there were green pastures and flowery dells, very pleasant though they led nowhere in particular, peopled by charming companions, enlivened by every diversion--and governed by a fairy queen. in london an agreeable young man who has--or behaves as if he had--nothing to do will soon find things to do in plenty. arthur's days were full; lunches, dinners, theatres, dances, tennis to play, cricket and polo matches to watch, a race-meeting now and then, motor excursions or a day on the river--time went like lightning in amusing himself and other people. everybody accepted so readily the view that he was a man of leisure and wholly at their disposal that he himself almost came to accept it as the truth. only in the background lay the obstinate fact that, in a life like this, even five hundred pounds will not last for ever. never mind! in the autumn there would come the farce. there was a rare flavour in the moment when he wrote his cheque for a thousand pounds, payable to the order of joseph halliday, esquire. joe had asked for an instalment only, but arthur was not going to fritter away the sensation like that. of course bernadette had first call on him, and she used her privilege freely. at her house in hill street he was really at home; he was expected to come without an invitation; he was expected to come in spite of any other invitation, when he was wanted. he fetched and carried, an abject delighted slave. she never flirted with him or tried to win his devotion; but she accepted it and in return made a pet of him. yet she had no idea how immense, how romantic, how high-flying the devotion was. she was not very good at understanding great emotions--as oliver wyse might perhaps have agreed. so, if she had no designs, she had no caution either; she was as free from conscience as from malice; or it might be that any conscience she had was engaged upon another matter. sir oliver had not yet returned to town, but soon he was coming. engrossed in bernadette herself, at first arthur paid little heed to the other members of the household. indeed he never became intimate with judith arden during all this time in london. he liked her, and forgave a satirical look which he sometimes caught directed at himself in consideration of her amusing satirical remarks directed at other people; and after all she could not be expected to appreciate the quality of his devotion to bernadette. but with godfrey lisle things gradually reached a different footing. the shy awkward man began to put out feelers for friendship. amongst all who came and went he had few friends, and he sought to make no more. even judith, as became her age and sex, was much occupied in gaieties. he spent his days in his library and in walking. but now he began to ask arthur to join him. "if bernadette can spare you," he would say; or, to his wife, "if you don't want arthur this afternoon--" and so suggest a walk or a smoke together. he did not succeed in conveying the impression that he would be greatly pleased by the acceptance of his invitations. but he did give them, and that from him was much. "do go," bernadette would say, or "do stay," as the case might be. "he does like a talk so much." strangely it appeared that this was the case, provided he could get his talk quietly with a single person--and, it must be added, though arthur's eyes were not yet opened to this, provided that the person was not his wife. from private conversation with her he shrank, ever fearing that something might seem to be demanded of him which he could not give. but he read and thought much, and enjoyed an exchange of ideas. and he took to arthur with the liking a reserved man often has for one who is expansive and easy of access. arthur responded to his overtures, at first through a mixture of obligation and good-nature, then with a real interest, to which presently there was added a sympathy rather compassionate, a pity for a man who seemed by nature unable to take the pleasures which lay so plentiful around. he fretted about money too--a thing pathetic to the eyes with which at present arthur looked on the world. but he did; he might be found surrounded by account-books, rent-books, pass-books, puzzling over them with a forlorn air and a wrinkled brow. it was not long before he took arthur into his confidence, in some degree at least, about this worry of his. "we spend a terrible lot of money; i can't think where it all goes," he lamented. "but isn't it pretty obvious?" laughed arthur. "you do things in style--and you're always doing them!" "there's this house--heavy! and hilsey always sitting there, swallowing a lot!" then he broke out in sudden peevishness: "of course with anything like common prudence----" he stopped abruptly. "i'm not blaming anybody," he added lamely, after a pause. and then--"do you keep within your income?" "i don't just now--by a long chalk. but yours is a trifle larger than mine, you know." "i can't do it. well, i must raise some money, i suppose." arthur did not know what to say. the matter was intimate and delicate; for there could be no doubt who was responsible, if too much money were being spent. "i'm sure if you--well, if you made it known how you feel----" he began. "yes, and be thought a miser!" his voice sank to a mutter just audible. "besides all the rest!" so he had grievances! arthur smiled within himself. all husbands, he opined, had grievances, mostly unsubstantial ones. he could not believe that godfrey was being forced into outrunning his means to any serious extent, or that he had any other grave cause for complaint. but, in truth, godfrey's trouble--money apart--was an awkward one. he was aggrieved that he had not got what he did not want--his wife's affection. and he was aggrieved that she did not want what he had no desire to give her--namely, his. the state of things aggrieved him, yet he had no wish--at least no effective impulse--to alter it. he felt himself a failure in all ways save one--the provision of the fine things and the pleasures that bernadette loved. was he now to be a failure there too? he clung to the last rag of his tattered pride. yet often he was, in his shy awkward way, kindly, gracious, and anxious to make his kinsman feel sure of a constant welcome. "coming too often?" he said, in reply to a laughing apology of arthur's. "you can't come too often, my dear boy! besides you're a cousin of the house; it's open to you of right, both here and at hilsey. bernadette likes you to come too." "has she told you so?" arthur asked eagerly. "no, no, not in words, but anybody can see she does. we're too grave for her--judith and i--and so's oliver wyse, i think. she likes him, of course, but with him she can't--er----" "play about?" arthur suggested. "yes, yes, exactly--can't do that sort of thing, as she does with you. he's got too much on his shoulders; and he's an older man, of course." he was walking up and down his library as he talked. he stopped in passing and laid his hand on arthur's shoulder for a moment. "it's good of you not to grudge me a talk either, sometimes." "but i like talking to you. why do you think i shouldn't?" godfrey was at the other end of the room by now, with his back turned, looking into a book. "you've never seen hilsey, have you? would it bore you to come down for a bit later on? very quiet there, of course, but not so bad. not for longer than you like, of course! you could cut it short if you got bored, you know." "oh, you needn't be afraid of my being bored. i should love it of all things." indeed the invitation filled him with delight and gratitude. "it's jolly good of you, godfrey, jolly kind, i think." godfrey murmured something like, "see how you like it when you get there," sat down with his back still turned, and obliterated himself with a large book. he was certainly difficult to know, to get to close quarters with. if he approached you at one moment, he shrank back the next; he seemed to live in equal fear of advances and of rebuffs. it was difficult to know how to take him, what idea to form of him. plenty of negations suggested themselves readily in connection with him, but positive qualities were much harder to assign; it was easier to say what he was not than what he was, what he did not like than what he did, what he could not do than what he could. at all events what positive qualities he had did not help him much in his life, and were irrelevant to the problems it presented. by nature he was best made for a student, immured in books, free from the cares of position and property, and from the necessity of understanding and working with other people. fate had misplaced him as a wealthy man, burdened with obligations, cumbered with responsibilities. he had misplaced himself as the husband of a brilliant and pleasure-loving wife. he ought to have been a bachelor--the liabilities of bachelors are limited--or the mate of an unpretending housewife who would have seen to his dinner and sewn on his buttons. in an unlucky hour of impulse he had elected to play prince charming to a penniless beauty; prince charming appearing in a shower of gold. of all the charms only the gold was left now, and the supply even of that was not inexhaustible, though the beauty might behave as if it were. he had failed to live up to the promise of his first appearance, to meet the bill of exchange which he had accepted when he married bernadette. he lacked the qualifications; ardour of emotion, power to understand and value a nature different from his own, an intelligent charity that could recognise the need in another for things of which he felt no need--these he had not, any more than he possessed the force of will and character which might have moulded the other nature to his own. he met his failure with a certain dignity of bearing which all his awkwardness could not efface. he did not carp at his wife or quarrel with her; he treated her with consistent politeness and with a liberality even excessive. he showed no jealousy of her preferences; that she would ever give him cause for serious jealousy, fears for his honour, had never yet entered his head; such matters did not lie within the ordinary ambit of his thoughts. but the sense of failure had bitten deep into his heart; his pride chafed under it perpetually. his life was soured. arthur saw little of all this, and of what he did see he made light. it is always the easiest and most comfortable thing to assume that people are doing as they like and liking what they are doing. if godfrey lived apart from the life of the house, doubtless it was by his own choice; and, if he had a grievance, it must just be about money. the paymaster always has a grievance about money; he is ishmael, with every man's and every woman's hand against him--stretched out for more. a legitimate occasion for a grumble--but it would be absurd to make much of it. besides what serious trouble could there be when bernadette was so radiant and serene, so gay and merry with himself and with judith, so gentle and friendly with her husband? there seemed no question of two parties in the house--as there sometimes are in houses--with the one or the other of which it was necessary for him to range himself. his adoration for bernadette in no way clashed with his growing affection for her husband; rather she encouraged and applauded every sign of greater intimacy between the men. it was with the sense of a triumph in which she would surely share that he carried to her the news that godfrey--godfrey himself, of his own accord--had invited him to hilsey. of her cordial endorsement of the invitation he had, of course, no doubt. perhaps, after all, she had inspired it. "now don't say you put him up to it! that wouldn't be half such a score," he said, laughing. she seemed surprised at the news; evidently she had not taken any part in the matter. she looked a little thoughtful, possibly even doubtful. judith arden, who was sitting by, smiled faintly. "no, i had nothing to do with it," said bernadette. "and it really is a triumph for you, arthur." she was smiling again now, but there was a little pucker on her brow. "when's your best time to come?" she asked. "in the early part of august, if i may. i shall have to run up and see mother afterwards, and i've got to be back in town in the middle of september--for our production, you know." bernadette by this time had been told all about the great farce and the great venture which had made it possible. she appeared to consider something for a moment longer, so that arthur added, "of course if it's not convenient to have me then, if you're full up or anything----" "goodness no! there are twenty rooms, and there'll be nobody but ourselves--and oliver wyse perhaps." "i thought sir oliver was coming earlier, directly we go down?" said judith. "he's coming about the seventeenth or eighteenth; but he may stay on, of course. on the other hand he may not come, or may come later, after all." she smiled again, this time as it were to herself. sir oliver's visit to hilsey had been arranged before she lunched with him in paris and might, therefore, be subject to reconsideration--by the guest, or the hostess, or both. she had neither seen him nor heard from him since that occasion; things stood between them just where they had been left when she turned away and went into the hat-shop with glowing cheeks. there they remained even to her own mind, in a state of suspense not unpleasurable but capable of becoming difficult. it was just that possibility in them which made her brow pucker at the thought of sir oliver and arthur lisle encountering one another as fellow-guests at hilsey. arthur laughed. "well, if he doesn't mind me, i don't mind him. in fact i like him very much--what i've seen of him; it isn't much." it was not much. before oliver wyse went to paris, they had met at hill street only three or four times, and then at large dinner parties where they had been thrown very little in contact. "oh, of course you'll get on all right together," said bernadette. "you've a lot in common with him really, i believe," judith remarked. bernadette's lips twisted in a smile and she gave judith a glance of merry reproof. they were both amused to see how entirely the point of the observation was lost on arthur. "i daresay we shall find we have, when we come to know each other better," he agreed in innocent sincerity. bernadette was stirred to one of the impulses of affectionate tenderness which the absolute honesty and simplicity of his devotion now and then roused in her. his faith in her was as absolute as his adoration was unbounded. for him she was as far above frailty as she was beyond rivalry or competition. without realising the immensity of either the faith or the adoration, she yet felt that, if temptation should come, it might help her to have somebody by her who believed in her thoroughly and as it were set her a standard to live up to. and she was unwillingly conscious that a great temptation might come--or perhaps it was better to say that she might be subjected to a severe pressure; for it was in this light rather that the danger presented itself to her mind when she was driven to think about it. she looked at him now with no shadow on her face, with all her usual radiant friendliness. "at any rate i shall be delighted to have you there, cousin arthur," she said. she had managed, somehow, from the first to make the formal "cousin" into just the opposite of a formality--to turn it into a term of affection and appropriation. she used it now not habitually, but when she wanted to tell him that she was liking him very much, and he quite understood that it had that significance. he flushed in pleasure and gratitude. "that's enough for me. never mind sir oliver!" he exclaimed with a joyful laugh. "if it isn't an anti-climax, may i observe that i too shall be very glad to see you?" said judith arden with affected primness. arthur went away in triumph, surer still of bernadette's perfection, making lighter still of godfrey's grievances, dismissing oliver wyse as totally unimportant; blind to all the somewhat complicated politics of the house. they rolled off his joyous spirit like water off a duck's back. chapter xii lunch at the lancaster on a day in july, when this wonderful london season was drawing near an end, and the five hundred pounds had reached about half-way towards exhaustion, arthur lisle gave himself and his friends a treat. he invited the syndicate--as they laughingly styled themselves--to lunch at the lancaster hotel. there were some disappointing refusals. mr. sarradet would not come; he was sulky in these days, for raymond was neglecting his father's perfumery and spending his father's money; the integrity of the dowry was threatened, and old sarradet had a very cold fit about the prospects of the theatrical speculation. sidney barslow--he was invited thanks to his heroic re-entry--pleaded work. the author himself wrote that he would be unavoidably detained at "the office"--mr. beverley was never more definite than that about the occupation which filled the day-time for him. but marie and amabel came, escorted by joe halliday, and they made a merry party of four. the girls were excited at being asked to the lancaster. such sumptuous places, though not perhaps beyond the sarradet means, were quite foreign to the thrifty sarradet habits. amabel was of the suburbs and patronised "popular price" restaurants on her visits to town. joe lived in grill rooms. the balcony of the lancaster seemed magnificent, and emile, the _maître d'hôtel_, knew arthur quite well, called him by his name, and told him what brand of champagne he liked--marks of intimacy which could not fail to make an impression on arthur's guests, and which emile had a tactful way of bestowing even on quite occasional patrons. joe halliday made his report. everything was in trim, and going on swimmingly. the theatre was taken, a producer engaged, the girl who was joe's own discovery secured and, besides her, a famous comic actor who could carry anything--anything--on his back. rehearsals were to begin in a month. "by this time next year lunch at the lancaster will be an every-day event. just now it can't be--so i'll trouble you for a little more fizz, arthur," said joe, with his great jolly laugh. "don't count your chickens----!" said cautious marie. "a coward's proverb!" cried arthur gaily. "why, you lose half the fun if you don't!" "even if we do fail, we shall have had our fun," joe remarked philosophically. the others could hardly follow him to these serene heights. amabel had persuaded gold out of her "governor." marie felt decidedly responsible to old sarradet; and the pledge that arthur had given to fortune was very heavy. "if it becomes necessary, we'll try to feel like that," said arthur, "but i hope we shan't have to try." "of course we shan't," amabel insisted eagerly. "how can it fail? of course it mayn't be quite such an enormous success as _help me_----" "it'll knock _help me out quickly_ into a cocked hat," joe pronounced decisively. "just see if it don't!" he turned to marie. "then what sort of a smile shall we see on old sidney's face?" he could not quite forgive sidney barslow (hero as he was!) for having refused to "come in." "sidney's a wise man about business and--and money. wiser than we are perhaps!" marie smiled as she ate her ice. "sidney's developing all the virtues at a great pace," laughed amabel. "under somebody's influence!" joe laughed too; so did marie, but she also blushed a little. arthur was suddenly conscious of a joke which was new to him--something which the other three understood but he did not. he looked at joe in involuntary questioning. joe winked. he saw marie's blush; it caused him a vague displeasure. "yes," joe nodded. "he is. works like a horse and goes to bed at eleven o'clock! i shouldn't be surprised if he turned up one fine day with a blue ribbon in his coat!" "oh, don't be so silly, joe," laughed marie; but the laugh sounded a little vexed, and the blush was not quite gone yet. "why, what do you mean?" asked arthur. "joking apart, he has put the brake on. jolly good thing too! he's such a good chap--really." arthur was not ungenerous, but he could not help feeling that the apotheosis of sidney barslow might be carried too far. the vision of the scene in oxford street was still vivid in his mind; it would need a lot of heroism, a lot of reformation, altogether to obliterate that, however much he might agree to a gentler judgment of it. "no, don't make a joke of it, joe, anyhow not to sidney himself," said marie, looking a little embarrassed still, but speaking with her usual courage. "because it's for our sake--well, mostly so, i think--that he's--he's doing what he is. i told him that in the beginning he had led raymond into mischief, and that he ought to set him a better example now. and he's trying--without much success, i'm afraid, as far as raymond is concerned." her voice grew very troubled. "i'm awfully sorry, marie," arthur murmured. "oh, i've no intention of rotting sidney about it. if only because he'd probably hit me in the eye!" "yes, we know his fighting powers," laughed amabel in admiring reminiscence. her tone changed to one of regretful exasperation. "raymond is a goose!" "but we mustn't spoil mr. lisle's party with our troubles," said marie, smiling again. "oh, come, i say, i'm not altogether an outsider!" arthur protested with a sudden touch of vehemence. "oh, no, not that," marie murmured, with a little shake of her head; her tone did not sound very convinced. amabel giggled feebly. joe covered a seeming embarrassment by gulping down his coffee and pretending to find it too hot. a constraint fell upon the party. arthur wanted to make himself thoroughly one with them in anxiety and concern over raymond's misdeeds--nay, even in admiration for sidney barslow's reformation; he wanted to, if he could. yet somehow he found no words in which to convey his desire. every phrase that came into his head he rejected; they all sounded cold and unreal, somehow aloof and even patronising. silence, however awkward, was better than speeches like that. it was one of joe halliday's chosen missions in life, and one of his greatest gifts, to relieve occasions of restraint and embarrassment by a dexterous use of humour. this social operation he now, perceiving it necessary, proceeded to perform. clapping his hand to his forehead in a melodramatic manner, he exclaimed in low but intense tones, "ask me who i want to be! who i want to be in all the world! ask me quickly!" he won his smiles. "what's the matter now, joe?" asked arthur; his smile was tolerant. "no, i'll tell you! don't speak!" he pointed with his finger, past arthur, towards the other end of the room. "there he sits! a murrain on him! that's the man! and how dare he lunch with that entrancing creature?" "which one, joe? which one?" asked amabel, immediately full of interest. "there--behind arthur's back. he can't see her. good thing too! he doesn't deserve to." "i suppose i can turn round, if i want to--and if she's worth it. is she, marie?" "is it the one in blue, joe? yes, she is. awfully pretty!" "never saw such a corker in my life!" joe averred with solemnity. "then round--in a careless manner--goes my head!" said arthur. "he woos her, i swear he woos her, curses on his mother's grave!" joe rode his jokes rather hard. "we'd better not all stare at her, had we?" asked marie. "she's not looking; she's listening to the man," amabel assured her. arthur turned round again--after a long look. he gave a little laugh. "it's my cousin, bernadette lisle. joe, you are an ass." it was bernadette lisle; she sat at a little table with oliver wyse. they had finished eating. bernadette was putting on her gloves. her eyes were fixed on oliver's face, her lips were parted. the scene of the café de paris reproduced itself--and perhaps the topic. she had not seen arthur when he came in, nor he her. she did not see him now. she listened to sir oliver. "your cousin! that! introduce me--there may yet be time!" said the indomitable joe. "oh, shut up!" groaned arthur, half-flattered however, though half-peevish. "she's very beautiful." marie's eyes could not leave bernadette. "and so--so--well, she looks like something very very precious in china." arthur looked round again; he could not help it. "yes, that is rather it, marie." "look--look at her hat, marie!" came from amabel in awed accents. indeed the visit to the hat-shop in paris had not been without its fruit. "now is it fair--is it reasonable--for a fellow to have a cousin like that? he might have a queen like that, or a dream like that, and i shouldn't care. but a cousin! he knows the vision! he's talked to it! heavens, he's probably lunched with it himself! and he kept it all dark from us--oh, so dark!" "is it mr. lisle with her?" asked amabel, quite innocently. arthur smiled. "no, i don't think you'd find godfrey lunching here. that's a man named wyse. i've met him at their house." "he's good-looking too," amabel decided after a further survey. a waiter brought oliver wyse his bill. when he turned to pay it, bernadette rose. the spell which had held her attention so closely was broken. she looked round the room. suddenly a bright smile came on her lips, she spoke a hurried word to her companion, and came straight across the room towards arthur's table. she had recognised the back of his head. "she's coming here!" whispered amabel breathlessly. arthur turned round quickly, a bright gleam in his eyes. he rose from his chair; the next moment she was beside him, looking so joyful, so altogether happy. "oh, arthur dear, i am glad!" she did not offer to shake hands; she laid her little hand on his coat-sleeve as she greeted him. "did you see me--with sir oliver?" but she did not wait for an answer. "do let me sit down with you for a minute. and mayn't i know your friends?" a waiter hurried up with a chair, and bernadette sat down by arthur. "why, what fun this is! cousin arthur, i must have another ice." the gloves began to come off again, while arthur made the necessary introductions. "oh, but i know you all quite well!" exclaimed bernadette. "you're old friends of mine, though you may not know it." oliver wyse, his bill paid, followed her with a leisurely step. he greeted arthur cordially and included the rest of the table in a bow. "i gather you intend to stay a bit," he said to bernadette, smiling. "i've got an appointment, so if you'll excuse me----?" "oh yes, arthur will look after me." she gave him her hand. "thanks for your lunch, sir oliver." "it was so good of you to come," he answered, with exactly the right amount of courteous gratitude. as he went off, she watched him for just a moment, then turned joyously back to her new companions. a casual observer might well have concluded that she was glad to be rid of oliver wyse. joe was--to use his own subsequent expression--"corpsed"; he had not a joke to make! perhaps that was as well. but he devoured her with his eyes, manifesting an open admiration whose simple sincerity robbed it of offence. bernadette saw it, and laughed at it without disguise. amabel's eyes were even more for frock and hat than for the wearer; this it was to be not merely clothed but dressed. marie had paid her homage to beauty; she was watching and wondering now. arthur tasted a new delight in showing off his wonderful cousin to his old friends, a new pride in the gracious kindness of her bearing towards them. and bernadette herself was as charming as she could be for arthur's sake, and in gratitude for his appearance--for the casual observer would have been quite right as to her present feeling about oliver wyse. marie sarradet revised her notions. she forgave her father his meddling; even against mrs. veltheim she pressed the indictment less harshly. here surely was the paramount cause of her defeat! mrs. lisle and what mrs. lisle stood for against herself and what she represented--candid-minded marie could not for a moment doubt the issue. her little, firmly repressed grievance against arthur faded away; she must have a grievance against fate, if against anything. for it was fate or chance which had brought mrs. lisle on to the scene just when the issue hung in the balance. yet with her quick woman's intuition, quickened again by her jealous interest, she saw clearly in ten minutes, in a quarter of an hour--while bernadette chattered about the farce (valuable anyhow as a topic in common!) and wistfully breathed the hope that she would be able to come up from the country for the first night--that the brilliant beautiful cousin had for arthur lisle no more than a simple honest affection, flavoured pleasantly by his adoration, piquantly by amusement at him. he was her friend and her plaything, her protégé and her pet. there was not even a fancy for him, sentimental or romantic; at the idea of a passion she would laugh. see how easy and unconstrained she was, how open in her little familiar gestures of affection! this woman had nothing here to conceal, nothing to struggle against. it was well, no doubt. but it made marie sarradet angry, both for herself and for arthur's sake. to take so lightly what had so nearly been another's--to think so lightly of all that she had taken! the intuition, quick as it was, had its limits; maybe it worked better on women than on men, or perhaps marie's mind was somewhat matter-of-fact and apt to abide within obvious alternatives--such as "he's in love, or he's not--and there's an end of it!" arthur loved his cousin's wife, without doubt. but, so far at least, it was an adoration, not a passion; an ardour, not a pursuit. he asked no more than he received--leave to see her, to be with her, to enjoy her presence, and in so doing to be welcome and pleasant to her. above all--as a dim and distant aspiration, to which circumstances hitherto had shown no favour--to serve her, help her, be her champion. this exalted sentiment, these rarefied emotions, escaped the analysis of marie's intuition. what she saw was an arthur who squandered all the jewels of his heart and got nothing for them; whereas in truth up to now he was content; he was paid his price and counted himself beyond measure a gainer by the bargain. who was the other man--the man of quiet demeanour and resolute face, who had so held her attention, who had so tactfully resigned the pleasure of her company? marie's mind, quick again to the obvious, fastened on this question. bernadette, under friendly pressure, rose from a hope to an intention. "i will come to the first night," she declared. "i will if i possibly can." "now is that a promise, mrs. lisle?" asked joe eagerly. after all, the farce was his discovery, in a special sense his property. he had the best right to a paternal pride in it. "it's a promise, with a condition," said arthur, laughing. "she will--if she can. now i don't think promises like that are worth much. do you, marie?" "it's the most prudent sort of promise to give." "yes, but it never contents a man," bernadette complained. "men are so exacting and so--so tempestuous." she broke into a little laugh, rather fretful. "now am i tempestuous?" arthur asked, with a protesting gesture of his hands. "oh, you're not all the world, arthur," she told him, just a little scornfully, but with a consoling pat on the arm. "you know what i mean, miss sarradet? they want things so definite--all in black and white! and if they can't have them like that, they tell you you're a shillyshallying sort of person without a mind and, as i say, get tempestuous about it." joe had regained some of his self-confidence. "if anybody bothers you like that, just you send him to me, mrs. lisle. i'll settle him!" his manner conveyed a jocose ferocity. "i wish you would! i mean, i wonder if you could. they talk as if one's mind only existed to be made up--like a prescription. one's mind isn't a medicine! it's a--a--what is it, arthur?" "it's a faculty given us for the agreeable contemplation and appreciation of the world." "quite right!" declared bernadette in emphatic approval. "that's exactly what i think." "it would clearly promote your agreeable appreciation of the world to come to our first night, mrs. lisle," urged joe. "of course it would----" "so you'll come?" "yes, i'll come--if i possibly can," said bernadette. they all began to laugh. bernadette joined in. "back to where we began--just like a woman!" exclaimed arthur. "there--that's just what i mean, miss sarradet. he's begun to bully!" "well, i must. because why shouldn't you be able to come, you see?" she looked at him, pursing up her smiling lips. "circumstances, cousin arthur!" and she pushed back her chair from the table. "oh, rot! and, i say, don't go, bernadette!" "i must. i'm awfully sorry to. you're all so nice." "and if you possibly can, mrs. lisle? d.v.? that kind of thing, you know?" "unless circumstances absolutely prevent!" she playfully promised for the last time, as she turned away, arthur following to put her in her carriage. joe halliday drew a long breath. "well now, girls, how's that for high?" "why, her hat alone must have----" amabel began, with every appearance of meaning to expatiate. "i wonder what she's really like!" said marie thoughtfully. "she's really like an angel--down to the last feather!" joe declared with an emphasis which overbore contradiction. chapter xiii settled _le château qui parle et la femme qui écoute_--bernadette lisle had begun to be conscious of the truth contained in the proverb, and to recognise where she had made her great mistake. though oliver wyse had told her that he was in love with her, she had allowed him to go on coming to the house as usual; and she had not even explicitly barred the dangerous topic. little use if she had! to keep him on the other side of the hall-door was really the only way. but, though startled and frightened, she had not been affronted; though rejecting his suit, she had been curious and excited about it. it was a complication indeed; but it cut across a home-life which had not complications of that kind enough, in which nobody catered for her emotions; she had to look somewhere outside for that. a lover makes a woman very interesting to herself. he casts a new light on familiar things; he turns disagreeables into tragedies, routine into slavery, placid affection into neglect. he converts whims into aspirations, freaks into instincts, selfishness into the realisation of self. all this with no willing hypocrisy, not at all meaning to tell her lies. he is simply making her see herself as he sees her, to behold with him her transfiguration. oliver wyse was lucky in that he had more truth on his side than many a lover can boast. her life was starved of great things; she was in a sense wasted; her youth and beauty, things that pass, were passing with no worthy scope; where the sweetest intimacy should be, there was none; her marriage was a misfit. it could not be denied that she had contrived, in spite of these unpromising facts, to be fairly happy. but that was before her eyes were open, he hinted, before she had looked on the transfiguration, before she knew her true self. she supposed that must be so, though with an obstinate feeling that she might manage to be fairly happy again, if only he and his transfiguration would go away--or if she might just look at it, and wonder, and admire, without being committed to the drastic steps which lovers expect of the transfigurations they have made. is it absolutely necessary to throw your cap over the mill just because somebody at last really understands and appreciates you? that was a question bernadette often asked herself--quite fretfully. the action was threatened by so many penalties, spiritual and worldly. she had her shrewdness also, increased by the experience of a beauty, who has seen many aspire in golden ardour, sigh in piteous failure, and presently ride away on another chase with remarkably cheerful countenances. if this after failure, what after success? men were tempestuous in wooing; what were they when the fight was won? she knew about her husband, of course, but she meant real men--so her thoughts perilously put a contrast. "have you often been in love, sir christopher?" she asked the old judge one day as he sat in her little den, sipping tea and smoking cigarettes. he was a lifelong bachelor. "often, bernadette." "now, tell me," she said, leaning towards him with a knitted brow and a mighty serious look. "of all the women you've been in love with, is there anyone you now wish you'd married?" "yes, certainly. two." "out of how many?" "i don't know. a matter of double figures, i'm afraid." smiling, he put an apologetic note into his voice. "they're not the two i was most desperate about, bernadette." "of course i should very much like to know who they were." "but since, of course, that's impossible, let us continue the discussion in the abstract." "why didn't you marry them--well, one of them, i mean, anyhow?" "is that the abstract? well, one of them refused." "to marry you?" "she refused, bernadette. now please go back to the abstract." "without asking about the other?" "i'm afraid so." "all right. i don't think i care so much about desperation myself, you know." "seen too much of it probably!" his old blue eyes twinkled. "i could have fallen awfully in love with you, judge. do you often think about those two?" "oftener about the others." "that's very perverse of you." "the whole thing's infernally perverse," said the judge. "however i suppose you've pretty well forgotten about the whole thing now?" "the deuce you do!" "did you soon get to be glad you hadn't married them--the other twenty or so?" "that varied. besides, if i had married them, i might have become quite content." "they'd have got to look older, of course," bernadette reflected. "but people ought to be content with--well, with being content, oughtn't they?" "well, you see, you're generally young when you're in love--comparatively, at all events. you get content with being content--as you neatly put it--rather later." "that means you're not in love any more?" "life has its stages, bernadette." she gave a quick little shiver. "horrid!" "and children come, bringing all sorts of ties. that must make a difference." the old man sighed lightly, clasping together his thin hands with their gleaming rings. "oh, a tremendous difference, of course," bernadette made orthodox reply. in effect just what she had said to oliver wyse himself when she lunched with him at the lancaster! "among other things, you forget margaret," she had said, reinforcing her resistance with every plea which came to her hand. "i don't forget her, but i think first of all of you," had been his reply. it was no doubt true that he thought of her before the child; whether he thought of her first of all was much more open to question. "she depends on me so much," she had urged, sounding even to herself rather conventional. did little margaret really depend on her so much--that demure prim child, self-centred, busy in a world of her own with her fancies and her toys? she was shy and reserved, she neither gave nor seemed to expect demonstrations of affection. she was her father's daughter and promised to grow up like him in mind, as she already showed a physical likeness. the natural bond existed between mother and child and was felt. it was not strengthened by any congeniality of disposition, nor by the tender appeal of frailty or sickness--despite that doctor's advice, margaret was robust and healthy. they did not see much of one another really, not even at hilsey. there was so much to do. bernadette was not a habit in her child's life and doings; she was an interlude, and probably not seldom an interruption. still there they were--mother and child. and the child would grow up, understand, and remember. no woman could make light of all that; if oliver thought she could, he did her gross injustice. no, he who loved her would not do her wrong. then he must understand that duty to the child was a great thing with her. and yet he said there ought to be a greater! at the back of her mind, unacknowledged, was a thought which offered a sop to conscience. she would not be leaving margaret to strangers. besides the father, there would be judith. the little girl was very fond of judith, and judith of her. they seemed to understand one another; margaret's tranquil demureness fitted in with judith's dry humour and unemotional ways. the natural thing--under certain circumstances--would be for judith to take over the charge of her uncle's house. "just as if i were to die, you know," thought bernadette. besides, all this assumed that she would go away. of course oliver wanted that, but--well, lots of women didn't. nice women too, some of them, and good mothers. she could think of two or three at least among her own acquaintance, and recognised now, with a sort of surprise and relief, that she had never thought very particularly the worse of them for their peccadillo; she had never shunned their society. who did--although everybody knew the facts? it was odd what a difference there was between the official view (so to speak) and the way people actually behaved about the matter; oliver had been quite right on that point--and even rather amusing. she was seeing oliver wyse almost daily now, and their meeting was the event of the day to her--anticipated, waited for, feared. everything else stood in relation to it--as a means or a hindrance, as a dull contrast or a merciful relief. he found her eager and excited, he left her often weary and fretful; but by the next day she was eager again. she was like a man who drinks himself into a headache and sadly grows sober, only to drink once more. the eve of the household's departure to the country had come. they were to go on the morrow; as matters were arranged, oliver wyse would join them two days later. after another ten days, arthur was due at hilsey for his visit, and two or three friends besides for a week-end. so stood the programme--externally. but one point in it still hung in doubt, even externally. sir oliver had a competing engagement--some important business on the continent; should he give up the business and come to hilsey? or the other way? he put the question to her, when he came to take leave of her--whether for three days, or for how much longer? the time had passed when he could say, "it will wait." that had been right when he said it; to hurry matters then would have been to fail. but she had been brought to a point when a decision could be risked. risked it must be, not only because his feelings ardently demanded an end to his suit, but lest he should become ridiculous in his own eyes. dangling and philandering were not to his taste. he had got a dangerous notion into his head--that she would keep him hanging on and off to the end of the chapter. he had often seen men cheated like that, and had laughed at them. his passion was strong in him now, but his masculine pride was equal to fighting it. he had himself on the curb. he could and would leave her unless he could stay on his own terms. to tell her that might involve cruelty to her; he did not stand on the scruple. there were scruples enough and to spare, if a man began to reckon them, in an affair of this kind. they were in the nature of the case. what animal can live and thrive that does not add cunning to courage, trickery to daring? he liked neither being cruel to her nor tricking those about her; but for the moment these things had to be done. there should be an end of them soon; he promised himself that and found comfort in the promise. but she fought him with a pertinacity that surprised him; he had not in his heart expected so stout a resistance. "it's not in the least for me to decide whether you come to hilsey or not," she told him roundly. "it's entirely for you. i ask you to pay me a visit. come or not as you like, sir oliver." "but what does it mean if i do come?" "i don't know. i'm not a prophet." he put on no melodramatic airs. his manner was quiet and friendly still. "you're a very provoking woman." he smiled. "i hate to be abrupt--well, i don't think i have been--but this thing's got to be settled." "has it? who says so? what is there to settle?" "you're being tempestuous now." he threw her own word back at her, with a laugh. "and you know quite well what there is to settle." he looked at her stormy little face with love and tender amusement. but his answer he meant to have. "settle, settle, settle! how many thousand times have you used that word? i think i hate you, sir oliver." "i begin to think myself that you don't love me. so i'd best be off on my business." "yes, i really think you had. and when you come back, perhaps we can consider----" "oh, dear me, no, we can't!" she looked at him for an instant. again he made her eyes dim. he hated himself at the moment, but it seemed to him that there was nothing to do but stick to his course. else, whatever he felt now, he would feel to-morrow that she had fooled him. she sat looking very forlorn, her handkerchief clenched in her hand, ready to wipe away the tears. he went and leant over her. "dearest, forgive me. you must think how i feel. can't you love and trust me?" she thrust her hand confidingly into his: "i think i wish you'd just be friends, oliver." an impulse of remorse struck him. "i think i wish i could," he said ruefully. "then why not?" "oh, you don't understand--and i think you can't love me." "yes, i do. i'm sure i do." he bent down and kissed her. she was thinking, and let the caress pass as though unnoticed. "i don't think i could manage life now without you." "well, doesn't that mean--? come, it just needs a little courage." "oh, don't talk as if i were going to the dentist's!" but she gave the hand she held an affectionate squeeze; her anger had passed. "i suppose i've got to do it," she went on. "i suppose i have. it's rather an awful thing, but i'm--i'm in a corner. because i do love you--and, yes, i'm a coward. it's such an awful plunge, and there's--oh, everything against it! except just you, of course. oliver, i don't think i can come away." he said nothing; he gently pressed her hand in encouragement. she looked up at him and whispered, "must i come away--now, directly?" "soon at all events." "i must go down to hilsey to--to see margaret, you know, and----" "well, go. make an excuse to come up from there, and i'll meet you." "as if i should dare to do it without you to help me! you must come to hilsey too, oliver, and we--we'll start from there." it was a fluttering faltering consent, but a consent it was; though still deferred, it was definite. it agreed not only to give him what he wanted, but to give it in the way he liked--openly, before the world. the short delay--to be spent largely in her company--weighed lightly against all this. he caught her in his arms in gratitude and passion, pouring out endearing words, beyond himself in exultation because "it was settled." now at last she too was moved to the depths of her nature. she sat clinging to him, with his strong arms about her, very quiet, smiling, yet drawing her breath in long low pants, her dim eyes very tender and never leaving his. so she heard his half-whispered protestations and encouragement, smiling at them, just now and then murmuring a faint "yes." her fears were silenced, her scruples scattered to the winds while she sat thus. it was strange when that same evening (on which, she thanked heaven, she had no engagement) she sat--quite otherwise--at the head of her table with her husband opposite, judith arden and arthur lisle on either side--a little family party, a little domestic structure, so to say, of which she was the keystone and which she was about to shatter. yet it seemed so firm, so habitual, the manner of its life so inveterate. even arthur, the latest comer, was like a native part of it now. its permanence had looked so assured a few short weeks ago, when oliver's infatuation was a thing to smile over in amused secrecy. but it was not permanent. she was going, by an arbitrary exercise of power, to end it. nay, she was going to end herself, the self she had been all these last years--godfrey's wife, margaret's mother, mrs. lisle of hilsey and of hill street, w. this woman, with all her various functions and relations, was going to disappear, like a bit of fluff blown into the air. enter--through a somewhat stormy passage--a new woman, utterly different and conditioned absolutely otherwise, a person of whom mrs. lisle really knew very little, though she reached out to the comprehension of her and to the vision of her life with an ache of curiosity. the other three--that all unconscious trio--were in good spirits. even godfrey was cheerful at the prospect of escaping from london and talked quite gaily. judith was looking forward to seeing margaret and to the country pursuits she loved; her talk was of riding, fishing, and tennis. arthur was gleeful; the short separation seemed but to flavour the prospect of long and blissful days at hilsey. bernadette herself was the most silent of the party, a thing quite contrary to her wont. she sat there with a queer attractive sense of power--in kind perhaps like what they say has sometimes tempted men to secret murder--as though she dispensed fate to her companions and disposed of their lives, though they knew nothing of it. about them, even as about the new woman who was to come into being, her dominant feeling was not compunction but curiosity. how would they take it? imagine them at dinner at hilsey--say this day three weeks or this day month! three, not four, at table, and mrs. lisle of hilsey not merely not there, but for all purposes important for them non-existent! an exultation mingled now with her eager curiosity. she marvelled that she had courage to wave the mystic wand which was to destroy the structure. she looked on the three with an ironical pity. "well, you all sound as if you were going to enjoy yourselves," she said, at last breaking her silence. "have you made any plans for me?" "you always like the garden, don't you, bernadette?" godfrey's tone was propitiatory. "oh, you must play tennis this year--and there'll be the new car!" said judith. "among other things, you're going to play golf with me. you promised! the links are only about eight miles off. we can motor over and make a jolly long day of it." arthur's sentence would have gained significance by the addition of one more word--"together." "i see you've settled it all among you," she said. "but aren't you forgetting our guest? while you and i are doing all this, what's to become of sir oliver?" arthur looked round the table with brows raised and a gaily impudent smile. he felt pretty safe of the sympathy of two of his audience; he was confident that the third would pardon his presumption because of the hint that lay beneath it--the hint that anything which interfered with long days together would be unwelcome. "for my part, i can't think what you want with your old sir oliver at all," he said. his speech came as a cap to the situation, a savoury titbit for her ironical humour. she looked at him for a moment with eyes that sparkled maliciously; then she broke into low long laughter. she seemed unable to stop or control it. she sat and laughed at all of them--and most of all at cousin arthur. he--they--it--all too absurd! "oh, i'm sorry!" she gasped at last, for their faces began to grow astonished. "but it strikes me as very funny. if he could hear you! because he thinks a good deal of himself, you know--my old sir oliver!" chapter xiv the battle with mr. tiddes the next day there occurred to arthur lisle--whose mind was a thousand miles away from such things--a most unexpected event. the news of it came by telephone from henry, who ventured to bespeak mr. lisle's immediate attention; he was not quite sure that he would get it, so reprehensibly neglectful had mr. lisle's professional conduct been of late. a brief had arrived, not somebody else's to be 'held,' but actually for arthur himself--a brief in the westminster county court. the case would come on for trial in two days' time. his first impulse was to send the brief back, to fly from it; not so much now because it frightened him as because it clashed with the whole present temper of his mind. but full as he was of fancies and vanities, he had somewhere a residuum of sober sense. did he really mean to turn his back on work, to abandon his profession? not merely to neglect preparation and opportunities, as he had been doing, but to refuse work actually there? that was a different thing--a decision too momentous. if he refused this brief, he would scarcely dare to show himself at his chambers, to face henry again. he braced himself up, and in a mixture of apprehension, annoyance, and surprise, took his way to the temple--instead of going down to wimbledon to watch lawn-tennis. henry welcomed the prodigal, quite forgetful apparently of that unfortunate episode of the law reports. "it's from wills and mayne," he said. "mr. mayne brought it himself, and said a clerk would be at the court on friday to look after you." "but who are they? do you know them, henry?" "no, sir, i never heard of them. they're not clients of mr. norton ward's. but mr. mayne seemed to know about you. a shortish gentleman, grey and rather bald--one of his eyelids sort o' trembles, something like as if he was winking." "hum!" he did not identify the stranger. "how the deuce did they ever hear of me?" because although arthur might have been cutting a figure in society, and certainly was a person to whom notable things of a romantic order had been happening, he was, as a member of the bar, very young and monstrously insignificant. "well, it beats me!" he confessed as he untied the tape which fastened _tiddes v. the universal omnibus company, ltd._. mr. tiddes, it appeared (for of course arthur dashed at the brief and read it without a moment's delay), had a grievance against the universal omnibus company, ltd., in that they had restarted their 'bus while he was still in process of alighting, thereby causing him to fall in the roadway, to sprain his thumb, bark his knee, and tear his trousers, in respect of which wrongs and lesions he claimed forty pounds in damages. the omnibus company said--well, according to their solicitors, messrs. wills and mayne, they did not seem to have very much to say. they observed that their clients were much exposed to actions of this sort and made it their policy to defend them whenever possible. the incident, or accident, occurred late on saturday night; mr. tiddes had been in company with a lady (whom he left in the 'bus), and had struck the conductor as being very animated in his demeanour. counsel would make such use of these facts as his discretion dictated. in short, a knowledge of our national habits made falling off a 'bus late on saturday night in itself a suspicious circumstance. add the lady, and you added suspicion also. add an animated demeanour, and the line of cross-examination was clearly indicated to counsel for the defendants. not a clerk but mr. mayne himself met arthur at the court; he was recognisable at once by the tremor of his eyelid--like a tiny wink, a recurring decimal of a wink. he was, it seemed, rather pessimistic; he said it was a class of case that the company must fight--"better lose than not defend"--and mr. lisle must do his best. of course the jury--and plaintiff had naturally elected to have a jury--would find against the company if they could; however mr. lisle must do his best. arthur said he would. he longed to ask mr. mayne how the deuce the firm had ever heard of him, but judiciously refrained from thus emphasising his own obscurity. also he strove not to look frightened. he was frightened, but not so frightened as he would have been in the high court. things were more homely, less august. there was no row of counsel, idle and critical. his honour had not the terrors of pretyman, j., and counsel for the plaintiff was also young at the job, though not so raw as arthur. but the really lucky thing was that mr. tiddes himself made arthur furiously angry. he was a young man, underbred but most insufferably conceited; he gave his evidence-in-chief in a jaunty facetious way, evidently wishing to be considered a great buck and very much of a ladies' man. with this air he told how he had spent the saturday half-holiday--he was in the drapery line--at a cricket-match, had met the young lady--miss silcock her name was--by appointment at a tea-shop, had gone with her to a "cinema," had entertained her to a modest supper, and in her company mounted the 'bus. it was at her own request that he got out, leaving her to go home unattended. his manner conveyed that miss silcock's had been a stolen spree. then came his story of the accident, his physical sufferings, his doctor's bill, and his tailor's account; finally the hard-hearted and uncompromising attitude of the company was duly exhibited. arthur rose to cross-examine--the moment of a thousand dreams and fears. "now, mr. tiddes----" he began. "_at_ your service, sir," interposed mr. tiddes in jaunty and jocular defiance. "i want to follow you through this very pleasant evening which you seem to have had. i'm sure we're all very sorry that it ended badly." "very unselfish of _you_ to look at it like that, mr. lisle," said his honour. (laughter in court.) follow mr. tiddes he did through every incident of the evening, with a curiosity especially directed towards the refreshments of which mr. tiddes had partaken. with subtle cunning he suggested that in such company as he had been privileged to enjoy mr. tiddes would be lavish--his hand would know no stint. as a matter of fact, mr. tiddes appeared to have done things well. the "tea-shop" sold other commodities, such as a glass of port. next door to the "cinema" was a saloon buffet and mr. tiddes admitted a visit. at supper they naturally took something--in fact bottled ale for miss silcock, and whiskey-and-soda for mr. tiddes. "one whiskey and soda?" asked counsel for the defence. "yes, one," said mr. tiddes. "at least i think so. well--i believe i did have a split, besides." "split whiskey or split soda?" (laughter in court.) his honour lolled back in his chair, smiling. evidently he thought somebody a fool, but arthur could not be sure whether it was himself or mr. tiddes. but he did not much care. he had warmed to his work, he had forgotten his fears. he could not bear that mr. tiddes should defeat him; it had become a battle between them. once or twice mr. tiddes had winced, as over that 'split'--an arrow in the joints of his harness! he was less jaunty, less facetious. at last they got to the accident. here mr. tiddes was very firm. he made no concessions; he walked (so he maintained) from his place in a perfectly quiet, sober, and business-like manner, and in like manner was about to descend from the 'bus when--on it moved and he was jerked violently off! if the conductor said anything to the contrary--well, the conductor was not looking at the critical moment; he was collecting somebody's fare. "you didn't even look back at the young lady over your shoulder?" "i did not, sir." mr. tiddes too was, by now, rather angry. "didn't kiss your hand or anything of that sort?" "nothing of the kind, sir." "in fact you were attending entirely to what you were doing?" "i was." "don't you think, then, that it's rather odd that you should have been jerked off?" "the 'bus moved suddenly, and that jerked me off." "but you were holding on, weren't you?" "yes, i was holding on all right." so they went on wrangling, till his honour ended it by remarking, "well, we've got his story, i think, mr. lisle. you will have your opportunity of commenting on it, of course." upon which arthur sat down promptly. but he was dissatisfied. it was no more than a drawn battle with mr. tiddes. if mr. tiddes's refreshments had been shown to border on excess, there was nothing to show that they had affected the clearness of his mind or the stability of his legs. that was what arthur was fishing for--and pure fishing it was, for the conductor had in fact had his back turned at the critical moment when mr. tiddes left the 'bus--somehow. also he was between mr. tiddes and the only other passenger (miss silcock herself excepted). he had reached backwards to give the signal to start--assuming that mr. tiddes was already safely off. negligent, perhaps--but why was mr. tiddes not safely off by then? that question stuck in arthur's mind; but he had got no answer to it out of mr. tiddes. the plaintiff insisted that no human being could have got off in the time allowed by that negligent conductor. miss silcock confirmed her friend's story, but in rather a sulky way. it was not pleasant to have the stolen spree dragged to light; she had "had words" with her mother, to whom she had originally represented the companion of her evening as belonging to the gentler sex; she was secretly of opinion that a true gentleman would have forgone his action in such circumstances. arthur had hopes of miss silcock and treated her very gently--no suggestion whatever that her conduct was other than perfectly ladylike! miss silcock was quite in a good humour with him when they got to the moment when mr. tiddes bade her good night. "you were at the far end of the 'bus. he said good night, and walked past the conductor?" "yes." "when did the 'bus stop?" "when he was about half-way to the door." "what did he do?" "walked to the door." "had the 'bus started again by then?" "no." "you could see him all the time? where was he when the 'bus started again?" "on the platform outside the door." "was he holding on to anything?" miss silcock looked a little flustered. "i don't remember." "oh, but try, miss silcock," said his honour soothingly, but sitting up straight in his chair again. "well, no, i don't think he was. he'd turned round." "oh, he _had_ turned round!" said arthur, with a quite artistic glance at the jury. "well, he just turned and smiled at me--sort o' smiled good night." "of course! very natural he should!" "but he didn't seem to remember having done it," observed his honour. "did he do anything besides smile at you?" asked arthur. "no, i don't think----" she smiled and hesitated a moment. "think again, miss silcock. you'd had a very pleasant evening together, you know." miss silcock blushed a little, but was by no means displeased. "well, he did cut a sort of caper--silly-like," she admitted. "oh, did he? could you show us what it was like?" "i couldn't _show_ you," answered miss silcock, with a slight giggle and a little more blush. "he lifted up one leg and kind of wiggled it in the air, and----" "just then the 'bus went on again, is that it?" "well, just about then, yes." miss silcock had caught a look--such a look!--from her friend, and suddenly became reluctant. "while he was on one leg?" miss silcock, turned frightened and remorseful, was silent. "answer the question, please," said his honour. "well, i suppose so. yes." "thank you, miss silcock. no more questions." re-examination could not mend matters. the evidence for the defence came to very little. counsel's speeches call for no record, and his honour did little more than observe that, where mr. tiddes and miss silcock differed, the jury might see some reason to think that miss silcock's memory of the occurrence was likely to be the clearer and more trustworthy of the two. the jury thought so. "we find that the conductor started the 'bus too soon, but that the plaintiff oughtn't to have been behaving like he was," said the foreman. "that he wouldn't have tumbled off but for that, do you mean?" asked his honour. after a moment's consultation, the foreman answered "yes." "i submit that's a verdict of contributory negligence, your honour," said arthur, jumping up. "i don't think you can resist that, mr. cawley, can you?" his honour asked of counsel for the plaintiff. "judgment for the defendants with costs." poor mr. tiddes! he was purple and furious. it is sadly doubtful if he ever again gave miss silcock a pleasant evening-out. the case was won. mr. cawley was disconsolate. "fancy the girl letting me down like that!" he said, in mournful contemplation of the untoward triumph of truth. mr. mayne, winking more quickly than usual, was mildly congratulatory. "the result will be very satisfactory to the company. just the sort of thing which shows their policy of fighting is right! good afternoon, mr. lisle, and thank you." and there was henry, all over smiles, waiting to applaud him and to carry home his blue bag. arthur had a suspicion that, if he had lost, henry would have disappeared and left him to carry the bag back to the temple himself. he was exultant, but he was not satisfied. as he strolled back to his chambers, smoking cigarettes, a voice kept saying in his ear, "you ought to have got it out of tiddes! you ought to have got it out of tiddes!" ought he? could he? had tiddes been lying, or was his memory really misty? arthur did not know even now, though he favoured the former alternative. but oughtn't he to know? oughtn't he to have turned mr. tiddes inside out? he had not done it. tiddes would have beaten him, but for miss silcock. true, he had persevered with miss silcock because his mind had gone to the mysterious point in the case--why mr. tiddes was just ten seconds or so too long in getting off the 'bus. but could he--or couldn't he--have been expected to think of that capering silly-like? between exultation and dissatisfaction his mind was tingling. he fought the fight over and over again; he was absolutely engrossed in it. he was back in the temple before he knew it almost--sitting in his chair by the fire, with a pipe, trying to see what he could have asked, how he could have broken down mr. tiddes's evidence. a pure triumph might have left him pleased but careless. this defeat in victory sharpened his feelings to a keen interest and curiosity. what were the secrets of the art of wresting the truth from unwilling witnesses? the great art of cross-examination--what were its mysteries? at any rate it was a wonderful art and a wonderful thing. very different from the dreary reading of law reports! there was a fascination in the pitting of your brain against another man's--in wringing the truth (well, if what you wanted to get happened to be the truth) from his reluctant grasp. it was battle--that's what it was. "by jove!" he cried within himself--indeed he could not tell whether he uttered the words out loud or not--"there's something in this beastly old business after all, if only i can stick to it!" oblivious for the moment of everything else, even of hilsey, even of his adoration, he vowed that he would. all this was the doing of quiet old mr. mayne with his winking eyelid. why had he done it? that too arthur now forgot to ask. he remembered nothing save the battle with mr. tiddes. he had tasted blood. chapter xv the man for a crisis serious trouble threatened the sarradet household also--not of the sort which impended over the lisles, but one not less common. there was increasing strife between father and son. raymond's taste for pleasure showed no sign of being sated; he took no warning from the scrape out of which sidney barslow's strong arm had rescued him; he spared neither time nor money in seeking the delights to which his youth and his temperament inclined him. old mr. sarradet was ageing; he grew more grumpy and crusty, fonder of his hoards, less patient when he saw money wasted, more fearful of leaving the family business at the mercy of a spendthrift. he grumbled and scolded; he made scenes. raymond met them with sullen hostility, or took to avoiding them by absenting himself from the house. if home were made uncomfortable, there were plenty of other places to go to! the more his father would bridle him, the more he kicked. marie tried to hold them together, to patch up quarrels, to arrange truces, to persuade each of them to meet the other half-way. her task was the more difficult since she herself was held as a threat over her brother's head. she should have the hoards, she should have the business, unless raymond would mend his ways! the old man's menace turned her brother's anger against her; almost openly he accused her of bad faith and hypocrisy--of aiming at stepping into his shoes. the charge was cruel, for she loved him. but he made a stranger and at last nearly an enemy of her. once she had hoped to work on him through amabel osling, but amabel, slighted in favour of more recent and more gaudy attractions, stood now on her dignity and would make no approaches to raymond. she came to the house still, and was as friendly as ever to father and daughter, but distant towards the son on the rare occasions when she found him there. joe halliday was no use in serious straits like these; he took everything as it came, for others as well as for himself; his serenely confident, "oh, he's a young fool, of course, but it'll come all right, you'll see," did not seem to marie to meet the situation. and arthur lisle? her old feeling forbade the idea of troubling mr. lisle with such matters; they would certainly grate on him. besides, he was--somehow--a little bit of a stranger now. it was sidney barslow's opportunity; he was well fitted to use the chance that circumstances gave him. the strong will which enabled him to put a curb on his own inclinations, so soon as he had an adequate motive, made him a man to turn to in distress. his past indulgences, in so far as they were known or conjectured, themselves gave him authority. he spoke of what he knew, of what he had experienced and overcome. seeing him, the old father could not deny that young men might pass through a season of folly, and yet be sound at heart and able to steady themselves after a little while. raymond could not call him a puritan or an ignoramus, nor accuse him of not understanding the temptations which beset his own path. sidney was honest in his efforts. he felt a genuine remorse for having set young raymond's feet on the primrose path along which they now raced at such dangerous speed. about his own little excursions along the same track he felt no such pangs of conscience; fellows were different; some could pull up when they liked; he could. it seemed that raymond could not; therefore he repented of having started raymond at all, and recognised a duty laid on himself of stopping him if possible. and the same motives which had enabled him to forsake the dangerous path urged him to turn raymond also from it. marie's approval had been his mark in the one case; in the other it was her gratitude; in both her favour. the pleasure he derived from seeing her trust him and lean on him was something quite new in his life and appealed strongly to his courageous and masculine temper. he would not fail her, any more than he had failed her brother in his need. and his reward? he knew very well what he wanted--if only he could get it. he did not deal in doubts and hesitations. he had not sacrificed his indulgences without being quite sure of what he wanted in exchange. his mind, if primitive and unrefined, was direct and bold. his emotions were of the same simple and powerful type. courting a girl was to him no matter of dreaming, romancing, idealising, fearing, palpitating. it was just a man seeking the mate that pleased him. marie was in no mood to be courted yet; her dream was too recently dispelled, and her steady nature could not leap to sudden change. but her eyes were on his strong qualities again; she looked at him less through arthur lisle's spectacles; that side of her which liked him could now assert itself. she turned to his aid readily, and, with her shrewd calculation seconding the impulse of friendship, made his company seem as welcome for its own sake as for the services it promised. "you always bring a breath of comfort with you, sidney," she told him gratefully. sidney was honest with her. "it's not much good. he won't listen to me any more." he shook his head in puzzle. "i can't think where he gets the money! you tell me the old man has cut off supplies, but i know he races, and i know he plays baccarat--and you may be sure he doesn't win on a balance. besides he--well, he must get through a good bit in other ways. he must be raising the wind somehow. but it can't last." it could not. one day old sarradet came home from business almost collapsed. men had come to his shop--his cherished city shop, hoary with the respectability of a hundred-and-fifty years, parading the 'royal warrant' of a third successive sovereign--asking where his son was, brandishing writs, truculently presuming that mr. sarradet would "set the matter right." one more vicious than the rest, a jeweller, talked of false pretences and illegal pawning--not of a writ or a settlement, but of a summons or a warrant. he had been very savage, and the old man, ashamed and terrified, had pushed him into his own private room and there heard his ultimatum--the ring and the bangle, or their value, in twenty-four hours, or an application to a magistrate. and where was raymond? he had not been home the night before. he was not at the west end shop. the poor old fellow babbled lamentations and threats--he would not pay, he had done with the scoundrel, here was a pretty end to an honourable life! when marie knelt by him and put her arms about him, he fairly burst into tears. the world of reckless living and dishonest shifts--both father and daughter were strangers to it. at her wits' end marie telephoned for sidney barslow. by the time he came, she had got the old man to go to bed, weeping for his son, for himself, for his money, utterly aghast at doings so mad and disastrous. a pitiful sight! she met sidney with tears in her eyes, full of the dismal story. "what are we to do?" she wailed, quite bereft of her usual composure and courage. the thing was too difficult, too dreadful. "the first thing is to find him," said sidney in his quick decisive way. he looked at his watch. "it's a bit too early now; in a couple of hours' time i may be able to lay my hands on him." "can you really? how? oh, i was sure you'd be able to help!" "well, you see, marie, i--er--know the ropes. i think i can find him--or somebody who'll put me on his track." "yes, that's where you're such a help." how she was pardoning those past indulgences! in her heart she was thanking heaven for them, almost admiring them! wrong as they were, they taught a man things which made him ever so useful to women in distress about prodigal sons and brothers, "and what will you do when you do find him?" "frighten him pretty well to death, if i can," sidney answered grimly. "i fancy our friend the jeweller may turn out a blessing in disguise. the news of criminal proceedings will be a bit of a soberer. the young ass!" because it was so easy to enjoy yourself without being involved in criminal proceedings! "but, i say, you know," he went on, "the governor'll have to pay up." "you must persuade him. i don't believe i can, sidney." "oh, you can do that right enough. after all, i don't suppose it'll break him exactly. i daresay, though, the young 'un has run into a tidy lot. still we can square 'em, i expect. don't look so awfully cut up, marie." "i was just off my head till you came." she held out both her hands for him to grasp. "thank you, thank you, thank you, sidney!" "that's all right, marie. and, look here, if i find him, i shan't bring him here. i expect he and the old man get on one another's nerves. there's a room at my place. i'll take him there. you put some things in a bag for him, and i'll take it." "will you? it would be better they shouldn't meet--with father as he is." "and you may be sure that when i've got him, i won't let him go. and we'll see about the money to-morrow." she was infinitely comforted, immensely grateful. if he had sown wild oats, what wisdom he had gleaned from the crop! a meeting between father and son just now might be the end of all things, finally fatal! she packed the bag and gave it to her trusted emissary. "what should we have done without you!" was her cry again. "just leave it to me," he told her, his strong thick lips set resolutely. with the knowledge acquired in folly but tamed now to the service of wisdom, morality, and the interests of the sarradet business, he found young raymond without much difficulty--and found him just in time. more than money was giving out, more than strict attention to financial ethics was in jeopardy. the little excitable fellow was pretty well at the end of his tether physically also. his nerves were at breaking strain. pleasure had become a narcotic against thought; if that alone would not serve, drink was called in as an ally. on the verge of a collapse, he was desperately postponing it by the surest way to make it in the end complete. sidney, robust of body and mind, beheld him with mingled pity and contempt. he himself could have lived the life for years with faculties and powers unimpaired, really not the worse for it, save in his pocket and his morals; only prudential considerations and newly awakened hopes had, on a cool calculation, turned him from it. but raymond, if he did not land in jail first, would land in hospital speedily. amidst the jeers and sneers of the hardier denizens of those regions, sidney carried him to his own flat and put him to bed like a naughty worn-out child. in the morning came the lecture. "no end of a jawing! i pitched it in hot and strong, i can tell you," sidney subsequently reported to marie. poor raymond lay in bed with a racking headache and trembling hands, and heard his sins rehearsed and (worse still) his feebleness exhibited. "you're not the chap for this kind of thing," sidney told him. "chuck it, my boy! seek milder delights. oh, i know it's a bit my fault in the beginning. but i thought you'd a head on your shoulders and some sense in it. i'm not against a bust now and then; but this sort of rot----! and what's this fool's business about a ring and a bangle? you're in a pretty tight place there, young fellow." almost amid sobs the story of these unfortunate articles of jewellery--bought on credit and pawned, by and with the advice and consent of the donee, a few days later--came out. sidney brandished the terrors of the law; the figure of the justly irate tradesman took on terrifying proportions. if only that dread apparition, with its suggestion of policemen, of locked doors and bolts shot home, of black maria and picking oakum--if only that apparition could be exorcised, there was nothing raymond would not do, promise, and abjure. sidney jeered while he threatened and grinned while he preached, but he did both to good purpose, with all the convincing knowledge and experience of a reformed criminal at a revivalist meeting, with all the zeal of a doctor whose reputation is staked upon a cure. then the thorough-going long-headed man went off to his own employers and arranged to begin his approaching summer holiday immediately. that done, he tackled the writ-bearers and the fearful apparition with the aid of a sharp lawyer of his acquaintance. with threats of giving as much trouble as possible in one hand, and promises of a composition in "spot cash" in the other, the lawyer and he succeeded in reducing the claims to manageable proportions; the pawnbroker, himself a little uneasy under the lawyer's searching questions, accepted a compromise. things could be arranged--at a price. but the pain of that price to old sarradet's thrifty soul! to have to subtract from his hoards instead of adding to them, sell stock instead of buying, to count himself so much the poorer instead of so much the richer--the old merchant hated it. it was marie's task to wring the money out of him. and even when he had been brought to the point of ransoming his son, he ceased not to bewail the prospects of his beloved business. "i won't leave it to him, i won't," he declared querulously. "i'll leave it to you, marie." "oh, but i couldn't possibly manage the business, pops," she protested, half in dismay, half laughing at the idea. "then you must get a husband who can." "never mind my husband just now. there are more pressing things than that." an idea struck the old fellow. "i'll make it into a company. i'll clip master raymond's wings for him!" he pondered over this way of salvation, and, in light of its possibilities, gradually grew a little calmer. at last the wrench was over, the money paid. it was judged to be safe for father and son to meet. sidney brought the rescued sinner to regent's park. compunction seized them at the sight of one another; the boy was so pale, shaken, and contrite; the old man was thinner, aged, and feeble. the old tenderness between them revived; each tried to console the other. quite resolved to protect his business, mr. sarradet consented to forgive his son. humbled to his soul, raymond asked no more than to be received back into favour on any terms. marie and sidney stood by, helping, favouring, and exchanging glances of self-congratulation. "i'm off for my holiday to-morrow, mr. sarradet," sidney announced. the old man looked up in sudden alarm. it was as if the anchor announced to the ship that it proposed to take a holiday. "no, no, that's all right! i'm going for a walking tour in wales, and raymond's coming with me. twenty miles a day, open air all day! three weeks of that, and he'll be as right as rain, and ready to tackle his work like a hercules!" this clever fellow had a plan to meet every emergency! surely he would have a plan to save the beloved business too? mr. sarradet determined to consult him about it when he came back from wales. meanwhile he grew much more cheerful, and even went so far as to indulge in some hints of a giddy youth of his own--hints based (in cold truth be it said) on a very slender foundation, but showing a desire to make excuses for his son. "yes, and your bit of fun didn't do you any harm, mr. sarradet, did it?" asked sidney. no more had his bit--though quite a large bit--done sidney harm. there was reason then to hope that even raymond's formidable bit might not in the end do raymond any harm. he might turn out as good a man of business as his father yet. still no risks should be run. the old gentleman hugged the idea of his company--and he had someone in his eye for managing director. so with skill and courage, with good heart and kindliness, with ambition and cunning, sidney barslow bound the sarradet family to his chariot wheels. he was the friend-in-need, the rescuer, the saviour. he was like to become the sheet-anchor, the arbiter, the referee. between father and son--her weak old man and her weaker young one--marie could not carry the whole load herself. she was strong and self-reliant, but she was not strong enough for that. she too would take the strong man's orders, though she might take them with a smile, when what had been and what might have been came to her remembrance. he gave her an order now, when they said good night. "look here, when i bring him back from wales, you mustn't let him mope or be bored. if i were you, i'd get amabel to come and stay here a bit." "really you think of everything," she told him in a merry wonder. "i'll ask her, of course." "i think of a good many things," he said, venturing a bold glance in her eyes. "don't think of too many at a time, sidney," she warned him with a smile. "no, no, each in its proper place! one done, t'other come on, you know!" he stood looking down on her with a jovial confident smile--and she liked it. his bold glance of admiration did not displease or alarm her. she was quite ready to be told what the glance said; but she was not ready to say anything in reply yet. but it was evident that some day she would be asked for a reply. and it seemed evident too in what direction the current of her life was setting. with a smile for this and a sigh for that, and a wrinkle of the brow over this-and-that, she went back to the drawing-room and gave old sarradet his gin-and-water. chapter xvi a shadow on the house "so here you are--at hilsey at last!" said bernadette. "yes, and, i say, what a jolly old place it is!" he paused for a moment. "i very nearly didn't come at all, though." she looked at him in amused surprise. "what was the counter-attraction?" "i had a job. consequently it became wildly possible that i might get another." "oh, is that all? i hoped it was something interesting and romantic." "it is interesting--though i suppose it's not romantic." in fact it had possessed for him some of the qualities implied by that hard-worked word. "but my clerk can wire me if anything turns up." he laughed at himself. "nothing will, you know, but it flatters my pride to think it might." "it won't flatter my pride if you run away from us again." she rose. "get your hat and i'll show you round a bit. the others are all out, doing something." "who's here?" "only the norton wards and sir christopher. sir oliver's been here, but he had to go up on some business. he's coming back in a few days. the others are here just for the week-end." "but i'm here for a month! isn't that glorious?" "well, you know, something may happen----" "oh, no, i shan't be sent for. i'm sure i shan't. anyhow i could come back, couldn't i?" "yes, if you wanted to. the house would always be at your disposal, cousin arthur." her smile was mocking, but she laid her hand on his arm with the old suggestion of a caress, adding, "let's get out and enjoy it, while we can, anyhow." bernadette looked a little pale and seemed rather tired--"run down after the season," she had explained to esther norton ward when that lady commented on her appearance--but arthur was too joyfully excited, by meeting her again and by his first view of hilsey, to notice fine shades. it was true that he had suffered a momentary hesitation about coming--a passing spasm of conscience or ambition induced by the great case of _tiddes v. the universal omnibus company, ltd._--but that was all over with the sight of bernadette and of his stock's ancestral home. to see her there was to see the jewel in its proper setting, or (to adopt joe halliday's hyperbole) the angel in her own paradise. as they stepped out on the lawn in front of the old house, he exclaimed, "it's beautiful, and it fits you just perfectly! you were made for one another!" she pursed up her lips for a minute, and then laughed. "drink it in!" she said, jeering at his enthusiasm, and perhaps at something else; the idea of an innate harmony between herself and her husband's house seemed, to say the least, far-fetched. whatever might be the case as to its mistress, hilsey deserved his praises. an old manor house, not very large, but perfect in design and unimpaired by time or change, it stood surrounded by broad lawns, bordered on the south side (towards which the principal rooms faced) by a quick-running river. the pride of the garden lay in the roses and the cedar trees; amongst all the wealth of beauty these first caught the eye. within the house, the old oak was rich in carving; the arms of the lisles and of their brides, escutcheons and mottoes, linked past and present in an unbroken continuity. grave gentlemen, and beauties, prim or provocative, looked down from the panels. as he saw the staid and time-laden perfection, the enshrined history, the form and presentment of his ancestors, a novel feeling came to birth in arthur lisle, a sense of family, of his own inalienable share in all this though he owned none of it, of its claim on him. henceforth, wherever he dwelt, he would know this, in some way, for his true home. he confessed to his feelings laughingly: "now i understand what it is to be a lisle of hilsey!" "imperishable glory!" but she was rather touched. "i know. i think i felt it too when godfrey brought me here first. it is--awfully charming." "i don't care for show-places as a rule. they expect too much of you. but this doesn't. it's just--well, appealing and insinuating, isn't it?" "it's very genteel." "oh yes, it's unquestionably very genteel too!" he laughed. the incomparable home and the incomparable cousin--his mind wedded them at once. "it was a stroke of genius that made godfrey choose you to--to reign here!" her smile was the least trifle wry now. what imp of perversity made the boy say all the things which were not, at this moment, very appropriate? "reigns are short--and rhapsodies seem likely to be rather long, arthur. i think i'll go and write a letter, and leave you to simmer down a bit." "oh, i'm an ass, i know, but----" "yes, and not only about the house!" she turned to leave him, with a wave of her hand. "you'll get over all of it some day." he watched her slender white-frocked figure as she walked across the lawn and into the porch. from there she looked back, waving her hand again; he pictured, though he could not at the distance see, the affectionate mocking little smile with which she was wont to meet his accesses of extravagant admiration, disclaiming what she accepted, ridiculing what she let him see was welcome. his memory took an enduring portrait of her there in the doorway of her home. his heart was gay as he wandered about, "drinking it in," as bernadette had bidden him. the sojourn before him seemed an eternity full of delight. the future beyond that month was indeed charged with interest; was there not the great farce, was there not now the strange fact of messrs. wills and mayne, with whose aid imagination could play almost any trick it pleased? still these things admitted of postponement. arthur postponed them thoroughly, to fling himself into the flood of present happiness. his roving steps soon brought him to the banks of the stream; he had been promised fishing there and was eager to make an inspection. but he was to make an acquaintance instead. on a bench by the water a little girl sat all by herself, nursing a doll without a head, and looking across the river with solemn steady eyes. directly arthur saw her face he knew her for margaret, sole daughter of the house. hearing his step, the child turned towards him with a rather apprehensive look, and hastily hid the headless doll behind her back. she reminded him of her father so strongly that he smiled; there was the same shy embarrassment; the profile too was a whimsical miniature of godfrey's, and her hair was the colour of his--it hung very straight, without curls, without life or riot in it. "you're margaret, aren't you?" he asked, sitting down by her. she nodded. "i'm cousin arthur." "oh yes, i knew you were coming." "why have you put dolly behind your back?" "i thought you mightn't like her. mummy says she's so ugly." "oh, bring her out. let's have a look at her! how did she lose her head?" "patsy bit it off and ate it--at least she ate the face. it made her sick." "who's patsy?" he was glad that margaret had now put the doll back in her lap; he took that for a mark of confidence. "is she your dog?" "no, she's judith's; but she lives here always and judith doesn't. i wish judith did." "what's dolly's name?" "judith." "i see you like judith very much, don't you? the real judith--as well as dolly?" "yes, very much. don't you?" "yes, very much." and then the conversation languished. arthur was only moderately apt with children, and margaret's words had come slowly and with an appearance of consideration; she did not at all suggest a chatterbox. but presently she gave him a look of timid enquiry, and remarked in a deprecating way "i expect you don't like guinea-pigs. most people don't. but if you did, i could show you mine. only if you're sure you like guinea-pigs!" arthur laughed outright. for all the world, it was like the way godfrey had invited him down to hilsey! the same depreciation of what was offered, the same anxiety not to force an unwilling acceptance! "guinea-pigs! i just love them!" he exclaimed with all possible emphasis. "oh, well then!" said margaret, almost resignedly, with a sort of "your blood be on your own head" manner, as she jumped down and put her free hand into his; the other held tight hold of the headless doll. "in the kitchen-garden!" over the guinea-pigs he made a little progress in her good graces. she did not come out to meet a stranger with the fascinating trustfulness of some children; she had none of that confidence that she would be liked which makes liking almost inevitable. she was not pretty, though she was refined. but somehow she made an appeal to arthur, to his chivalry--just as her father did to his generosity. perhaps she too had not many friends, and did not hope for new ones. when the guinea-pigs gave out, she made him no more offers and risked no more invitations. in a grave silence she led him back from the kitchen-garden to the lawn. he was silent too, and grave, except for twitching lips. he saw that she could not be "rushed" into intimacy--it would never do to toss her up in the air and catch her, for instance--but he felt that their first meeting had been a success. a voice called from within a door adjacent to him: "margaret, your tea's ready." the child slipped her hand out of his and ran in without a word. a minute passed, arthur standing where he was, looking at the old house. judith came out and greeted him. "you've made an impression on margaret," she told him, smiling. "she said to me, 'i've shown cousin arthur my guinea-pigs, and i _think_ he's going to be nice.'" "guarded! at any rate, in the way you emphasise it." "it's a lot from her, though, on so short an acquaintance." he liked the look of judith in country kit; she was dressed for exercise and conveyed an agreeable suggestion of fresh air and energy. "i'm all by myself; take me for a bit of a walk or something." "all right. we've time for a stroll before tea--it's always late." she set off towards a little bridge which crossed the river and led to a path through the meadows towards a fir wood on rising ground beyond. "how like the child is to godfrey! i suppose they're very devoted to one another?" "well, i think they are, really. but they rather need an intermediary, all the same--somebody to tell margaret that her father wants her, and _vice versa_. my function, arthur--among others which you may have observed that i fulfil in the course of your study of the household." he laughed. "i don't think i have studied it. what is there to study?" "there's a good deal to study in every household, i expect." they had scaled the hill and stood on the edge of the wood. "there's a pretty view of the house from here," she said, turning round. "by jove, how jolly and--and peaceful, don't you know?--it all looks!" her eyes turned from the view to the young man's face. she smiled, a little in scorn, more in pity. because he really seemed to identify the features of the landscape with the household at hilsey manor--a most pathetic fallacy! but he had always been blind, strangely blind, dazzled by the blaze of his adoration. yet she liked him for his blindness, and conceived it no business of hers to open his eyes. though they were opened to a full glare of knowledge and sorrow, how would that help? to her own eyes there rested now a dark shadow over the house, a cloud that might burst in storm. she felt a whimsical despair about her companion. how he soared in a heaven of his own making, with an angel of his own manufacture! with what a thud he would come to earth, and how the angel would moult her wings, if a certain thing happened! oh, what a fool he was--yet attractive in his folly! for the sake of woman, she could almost love him for the love he bore his bernadette--who was not, by a long way, the real one. "i'm rather glad wyse isn't going to be here for a bit yet," said arthur thoughtfully. "we shall be jollier by ourselves." queer that he should put a name so pat to the shadow which he could not see! "i like him all right, but he'd be rather in the way, wouldn't he?" of a surety he was in the way--right plump in the middle of it! there was sore doubt whether the family coach could get by without a spill. "well, when he comes back, you mustn't expect to monopolise bernadette." "i don't think i ever try to do that, do i?" he asked quickly, flushing a little. "i mean, i don't set up to--well, i don't make a bore of myself, do i?" "goodness, no! i suppose i meant that you mustn't mind if sir oliver monopolises her rather." "oh, but i shall mind that!" cried arthur in dismay. then he laughed. "but i'm hanged if he shall do it! i'll put up a fight. what happened when he was here before?" "well, he's her friend, you see, not mine or godfrey's. so, naturally, i suppose----" "what did they do together?" "motored mostly." "that'd mean she'd be out half the day!" "yes. all day sometimes." by now they were strolling back. arthur's spirits had fallen somewhat; this man wyse might be a considerable bore! but then, when he was there before, there had been nobody else--no other man except godfrey, and no other guest except judith, who was almost one of the family. he would not find things quite the same when he came back, thought arthur in his heart, sublimely sure that bernadette would not ill-use him. on this reflection his spirits rose again, now spiced with combativeness. he would hold his own. "how did he and godfrey hit it off?" "oh, godfrey just retired--you know his way." "into his shell? doesn't he like sir oliver?" "does he like anybody--except me and you?" she asked, smiling ruefully. "and i think that perhaps he likes sir oliver rather less than most people. but it's not easy to tell what he feels." as a fact she had been much puzzled to know what godfrey had been thinking of late. he had said nothing to her; she would readily swear that he had said nothing to bernadette. he had been just a little more silent, more invisible, more solitary than usual. of what was in his mind she knew really nothing. the pall of his passivity hid it all from her sight. it seemed to her that his passivity did more than hide him--that it must also to a great extent put him out of action, render him negligible, neutralise him, if and when it came to a fight. as an institution, as a condition, as a necessary part of a certain state of things--in fine, as being mr. lisle of hilsey--he would no doubt, of necessity, receive attention. in that aspect he meant and represented much--a whole position, a whole environment, a whole life. church and state, home and society--godfrey the institution touched them all. but godfrey the man, the individual man--what consideration, what recognition could he expect if he thus effaced himself? if he put forward no claim, none would be admitted. if he made a nonentity of himself, he would be counted for naught. it might be urged that such had been the position for years, and that, with all its drawbacks, it had worked. the argument was futile now. a new and positive weight in the other scale upset the balance. "well, do you like sir oliver yourself?" asked arthur, after some moments of silence. she paused before answering. "yes, i do," she said in the end. "at any rate i rather admire him. there's a sort of force about him. and--yes--i do like him too. you could trust him, i think." then it seemed to herself that this was an odd thing which had come to her lips--under existing circumstances. it was in explanation to herself, rather than for arthur's information, that she added, "i mean that, if he undertook anything towards you, he'd carry it out; you might rely on him." "i don't want him to undertake anything towards me," said arthur loftily. "oh, the people outside those limits must shift for themselves--i think that would be entirely sir oliver's view. but i'm not sure it's a wrong one, are you?" it was still with her own thoughts that she was busy. she could not quite understand why she was not more angry with oliver wyse. she had no doubt by now of what he wanted. surely it ought to make her angry? she was pre-eminently godfrey's friend--his kinswoman, not bernadette's. she ought to be terribly angry. even apart from moral considerations, family solidarity and friendly sympathy united to condemn the trespasser. she was loth to confess it to herself, but at the bottom of her heart she doubted if she were angry at all with oliver wyse. it was all so natural in him; you might almost say that he was invited. bernadette and godfrey between them had set up a situation that invited the intervention of a strong man who knew what he wanted. could the one complain with justice of being tempted, or the other of being wronged? to the friend and kinswoman her own impartial mind put these searching questions. "it's a view that i quite cheerfully accept as between oliver wyse and myself," said arthur. there was a note of hostility in his voice, of readiness to accept a challenge. then he realised that he was being absurd; he had the grace often to recognise that. he smiled as he added, "but, after all, he's done me no harm yet, has he?" the shadow hung over the house--aye, over his own head--but he did not see it. chapter xvii for no particular reason! norton ward on a country visit gave the impression of a locomotive engine in a siding. his repose was so obviously temporary and at the mercy of any signal. he was not moving, but his thoughts were all of movement--of his own moves, of other people's, of his counter-moves; or of his party's moves, and the other party's counter-moves. he could not at the moment be moulding and shaping his life; but, like a sculptor, he was contemplating the clay in the intervals of actual work, and planning all that he would do, so soon as he could get at it again. even in hours of idleness he was brimful of a restless energy which, denied action for the moment, found its outlet in discussing, planning, speculating, making maps of lives, careers, and policies. "you bring london down with you in your portmanteau, frank!" sir christopher expostulated. "we might be in the lobby instead of under the trees here on a fine sunday morning." the old judge lay back in a long chair. he was looking tired, delicate, and frail, his skin pale and waxy; his hands were very thin. he had arrived cheerful but complaining of fatigue. the work of the term had been hard; he was turned seventy, and must think of retiring--so he told his hostess. "it's so different," he went on, "when it comes to looking back on it all, when it's all behind you. but, of course, men differ too. i never meant business to the extent you do. i've done pretty well; i won't cry down what is, after all, a fine position. it was thought rather a job, by the way, making me a judge, but i was popular and what's called a good fellow, and people swallowed the job without making a fuss. but work and what it brings have never been all the world to me. i've loved too many other things, and loved them too much." "oh, i know i'm a climber," laughed norton ward. "i can't help it. i try sometimes to get up an interest in some dilettante business or other, but i just can't! i'm an infernal philistine; all that sort of thing seems just waste of time to me." "well then, to you it is waste of time," said his wife. "we must follow our natures, no help for it. and that's what one seems to have done when one looks back. one gets a little doubtful about free will, looking back." "yes, sir, but it's awfully hard to know what your nature is," arthur interposed. he was lying on the grass, pulling up blades of it and tying them in knots for an amusement. "it works of itself, i think, without your knowing much about it--till, as i say, you can look back." "but then it's too late to do anything about it!" "well, so it is, unless eternity is an eternity of education, as some people say--a prospect which one's lower nature is inclined to regard with some alarm." "no amount of it will quite spoil you, sir christopher," esther assured him with an affectionate smile. "if this life can't educate a man, what can?" asked norton ward. "the view traditionally ascribed to providence--with a most distressing corollary!" "i think, if a fellow's come a mucker, he ought to have another chance," said arthur. "that's what my criminals always tell me from the dock, mr. lisle." "and what women say when they run away from their husbands," added norton ward with a laugh. "by the way, i was talking to elphinstone the other day about the effect this divorce reform movement might have if either party really took it up in earnest, and he was inclined to----" "shall we hear sir john elphinstone's views on this beautiful morning?" asked the judge. norton ward laughed again--at himself. "oh, i beg your pardon! but after all it is some time since we touched on anything of practical interest." "if death and judgment aren't of practical interest, i'll be hanged if i know what is!" "but neither of them exactly of immediate interest, judge, we'll hope!" "well, what are you all talking about?" asked a voice from behind the group. bernadette stood there, with parasol and prayer-book. she had been to church with godfrey, margaret, and judith. "death and judgment, bernadette," said esther. "not very cheerful! you might as well have come to church, and dressed the family pew for us." "oh, but we were cheerful; we had just concluded that neither threatened any of us at present." bernadette took a seat among them, facing arthur as he lay on the grass. she gave him a little nod of recognition; she was especially glad to find him there, it seemed to say. he smiled back at her, lazily happy, indolently enjoying the fair picture she presented. "it's very artistic of you to go to church in the country, bernadette," said the judge. "it's so much the right thing. but you always do the right thing. in fact i rather expected you to go so far as to bring the parson back to lunch. that was the ritual in my early days." "i don't overdo things, not even my duties," smiled bernadette. she was looking very pretty, very serene, rather mischievous. none the less, the parasol and the prayer-book gave her an orthodox air; she was quite pronouncedly mrs. lisle of hilsey, sitting on her own lawn. after attending to her religious duties and setting a good example, she was now entertaining her house-party. "the others have gone for a walk before lunch, but it's much too hot for walking," she went on. "oh, but you promised to go for a walk with me this afternoon, you know," cried arthur. "we'll go and sit together somewhere instead, arthur." "we're warned off! that's pretty evident," laughed norton ward. "you shouldn't give her away before all of us, arthur. if she does make assignations with you----" "if she does make assignations, she keeps them--no matter who knows," said bernadette. a little mocking smile hung persistently about her lips as she sat there, regarded by them all, the ornament of the group, the recipient of the flattery of their eyes. "if she made one with me," said sir christopher, "i don't think i should be able to keep it to myself either. i should be carried away by pride, as no doubt mr. lisle is." "would you kiss and tell, sir christopher?" smiled bernadette. "poets do--and such a kiss might make even me a poet." "evidently you'd better not risk it, bernadette," laughed arthur. "well, it hasn't been the usual effect of my kisses," bernadette observed demurely. the mischievous reference to her husband seemed obvious. it forced a smile from all of them; esther added a reproving shake of her head. "perhaps it's as well, because i don't think i should like poets, not about the house, you know." "now tell us your ideal man, bernadette," said the judge. "oh, i'll tell each of you that in private!" to esther norton ward, who knew her well, there seemed something changed in her. she was as serene, as gay, as gracious as ever. but her manner had lost something of the absolute naturalness which had possessed so great a charm. she seemed more conscious that she exercised attraction, and more consciously to take pleasure--perhaps even a little pride--in doing it. she had never been a flirt, but now her speeches and glances were not so free from what makes flirtation, not so careless of the effect they might produce or the response which might be evoked by them. to some degree the airs of a beauty had infected her simplicity; graceful and dainty as they were, to her old friend's thinking they marred the rarer charm. she was not so childlike, not so free from guile. but esther did not suppose that the men would notice any change; if they did, they would probably like it. for being neither willing nor able to flirt herself, she was convinced that men liked flirts. flirts both flattered their pride and saved them trouble. perhaps there was some truth in her theory. for esther's own eyes the change in bernadette was there, whether the men saw it or not. it was not obvious or obtrusive; it was subtle. but it was also pervasive. it tinged her words and looks with a provocativeness, a challenge, a consciousness of feminine power formerly foreign to them. she had meanings where she used to have none. she took aim at her mark. she knew what she wanted to effect and used means towards it. she no longer pleased herself and left her pleasure itself to make her charming. this was not the old bernadette, esther thought, as she watched her dexterously, triumphantly, keeping the three men in play. the men did notice, in varying degrees, though none with so clear a perception as the woman. norton ward, not quick to note subtleties in people and not curious about women, was content with thinking that bernadette lisle seemed in remarkably good form and spirits that sunday--he observed on the fact at a later date. the judge, a shrewder and more experienced observer in this line, smiled tolerantly at the way she was keeping her hand in by a flirtation with her handsome young kinsman by marriage; she was not a fool, and it would do the boy good. arthur too saw the change, or rather felt it, as he would feel a variation in the atmosphere. he could have given no such clear account of wherein it lay as esther had arrived at, nor any such simple explanation as served for norton ward or sir christopher. had he been pressed, he might have said--doubtfully--that she seemed to have become more his equal, and more like other women in a way, though still infinitely more delightful. but, no man asking him to analyse his feeling, he did not attempt the vain task. the effect on him was there, whatever its explanation might be; in some vague fashion it was as though she put out a hand to raise him from the ground where he lay at her feet, his face hidden, and graciously intimated that he might kneel before her and dare to raise his eyes to hers. she treated him more as a man and less as a pet--was that it? this was the idea which came nearest to explicitness in his mind; the proud pleasure with which he looked and listened had its source in some such inkling as that. he had grown in the last few months; both actually and in his own esteem he had developed; a recognition of his progress from her would crown the delight she gave him. she saw not only the men's admiration, amused or dazzled; she perceived also esther's covert curiosity. she knew herself that she felt different and was being different. esther norton ward knew it too! very well, let her know. she did not know the reason yet. that she would learn hereafter. she caught esther's pondering glance and met it with a smile of mutinous merriment; esther might have pondered with more chance of enlightenment, had she been at hilsey during the week that oliver wyse had spent there! "why don't you use your influence with that young man there and make him work?" asked norton ward of her. "the wise woman uses her influence to make men do what they want to do, but think they oughtn't. then they worship her, frank." "oh, bosh! henry's in despair about you, arthur--he's pathetic!" "i like that!" cried arthur indignantly. "didn't he tell you about my case? it was only in the county court, of course, but----" "that's it! henry said you were very promising, if you'd only----" "did you win a case, arthur? tell us about it." arthur told the story of his battle with mr. tiddes, and how miss silcock betrayed the fortress. "splendid!" cried bernadette, clapping her hands, her eyes all sparkling. "arthur, you shall defend me, the first time i'm in trouble. only i think i shall plead guilty, and throw myself on the mercy of his lordship." "you'd get none from me, you baggage!" said sir christopher, who was wondering how the deuce any young fellow could resist her. "call witnesses to character, anyhow. we'd all come," laughed norton ward. "you'd all come as witnesses to my character?" her laugh came low but rich, hearty, charged with malicious enjoyment. "i wonder if you would!" "witnesses to character don't help the prisoner very much, and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred convict themselves--of stupidity, which they invite the judge to share. what they really come to say is 'we've made a mistake about this fellow all these years. he's been too clever for us!' why should that help him? i'm very careful about letting that sort of thing interfere with my sentences." "but oughtn't the prisoner to get a reward for past good character, sir christopher? because it may not have been a case of deceiving his friends. he may have changed himself." "well, it's the changed man i'm sentencing. why shouldn't he get it hot?" "i shall not throw myself on the mercy of this particular lordship," said bernadette. "he hasn't got any, that's obvious." "no, you'd better get out of my jurisdiction." "that would be the best thing to do, i think--get out of the jurisdiction." she rose with a laugh. "also i'm going to get out of this church-going frock and into something cool and comfortable for lunch." before she went, she had a last word for sir christopher. "the prisoner may have deceived himself as well as his friends, mayn't he? and he may surprise himself in the end just as much as he surprises them. come along, arthur, and help me to make some hock-cup before i change--barber's no good at it." the judge looked after her as she walked away, attended by arthur. "that was rather an acute remark of hers," he said. "yes, i wonder what made her say it!" esther was looking puzzled and thoughtful again. "oh, come, we all of us make intelligent general observations at times, esther." "i don't think bernadette's much given to general observations, though." "anyhow it's good to see her in such spirits," said norton ward. "rather surprising too, since you're talking of surprises. because between ourselves--and now that the family's out of hearing--i may say that our host is even unusually poor company just now." "as bernadette's very little in his company, that doesn't so much matter." "esther, my dear, you sound rather tart," said sir christopher. "come and drink the hock-cup; it'll make you more mellow." bernadette's gay and malicious humour persisted through lunch, but when, according to her promise, she sat with arthur on the seat by the river, sheltered by a tree, her mood had changed; she was very friendly, but pensive and thoughtful beyond her wont. she looked at him once or twice as if she meant to speak, but ended by saying nothing. at last she asked him whether he has seen anything of the sarradets lately. "not since my lunch--when you met marie," he answered. he was smoking his pipe and now and then throwing pebbles into the river--placidly happy. "i liked her awfully. you musn't drop her, arthur. she's been a good friend to you, hasn't she?" "oh, she's a rare good sort, marie! i don't want to drop her, but somehow i've got out of the way of seeing so much of her. you know what i mean? i don't go where she does, and she doesn't go much where i do." "but you could make efforts--more lunches, for instance," she suggested. "oh, yes, i could--sometimes i do. but--well, it's just that the course of my life has become different." "i'm afraid the course of your life means me to a certain extent." he laughed. "you began it, of course, when you came to bloomsbury street. do you remember?" "yes, i remember all right. but i don't want you to lose your friends through me." again she glanced at him in hesitation, but this time she spoke. "you may find me a broken reed, after all, cousin arthur." he smoked for a moment, then laid down his pipe. "i'm fond of you all," he said. "you know how well godfrey and i get on. i've made friends with judith, and i'm making friends with margaret. and--we're too good pals to say much--but you know what you are to me, bernadette." "yes, i know, cousin arthur." "so i don't know what you mean by talking about broken reeds." she gave a little sigh, but said no more for the moment. she seemed to be on another tack when she spoke again. "it's a wonderful thing to be alive, isn't it? i don't mean just to breathe and eat and sleep, but to be alive really--to--to tingle!" "it's a wonderful thing to see in you sometimes," he laughed. "why, this morning, for instance, you--you seemed to be on fire with it. and for no particular reason--except, i suppose, that it was a fine day." she smiled again as she listened, but now rather ruefully. "for no particular reason!" she could not help smiling at that. "well, i hope i didn't scorch anybody with my fire," she said. "you made us all madly in love with you, of course." she gave him a little touch on the arm. "never mind the others. you mustn't be that, cousin arthur." he turned to her in honest seriousness. "as long as you'll be to me just what you are now, there's nothing to worry about. i'm perfectly content." "but suppose i should--change?" "i shan't suppose anything of the sort," he interrupted half-angrily. "why should you say that?" her heart failed her; she could not give him further warning. words would not come to her significant enough without being blunt and plain; that again she neither could nor would be. something of her malice revived in her; if he could not see, he must remain blind--till the flash of the tempest smote light even into his eyes. it must be so. she gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "a mood, i suppose! just as i had a mood this morning--and, as you say, for no particular reason!" chapter xviii going to rain! the departure of the norton wards and sir christopher on monday morning left arthur alone with the family party at hilsey manor. to live alone with a family is a different thing from being one of a party of visitors. the masks are off; the family life is seen more intimately, the household politics reveal themselves to the intelligent outsider. during the days which intervened between his own arrival and that of oliver wyse, arthur's eyes were opened to several things; and first of all to the immense importance of judith arden in the household. he soon found himself wondering how it got on at all in the winter, when she was not there; he had not yet known his cousins through a winter. she was in touch with all three of them; her love for animals and outdoor things made her in sympathy with the little girl; her cheerfulness and zest for enjoyment united her with bernadette; her dry and satiric humour, as well as her interest in books, appealed to godfrey's temper. thus she served, as she herself had hinted to arthur, as an intermediary, an essential go-between; she was always building bridges and filling up chasms, trying to persuade them that they had more in common than they thought, trying to make them open their hearts to one another, and distributing herself, so to say, among them in the way best calculated to serve these ends. arthur soon observed with amusement that she aimed at distributing him also fairly among the family--now assigning him to margaret, now contriving for him a walk with godfrey, then relinquishing him to bernadette for a while, and thus employing him, as she employed herself, as a link; their common liking for him was to serve as a bond of union. it was the task of a managing woman, and he would have said that he hated managing women. but it was impossible to hate judith; she set about her task with so much humour, and took him into her confidence about it not so much in words as by quick amused glances which forbade him to resent the way she was making use of him. very soon he was sympathising with her and endeavouring to help in her laudable endeavour after family unity. she still persevered in it, though she had little or no hope left, and was often tempted to abandon the struggle to preserve what, save for the child's sake perhaps, seemed hardly worth preserving. though she actually knew nothing of how matters stood between bernadette and oliver--nothing either of what they had done or of what they meant to do--though she had intercepted no private communication, and surprised no secret meetings, she was sure of what oliver wanted and of what bernadette felt. the meaning of the change that puzzled esther norton ward was no riddle to her; the touch of love had awakened the instinct to coquetry and fascination; feelings long latent and idle were once more in activity, swaying the woman's soul and ruling her thoughts. judith had little doubt of what the end would be, whether it came clandestinely, or openly, or passed from the one to the other, as such things often did. still, so long as there was a chance, so long as she had a card to play----! she played cousin arthur now--for what he was worth. after all, it was for his own good too; he was a deeply interested party. when she saw that he understood her efforts, though not how urgent was the need of them, and was glad to help, her heart went out to him, and she found a new motive for the labours she had been tempted to abandon. she got no help from godfrey lisle. he was sulking; no other word is so apt to describe his attitude towards the thing which threatened him. though he did not know how far matters had or had not gone, he too had seen a change in his wife; he had watched her covertly and cautiously; he had watched oliver wyse. slowly he had been driven from indifference into resentment and jealousy, as he recognised bernadette's feelings. he tried to shut his eyes to the possibility of a crisis that would call for all the qualities which he did not possess--courage, resolution, determination, and perhaps also for an affection which he had lost, and an understanding which he had never braced himself to attain. since he could not or dared not act, he declared that there lay on him no obligation. he hated the idea, but it was not his. it was bernadette's--and hers the responsibility. he "declined to believe it," as people say so often of a situation with which they cannot or are afraid to grapple. he did believe it, but declining to believe it seemed at once to justify his inaction and to aggravate his wife's guilt. thus it came about that he was fighting the impending catastrophe with no better weapon than the sulks. at first the sulks had been passive; he had merely withdrawn himself, gone into his shell, after his old fashion. but under the influence of his grudge and his unhappiness he went further now, not of set purpose, but with an instinctive striving after the sympathy and support for which he longed, and an instinctive desire to make the object of his resentment uncomfortable. he tried to gather a party for himself, to win the members of the household to his side, to isolate bernadette. this effort affected his manner towards her. it lost some of its former courtesy, or at least his politeness was purely formal; he became sarcastic, disagreeable, difficult over the small questions of life which from time to time cropped up; he would call the others to witness how unreasonable bernadette was, or to join him in ridiculing or depreciating her pursuits, her tastes, or her likings. sometimes there was an indirect thrust at oliver wyse himself. being in the wrong on the main issue generally makes people anxious to be in the right in subsidiary matters. bernadette, conscious of the cause of her husband's surliness, met it with perfect good-nature--behaved really like an angel under it, thought judith with one of her bitterly humorous smiles. arthur, a stranger to the cause of the surliness--for though he had given oliver wyse a thought or two on his own account, he had given him none on godfrey's score--was troubled at it, and proportionately admired the angelic character of the response. his chivalry took fire. "what's the matter with the old chap?" he asked judith. "he's downright rude to her sometimes. he never used to be that." "something's upset him, i suppose--some little grievance. i don't think she minds, you know." "i mind, though, especially when he seems to expect me to back him up. i'll soon show him i won't do it!" "you'd much better not mix yourself up in it--whatever it is. it won't last long, perhaps." "i can't stand it if it does. i shall have it out with him. the way bernadette stands it is perfectly wonderful." another halo for the fair and saintly head! judith jerked her own head impatiently. the natural woman longed to cry out: "don't you see how clever the minx is?" sometimes the natural woman was tempted to wish that oliver wyse would swoop down, carry off his prey, and end the whole situation. but there was to be a little more of it yet, a little more time for the fascination of the new manner and the halo of imputed saintliness to work. oliver wyse had interrupted his visit by reason of the illness of an old uncle, to whom he had owed his start in life and whom he could not neglect. it had proved rather a long business--bernadette read a passage from sir oliver's letter to the company at breakfast--but the old man was convalescent at last, and sir oliver would be able to leave him in three or four days more, if all went well. "so, if i may, i'll settle provisionally to be with you next friday," said the letter. it went on--and bernadette also went on composedly--"so there ought to be nothing in the way of our making the motor excursion i suggested one day in the following week, if you've a mind for it then." she folded up the letter, laid it beside her, took a sip of coffee, and caught judith's eyes regarding her with what seemed like an amused admiration. her own glance in return was candid and simple. "i'm afraid i forget what his excursion was to be, but it doesn't matter." "i haven't had my excursion yet," arthur complained. "the fact is we've done hardly anything since i came." "well, you shall have yours to-morrow, if it's fine," bernadette promised. "for how long does oliver wyse propose to honour us?" asked godfrey, glowering and glum at the other end of the table. "i really don't exactly know. a week or so, i should think." godfrey grunted surlily. "a week too much!" the grunt plainly said. he turned to arthur. "yes, you'd better get your excursion while you can. when wyse is here, we none of us get much chance at the car." saintliness ignored the grumble. arthur fidgeted under it. "if you want the car, i'm sure i don't want to take it from you, godfrey," he said rather hotly. "oh, i spoke in your interest. i'm not likely to be asked to go on a motor excursion!" "you wouldn't go for the world, if you were asked," said judith. "it'll hold us all. anybody can come who likes," remarked bernadette meekly. "that's a very pressing invitation, isn't it?" godfrey growled to arthur, asking his sympathy. little scenes like this were frequent now, though oliver wyse's name was not often dragged into them; godfrey shrank from doing that often, for fear of defiance and open war. more commonly it was just a sneer at bernadette, a "damper" administered to her merriment. but arthur resented it all, and came to fear it, so that he no longer sought his cousin's company on walks or in his study, but left him to his own melancholy devices. the unhappy man, sensitive as he was, saw the change in a moment and hailed a new grievance; his own kinsman now his wife was setting against him! in fact bernadette's influence was all thrown in the other scale. it was she who prevented arthur from open remonstrance, forbade him to be her champion, insisted that he should still, to as great a degree as his feelings would allow, be his cousin's friend and companion. she was really and honestly sorry for godfrey, and felt a genuine compunction about him--though not an overwhelming one. godfrey had not loved her for a long while; oliver wyse was not responsible for that. but she had led him to suppose that she was content with the state of affairs between them; in fact she had been pretty well content with it. now she had changed--and proposed to act accordingly. acting accordingly would mean not breaking his heart, but dealing a sore blow at his pride, shattering his home, upsetting his life utterly. she really wanted to soften the blow as much as possible; if she left him, she wanted to leave him with friends--people he liked--about him; with margaret, with judith, and with arthur. then she could picture him as presently settling down comfortably enough. perhaps there was an alloy of self-regard in this feeling--a salve to a conscience easily salved--but in the main it came of the claim of habit and old partnership, and of her natural kindliness. these carried her now beyond her first delight in the drama of the situation; that persisted and recurred, but she was also honestly trying to make the catastrophe as little of a catastrophe as was possible, consistently with the effecting of its main object. so it came about that, in these last days before oliver wyse arrived, she thought more about her husband than she had done for years before, and treated his surliness with a most commendable patience. although arthur's relations with godfrey had thus suffered a check, his friendship with little margaret throve; the shy child gradually allowed him an approach to intimacy. they had rambles together, and consultations over guinea-pigs and gardening. here arthur saw a chance of seconding judith's efforts after family unity. here there was room, even in his eyes--for bernadette, though kind and affectionate in her bearing towards the child, did not make a companion of her. inspired by this idea, he offered a considerable sacrifice of his own inclination. when the day came for his motor excursion, he proposed to bernadette that margaret should be of the party. "it'll be such a tremendous treat for her to be taken with you," he said. bernadette was surprised, amused, just a little chagrined. in her own mind she had invested this excursion with a certain garb of romance or of sentiment. it was to be, as she reckoned, in all likelihood her last long _tête-à-tête_ (the driver on the front seat did not count) with cousin arthur; it was to be in some sort a farewell--not to a lover indeed, but yet to a devotee. true, the devotee was not aware of that fact, but he must know that oliver wyse's arrival would entail a considerable interruption of his opportunities for devotion. arthur's proposal was reassuring, of course, in regard to his feelings, for it did not seem to her that it could come from one who was in any danger of succumbing to a passion, and once or twice in these later days a suspicion that the situation might develop in that awkward fashion had made its way into her mind. arthur must be safe enough as to that if he were ready to abandon his long _tête-à-tête_! she was really glad to think that she could dismiss the suspicion. but she was also a little disappointed over her sentimental excursion--at having it turned into what was in effect a family party. even talk about sentiment would be at a discount with margaret there. "it'll be rather a long day for her, won't it?" she asked. "it'll be such a great thing to her, and we can cut it a bit shorter," he urged. with a slight lift of her brows and a smile bernadette yielded. "oh, all right, then!" "how awfully good of you!" he cried. "how awfully good of me!" would have seemed to her an exclamation more appropriate in his mouth at the moment. the child was sent for, to hear the great news. she came and stood dutifully by her mother's knee, and bernadette put her arm round her waist. "cousin arthur and i are going for a long drive in the car. we shall take our lunch, and eat it by the road-side, and have great fun. and you're to come with us, margaret!" the delighted smile which was expected (by arthur, at least, most confidently) to illuminate the child's solemn little face did not make its appearance. after a momentary hesitation, margaret said "yes, mummy." "you like to come, don't you, margaret?" "yes, mummy." she looked down and fidgeted her toe on the carpet. "if you wish me to." "no, dear, i want to know what you wish. were you going to do something else?" "well, judith had promised to take me with her to mrs. beard's this morning, and show me mrs. beard's rabbits." the tone was undeniably wistful, whether the main attraction lay in judith, in mrs. beard, or in the rabbits. the combination was a powerful one in margaret's eyes. "and would you rather do that than come with us?" bernadette went on, very kindly, very gently. the toe worked hard at the carpet. "do just what you like, dear. i only want you to please yourself." "if you really don't mind, mummy, i think i would rather----" "very well then!" bernadette kissed her. "run away to judith!" the delighted smile came at last, as margaret looked up in gratitude at her kind mother. "oh, thank you so much, mummy!" and she darted off with an unusual gleefulness. bernadette, her part of kind mother admirably played, looked across at arthur. he was so crestfallen that she could not forbear from laughing. his scheme a failure, his sacrifice thwarted! the father sulked; the child, with an innocent but fatal sincerity, repelled advances. things looked bad for the unifiers! indeed one of them had put her foot neatly through the plan devised by the other. judith knew about the proposed excursion; clearly she had not thought it possible that margaret would be asked to join, or she would never have arranged the visit to mrs. beard. "we're unfortunate in meeting a strong counter-attraction, arthur. we've overrated the charms of our society, i'm afraid." though bernadette laughed, she spoke in dry tones, and her look was malicious. arthur felt foolish. when once the scheme was a failure, it came to look futile, hopeless--and terribly obvious. bernadette saw through it, of course; her look told him that. "oh, well, i suppose rabbits are----!" he murmured feebly. "rabbits--and judith!" she rose and went to the window. "i rather think it's going to rain." then after a pause she went on, "i think you're rather a conventionally minded person, arthur." he attempted no defence. she had seen through the scheme--oh, quite clearly! she was vexed too; she was frowning now, as she stood by the window. "you can't have the same tastes and--and likings as people have just because you happen to be some relation or other to them. it's no use trying." she gave an impatient little shake of her head. she had not altogether liked the child's being asked; she liked no better the child's being unwilling to come. little as she had wanted margaret's company, it was not flattering to be postponed in her regard to rabbits--and judith. still, if the child did prefer rabbits and judith--well, there was the comforting reflection that she could always have rabbits at a very moderate cost, and that there was no reason to apprehend that she would be deprived of judith. what she valued least was the thing she was most likely to lose, as matters stood at present. hurt vanity wrested the little girl's innocent sincerity into an argument for bernadette's secret purpose. "i don't like the look of that cloud. i'm sure it's going to rain." arthur glanced out of the window in a perfunctory way; he felt that he would have to accept bernadette's view of the weather prospects, however subjective that view might be. she was out of conceit with the excursion. all this "fuss"--as she expressed it in the primitive phraseology of inward reflection--spoilt it. she was rather out of humour even with cousin arthur. she did not mind judith planning and scheming in the interests of family union; she was used to that and regarded it with an amused toleration. but she did not fancy arthur's undertaking the same _rôle_. in her conception his proper attitude was that of a thorough-going partisan and nothing else. as such, he had been about to receive the tribute of that excursion. now she was no more inclined to it. that sort of thing depended entirely on being in the mood for it. arthur's--well, yes, arthur's stupidity--and margaret's--well, yes, margaret's ungraciousness--had between them spoilt it. she felt tired of the whole thing--tired and impatient. "i think we'll wait for a safer day, arthur." "all right. just as you like." he was hurt, but felt himself in fault and attempted no protest; he knew that she was displeased with him--for the first time in all their acquaintance. so the car was countermanded. but the next day was no safer, nor the day that followed. then came friday, which was otherwise dedicated. neither as a sentimental farewell nor as a family party did that excursion ever happen. chapter xix the last entrenchment on that friday morning arthur's seclusion--for thus his stay at hilsey might be described, so remote it seemed from the rest of his life, so isolated and self-contained--was invaded by the arrival of two letters concerned with matters foreign to hilsey and its problems or emotions. the first he opened was from joe halliday and treated of the farce. joe wrote with his usual optimism; prospects were excellent; the company which had been engaged was beyond praise. but there was a difficulty, a hitch. the producer, mr. langley etheringham, a man of authority in his line, declared that the last act needed strengthening, and that he knew what would strengthen it. the author, mr. claud beverley, denied that it needed strengthening and (still more vigorously) that mr. etheringham knew how to do it. there was friction. joe was undecided between the two. "we three are going to meet on sunday and have a good go at it," he wrote. "thrash the thing out, you know, and get at a decision. i've got claud to agree to so much after a lot of jaw--authors are silly asses, sometimes, you know. now i want you to come up to-morrow or next day, and go through the piece with me, and then come on sunday too. you'll bring a fresh mind to it that will, i think, be valuable--i seem to know it so well that i really can't judge it--and you've put in so much of the money that both claud and langley (though he's a despotic sort of gent) will be bound to listen to your opinion, whatever it is. come if you can, old chap. i've no doubt of success anyhow, but this is rather important. above all, we don't want claud and langley at loggerheads even before we begin rehearsals." frowning thoughtfully, arthur proceeded to read the second letter. it came from henry. "i beg to inform you that messrs. wills and mayne rang up at two o'clock to-day to ask if you were in town. i had to say that you had been called away on business but could be here to-morrow (in accordance with your instructions). they replied that they regretted the matter could not wait. i did not therefore wire you, but i think it proper to inform you of the matter. yours obediently----" appeal from joe halliday, plain though tacit reproach from henry! a chance lost at the temple! how big a chance there was no telling; there never is in such cases. a cry for help from the syndicate! his legitimate mistress the law was revenging herself for his neglect; drama, the nymph of his errant fancy, whom he had wooed at the risk of a thousand pounds (or indeed, if a true psychology be brought to bear on the transaction, of fifteen hundred), might do the like unless he hastened to her side. pangs of self-reproach assailed arthur as he sat on the lawn, smoking his pipe. moreover he was not in such perfect good humour with hilsey as he was wont to be. the miscarriage of his excursion rankled in his mind; the perfection of his harmony with bernadette was a trifle impaired; there had been a touch of aloofness in her manner the last two days. godfrey was too grumpy for words. finally, to-day oliver wyse was coming. was hilsey really so fascinating that for its _beaux yeux_ a man must risk his interests, neglect his profession, and endanger, even by the difference of a hair, a dramatic success which was to outvie the triumph of _help me out quickly_? yet he was annoyed at having to put this question to himself, at having to ask himself how he stood towards hilsey and how hilsey stood to him. and, down in his heart, he knew that it would be very difficult to go if bernadette really wanted him to stay--and a very distressful departure for him if it appeared that she did not! judith came out of the house, crossed the lawn, and sat down in a chair opposite him. they had met earlier in the day, and greeting did not seem necessary to arthur's preoccupied mind. he was smoking rather hard, and still frowning over his problem. judith, on the other hand, seemed to be engaged with some secret source of amusement, although amusement of a rather sardonic order. her mouth was twisted in a satirical smile--not at arthur's expense, but at the expense of some person or persons unknown. arthur did not notice her expression, but presently he announced to her the outcome of his thoughts. "i think i shall have to go back to town to-morrow for a bit; some business has turned up." her eyes met his quickly and, somehow, rather suspiciously. "oh, don't you run away too!" she said. "run away too! what do you mean? who's running away? what are you grinning at, judith?" the word, though not complimentary, really described the character of her smile. "godfrey's gone to bed." "gone to bed? why, he was at breakfast!" "i know. but he says he got up feeling seedy, and now he feels worse. so he's gone to bed." arthur looked hard at her, and gradually smiled himself. "what's the matter with him?" "he says he's got a bad liver attack. but i--i think he's left out the first letter." "left out----? oh, no, you don't mean----?" he burst out laughing. "well, i'm jiggered!" "oliveritis--that's my diagnosis. he does go to bed sometimes, you know, when--well, when the world gets too hard for him, poor godfrey!" "oh, i never heard of such a thing! it can't be that! does he hate him as much as that?" "he doesn't like him." "do you think that's why he's been so grumpy lately?" "i suppose he'd say that was the liver attack coming on, but--well, i've told you!" "but to go to bed!" arthur chuckled again. "well, i am jiggered!" "you may be jiggered as much as you like--but must you go to london?" "does bernadette know he's gone to bed?" pursuing his own train of amused wonder, arthur did not mark judith's question, with its note of appeal. "i told barber to tell her. i didn't think i should look grave enough--or perhaps bernadette either!" "why, would she tumble to its being--oliveritis?" "she'd have her suspicions, i think. i asked you just now whether you really must go to london, arthur." "well, i don't want to--though i've a slight touch of that disease of godfrey's myself--but i suppose i ought. it's like this." he told her of the lost chance at chambers, and of joe halliday's summons. "it's no use going to-day," he ended, "but i expect i ought to go to-morrow." "yes, i expect you ought," she agreed gravely. "you mustn't miss chances because of--because of us down here." "it isn't obvious that i'm any particular sort of use down here, is it?" "you're of use to me anyhow, arthur." "to you?" he was evidently surprised at this aspect of the case. "yes, but you weren't thinking of me, were you? however, you are. things aren't always easy here, as you may have observed, and it's a great comfort to have someone to help--someone to grumble to or--or to share a smile with, you know." "that's very nice of you. you know i've always supposed you thought me rather an ass." "oh, in some ways, yes, of course you are!" she laughed, but not at all unpleasantly. "i should have liked to have you here through--well, through sir oliver." "the chap's a bit of a nuisance, isn't he? well, i needn't make up my mind till to-morrow. it's no use going to-day, and to-morrow's saturday. so sunday for the piece, and chambers on monday! that'd be all right--especially as i've probably lost my only chance. i'll wait till to-morrow, and see how sir oliver shapes!" he ended with a laugh as his mind went back to godfrey. "gone to bed, poor old chap!" judith joined again in his laugh. godfrey's course of action struck on their humour as the culmination, the supreme expression, of his attitude towards the world and its troubles. he could not fight them in the open; he took refuge from them within his fortifications. if they laid siege and the attack pressed hotly, he retreated from the outer to the inner defences. what the philosopher found in a mind free from passions--a citadel than which a man has nothing more secure whereto he can fly for refuge and there be inexpugnable--godfrey lisle found in a more material form. he found it in bed! but when arthur went up to see his cousin, his amusement gave place, in some measure, to sympathy. pity for his forlornness asserted itself. godfrey insisted that he was ill; he detailed physical symptoms; he assumed a bravado about "sticking it out" till to-morrow, and not having the doctor till then, about "making an effort" to get up to-morrow. through it all ran a suspicion that he was himself suspected. bernadette was in the room part of the time. she too was sympathetic, very kind, and apparently without any suspicion. true that she did not look at arthur much, but that might have been accidental, or the result of her care for her husband. if it were a sign that she could not trust herself in confidential glances, it was the only indication she gave of scepticism as to the liver attack. at lunch-time too her admirable bearing and the presence of margaret enforced gravity and a sympathetic attitude, though out of the patient's hearing it was possible to treat his condition with less seriousness. "he's fanciful about himself sometimes," said bernadette. "it's nerves partly, i expect. we must cheer him up all we can. margaret can go and sit with him presently, and you might go up again later, arthur. he likes to talk to you, you know. and"--she smiled--"if godfrey's laid up, you'll have to help me with sir oliver. you must be host, if he can't." bernadette had not practised any of her new graces on arthur since the miscarriage of the excursion; either the check to her sentiment, the little wound to her vanity, prevented her, or else she had grown too engrossed in the near prospect of oliver wyse's arrival. at all events the new manner had been in abeyance. she had been her old self, with her old unmeditated charm; it had lost nothing by being just a little pensive--not low-spirited, but thoughtful and gentle. she had borne herself thus towards all of them. she showed no uneasiness, no fear of being watched. she was quite simple and natural. nor did she pretend any exaggerated indifference about oliver. she accepted the fact that he came as her particular friend and that she was glad of his coming in that capacity. they all knew about that, of course, just as they knew that cousin arthur was her devotee. all simple and natural--when oliver wyse was not there. arthur, who had not been at hilsey during sir oliver's first visit, was still in the dark. judith arden had her certainty, gained from the observation of the two in the course of it--and godfrey his gnawing suspicion. for bernadette, absorbed, fascinated, excited, had been a little off her guard then--and oliver wyse had not taken enough pains to be on his. he was not clever at the concealment and trickery which he so much disliked. his contempt for godfrey lisle made him refuse to credit him with either the feelings or the vigilance of a husband. he had not troubled his head much about judith, not caring greatly whether she suspected what he felt or not; what could she do or say about it? as his power over bernadette increased, as his assurance of victory had grown, so had the signs of them--those signs which had given judith certainty, and the remembrance of which now drove godfrey to that last citadel of his. but to bernadette herself they had seemed small, perceptible indeed and welcome to her private eye, but so subtle, so minute--as mere signs are apt to seem to people who have beheld the fulness of the thing signified. she did not know herself betrayed, either by her own doing or by his. oliver wyse was expected to arrive about tea-time; he was bringing his own car, as bernadette had announced that morning at breakfast, not without a meaning glance at godfrey--nobody need grudgingly give up the car to him this time! it was about four when arthur again visited the invalid. he found margaret with her father; they were both reading books, for margaret could spell her way through a fairy-story by now, and they seemed happy and peaceful. when arthur came in, godfrey laid down his book readily, and received him with something more like his old welcome. in reply to enquiries he admitted that he felt rather better, but added that he meant to take no risks. "tricky things, these liver attacks!" arthur received the impression that he would think twice and thrice before he emerged from his refuge. he looked yellowish--very likely he had fretted himself into some little ailment--but there was about him an air of relief, almost of resignation. "at all events i needn't see the man when he comes"--so arthur imagined godfrey's inner feelings and smiled within himself at such weakness, at the mixture of timidity and bearishness which turned an unwelcome arrival into a real calamity, a thing to be feared and dodged. but there it was--old godfrey's way, his idiosyncrasy; he was a good old fellow really, and one must make the best of it. so for this hour the three were harmonious and content together. timid yet eager questions from margaret about fairies and giants and their varying ways, about rabbits and guinea-pigs and sundry diversities in their habits; from godfrey a pride and interest in his little daughter which arthur's easy friendship with her made him less shy of displaying; arthur's own ready and generous pleasure in encountering no more grumpiness--all these things combined to make the hour pleasant. it was almost possible to forget oliver wyse. but presently margaret's attendant came to fetch her; she was to have her tea rather early and then change her frock--in order to go downstairs and see sir oliver; such were mother's orders. godfrey's face relapsed into peevishness even while the little girl was kissing him good-bye. "why should she be dragged down to see wyse?" he demanded when she was gone. "oh, i suppose it's the usual thing. their mothers like showing them off." "all damned nonsense!" grumbled godfrey, and took up his book again. but he did not read it. he looked at his watch on the table by him. "half-past four! he'll be here directly." "oh, well, old chap, does it matter so much----?" arthur had begun, when godfrey raised himself in his bed and held up his hand. "there's a motor-horn!" he said. "listen, don't you hear?" "yes, i suppose it's him." he strolled to the window, which looked on the drive. "there is a car coming; i suppose it's his." godfrey let his hand drop, but sat upright for a few moments longer, listening. the car passed the window and stopped at the door. "yes, it's wyse all right. the car's open. i saw him." so saying, arthur left the window and sauntered back towards the bed, his face adorned with a well-meaning smile of common sense and consolation. but godfrey lay down on the pillow again, and with an inarticulate grunt turned his face to the wall. arthur stood looking at him in amazement. his smile grew grim--what a ridiculous old chap it was! but there was no more to be got out of him just now; that was clear enough. no more welcome, no more friendly talk! the sulks were back again in full force; godfrey was entrenched in his last citadel. on arthur himself devolved the function of acting as sir oliver's host. feeling no great desire to discharge his duties, he lounged slowly down the stairs into the hall; he was conscious of a distinct touch of oliveritis. the door which led from the hall to bernadette's own room stood open. they were standing together by the window, bernadette with her back towards arthur. wyse faced her, and her hand rested lightly on his arm--just as it had so often rested on arthur's own, in the little trick of friendly caress that she had. he ought to have known just what--just how much--could properly be inferred from it; none the less he frowned to see it now. then he noticed oliver wyse's face, rising over her head--for oliver was tall--and turned downwards towards her. arthur was in flannels and wore rubber shoes; his feet had made no sound on the carpeted stairs. his approach was unnoticed. the next minute he was crossing the hall with determined, emphatic, highly audible steps. slowly, as it seemed, oliver wyse raised his head, and slowly a smile came to his lips as he looked over bernadette's head at the young man. then she turned round--very quickly. she was smiling, and her eyes were bright. but something in arthur's face attracted her attention. she flushed a little. her voice was louder than usual, and seemed as it were hurried, when she said: "here's sir oliver safe and sound, arthur! he's done it in two hours and twenty minutes." "not bad going, was it?" asked oliver, still looking at arthur with that cool, self-confident, urbane smile. he was not embarrassed; rather it seemed as though he were defying the intruder to embarrass him, whatever he might have seen, whatever he might be pleased to think. but bernadette, his adored, his hopelessly idealised bernadette--ah, the vulgar, the contaminating suspicion!--bernadette was looking as if she had been caught! a sudden swift current of feeling ran through him--a new feeling which made his blood hot with resentment of that confident smile. bernadette's confusion was but momentary. she was quite herself again, serene and at ease, as she said, "will you show him his room? he'd like a wash before tea. he's in the red room--over the porch, you know." arthur entered on his duties as deputy-host to the urbane and smiling guest. chapter xx a prudent counsellor arthur escaped from the house as soon as he could, leaving bernadette and sir oliver at tea together. he could not bear to be with them; he had need to be alone with his anger and bewilderment. perhaps if he were alone for a bit he could see things better, get them in a true perspective, and make up his mind whether he was being a fool now or had been a fool--a sore fool--up to now. which was the truth? bernadette's confusion, if real at all, had been momentary; sir oliver's cool confidence had never wavered. he did not know what to think. all its old peace and charm enveloped hilsey that summer evening, but they could not calm the ferment of his spirit. there was war within him; the new idea clashed so terribly with all the old ones. the image of bernadette which he had fashioned and set up rocked on its pedestal. a substitute began to form itself in his consciousness, not less fascinating--alas, no!--but very different. he could not turn his eyes from it now; it filled him with fear and anger. he crossed the bridge and the meadows beyond it, making for the wood which crowned the hill above, walking quickly, under an impulse of restlessness, a desire to get away--though, again, the next instant he would be seized with a mad idea of going straight back and "having it out" with her, with oliver--with somebody! shaking it off, he would stride forward again, his whole mind enmeshed in pained perplexity. oh, to know the truth! and yet the truth might be fearful, shattering. the bark of a dog, short and sharp, struck on his ears. then, "patsy, patsy, come here!" and a laugh. judith was sitting on the trunk of a tree newly cut down, by the side of the path. she had a book in her lap; patsy had been on guard beside her. "where are you rushing to at six miles an hour?" she asked. "you frightened patsy." he stopped in front of her. "was i walking quickly? i--i'm not going anywhere in particular--just for a stroll before dinner." "a stroll!" she laughed again, raising her brows. "sit down for a bit, and then we'll walk back together. you look quite hot." he sat down by her and lit a cigarette. but he did not meet her eyes. he sat staring straight before him with a frowning face, as he smoked. she made her inspection of him, unperceived herself, but she let him know the result of it. "you look rather gloomy, arthur. has anything happened?" "no--well, except that oliver wyse has got here--about an hour ago, before tea." "sir oliver is much as usual, i suppose?" "i suppose so. i don't know him very well, you see." "meeting him doesn't seem to have had a very cheering effect upon you. you look about as jolly as hamlet." he shook his head impatiently, but made no answer. he did look very forlorn. she patted his shoulder. "oh, come, cheer up! whatever it is, grouching won't help. we mustn't have you going to bed too, like godfrey." she gave him this lead, hoping that he would take it. it seemed better to her now that he should realise the truth, or some of it. he turned his face towards her slowly. she looked at him with grave eyes, but with a little smile--of protest, as it were, against any overdoing of the tragedy. "what does the fellow want here?" he asked in a very low voice. "all he can get," she answered brusquely. "that's my opinion anyhow, though i couldn't prove it." he did not move; he looked at her still; his eyes were heavy with another question. but he dared not put it--at least not yet. "why is he allowed to come here then?" he grumbled. "who's to stop him? godfrey? from bed?" the remembrance of godfrey turning his face to the wall answered her question. but she went on with a repressed vehemence, "do you suppose godfrey needs telling? well, then, what could i do? and i'm not sure i'd do anything if i could. i've done my best with this family, but it's pretty hopeless. things must happen as they must, arthur. and you've no right to hold me responsible." "i can't understand it," he muttered slowly. "i thought you would by now--staying in the house." "but she'd never--let him?" his voice sank to a whisper. "i don't know. women do, you know. why not bernadette?" "but she's not like that, not that sort," he broke out, suddenly angry again. she turned rather hard and contemptuous. "not that sort? she's a woman, isn't she? she's never been like that with you--that's what you really mean." "it isn't," he declared passionately. "i've never--never had so much as a thought of anything like that." "i know. you've made something superhuman of her. well, sir oliver hasn't." "i won't believe it of her!" the burden of grief and desolation in his voice made judith gentle and tender again. "oh, i know you won't, my dear," she said, "unless you absolutely have to, absolutely must." she got up and whistled to recall her dog, which had strayed into the wood. "i must go back, or i shall be late for dinner. are you coming, arthur?" "oh, there's plenty of time. i must think what to do." she turned away with a shrug of her shoulders. what could he do? what could anybody? things must happen as they would--for good or evil as they would. things were likely to happen now, and that quickly. at the very moment when arthur came upon them in bernadette's room, oliver had been telling her of his completed plan. the yacht would be round to southampton by the following tuesday. they would motor over--it was within a drive of moderate length from hilsey--go on board, and set sail over summer seas. she had turned from that vision to meet arthur's startled eyes; hence her momentary confusion. but she was over it now. while they drank their tea, oliver well-nigh persuaded her that it had never existed--never, at least, been visible. and besides, "what does it matter what he thinks?" oliver urged. to this bernadette would not quite agree. "i don't want him to--to have any idea of it till--till the time comes," she said fretfully. "i don't want anybody to have any idea till then--least of all arthur." "well, it's not for long, and we'll be very careful," he said with a laugh. "yes, you promised me that when i let you come back here," she reminded him eagerly. "i know. i'll keep my word." he looked into her eyes as he repeated, "it's not for long." if oliver wyse had not inspired her with a great passion--a thing that no man perhaps could create from what there was to work on in her soul--he had achieved an almost complete domination over her. he had made his standards hers, his judgments the rule and measure of her actions and thoughts. she saw through his eyes, and gave to things and people much the dimensions that he did, the importance or the unimportance. at his bidding she turned her back on her old life and looked forward--forward only. but to one thing she clung tenaciously. she had made up her mind to the crash and upheaval at hilsey, but she had no idea of its happening while she was there; she meant to give--to risk giving--no occasion for that. her ears should not hear nor her eyes see the fall of the structure. no sight of it, scarcely a rumbling echo, need reach her as she sailed the summer seas. oliver himself had insisted on the great plunge, the great break; so much benefit she was entitled to get out of it. "and be specially careful about arthur," she urged. "not even the slightest risk another time!" "confound arthur!" he laughed good-humouredly. "why does that boy matter so much?" "oh, he thinks such a lot of me, you know. and i am very fond of him. we've been awfully good friends, oliver. at all events he does appreciate me." this was why she felt tender about arthur, and was more sorry for him than for the others who were to suffer by what she did. she had not been enough to the others--neither to her husband nor to margaret--but to arthur she knew that she had been and was a great deal. besides she could not possibly get up any case against arthur, whatever plausible complaints she might have about the others, on the score of coldness, or indifference, or incompatibility, or sulks. "in arthur's presence i'll be as prim as a monk," oliver promised her, laughing again, as she left him before dinner. he strolled out on to the lawn, to smoke a cigarette before going to dress, and there met judith arden on her return from the wood. "so you're back again, sir oliver!" she said, shaking hands. "as you see. i hope you're not tired of me? it's only to be a short stay, anyhow." the two were on a well-established footing, chosen by judith, acquiesced in by sir oliver. he was pretty sure that she knew what he was about, but thought she could cause him no hindrance, even if she wished. she treated him with a cool irony that practically endorsed his opinion on both points. "if you're anxious to be told that we're all glad to see you, i'll give you the formal assurance. i'm sorry my uncle is not well enough to welcome you himself." "oh, i hope he'll be up and about to-morrow. bernadette tells me it's nothing serious." "she ought to know, sir oliver, being his wife." "the party has received an addition since i was here, i see." "yes. some company for us when you and bernadette go out motoring!" "do you think that the addition will be willing to fall in with that--well, that grouping?" "now i come to think of it, perhaps not. but there--you always get your own way, don't you?" "if that flattery were only sincere, it would be sweet to my ears, miss judith." "it's sincere enough. i didn't mean it as flattery. i spoke rather in a spirit of resignation." "the same spirit will animate our friend perhaps--the addition, i mean." "it may; it's rather in the air at hilsey. but he mayn't have been here long enough to catch it. i rather think he hasn't." "you invest the position with exciting possibilities! unless i fight hard, i may be done out of my motor rides!" "that would leave me calm," she flung at him over her shoulder as she went into the house. he walked up and down a little longer, smiling to himself, well content. the prospect of the summer seas was before his eyes too. he had counted the cost of the voyage, and set it down at six months' decorous retirement--enough to let people who felt that they must be shocked be shocked at sufficient leisure. after that, he had no fear of not being able to take his place in the world again. nor need bernadette fear any extreme cold-shouldering from her friends. it was a case in which everybody would be ready to make excuses, to find the thing more or less pardonable. why, one had only to tell the story of how, on the eve of the crisis, the threatened husband took to his bed! as arthur watched bernadette at dinner, serene, gracious, and affectionate--wary too by reason of that tiny slip--his suspicions seemed to his reason again incredible. judith must be wrong, and he himself wrong also. and her friend sir oliver--so composed, so urbane, so full of interesting talk about odd parts of the world that he had seen and the strange things which had befallen him! surely people who were doing or contemplating what they were suspected of could not behave like that? that must be beyond human nature? he and judith must be wrong! but there was something within him which refused the comforting conclusion. not the old adoration which could see no flaw in her and endure no slur on her perfection. his adoration was eager for the conclusion, and pressed him towards it with all the force of habit and preconception. it was that other, that new, current of feeling which had rushed through him when he stood in the hall and saw them framed, as it were, by the doorway of her room--a picture of lovers, whispered the new feeling, sparing his recollection no detail of pose or air or look. and lovers are very cunning, urged the new feeling, that compound of anger and fear--the fear of another's taking what a man's desire claims for himself. he had honestly protested to judith that his adoration had been honest, pure, and without self-regard. so it had, while no one shared or threatened it. but now--how much of his anger, how much of his fear, came from loyalty to godfrey, sorrow for margaret, sorrow for bernadette herself, grief for his own broken idol if this thing were true? these were good reasons and motives for fear and anger; orthodox and sound enough. but they had not the quality of what he felt--the heat, the glow, the intense sense of rivalry which now possessed him, the piercing vigilance with which he watched their every word and look and gesture. these other reasons and motives but served to aid--really was it more than to mask?--the change, the transmutation, that had set in at such a pace. under the threat of rivalry, the generous impulse to protect became hatred of another's mastery, devotion took on the heat of passion, and jealousy lent the vision of its hundred eyes. but bernadette too was watchful and wary; her position gave her an added quickness of perception. oliver's contemptuous self-confidence might notice nothing, but, as she watched the other two, the effect of his persuasions wore off; she became vaguely sensible of an atmosphere of suspicion around her. she felt herself under observation, curious and intense from arthur, from judith half-scornful, half-amused. and judith seemed to keep an eye on arthur too--rather as if she were expecting, or fearing, or waiting for something from him. bernadette grew impatient and weary under this sense of scrutiny. surely it was something new in arthur? and was not judith in some way privy to it? "what are the plans for to-morrow?" asked sir oliver, as he sipped his glass of port. "can we go motoring? i've brought my car, you know, in case yours is wanted." "well, we might take them both, and all go somewhere--margaret too!" a family party seemed now an excellently prudent and unsuspicious thing. "oh, but i forgot, there's a great cricket-match--hilsey against marling! i ought to put in an appearance sometime, and i expect you're wanted to play, aren't you, arthur?" "i believe i did tell beard i'd play if i was wanted. i'd forgotten about it." "have you made up your mind about going to london to-morrow?" asked judith. bernadette pricked up her ears--in pure metaphor, though; she was too alert to let any outward sign of interest appear. yet it now seemed to her very desirable that arthur should go to london--for a few days anyhow. the quick look of surprise with which he met judith's question did nothing to lessen this feeling. he had forgotten all about going to london next day! the plight of the farce, the possible briefs--joe halliday's appeal, and the renewed enquiry from wills and mayne, so flattering to professional hopes--where were they? where are the snows of yester year? they had gone clean out of his head, out of his life again. they had become unimportant, irrelevant. again, for the moment, hilsey closed around him on every side. he did not answer judith for a moment. "you know you told me you thought you might have to," she said, "for a little while anyhow, on some business." "oh yes, i know. but----" "what business, arthur?" bernadette asked. "briefs? how exciting!" "oh, nothing in particular!" "nonsense! i want to hear. i'm interested. i want to know all about it." he could not tell her with his old pleasure, his old delight at any interest she might be gracious enough to shew in his affairs; but neither could he refuse to tell. that would be a bit of useless sulking--after godfrey's fashion. besides, perhaps they were wrong--he and judith. so he told her about wills and mayne's flattering if abortive enquiry, and how mr. claud beverley and mr. langley etheringham were at loggerheads over the farce. sir oliver, now at his cigar, listened benevolently. bernadette fastened on the latter topic; it interested her more--she thought it probably interested arthur more also. "that really is rather important, now! it's sort of referred to you, to your decision, isn't it? and it's awfully important, isn't it, sir oliver? perhaps you don't know, though--arthur's put a lot of money in the piece." "then i certainly think he'd better run up and look after it," smiled sir oliver. "i should." "i don't think i shall go. i expect the thing can wait; things generally can." "i don't think you're being very wise, cousin arthur," bernadette said gently. "we shall be sorry to lose you, but if it's only for a little while, and mr. halliday makes such a point of it----!" "joe always exaggerates things." "i like having you here--well, i needn't tell you that--but not if i have to feel that we're interfering with your work or your prospects." here jealousy had a private word for arthur's ear. "that sounds well, very nice and proper! but rather a new solicitude, isn't it? much she used to care about your work!" "after all, what do i know about the third acts of farces?" "i expect that's just why they want you--in a way. you'll be like one of the public. they want to know how it strikes one of the public. don't you think that's it, sir oliver?" sir oliver thought so--but jealousy was mean enough to suggest that the lady was more ingenious than convincing. "don't you think he ought to go, judith?" the ironic comedy of this conversation (started too by herself, in all innocence, purely _à propos_ of the village cricket-match!) between the prudent counsellor and the idle apprentice was entirely to judith's humour. they argued their false point so plausibly. the farce had been a great thing to him, and would be again, it was to be hoped. and to bernadette, for his sake, it had been "exciting" and possibly--just possibly--would be again. but it was not the fate of the farce that concerned either of them now. they could not humbug her in that fashion! her smile was mocking as she answered: "yes, i think he'd better go, bernadette. i'm sure you're advising him for his own good." bernadette gave her a quick glance, bit her lip, and rose from the table. "we'll have coffee in the drawing-room. bring your cigar, sir oliver." sir oliver was smiling too; that girl judith amused him; he appreciated the dexterous little stabs of her two-edged dagger. but arthur was listening to another whisper in his ear: "very anxious to get you away, isn't she? curiously anxious!" when bernadette gave him his cup of coffee she said in a low voice, "don't be foolish, arthur. i really think you ought to go." he looked her full in the eyes and answered, "i see you want me to, at all events." those whispers in his ear had done their work. he turned abruptly away from her, not seeing the sudden fear in her eyes. his voice had been full of passionate resentment. chapter xxi idol and devotee after drinking his coffee quickly--with no word to anyone the while--arthur had gone out of the room. judith took up her book, oliver wyse was glancing at the city article in a weekly paper, bernadette sat quiet in her high-backed arm-chair, looking very slight and young in her white evening frock, but wearing a tired and fretful expression. just what she had planned to avoid, just what she hated, was happening or threatening to happen. she felt herself in an atmosphere of suspicion; she was confronted by accusers; she was made to witness her handiwork; the sight and the sound of the shattered edifice menaced her eyes and ears. glancing at her over his paper, oliver saw that she was moody. he came and tried to draw her into talk. she received him coldly, almost peevishly. he had the tact not to press his company on her. "i think, if you'll excuse me, i'll go and polish off some letters. then i shall be quite free for to-morrow," he said. "oh, yes, do, of course," she answered with what seemed relief. she was angry now with him for having come back to hilsey, and with herself for having let him. "will you go to the library?" "you've given me such a delightfully comfortable room that i'll write there, i think." "as you like, and--i'm very tired--perhaps we'd better say good-night." he smiled and pressed her hand gently. "very well, good-night." she gave him a glance half-penitent for her crossness, but let him go without more. judith accorded him a curt 'good-night,' without raising her head from her book. she was reading with wonderful industry; absorbed in the book! bernadette interpreted this as a sign of disapproval--it was more probably a demonstration of non-responsibility for the ways of fate--but it was not judith's disapproval that particularly engaged her thoughts. they were obstinately set on arthur. how and what--how much--had he found out? enough to make him resolved not to go to london, anyhow, it seemed! enough to make him spring with swift suspicion to the conclusion that she wanted him to go for her own purposes! and yet she had been wary--and quite plausibly sage and prudent in her counsel. "where's arthur?" she asked. "he's disappeared!" "i don't know where he is," answered judith from behind her book. but he was more than suspicious. he was very angry. his last brusque speech showed that, and still more the note in his voice, a note which she had never heard before. it was of more than indignation; it was of outrage. she could manage the others. margaret presented no difficulty, the sulky helpless husband hardly more; from judith there was to be feared nothing worse than satiric stabs. but if arthur were going to be like this, the next three days would be very difficult--and horribly distasteful. he had touched her as well as alarmed her. such an end to her affectionate intimacy with him was a worse wound than she had reckoned on its being. to see him angry with her hurt her; she had never meant to see it, and she was not prepared for the intensity of feeling which had found vent in his voice. it had been as bad as a blow, that speech of his; while showing him sore stricken, it had meant to strike her also. she had never thought that he would want to do that. tender regrets, propitiating memories, an excusing and attenuating fondness--these were what she desired to be able to attribute to arthur when she was sailing on the summer seas. "i wonder what's become of him! do you think he's gone out, judith?" at last judith closed her book and raised her head. "why do you want arthur now?" "i only wondered what could have become of him." "perhaps he's gone to pack--ready for to-morrow, you know." "oh, nonsense! barber would pack for him, of course--if he's going." judith, book in hand, rose from her chair. "i think i shall go to bed." she came across the room to where bernadette sat. "you'd better too. you look tired." "no, i'm not sleepy. i'm sure i couldn't sleep." judith bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "never mind arthur. you'd better let him alone to-night." bernadette longed to ask "what have you said to him?" but she would not; she shrank from bringing the matter into the open like that. it would mean a scene, she thought, and scenes she was steadfastly purposed to avoid--if possible. "well, he's behaving rather queerly, going on like this," she murmured peevishly. for an instant judith stood looking at her with a smile in which pity and derision seemed oddly mingled; then she turned on her heel and went out. bernadette sat on alone in the big drawing-room; it was very silent and solitary. the chill fancies of night and loneliness assailed her. surely nobody would do anything foolish because of--well, because of what she did? she rejected the idea as absurd. but she felt uncomfortable and desolate. she might send for sir oliver; no doubt he was at his letters still, and it was not really late. yet somehow she did not want him; she was not in the mood. her mind was obstinate still, and still asked obstinately of arthur. at last she got up, went through the hall, and out on to the terrace. she looked up and down the length of it. the night was fine and the moon shone, but she saw no sign of him. she called his name softly; there was no reply. either he had gone further afield, or he was in the house. she paused a moment, and then took her way along the corridor which led past the dining-room to the smoking-room--an apartment seldom used in these lax days (when every room is a smoking-room) and rather remote. perhaps he had retreated there. she stood for a moment outside the door, hesitating at the last whether to seek him out. but some impulse in her--friendliness, remorse, fear, curiosity, all had their share in it--drove her on. very softly she turned the handle and opened the door. yes, he was there. he was sitting in a chair by the table. his arms were spread on the table, the hands meeting one another, and his head rested on his hands. he did not hear the door she opened so gently. he looked as if he were asleep. then, softly still, she closed the door, standing close by it. this time he heard the noise, slight as it was, and lifted his face from his hands. when he saw her, he slowly raised himself till he sat straight in his chair. she advanced towards him timidly, with a deprecatory smile. in disuse the room had grown dreary, as rooms do; the furniture showed a housemaid's stiff ideas of arrangement; there was no human untidiness; even the air was rather musty. "oh, you don't look very cheerful in here! have you been asleep, arthur?" she sat herself sideways on the heavy mahogany writing-table. he shook his head; his eyes looked very tired. "i couldn't think what had become of you. and i wanted to say good-night. we're--we're friends, aren't we, cousin arthur?" "where's oliver wyse?" he asked brusquely. "upstairs in his room--writing letters. he went almost as soon as you did--but more politely!" her smile made the reproof an overture to friendship. "i hate to see the fellow with you," he broke out fiercely, but in a low voice. "oh, you mustn't say things like that! what nonsense have you got into your head? sir oliver's just a friend--as you are. not the same quite, because you're a relation too. but still just a very good friend, as you are. is this all because i told you you ought not to neglect your work?" "why are you so anxious for me to clear out?" "if you take it like that, i can't--well, we can't talk. i must just leave you alone." she got down from the table and stood by it, ready, as it seemed, to carry out her threat of going. "i'll go to london--if you'll tell oliver wyse to come with me." "he's only just come, poor man--and only for a few days, anyhow! i think you've gone mad. who's been putting such things in your head? is it--godfrey?" "you wouldn't be surprised if it was, would you?" he asked quickly. "yes, i should, though godfrey is sometimes very absurd with his fancies. i don't want to quarrel, but you really mustn't grudge my having another friend. it's not reasonable. and if sir oliver does admire me a little--well, is that so surprising?" she smiled coaxingly, very anxious to make friends to-night, to part friends on the morrow. "after all, aren't you a little guilty in that way yourself, cousin arthur?" "not in the same----" he began, but broke off, frowning and fretful. "i've spoilt you, but i never promised you a monopoly. now be good and sensible, do! forget all this nonsense; go and do your work, and come back next week." he made no reply to her appeal; he sat looking at her with a hostile scrutiny. "anyhow, you can't stay if you're going on behaving like this. it's intolerable." "i came here on godfrey's invitation. if godfrey asks me to go----" "if you appeal to godfrey, you're not a friend of mine!" she cried hotly. "impossible to be a friend both of yours and of godfrey's, is it?" he sneered. her face flushed; now she was very angry. "go or stay--anyhow i've done with you!" she half-turned away, yet waited a moment still, hoping that his mood would soften. he leant forward towards her in entreaty. "don't do it, bernadette, for god's sake! for your own sake, for the sake of all of us who love you!" "who loves me in this house?" she asked sharply and scornfully. "am i so much to any of them? what am i to godfrey, for instance? does godfrey love me?" she was glad to give utterance to her great excuse. but his mind was not on excuses or palliation; they belonged to his old feelings about her, and it was the new feeling which governed him now. he stretched out his arm, caught one of her hands, and drew her towards him almost roughly. "i love you, bernadette, i love you body and soul, i worship you!" "arthur!" she cried in amazement, shrinking, trying to draw back. "when i see that man with you, and know what he wants, and suspect--it drives me mad, i can't bear it. oh, it's all damnable of me, i know! i could have gone on all right as we were, and been happy, but for this. but now, when i think of him, i----" with a shiver he let go her hands and buried his face in his own again. his shoulders shook as though with a sob, though no sound came. she drew near to him now of her own accord, came and stood just beside him, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "cousin arthur, cousin arthur!" she whispered. all her anger was gone; sorrow for him swallowed it up. "you're making a mistake, you know, you are really. you don't love me--not like that. you never did. you never felt----" he raised his head. "what's the use of talking about what i did do or did feel? i know all that. it's what i do feel that's the question--what i feel now!" "oh, but you can't have changed in four or five hours," she pleaded gently, yet with a little smile. "that's absurd. you're mistaken about yourself. it's just that you're angry about oliver--angry and jealous. and that makes you think you love me. but you never would! to begin with, you're too loyal, too honest, too fond of--oh, you'd never do it!" "i had never thought of you as--in that way. but when i saw him, he made me do it. and then--yes, all of a sudden!" he turned his eyes up to her, but imploring mercy rather than favour. she pressed his shoulder affectionately. "yes, i suppose it's possible--it might be like that with a man," she said. "i suppose it might. i never thought of it. but only just for a moment, cousin arthur! it's not real with you. you'll get over it directly; you'll forget it, and think of me in the old pleasant way you used, as being----" with another little squeeze on his shoulder she laughed low--"oh, all the wonderful things i know you thought me!" she suddenly recollected how she stood. she drew in her breath sharply, with a sound almost like a sob. "ah, no, you can never think like that of me again, can you?" he was silent for a moment, not looking up at her now, but straight in front of him. "then--it's true?" he asked. with a forlorn shake of her head she answered, "yes, it's true. since you're like this, i can't keep it up any longer. it's all true. oliver loves me, and i love him, and all you suspected is--well, is going to be true about us." "if you'll only drop that, i swear i'll never breathe a word about--about myself! i will forget! i'll go away till i have forgotten. i'll----" "oh, poor boy, i know you would. i should absolutely trust you. but how am i to--drop that?" she smiled ruefully. "it's become just my life." she suddenly lifted her hands above her head and cried in a low but passionate voice, "oh, i can't bear this! it's terrible. don't be so miserable, dear arthur! i can't bear to see you!" she bent down and kissed him on the forehead. "you who've been such a dear dear friend and comrade to me--you who could have made me go on enduring it all here if anybody could! but oliver came--and look what he's done to both of us!" "you love him?" "oh, yes, yes, yes! or how could all this be happening? you must believe that. i didn't want you to know it--yes, you were right, i was trying to get you out of the way, i wasn't honest. but since things have turned out like this, you must believe now, indeed you must." for a full minute he sat silent and motionless. then he reached up, took her hand, and kissed it three--four--times. "god help me! well, i'll go to london to-morrow. i can't face him--or godfrey. i should let it all out in a minute. i can't think how you manage!" to her too it looked very difficult to manage now. the revelation made to arthur seemed somehow to extend to the whole household. she felt that everyone would be watching and pointing, even though arthur himself went away. she had grown fearful of being found out--how quickly arthur had found her out!--and dreaded her husband's surly questions. more scenes might come--more scenes not to be endured! a sudden resolve formed itself in her mind, born of her fear of more detection, of more scenes, of more falling into disgrace. "i expect barber will have gone to bed--it's past eleven," she said. "but you can give him your orders in the morning. and--and i shan't see you. be happy, dear cousin arthur, and, oh, splendidly successful! i'm sure you will! and now go to bed and sleep, poor tired boy!" "oh, i can't sleep--not yet. this is good-bye?" his voice choked on the word a little. he turned his chair round, and she gave her hands into his. "yes, this must be good-bye--for the present at all events. perhaps some day, when all this is an old story, if you wish it----" "are you going away with him, or----?" "oh, going away! i must do that. you do see that, don't you? and oliver wouldn't have anything else. try to think kindly and--and pleasantly of me. remember our good times, dear arthur, not this--this awful evening!" "i've been such a fool--and now such a blackguard! because now if i could, i'd----" "hush, hush! don't say things like that. they're not really true, and they make you feel worse. we're just dear old friends parting for a while, because we must." "perhaps i shall never see you again, bernadette--and you've been pretty nearly everything in my life since we've known one another." "dear arthur, you must let me go now. i can't bear any more of it. oh, i am so desperately sorry, arthur!" a tear rolled down her cheek. "never mind, bernadette. it'll be all right about me. and--well, i can't talk about you, but you needn't be afraid of my thinking anything--anything unkind. good-bye." she drew her hands away, and he relinquished his hold on them without resistance. there was no more to be said--no more to be done. she stood where she was for a moment; he turned his chair round to the table again, spread out his arms, and laid his face on his hands. just the same attitude in which she had found him! but she knew that his distress was deeper. despair and forlornness succeeded to anger and fear; and, on the top of them, the poor boy accused himself of disloyalty to his house, to his cousin, to herself. he saw himself a blackguard as well as a fool. she could not help speaking to him once again. "god bless you, cousin arthur," she said very softly. but he did not move; he gave no sign of hearing her. she turned and went very quietly out of the room, leaving her poor pet in sad plight, her poor toy broken, behind her. it was more than she had bargained for, more than she could bear! silently and cautiously, but with swift and resolute steps, she passed along the corridor to the hall, and mounted the stairs. she was bent on shutting out the vision of arthur from her sight. chapter xxii pressing business oliver wyse had finished his letters and was smoking a last cigar before turning in. barber had brought him whiskey and soda water, and wished him good-night, adding that, in case sir oliver should want anything in the night, he had put wigram, his chauffeur, who acted as valet also when his master was on a visit, in the small room next the bathroom which sir oliver was to use. "he said he liked to be within hail of you, sir oliver." "wigram's been with me in a lot of queer places, barber. he's got into the habit of expecting midnight alarms. in fact he was a sort of bodyguard to begin with; then a valet; now he's mainly a chauffeur--a very handy fellow! well, thank you, barber--good-night." the cigar was pleasant; so was the whiskey-and-soda; he felt drowsily content. the situation caused no disturbance either in his nerves or in his conscience. he was accustomed to critical positions and rather liked them; to break or to observe rules and conventions was entirely a question of expediency, to be settled as each case arose--and this case was now abundantly settled. the only real danger had lain in bernadette herself; and she shewed no sign of wavering. he had enjoyed the comedy of her wise counsel to arthur, though for his own part he cared little whether the boy went or stayed; if need be, it could not be difficult to put him in his place. a low light knock came on his door. a little surprised, but fancying it must be the devoted wigram come to have a last look at him, he called, "come in!" bernadette darted in and shut the door noiselessly. she held up a finger, enjoining silence, and walked quickly across the room. he threw his cigar into the grate, and advanced to meet her, smiling. "i say--is this your 'tremendous caution'?" but then he perceived the excitement under which she laboured. "what's the matter? anything gone wrong?" "yes, arthur! he's found out! and i--somehow i couldn't deny it to him." he smiled at her kindly and tolerantly, yet with a gentle reproof. her courage was failing her again, it seemed. it was a good thing that he had come back to hilsey--to keep her up to the scratch. "well? did he turn nasty? never mind, i'll quiet him. where is he?" "no, no, please don't go near him. he's not nasty; he's all broken up. oliver, he says he's in love with me himself." he smiled at that. "coming on, the young cousin, isn't he? but i'm not much surprised, bernadette." "he--he's upset me dreadfully. i didn't mean it to happen like this. it's too much for me. my nerves----" she spoke all the time in quick agitated whispers. oliver walked to the door, turned the key, and came back to her. he took one of her hands in his. she looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "he has been such a friend really. he trusted me so." "well, i suppose he'll take your advice now--your wise advice--and pack himself off to-morrow morning. breakfast in bed, and you needn't see him." "judith will guess--i know she will. oliver, i--i can't keep it up, with you here--not even though arthur goes. i'm afraid of judith now--even of godfrey!" "i'm certainly not going to leave you here, up against it, all by yourself." she was not to be trusted alone now. she had been shewn too vividly the side of the shield which it was his task to hide from her eyes--a task to which he alone was equal. left to herself, she might go back on the whole thing, very likely! "take me away from it all now, won't you?" she asked. "what now--to-night?" his eyes lit up humorously. "sharp work, isn't it? rather difficult to get out of the house to-night without risking--well, encounters! and you wouldn't like that." "can't you think of anything? i can't stand these next few days." he considered a moment, marshalling plans in his quick-moving mind. "look here, can you be sure of waking up early in the morning?" "i wish i could be half as sure of going to sleep at all!" "well, get up at half-past five--your servants won't be about then?--pack what you want in a bag, leave it just inside your room, put on your things, and meet me outside the hall-door just before six. we'll go for a walk!" "but the station? it's nearly three miles off! and there are no trains----" "wait, wait! my man will fetch your bag--just a little risk there, not much at that hour--hang my motor-coat over it, so that nobody can see it isn't mine, and take it round to the garage with my traps. i suppose the car'll be locked up, and he'll have to get the key from somebody. he'll say that i'm suddenly called away, that i've walked on ahead, and he's to pick me up at the east lodge. if you're seen, you're just putting me on my way, don't you see? he'll give your fellow at the garage a sovereign, and he won't be too curious!" "yes, yes, i see!" she whispered eagerly. "starting then, we can be in town in lots of time to catch the afternoon train to boulogne. i'll wire the yacht to meet us somewhere else, instead of southampton. ostend, perhaps--that'd do all right. now how does that suit you?" her eyes sparkled again. "why, it's splendid!" how difficulties seemed to vanish under his sure decisive touch! it was by this gift, more than any other, that he had won and held her. "i've managed trickier businesses than this. it's all perfectly easy, and with luck you won't be exposed to meeting any of them again." "thank heaven!" she murmured. "but you'd better not stay here now. one can never be sure somebody won't come nosing about." he kissed her lightly. "go, be quick, to your room. i'll go and wake up wigram now, and tell him what i want; you needn't bother about him--he's absolutely reliable. come along." he drew her across the room with him, unlocked the door and opened it. "don't make a noise! just before six, in the porch, remember!" she nodded in silence and glided quickly along the passage, which was dimly lighted by a single oil lamp; godfrey would not hear of installing modern illuminants at hilsey. he gave her time to get to her room, and then himself went in the other direction along the corridor, and knocked on the door of the little room where the faithful and reliable wigram slept. he was soon back--it did not take long to make wigram understand what was wanted of him--and sat down again at his writing-table. some of the letters had to be re-written, for he had dated them from hilsey, and that would not do now. he was smiling in a half-impatient amusement over women and their whims. they were so prone to expect to get all they wanted without paying the necessary price, without the little drawbacks which could not be avoided. after all, a woman couldn't reasonably expect to run away without causing a bit of a rumpus, and some little distress to somebody! it was very seldom in this world that either man or woman could get all they wanted without putting somebody else's nose out of joint; if only that were honestly acknowledged, there would be a great deal less cant talked. he raised his head from his work and paused, with his cigar half-way to his mouth, to listen a moment to a slow heavy tread which came along the passage from the top of the stairs and stopped at a door on the opposite side, nearer to the stairs. arthur lisle coming to bed--he had indicated his own room in passing, when he was playing deputy-host and showing oliver his quarters. a good thing he hadn't come up a little sooner! he might have met bernadette coming out of a room which it was by no means the proper thing for her to have been in. another painful encounter that would have been! again his tolerant smile came; he was really a good-natured man; he liked arthur and was sorry for him, even while he was amused. to-night the world was probably seeming quite at an end to that young fellow--that young fool of a fellow. whereas, in fact, he was just at the beginning of all this sort of business! "i suppose he wants my blood," he reflected. "that'd make him feel a lot better. but he can't have it. i'm afraid he can't, really!" well, arthur's was one of the sound and primitive reasons for wanting a man's blood; nothing to quarrel with there! only the thing would not last, of course. quite soon it would all be a memory, a bit of experience. at least that would be so if the boy were--or managed to grow into, to let life shape him into--a sensible fellow. many men went on being fools about women to the end. "well, i suppose some people would say that i'm being a fool now," he added candidly. "perhaps i am. well, she's worth it." with a smile he finished off his work, got himself to bed briskly, and was soon asleep. sick at last of the dreary and musty room, arthur had slouched miserably to bed--though he was sure that he could not sleep. he could not think either, at least hardly coherently. the ruin which had swooped down on him was too overwhelming. and so quick! all in a few hours! it seemed too great to understand, almost too great to feel. it was, as it were, a devastation, a clean sweep of all the best things in his life--his adoration for bernadette, his loyalty to godfrey, the affection which had gathered in his heart for these his kinsfolk, for this the home of his forefathers. a dull numb pain of the soul afflicted him, such as a man might feel in the body as he comes to consciousness after a stunning blow. the future seemed impossible to face; he did not know how to set about the task of reconstructing it. he was past anger, past resentment; he did not want oliver wyse's blood now. was he not now even as oliver, save that oliver was successful? and oliver owed no loyalty to the man he robbed. in the extravagance of his despair he called himself the meanest of men as well as the most miserable. "my god! my god!" he kept muttering to himself, in his hopeless miserable desolation. but he was young and very weary, exhausted with his suffering. he had sworn to himself that sleep was impossible, but nature soon had her way with him. yet he struggled against sleep, for on it must follow a bitter awakening. when he did awake, it was broad daylight. from his bed, which stood between the two windows of the room, he could see the sunlight playing on the opposite wall to his right; to the left the wall was still in shadow. it seemed that he must have pulled up the blind of one window and not of the other, before he got into bed, though he did not remember doing it. indeed at the first awakening he recollected nothing very distinctly. the memories of the night before took a minute or two to acquire distinctness, to sort themselves out. presently he gave a low dull groan and turned on his side again, refusing to face the morning--the future that awaited him inexorably. but another memory came to him in a queer quick flash--judith's smile when she told him that godfrey had taken to his bed. with a muttered curse he drew his watch from under the pillow. half-past seven! he raised himself on his elbow, his back turned to the light. everything became clear to memory now; and the end of it all was that he had to go, and go quickly, as soon as he could, by the earliest train possible. he did not want to see anybody; above all he must not see bernadette; he had promised her that, practically; nor could he himself bear another meeting and another parting. joe halliday and wills and mayne won the day--by the help of an alliance most unlooked-for! a voice spoke from the window to his right--where the blind was pulled up and the fresh morning air blew in through the opened sash. "so you're awake at last, arthur!" he rolled over on to his other elbow in surprise, blinking at the strong light. judith was sitting on the broad low seat beneath the window. she wore a walking dress and out-of-door boots, but her hair was only carelessly caught together; she wore no hat. she smiled at him, but her eyes looked red and she held her handkerchief tightly squeezed in one hand. "why, what are you doing here?" he demanded. "well, i've been crying--not that that's any use. i've been here nearly half-an-hour. i meant to wake you, but you looked so awfully tired. besides, it was too late." "too late for what?" "he's taken her away, arthur." he did not move; propped up on his elbow, he looked at her with a morose steadfastness. "i'm generally out before breakfast, you know, with patsy. i didn't sleep well last night, and i was earlier than usual. i was out by half-past six, and went for a walk in the meadows. coming back, i passed the garage; stokes was cleaning the car and i stopped to speak to him about the new puppy--he's not very well. i noticed sir oliver's car wasn't there, and he told me that sir oliver's man had knocked him up and made him unlock the garage an hour before. the man brought sir oliver's luggage from the house, stokes said, and told him that sir oliver had walked on ahead, and he was to pick him up. stokes asked where they were going, and the man said home, he supposed, but sir oliver hadn't told him. the man was rather short with him, stokes said, and seemed in a hurry. i thought it all sounded rather funny, especially sir oliver walking on ahead--at six in the morning!--but i said nothing to stokes, though i think he thought it a bit queer too. so when i got back i went to bernadette's room. i didn't exactly suspect that she'd gone too, but i had a sort of uneasy--well, i wanted to be quite sure, don't you know? i opened the door quietly--a little way--and i saw that the room was quite light. that told me directly; she can't bear a chink of light in her room. so i went in. she wasn't there; she hadn't been to bed, she'd only lain down on the outside. most of the things on her dressing-table were gone, and i couldn't see the dressing-bag that always stood by her big hanging-cupboard. i thought i'd better come and tell you. on the way i met barber, just up, i suppose, in his apron and shirt-sleeves. he told me that sir oliver had gone and wigram--his man, you know--too." "but stokes didn't see either of them?" "no. they must have walked on together, and got into the car when it came up. only just then i remembered that i'd found the front door unlocked and had meant to scold barber for being so careless. it had gone out of my head till then." she paused a moment. "did you see her last night? she wanted to see you--asked where you'd gone, you know." "yes; she came to me in the smoking-room." "did she say anything that sounded like--like----?" he waited a while before he answered the unfinished question. "she said nothing about this morning." "but did she say----?" arthur nodded his head. "oh then, it's quite clear!" said judith. "i didn't think she meant to go this morning. i was to go. we said good-bye." "she has gone, though. i'm sure of it. well, i've thought she would for some time past, so i don't quite see why i've been crying. how could we help it? could we give her what she wanted? could godfrey? could i? could you? margaret was the only chance, but poor little margaret's--well, margaret! she wasn't enough to keep her." she rose from her seat. "well, i'll go, because you must get up." arthur paid no heed. "i think it's because of me that she's gone this morning," he said slowly. "why? did you quarrel? did you talk about--about sir oliver?" "yes, at first. then i told her i was in love with her." she raised her hands and let them fall in a gesture of despairing irritation. "in love, in love! oh, i've had enough of it for the present! get up, arthur!" "yes, i'll get up--get up and clear out," he said in sullen bitterness. "i'll go back to work; that's the best thing i can do. i meant to go this morning, anyhow." she had moved towards the door, but she stopped now, facing him, between bed and door. "you mean that you're going away--now--this morning?" he nodded his head. she waited a moment and then smiled. "oh, well, i think i'll come too. after all, it won't be very lively here, will it?" he started in surprise. "you go? you couldn't think of that, judith? why, what's little margaret to do? and godfrey? oh, you can't go!" "why can't i? i'm a lisle, aren't i? i'm a lisle, just as much as you and godfrey! why aren't i to behave as a lisle then--go to bed or run away when things get difficult and uncomfortable? i rather wish i had a real man to run away with--like bernadette!" "god help him if you had!" growled arthur, to whom the insinuation was not grateful. "that's better! you have got a bit of a fight somewhere in you," she mocked. "and anyhow--get up!" "well, i'm going to--if you'll clear out, and be----" "and be damned to me? yes, i know! you can say that as often as you like, but you've got to help me to face this business. you've got to be the man of the family!" she smiled rather scornfully. "it's the least you can do, if you really did try to make love to bernadette." he flushed a little, but answered calmly: "as i don't suppose you'll be able to think of anything to say more disagreeable than that, you may as well go, and let me dress." "yes, i will." she turned to the door, smiling in a grim triumph. just as she went out, she looked over her shoulder and added, "you'll have to tell godfrey." that gave him a chance. he cried after her, "you're in a funk too, really!" she smiled at him. "didn't i say i was a lisle--or half a one--like you, arthur?" she pulled the door to, with a bang, and he heard her quick decisive steps retreating along the corridor. the next moment barber entered the room, bringing hot water. he had seen judith as she came out. only another of the queer things happening this morning! he wore an air of tremendously discreet gravity. but arthur guessed from his face that wonder and surmise, speculation and gossip, were afloat in the house already. he dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. judith was there alone; margaret was having breakfast upstairs with the nurse, she told him--out of the way of chattering tongues, her look added--as she poured out coffee. barber came in with a telegram, and laid it by her. "the boy's waiting, miss." she read it. "no answer, barber." "oh, i want to send a wire. bring me a form, will you?" said arthur. when he had written his message, judith rose and came round to him, carrying his coffee in one hand and the telegram in the other; she gave him the latter to read--"don't expect me back. shall write you." there was no signature. "what does she want to write about?" "oh, her things, i suppose. what did you say in your wire?" "i said 'awfully sorry can't come. pressing family business.'" "it is--very. i'm afraid i was rather disagreeable, arthur." he looked up at her with a rueful smile as he stirred his coffee. "you're like a cold bath on a freezing morning--stinging but hygienic." there was a sudden choke in her voice as she answered: "i'd have said and done anything rather than let you go. and if i've ruined your play and your prospects, i can't help it." she walked quickly away to the window and stood there a moment with her back towards him. then she returned to her place and ate a business-like breakfast. chapter xxiii facing the situation the gods were laughing at him; so it seemed to arthur lisle. they chose to chastise his folly and his sin by ridicule. he whom the catastrophe--the intrigue and the flight--had broken was chosen to break the news of it. he must put on a composed consolatory face, preach fortitude, recommend patience under the inevitable. he was plumped back into his old position of useful cousin, the friend of both husband and wife. judith was that too. why should not she carry the tidings? "no, you'll be more sympathetic," she insisted, with the old touch of mockery governing her manner again. "i should tell him too much of the truth most likely." so he must do it. but this useful cousin seemed a very different sort of man from the stricken sufferer, the jealous lover, of overnight. indeed it was pitiable for the forsaken jealous lover--denied even a departure from the scene of his woes, condemned to dwell in the house so full of her and yet so empty, the butt (so his sensitive fancy imagined) of half the gossip and half the giggles of which to his ears hilsey manor was already full. but the forsaken lover must sink himself in the sympathetic kinsman--if he could; must wear his face and speak in his tones. a monstrous hypocrisy! "bernadette's run away, but, i'm sorry to say, not with me, godfrey." no, no, that was all wrong--that was the truth. "bernadette's left you for oliver wyse--unprincipled woman and artful villain!" was that right? well, 'artful villain' was right enough, surely? perhaps 'deluded woman' would do for bernadette. "brave woman and happy man!" the rude laughter of the gods suggested. "if we'd either of us had half his grit, godfrey!" all sorts of things impossible to say the gods invented in their high but disconcerting irony. "well, i'm in for it--here goes!" thought arthur, as he requested barber to find out from mrs. gates--who had been acting as nurse to her master as well as to his little girl--when mr. lisle could see him. gossip and giggles there may have been somewhere, probably there were, but not on the faces or in the demeanour of barber and mrs. gates. pomp, funereal pomp! they seemed sure that bernadette was dead, and that her death was a suicide. "i will ascertain immediately, sir," said barber. he was really very human over it all--a mixture of shockedness and curiosity, condemnation and comprehension, outrage and excuse--for she certainly had a way with her, mrs. lisle had. but his sense of appropriateness overpowered them all--a result, no doubt, of the ceremonial nature of his vocation. mrs. gates's humanity was more on the ample surface of her ample personality. she made no pretence of not understanding what had happened, and even went a little further than that. "lor, sir, well there!" she whispered to arthur. "i've 'ad my fears. yes, he can see you, poor gentleman! i've not said a word to 'im. and poor miss margaret!" she was bent on getting every ounce out of the situation. arthur did not want to kill her--she was a good woman--but it would have relieved his feelings to jab a penknife into one of the wide margins around her vital parts. "why is she so fat?" he groaned inwardly and with no superficial relevance. but his instinct was true; her corpulence did, in the most correct sense, aggravate the present qualities of her emotions and demeanour. and so, in varying forms, the thing was running all through the house--and soon would run all through the village. mrs. lisle--mrs. lisle of hilsey! portentous, horrible--and most exciting! it would run to london soon. mrs. lisle of hilsey was not such a personage there--but still pretty well known. a good many people had been at that party where the potentates had met. one of them had abdicated now and gone--well, perhaps only as far as elba! all the air was full of her, all the voices speaking her name in unison. the sympathetic cousin had great difficulty in getting on the top of the defeated lover when arthur entered godfrey's room. and even anyhow--if one left out all the irony and all the complication--the errand was not an easy or a grateful one. if godfrey had gone to bed sooner than witness a flirtation, what mightn't he do in face of an elopement? the invalid was sitting up in bed, supported by several pillows, smoking a cigarette and reading yesterday's "times." the improvement in his temper, manifest from the moment when he took to his bed, seemed to have been progressive. he made arthur welcome. "and i hope you've not come to say good-bye?" he added. arthur had mentioned to him too the call to london and to work. "no, i'm going to stay on a few days more, if you can put me up. i say, godfrey----" "delighted to keep you--especially when i'm on my back. i hope to be up soon, though, very soon. er--wyse is staying on too, i suppose?" "he left this morning, early, by motor." "did he? really?" he smothered his relief, but it was unmistakable. "rather sudden, wasn't it?" "yes, it was sudden. the fact is----" "why did he go? is he coming back?" "i don't know--well, i mean, he didn't say anything to me. no, he won't be back." "oh, i suppose he told bernadette about it. i thought i heard somebody moving about the house. i'm a light sleeper, you know, especially when i'm ill. about six o'clock, i think it was. i--i suppose bernadette's disappointed at his not staying longer?" the assumed indifference of his question was contradicted by the eagerness of his furtive glance. arthur felt it on him; he flushed as he sat down by the bedside, seeking so hard for a form of words, for an opening--something enlightening without being brutal. godfrey's eyes, sharpened by his ill-will and suspicion, marked the flush and the hesitation; he guessed there was something to tell. "well?" he added, peevish at getting no immediate answer. "she--she's gone away too this morning, godfrey--early--before we were up." a lean hand shot out from the bed and grasped his wrist. "arthur?" "yes, old chap, i'm sorry to say--it's a bad business." "you do mean----? arthur, you do mean----?" "yes, she's gone with him." he could not look at godfrey; his speech was no more than a mutter. he felt the grasp on his wrist tighten, till it hurt him. "the damned villain! i knew it! the infernal villain, arthur!" godfrey cried querulously. clearly an assent was required. arthur's was inadequate. "awfully bad business! try to--to be calm, old fellow, while i tell you about it." "yes, yes, tell me!" there was really nothing material left to tell, but godfrey was greedy for details; such as there were to tell or conjecture he extracted by rapid questioning, even to the telegram which had come for judith. not till the end did he relax his hold on arthur's wrist and lean back again on his pillows. he lay silent like that for a long time, with arthur silent beside him. his rage against oliver seemed spent almost in the moment of its outburst; to his companion's relief he said nothing about bernadette's conduct. he lay pathetically quiet, looking tired now, rather than angry or distressed. at last he gave a long sigh. "well, we know where we are now!" he said. that piece of knowledge had come to more than one inmate of the house in the last twelve hours. "we must face the situation, arthur. it's come to a crisis! i think i'm equal to getting up and--and facing the situation." "well, you know, there's no particular use in your----" "my feelings are--well, you can imagine them." ("more or less!" threw in the gods, grimly chuckling.) "but i mustn't think of myself only. there's margaret and--and all of it. yes, i shall get up. i shall get up and sit in my chair, arthur." he was silent again for a minute. "it makes a great difference. i--i shall have to consider my course--what's best in the interests of all of us. a terrible blow! it must be a blow even to you, arthur? you and she were such good friends, weren't you? and she does this--she lets herself be seduced into doing this!" "yes, of course, it's--it's a blow; but it's you and margaret we've got to think about." "no, i don't forget you, i don't forget you!" ("if only he would!" groaned arthur.) "well, i must consider my course. where did you say the telegram was sent from?" "winchester." "i expect they stopped to breakfast there." "very likely." arthur rose to his feet; he did not enjoy a "reconstruction" of the flight. the afflicted husband made no protest against his movement. "yes, leave me alone for a little while. i have to think--i must review the position. tell judith i should like to see her in about an hour's time, and--and go into matters." happy to escape, arthur left him facing the situation, reviewing the position, considering his course, and determining to get up--to get, at any rate, into his arm-chair--the better to perform these important operations. the messenger of catastrophe came away with a strange impression of the effect of his tidings. after the first outburst--itself rather peevish than passionate--came that idle, almost morbid curiosity about details from which he himself instinctively averted his eyes; then this ineffectual fussiness, this vain self-assertion, which turned to facing the situation only when there was no longer anything or anybody to face, and to reviewing the position only when it was past mending. of smitten love, even of pride wounded to the heart, there seemed little sign. all arthur's feelings fought against the sacrilegious idea, but it would not be denied an entry into his mind--after the querulous anger, after the curiosity, mingling with the futile fussiness, there had been an undercurrent of relief--relief that nothing and nobody had to be faced really, that really nothing could be done, nothing expected from him, no call made now on courage or on energy--no, nor on a love or a sympathy already dead before oliver wyse struck them the final blow. that morning's flight, then, was not the tragedy, but the end of it, not the culminating scene of terror and pity, but the fall of the curtain on a play played-out. whatever of good or evil in life it might bring for bernadette, for godfrey it brought relief in its train. it was grievous, no doubt, in its external incidents--a society scandal, a family shame--but in itself, in its true significance to his mind, as it really and closely touched his heart, it came as an end--an end to the strain which he could not support, to the challenge which he dared not face, on which he had turned his back in sulks and malingering--an end to his long fruitless effort to be a satisfactory husband. when judith came down from her interview and joined arthur in the garden before lunch, she had another aspect of the case to exhibit, a sidelight to throw on the deserted man's mind and its workings. "how did you find him?" arthur asked her. "oh, quite calm--and immersed in his account-books." she smiled. "yes, he's up, in his chair, and a pile of them on the table at his elbow! he says that the first thing to do is to reduce his expenditure. he hopes now to be able to pay off his mortgage in four or five years. she was awfully extravagant, you know, and he hated mortgaging hilsey." "do you think she knew he'd had to do it?" "no, she didn't. he wouldn't let her know. he liked her to think him richer than he was, i think." "then he has no right to grumble at her extravagance." "i never heard him do that--and he didn't do it this morning. all the same it worried him, and now he can save, oh, enormously, of course! the barouche and the pair of horses are to go, the first thing." the barouche! it carried his mind back to the beginning, when its costly luxury framed for his eyes their earliest picture of bernadette's dainty beauty. "if he isn't going to keep it, he might send it after her. i would." "yes, you'd do a lot of foolish things if you were let. luckily you're not!" "judith, i half believe he's glad!" "need we admit quite so much as that? let's say he's facing the situation manfully!" "oh, he talked like that to you too, did he?" he jumped up, and took a few paces about the lawn, then came back and stood beside her. "by god, if he's glad, she was right to go, judith!" "i've never said anything to the contrary, have i? have you seen margaret this morning?" "no, i haven't. what made you ask me that just now?" "she came into my head. after all, she's a--a factor in the situation which, as godfrey observes, has to be faced. i suppose i shall have to adopt her--more or less. premature cares! not so much rome and florence! it's as well to realise where one comes in oneself. when godfrey talks of facing the situation, i don't think he proposes to do it alone, you know. you and i come into it." "yes." he added after a pause: "well, we can't turn our backs on him, can we?" "i've told her that her mother's gone on a visit--suddenly, to see a friend who's ill--and didn't like to wake her up to say good-bye. but that's a temporary solution, of course. she'll have to know more, and something'll have to be arranged about her and bernadette. i don't suppose he'll object to bernadette seeing her sometimes." she ended with a smile: "perhaps you'll be asked to take her and be present at the interviews--and see that sir oliver's off the premises." "i'll be hanged if i do anything of the sort! and, as you asked me to stay here, i don't think you need go on laughing at me." judith was impenitent. "it's a thing quite likely to happen," she insisted. "bernadette would like it." he turned away angrily and resumed his pacing. yet in his heart he assented to the tenor of her argument. she might, in her malice, take an extravagant case--a case which, at all events, seemed to him just now cruelly extravagant--but she was right in her main contention. no more than she herself could he turn his back on godfrey, or cut himself adrift from hilsey. in last night's desperate hour bernadette and he, between them, seemed to have cut all the bonds and severed all the ties; his only impulse had been to get away quickly. but it could not be so. life was not like that--at least not to men who owned the sway of obligations and felt the appeal of loyalty and affection. he could not desert the ship. barber came out of the house and brought him a note. "from mr. beard, sir. will you kindly send a verbal answer?" he read it, and glanced towards judith. he was minded to consult her. but, no, he would not consult judith. he would decide for himself; something in the present position made him put a value on deciding for himself, even though he decided wrongly. "all right, say i will, barber." he lit a cigarette and, walking back to judith, sat down again beside her. but he said nothing; he waited for her to ask, if she were curious. she was. "what did barber want?" "only a note from beard--about the match. we shall be one man short anyhow, and two if i don't turn up. so i told barber to say i would." "good. margaret and i will come and watch you. we've not gone into official mourning yet, i imagine." "hang 'em, they may think what they like! i'm going to play cricket." so he played cricket, though that again would not have seemed possible over-night, and, notwithstanding that his eye might well have been out, he made five-and-twenty runs and brought off a catch of a most comforting order. hilsey won the match by four wickets, and judith, margaret, and he strolled back home together in the cool of the evening, while the setting sun gilded the mellow and peaceful beauties of the old house. the little girl held judith's hand, and, excited by the incidents of the game, above all by cousin arthur's dashing innings--his style was rather vigorous than classic--prattled more freely than her wont. "i wish mummy hadn't had to go away just to-day," she said. "then she could have seen cousin arthur's innings. i wanted to cry when he was caught out." arthur applied the words in parable, smiling grimly at himself in his pain. he had been crying himself at being caught out, and at mummy's having had to go away that morning. but he mustn't do it. he must set his teeth, however sore the pain, however galling the consciousness of folly. surely, in face of what had happened to that house, nobody but an idiot--nobody but a man unable to learn even words of one syllable in the book of life--could be content to meet trouble with sighs and sulks, or with cries only and amorous lamentation? not to feel to the depths of his being the shattering blow, or lightly and soon to forget it--that could not be, nor did his instinct ask it; it would argue shallowness indeed, and a cheapening of all that was good and generous in him, a cheapening too of her who, towards him at least, had ever been generous and good. what had he, of all men, against her? had she not given him all she could--joy, comradeship, confidence in all things save that one? in the crisis of her own fate, when she was risking all her fortunes on that momentous throw, had she not paused, had she not turned aside, to pity him and to be very tender towards his foolishness? was his the hand to cast at her the stone of an ungrateful or accusing memory? they passed through the tall iron gates which, with a true squirearchical air, guarded the precincts of hilsey manor. "why, look, there's papa in the garden, walking on the lawn!" cried margaret. yes, there was godfrey, heavily wrapped in shawls, walking to and fro briskly. he had got up and come downstairs--to face the situation. chapter xxiv _did you say mrs.?_ the end of another fortnight found arthur still at hilsey, but on the eve of leaving it for a time at least. another summons had reached him, one which he could not disregard. his mother wrote, affectionately reproaching him for delaying his visit to malvern. "you promised us to come before this. besides i'm not very well, and you'll cheer me up. you mustn't altogether forsake us for the other branch of the family!" arthur recognised his duty, but with a reluctance of which he was ashamed. common disaster had drawn the party at hilsey more closely together. judith and arthur, working hand in hand to "make things go," had become firm friends, though they were apt to spar and wrangle still. the little girl--she knew by now that her mother's visit was to be a long one--responded to the compassionate tenderness evoked by a misfortune which she herself did not yet understand; she gained confidence from marks of love and, as she claimed affection more boldly, elicited it in ampler measure. freed from a struggle to which he was morbidly conscious of being unequal, godfrey lisle showed his better side. aggressive courage was what he lacked and knew that he lacked; he was not without fortitude to endure the pain of a blow that had fallen--especially when he could be sure it was the last! he was at peace now; the worst possible had happened--and, lo, it was not unendurable! there were compensations; he was not humiliated any more, and the sad leak in his finances--it had threatened even his tenure of hilsey itself--could be stopped. though he was still fussy, self-important over trifles, sometimes ridiculous, and very dependent on his stronger kinsfolk, he was more amiable, less secretive of his feelings, free from sulks and grievances. the gentleman in him came out, both in his bearing towards those about him and in the attitude he adopted towards bernadette herself. he spoke of her as seldom as he could but without rancour, and in regard to future arrangements put himself at her disposal. when letters came from oliver wyse's lawyers, acting on instructions received from the voyagers on summer seas, he caused arthur to reply for him that he would give her the freedom she desired, and would endeavour to meet whatever might be her wishes in regard to margaret. he was scrupulous--and even meticulous--over setting aside all her personal belongings to await her orders. he declared himself ready to consider any pecuniary arrangement which might be thought proper; some relics of his old pride in lavishly supplying all her requirements seemed to survive in his mind, side by side with his relief at the thought of paying off his mortgage. to arthur the quiet after the storm brought a more sober view of himself and of his life, of what he had done and what had happened to him. his eyes saw more clearly for what they were both the high-flying adoration and the tempestuous gust of passion which jealousy had raised. a critical and healthy distrust of himself and his impulses began gradually to displace the bitter and morbid self-contempt of the first hours and days after the disaster. he must still grieve with the forsaken worshipper of the smoking-room; he could not yet forget the pangs of the baffled lover; but a new man was coming to birth in him--one who, if he still grieved and sighed, could come near to smiling too at these extravagant gentlemen with their idolising dreams and gusty passions. rueful and bitter the smile might be, but it was tonic. it helped to set devotion, passion, and catastrophe in their true places and to assign to them their real proportions. in it was the dawn of a recognition that he was still no more than on the threshold of a man's experience. neither was it a bad thing perhaps that another and very practical trouble began to press him hard. though he was living in free quarters now, the bills contracted during his great london season began to come tumbling in, many for the second or third time. "to account rendered" was a legend with which he was becoming familiar to the point of disgust. the five hundred pounds was running very low; the diminished dividends could not meet his deficit. when godfrey talked finance to him, as he often did, he was inclined to retort that there were finances in a more desperate condition than those of the estate of hilsey and possessing no such new-born prospects of recovery--prospects born in sore travail, it is true, but there all the same for godfrey's consolation. but there was the farce! that persevering project emerged on the horizon again. it was in full rehearsal now; it was due in three weeks' time: it had got a third act at last, mr. claud beverley and mr. langley etheringham having apparently assuaged their differences. it had even got a name--a name, as joe halliday wrote in his enthusiasm, as superior to the name of _help me out quickly_ as the play itself was to that bygone masterpiece. arthur told judith the name and, in spite of that resolution of his about relying on his own judgment, awaited her opinion anxiously. after all, in this case it was not his judgment, but, presumably, mr. claud beverley's. "'_did you say mrs.?_' that's what you're going to call it, is it?" "it's what they're going to call it. it's not my invention, you know." "well, i should think it must be vulgar enough, anyhow," said judith. "oh, vulgar be hanged! that doesn't matter. jolly good, i call it! sort of piques your curiosity. why did he say mrs.?--that's what the public'll want to know, don't you see?" "or why did she say mrs. perhaps!" "there you are! another puzzle! you see, you're curious yourself directly, judith." "well, yes, i am rather," judith confessed, laughing. "i think he said it about her--when she wasn't," arthur maintained. "i think she said it about herself," urged judith. "oh, of course, she wasn't--there can't be any doubt about that." so judith thought well of the title--evidently she did. arthur's approval was fortified and grew with contemplation. "it's corking!" he declared. "and if only ayesha layard's half as good as joe thinks----" "if only who's half as good as----?" "ayesha layard--that's our star, our leading lady. a discovery of joe's; he's wild about her." "i wonder who invented her name, if you come to that!" "well, we'll hope for the best," said arthur, laughing. "i shall be up a tree, if it goes wrong." "not a bad thing to be up a tree sometimes; you get a good view all round." "sagacious philosopher! but i can't afford to lose my money." "let's see, how much were you silly enough----?" "one--thousand--pounds. no less! i can't really quite make out how i came to do it." "i'm sure i can't help you there, arthur. i wasn't in your confidence." "never mind! in for it now! i shall get hold of joe for lunch on my way through town, and hear all about it." "you might look in at the temple too, and see how many briefs you've missed!" "well, it's vacation, you know--still i mean to settle down to that when i get back from malvern." "yes, you must. we mustn't keep you any longer. you've been very good to stay--and it's been very good to have you here, arthur." "by jove, when i think of what i expected my visit here to be, and what it has been!" she shook her head at him with a smile. "then don't think of it," she counselled. "think of _did you say mrs.?_ instead!" the parting from hilsey could not be achieved without some retrospects, some drawing of contrasts, without memories bitter or seductive; that would have demanded a mind too stoical. yet his leave-taking was graced and softened by their reluctance to let him go. he went not as a guest whose sojourn under a strange roof is finished and who may chance not to pass that way again; his going was rather as that of a son of the house who sallies forth on his business or his ventures and, god willing, shall come again, bringing his sheaves with him, to a home ever and gladly open. so they all, in their ways, tried to tell him or to show him. for their sakes, no less than for the dear sake of her who was gone, his heart was full. joe halliday bustled in to lunch at the appointed meeting-place as busy and sanguine as ever--so busy indeed that he appeared not to have been able to see much of _did you say mrs.?_ lately. "but it's going on all right," he added reassuringly. "we had a job over that third act, but it's topping now. claud had an idea that langley liked at last, thank heaven! it's a job to keep those two chaps from cutting one another's throats--that's the only trouble. i expect they'll be rehearsing this afternoon. would you like to drop in for a bit?" "love it! i've never seen a rehearsal, and this'll be thrilling! my train isn't till . ." "ayesha's divine! look here, you mustn't make love to her. i'm doing that myself. i mean i'm trying. that's as far as i've got." he laughed good-humouredly, devouring rump-steak at a ruinous rate. "how's everybody, joe? how are the sarradets?" "i saw the old man only yesterday. he's in great form--so cockahoop about this company of his that i believe he's taken on a new lease of life." "what company? i haven't heard about it." "haven't you? why, he's turned his business into a company--mainly to stop our young friend raymond from playing ducks and drakes with it, when his turn comes. it's a private company--no public issue of shares. a few debentures for his friends--i've been looking after that side of it for him a bit. like some?" "thanks, but just at present i'm not supporting the investment market," smiled arthur. "will be soon! so will all of us. yes, it's all fixed--and that lucky devil sidney barslow steps in as managing director. he's done himself pretty well all round, has sidney!" "he seems to have. is he all right?" arthur's comment and question were both so devoid of interest that joe stared at him in amazement. "i say, don't you know? didn't anybody write and tell you? didn't she write? marie, i mean. she's engaged to sidney. do you mean to say you didn't know that?" "no, nobody told me. i've been away, you see." he paused a moment. "rather sudden, wasn't it?" "well, when a stone once begins to roll down hill--!" said joe, with a knowing grin. "besides he'd been very useful to them over raymond. the old man took no end of a fancy to him. i imagine it all somehow worked in together. funny she didn't write and tell you about it!" arthur felt that his companion was regarding him with some curiosity; the friendship between marie sarradet and himself had been so well known in the circle; whether it would become anything more had doubtless been a matter of speculation among them. he did not mind joe's curiosity; better that it should be turned on this matter than on his more recent experiences. "i suppose she had something considerably more pressing to think about," he remarked with a smile. yet the news caused not indeed resentment or jealousy, but a vague annoyance, based partly on vanity--the engagement was sudden, the deeper memories of another attachment must have faded quickly--but mainly on regret for marie. he could not help feeling that she was throwing herself away on a partner beneath her, unworthy of her--from family reasons in some measure probably, or just for want of anybody better. the marie he had known--that side of her which her shrewd and affectionate diplomacy had always contrived to present to the eyes whose scrutiny she feared--the marie whom once he had marked for his--surely she could not easily mate with sidney barslow, for all the good there was in him? he forgot that there might be another marie whom he did not know so well, perhaps in the end a more real, a more natural, a preponderating one. he should not have forgotten that possibility, since there had proved to be more than one bernadette! "well, i hope they'll be very happy. i must go and see her when i'm back in town." "they'll do all right," joe pronounced. "sidney has taken a reef in--several, in fact. he'll have a big chance at old sarradet's place and, if i know him, he'll use it." "and how's raymond going on?" "raymond's on appro., so to speak, both as to the business and in another quarter, i think. our pretty amabel is waiting to see how he sticks to the blue ribbon of a blameless life. the old set's rather gone to pot, hasn't it, arthur? the way of the world, what?" "by jove, it is!" sighed arthur. things had a way of going to pot--with a vengeance. the two philosophers finished their pints of beer, and set out for the burlington theatre; upon entering which they shed their philosophic character and became excited adventurers. mr. langley etheringham was taking the company through the first act; they were in the middle of it when joe, having piloted arthur through dark and dirty ways, deposited him in the third row of the stalls. the well-known "producer" was a shortish man with a bald head, a red moustache, and fiery eyes. he was an embodiment of perpetual motion. he kept on moving his arms from the level of his thighs to that of his head, as though he were lifting a heavy weight in his hands, and accompanied the action by a constant quick murmur of "pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!" he broke off once or twice to observe sadly, "not a funeral, my boy, not a funeral!" but he was soon back at his weight-lifting again. "langley's a great believer in pace, especially in the first act," joe whispered. arthur nodded sagaciously. mr. etheringham fascinated him; he could have watched him contentedly for a long while, as one can watch the untiring and incredibly swift action of some machine. but nobody on the stage seemed to take much notice. some were reading their parts all the time, some were trying to do without their written parts. the leading man--a tall, stout, grey-haired man in double eyeglasses--just mumbled his words indifferently, but was terribly anxious about his "crosses." "where's my cross?" "is this my cross?" "i crossed here this morning." "i don't like this cross, langley." his life seemed compact of crosses. arthur could not gather much of what the first act was about; he had missed the "exposition"--so at least joe informed him; the confusion was to an inexperienced eye considerable, the dialogue hard to hear owing to mr. etheringham's exhortations and the leading man's crosses. but he did not mind much; he was keenly interested in the scene and the people. it did, however, appear that the four characters now taking part in the action were expecting a fifth, a woman, and that her entrance was to be the turning-point of the act. mr. etheringham varied his appeal. "keep it up, keep it up, keep it up!" he implored. "keep it up for her, willie, keep it _up_!" he waved his hands furiously, then brought them suddenly to rest, stretched out on each side of him. "_now!_" everybody was still; even the leading man did not want to cross. miss ayesha layard entered. it was evidently a great moment. the others stiffened in the rigidity of surprise. miss layard looked round, smiling. the leading man began to mumble. mr. etheringham peremptorily stopped him. "hold it, willie, hold it--i told you to hold it, man! it'll stand another five seconds!" with poised hands he held them planted and speechless. "now!" joe heaved a sigh. "pretty good, don't you think so?" "splendid!" said arthur. "i suppose she's really somebody else, or--or they think she is?" "ought to be, anyhow," joe whispered back with a cunning smile. miss ayesha layard was a small lady, very richly dressed. she had a turned-up nose, wide-open blue eyes, and an expression of intense innocence. she did not look more than seventeen, and no doubt could look even younger when required. in one hand she held the script of her part, in the other a large sandwich with a bite out of it; and she was munching. "no, no!" cried mr. etheringham, suddenly spying the sandwich, "i will not go on while you're eating!" "but i'm so hungry, mr. etheringham!" she pleaded in a sweet childish voice. "it's past three and i've had no lunch." "lunch, lunch, always lunch! no sooner do we begin to get going than it's lunch!" she stood still, munching, smiling, appealing to him with wide-open candid eyes. he flung himself crossly into a chair. "take a quarter-of-an-hour then! after that we'll go back and run straight through the act." miss layard dimpled in a smile. he broke out again. "but go on while you're eating i won't!" on receiving their brief respite the men on the stage had scuttled off, like rabbits into their holes; miss layard too hurried off, but soon reappeared in the front of the house, carrying a paper bag with more sandwiches. she sat down in the front row of the stalls, still munching steadily. "i'll be back in a minute," said joe, and went and sat himself down beside her. a melancholy voice came from the cavernous recesses of the pit: "we could do with a bit more life, etheringham." "if we get the pace and the positions now, the life'll soon come. i've got some experience, i suppose, haven't i?" the author emerged into view, as he replied sadly, "oh, experience, yes!" he did not appear disposed to allow the producer any other qualifications for his task. mr. etheringham gave him a fiery glare but no answer. mr. beverley saw arthur and came up to him. "hullo, lisle, have you come to see this rot?" "yes, but i'm afraid i can't stay. i've a train to catch, and i've got to get my hair cut first." "oh, well, you won't miss much," said beverley resignedly, as he dropped into the next stall. arthur was surprised at his mode of referring to the great work; his attitude had been different that night at the sarradets', when they celebrated the formation of the syndicate. perhaps the author detected his feeling, for he went on: "oh, it's all right of its sort. it's funny, you know, all right--it'll go. etheringham there swears by it, and he's a pretty good judge, in spite of his crankiness. but--well, i've moved on since i wrote it. life has begun to interest me--real life, i mean, and real people, and the way things really happen. i'm writing a play now about a woman leaving her husband and children. i hope the twentieth society'll do it. well, i treat it like a thing that really happens, not as you see it done on the stage or in novels." arthur was curious. "how do you make her do it?" he asked. "why, in a reasonable way--openly, after discussing the matter, as real men and women would. none of the old elopement nonsense! real people don't do that." "well, but--er--don't people differ?" "not half so much as you think--not real people. well, you'll see. only i wish i could get on a bit quicker. the office takes up so much of my time. if i can make a bit out of this thing, i'll chuck the office." he paused for a minute. "you've been away, haven't you?" "yes, i've been down in the country. had some family affairs to--er--look after." he was a little surprised that mr. beverley had condescended to notice his absence. "going to be in town now?" "well, i'm off for about ten days more. then i've got to buckle to work--if i can get any work to buckle to, that is." mr. beverley nodded thoughtfully and smiled. the next moment a loud giggling proceeded from where miss layard and joe sat. the lady rose, saying, "i'll ask mr. beverley," and came towards them, joe looking on with a broad grin on his face. "he's not like you--he's sensible and serious." after a quick glance over her shoulder at joe, she addressed the author. "oh, mr. beverley, you're a literary man and all that. tell me, do you say 'ee-ther' or 'eye-ther'?" her face was a picture of innocent gravity. "eye-ther," replied the eminent author promptly. "but which?" "eye-ther." "oh, but haven't you a choice?" "i tell you i say 'eye-ther,' miss layard." joe sniggered. arthur began to smile slowly, as the joke dawned upon him. "just as it happens--or alternately--or on sundays and week-days, or what, mr. beverley?" "i've told you three times already that i say----" he stopped, looked at her sourly, and fell back in his stall, muttering something that sounded very like "damned nonsense!" "i thought i could pull your leg!" she cried exultantly, and burst into the merriest peal of laughter--sweet ringing laughter that set arthur laughing too in sympathy. she was indeed all that joe had said when she laughed like that. she was irresistible. if only mr. beverley had given her opportunity enough for laughter, _did you say mrs.?_ must surely be a success! she saw his eyes fixed on her in delight. "awfully good, isn't it?" she said. "because you can't get out of it, whatever you answer!" her laughter trilled out again, clear, rich, and soft. "first act!" called mr. etheringham threateningly. "i'd like to try it on him," she whispered. "only he's so cross!" chapter xxv the old days end arthur was an affectionate son and enjoyed going home, yet on this occasion he approached his destination with some uneasiness. mrs. lisle was a religious woman, anna was even more strictly devout; they both professed high church principles, and though frail health had compelled the mother to give up practical good works the daughter was busily engaged in them. they had lived out of the large world all their lives. their standards and point of view had none of the easiness and laxity of london drawing-rooms and london clubs. they were not at all modern. arthur smiled over the thought that mr. claud beverley would probably decline to consider them real, but he did not smile at the prospect of discussing with them the catastrophe of hilsey. he had broken the terrible news by letter; that was better than announcing it in person and encountering the full force of dismay and reprobation which it must provoke. he had also added; "it is very painful to talk of it and can do no good. let us forget it when we meet"; but he was extremely doubtful whether this hint would have any effect. horror does not, unfortunately, preclude curiosity. at first, however, there was no thought or talk of the sin or the sinner. they had a great piece of news for him, which they had saved up to tell him themselves; they would not waste it on a letter. anna had become engaged to be married to ronald slingsby, the curate of the parish. another surprise of this kind for arthur! but here he was unreservedly delighted, and the more so because he had hardly expected that anna would take, or perhaps would find, a husband; she had always seemed aloof from that sort of thing, too deeply immersed in her pious activities. it was rather strange to see austere anna stand blushing--actually blushing--by the chair where the frail grey-haired mother sat, and talking about "ronald" with shy pride and happiness. ronald had been a fellow-malvernian of his, and arthur did not privately think much of him--no need, of course, to say that! "and he's just devoted to her," said mrs. lisle. "oh, yes, he is, anna dear! he told us that at first he had scruples about marrying, as he was a priest, but he felt that this great feeling must have been given him for a purpose, and so his conscience became quite reconciled." "i don't think he would ever have cared for anybody who wasn't interested in his work and couldn't help him in it," anna added. "i'd have betted he'd reconcile his conscience all right," smiled arthur. "my dear boy, you mustn't be flippant," said his mother in gentle reproof. "i'm very very happy," she went on, "to have anna settled with a man she can love and trust, before i'm called away; and i'm not nearly as strong as i was. last winter tried me very much." "her cough gets so bad sometimes," said anna. "but i shall be only across the road, and able to look after her just as well when we're married. go and get ready for dinner, arthur. it's been put back till eight o'clock on your account, and ronald is coming." ronald came but, owing to its being a friday, ate no meat; his betrothed followed his example; bodily weakness excused, on mrs. lisle's part, a slice of the white meat of a chicken, both of whose legs were dedicated to arthur's healthy appetite. ronald was not a bad-looking fellow, tall, thin, and muscular; he was decidedly ecclesiastical in demeanour and bearing--as well as, of course, in apparel--and this betrayed him sometimes into a sort of _ex cathedra_ attitude which his office might justify but his youth certainly did not. remembering him as an untidy urchin full of tricks only a few years ago, arthur became a little impatient of it. at last mrs. lisle bethought her of hilsey. "and how did you leave the poor people?" she asked gently. "you needn't mind speaking before ronald; he's one of the family now." "oh, really, they're--er--bearing up pretty well, mother. it's a bad job, of course, a great shock, and all that, but--well, things'll settle down, i suppose." "has anything been heard of the unfortunate woman?" mrs. lisle went on. arthur did not like the phrase; he flushed a little. "they're abroad, mother. she'll naturally stay there, i should think, till matters are adjusted." "adjusted, arthur?" anna's request for an interpretation sounded a note of surprise. "till after the divorce, i mean." "does your cousin intend to apply for a divorce?" asked the happy suitor. "bernadette wants one, and he's ready to do anything she wishes." a long pause fell upon the company--evidently a hostile pause. "and will the other man go through a form of marriage with her?" asked ronald. "of course he'll marry her. to do oliver wyse justice, we needn't be afraid about that." "afraid!" anna exclaimed very low. mrs. lisle shook her grey head sadly. "unhappy creature!" she murmured. arthur had been bred in this atmosphere, but coming back to it now he found it strange and unfamiliar. different from the air of london, profoundly different from the air of hilsey itself! there they had never thought of bernadette as an unfortunate woman or an unhappy creature. their attitude towards her had been quite different. as for his own part in the transaction--well, it was almost amusing to think what would happen at home if the truth of it were told. he had a mischievous impulse to tell ronald--but, no, he must not risk its getting to his mother's ears. "and they're abroad together!" mused mrs. lisle. "they're on his yacht--so the lawyers said--somewhere in the mediterranean." "how can they?" anna speculated. "unfortunately we must remember that people are capable of a great many things which we cannot understand," said ronald. "her conscience can give the poor thing no peace, i should think." again mrs. lisle shook her head sadly. "you mustn't think hardly of bernadette, mother. it--it wasn't altogether her fault that she and godfrey didn't hit it off. he knows that, i think, himself. i'm sure he'd say so. she had her difficulties and--er--trials." "most married women have, my dear, but that's no reason for deserting their husbands and children, and committing the sin that she has committed--and is committing." "if this unhappy person----" ronald began. arthur might stand it from his mother; he could not from ronald slingsby. "if you've nothing pleasant to call people, slingsby, you might just call them by their names. bernadette has been a dear good friend to me, and i don't like the phrase you choose to describe her. and i must say, mother, that if you knew the circumstances as well as i do, you'd be more charitable." "i'm as sorry--as bitterly sorry--as i can be, dear, but----" "it's more a question of justice than of sorrow." "well, how have we been unjust, arthur?" this question of anna's was plainly hostile. "you don't allow for circumstances and--and temptations, and----" he broke off impatiently. "it's really not much good trying to explain." "i'm inclined to be sorry i ever persuaded you to make their acquaintance," sighed mrs. lisle. anna's hostility and ronald slingsby's prim commiseration annoyed arthur exceedingly. his mother's attitude towards him touched him more deeply, and to a half-amused yet sincere remorse. it grew more marked with every day of his visit. she showed an affectionate but rather reproachful anxiety about him--about his life, his doings, and his ways of thought. she seemed to fear--indeed she hinted--that his association with the lisles (which meant, of course, with bernadette, and for which she persisted in shouldering a responsibility not really belonging to her) might have sapped his morals and induced a laxity in his principles and perhaps--if only she knew all--in his conduct. she evinced a gentle yet persistent curiosity about his work, about his companions and his pursuits in london. she abounded in references to the hopes and anxieties entertained about him by his father; she would add that she knew, understood, and allowed for the temptations of young men; there was the more need to seek strength where alone strength could be found. arthur tried hard to banish the element of amusement from his remorse. although his behaviour in london might stand comparison pretty well with that of many young men of his age and class, yet he was really guilty on all counts of the indictment, and had so found himself by his own verdict before now. he had neglected his work, squandered his money, and declared himself the lover of his cousin's wife. he was as great a sinner, then, as the unfortunate woman herself! it was a bad record, thus baldly summarised. but what, in the end, had that bald summary to do with the true facts of the case, with the way in which things had been induced and had come about? in what conceivable relation, in how remote a degree of verisimilitude, did it stand towards the actual history of those london and hilsey days? accept condemnation as he might, his mind pleaded at least for understanding. and the dear frail old woman said she understood! moreover--and it is an unlucky thing for weak human nature--moral causes and spiritual appeals are apt, by force of accident or circumstances, to get identified with and, as it were, embodied in personalities which are not sympathetic; they pay the penalty. his mother's anxious affection would have fared better, had anna not stood so uncompromisingly for propriety of conduct, and ronald slingsby for the sanctity of the marriage bond. the pair--to arthur they seemed already one mind, though not yet one flesh, and he secretly charged ronald with setting his sister against him--were to him, in plain language, prigs; they applied their principles without the modifications demanded by common sense, and their formulas without allowance for facts; they passed the same sentence on all offenders of whatever degree of guilt. and yet, after all, as soon as ronald wanted to marry, he had "reconciled his conscience" without much apparent difficulty! lack of charity in them bred the like in him. when they cried "sinners!" he retorted "pharisees!" and stiffened his neck even against what was true in their accusation. but in the end his mother's love, and perhaps still more her weakness, won its way with him. he achieved, in some degree at least, the difficult task of looking through her eyes, of realising all the years of care and devotion, all the burden of hopes and fears, which had gone towards setting his feet upon the path of life; all that had been put into the making of him, and had rendered it possible for him to complete the work himself. he could not be as she, in her fond heart, would have him, a child still and always, unspotted from the world, nay, untouched, unformed by it; but he could be something worth being; he could make a return, albeit not the return she asked for. he renewed to her the promises he had made to himself; he would work, he would be prudent, he would order his ways. he took her small thin hand in his and patted it reassuringly, as he sat on a stool by the side of her arm-chair. "i'll be all i haven't been, mother! still i believe i've learnt a thing or two." hardest thing of all, he opened his heart a little--not all the way--about the sinner, about bernadette. "if you had known her, mother! it was cruel bad luck for her! she just had to have just what poor old godfrey hasn't got. oh, i know all you say but it is much harder for some people than for others. now isn't it? and to me i can't tell you what she was. if she wants me, i've always got to be a friend to her." "you were very fond of her, poor boy?" "yes, mother. she was so full of kindness, and life, and gaiety, and so beautiful." "poor boy!" she said again very softly. she understood something of his adoration; it was as much as it was well for her to know. "we must pray that god, in his good time, will turn her gifts to good uses. tell me about the others--poor godfrey, and the little girl, and judith arden." she listened gladly while he told her of hilsey and how he loved the place, how they all liked him to be there, and of his hope that peace, if not joy, might now be the portion of that house. "it will be another home to you, and you'll need one soon, i think." he pressed her hand again. "no, my dear, i'm ready. i used to think anna would make her home with you in london when i was gone, but that won't be now." she sighed. "better not perhaps! she's at home here, and it mightn't have worked." another sigh marked her resigned sorrow at the strange differences there were between children. "and her home here--well, it won't be quite the same as home to you, will it?" most decidedly not--ronald slingsby's house! arthur could reply only by another squeeze of her hand and a ruefully deprecating smile. "and some day you'll have a wife and a home of your own." her mind travelled back to his earlier letters. "what's become of that nice girl you told me about--miss sarradet?" "i've just heard that she's engaged to be married. she didn't wait for me, mother!" "oh, well, they were very nice people, i know, but hardly----" "not quite up to the lisles of hilsey, you mean?" he asked, laughing. "worldly pride!" "anyhow, since she's engaged----" mrs. lisle was evidently a little relieved. how near the peril once had been arthur did not tell her. "work now--not wives!" he said gaily. "i want to show you a whacking big brief, before many months are over. still, don't expect it too confidently." "keep friends with your sister. keep friends with ronald," she enjoined him. "i don't think he'll rise to distinction in the church, but he's a good man, arthur." "when i'm lord chancellor, mother, i'll give him a fat living!" "you've grown into a fine man, arthur. you're handsomer than your father was." the gentle voice had grown drowsy and low. he saw that she was falling into a doze--perhaps with a vision of her own youth before her eyes. he did not disengage his hand from hers until she slept. thus he came nearer to his mother, and for the sake and remembrance of that blessed his visit home. but to anna and her future husband any approach was far more difficult. there he seemed met by an obstinate incompatibility. ronald's outlook, which now governed and bounded anna's, was entirely professional--with one subject excepted. he was an enthusiast about football. he had been a great player, and arthur a good one. they fought old battles over again, or recited to one another the deeds of heroes. there are men who, when they meet, always talk about the same subject, because it is the only thing they have in common, and it acts as a bridge between them. whenever a topic became dangerous, arthur changed it for football. football saved the situation between them a hundred times. "i really never knew how tremendously ronald was interested in it, till you came this time, arthur," anna remarked innocently. "i suppose he thought i wasn't worth talking to about it." "of course you weren't, my dear," said arthur. "what woman is?" he smiled slyly over his successful diplomacy. but though football may be a useful buffer against collisions of faith and morals, and may even draw hearts together for a season in common humanity, it can hardly form the cement of a home. his mother was right. when once she was gone--and none dared hope long life for her--there would be no home for him in the place of his youth. as he walked over the hills, on the day before he was to return to london, he looked on the prospect with the eye of one who takes farewell. his life henceforth lay elsewhere. the chapter of boyhood and adolescence drew to its close. the last tie that bound him to those days grew slack and would soon give way. he had no more part or lot in this place. save for the love of that weak hand which would fain have detained him, but for his own sake beckoned him to go, he was eager to depart. he craved again the fulness of life and activity. he wanted to be at work--to try again and make a better job of it. "i suppose i shall make an ass of myself again and again, but at any rate i'll work," he said, and put behind him the mocking memory of henry encountering the law reports in full career. _retro satanas!_ he would work--even though the farce succeeded! chapter xxvi rather romantic! marie sarradet's decision had been hastened by a train of events and circumstances which might have been devised expressly to precipitate the issue. the chain started with a letter from mrs. veltheim, in which the good lady announced her intention of paying her brother a visit. mr. sarradet was nothing loth; he was still poorly, and thought his sister's company and conversation would cheer him up. marie took a radically opposite view. she knew aunt louisa! a persevering bloodhound she was! once her nose was on the trail, she never gave up. her nose had scented arthur lisle's attentions; she would want to know what had become of them and of him--when, and why, and whither they had taken themselves off. the question arose then--how to evade aunt louisa? it was answered pat--fortune favours the brave, and sidney barslow was, both in love and in war, audacious--by a letter from that gentleman. for ten days he and raymond had walked hard from place to place. now they proposed to make their headquarters at bettws-y-coed for the rest of the trip. "it's done raymond simply no end of good. he'll be another man by the time we come back. you must want a change too! why not come down and join us for ten days, and see if amabel won't come with you? i believe she would. we'd have a rare time--snowdon, and beddgelert, and the hound, and all the rest of it. this is a very romantic spot, with a picturesque stream and surrounded by luxuriantly wooded cliffs and hills----" hullo! that was odd from sidney barslow, and must have cost him no small effort! marie smiled over the effusion. "oh, he got it out of the guide-book!" she reflected. but it was very significant of what sidney thought appropriate to his situation. she mentioned the plan to the old man. he was eager in its favour. the more his own vigour waned, the more he held out his arms to the strong man who had saved his son and who seemed sent by heaven to save his business. to him he would give his daughter with joy and confidence. that the great end of marriages was to help family fortunes was an idea no less deeply enrooted in his _bourgeois_ blood than in the august veins of the house of austria itself. in favouring a match with arthur lisle he had not departed from it; at that time the only thing the family had seemed to lack was gentility--which arthur would supply. but what was gentility beside solvency? he had been compelled to sell securities! he was all for a man of business now. "go, my dear, and take amabel with you, if she'll go. i'll stand treat for both of you." in spite of those vanished securities! "pops is keen!" thought marie, smiling to herself. and naturally miss amabel, though she was careful to convey that the jaunt committed her to nothing, was not going to refuse a free holiday combined with a situation of some romantic interest: not too many of either came her way in life! off the girls went, full of glee, and a fine time they had. they found the young men bronzed to a masculine comeliness, teeming with masculine vigour, pleasantly arrogant over the physical strength of the male animal. little raymond strutted like a bantam cock. where was the trembling nerveless creature whom sidney barslow had brought back to regent's park? sidney himself was magnificent--like a hunter in prime condition; his flesh all turned to muscle, and his bold eager eyes clear as a child's. what a leader of their expeditions! "take the train up snowdon? not much! i'll carry anybody who gets tired!" he laughed, and in very truth he could have done it. a mighty fellow, glorying in the strong life within him! he seemed splendid to amabel. how should he not? here was a man worthy of her dearly admired marie. raymond was privy to his hopes and favoured them, first from admiration and gratitude, next because he knew his father's purpose, and had his own pride to save. he was not to be left in charge of the business. to be postponed to a stranger in blood would be a slur on him in the eyes of his friends and of the staff. but to a brother-in-law, his senior in age and experience--that would not be half so bad! besides he honestly wished to keep his preserver at hand in case of need, ready to save him again on occasion; and he was shrewd enough to discern why sidney had taken so much pains over his salvation. father, friend, and brother were all of one mind. a chorus of joy and congratulation, of praises for her wisdom, awaited marie's decision, if it were the right one. in the other event, the best to be hoped for was that affection should hide, more or less completely, a bitter disappointment, an unuttered charge of indifference to the wishes and the interests of those she loved. here were valuable allies for sidney, for in marie too the sense of family solidarity was strong. the welsh trip came as an added godsend to him, showing him to the greatest advantage, setting her being astir and shaking her out of her staidness. but in the end he owed most to his resolution and his confidence, to the very simplicity of his view of the matter. how could a fine girl like her refuse a fine man like him? when it came to the point--as soon it should--surely she couldn't do it! she smiled, she was amused, she teased him; but her secret visions were always of surrender and acceptance and, following on them, of a great peace, a transfer of all her cares and troubles to shoulders infinitely powerful. he thought her romantic; he chose for his moment a moonlight evening, for his scene the old bridge--the pont-y-pair. he led her there after dinner, two nights before they were to go back to london. she guessed his purpose; his air was one of determination. she stood looking down into the water, intensely conscious of his presence, though for some minutes he smoked in silence. indeed the whole place seemed full of his masterful personality; she grew a little afraid. he knocked out his pipe on the parapet of the bridge; some glowing ashes twinkled down to the water and were quenched. she felt her heart beat quick as he put the pipe in his pocket. "marie!" "yes." "come, won't you even look at me?" she had no power to disobey; she turned her face slowly towards his, though otherwise she did not move. "do you like me?" "of course i like you, sidney. you know that." "anything more?" her hands were clasped in front of her, resting on the parapet. he put out his great right hand and covered them. "i love you, marie. i want you to be my wife." she turned her face away again; she was trembling, not with fear, but with excitement. she felt his arm about her waist. then she heard his voice in a low exultant whisper, "you love me, marie!" it was not a question. she leant back against the strong arm that encircled her. then his kiss was on her lips. "but i've never even said 'yes,'" she protested, trembling and laughing. "i'm saying it for you," he answered in jovial triumph. "take me back to the hotel, please, sidney," she whispered. "not a walk first?" he was disappointed. "as much as you like to-morrow!" he yielded and took her back. there she fled from him to her own room, but came back in half-an-hour, serene and smiling, to receive praise and embraces from brother and friend. she had thrown herself on her bed and lain there, on her back, very still save for her quick breathing, her eyes very bright--like a captured animal awaiting what treatment it knows not. only by degrees did she recover calm; with it came the peace of her visions--the sense of the strong right arm encircling and shielding her. the idea that she could ever of her own will, aye, or of her own strength, thrust it away seemed now impossible. if ever woman in the world had a fate foreordained, hers was here! but sidney had no thought of fate. by his own right hand and his powerful arm he had gained the victory. "if you'd told me three or four months ago that i should bring this off, i'd never have believed you," he told raymond as they rejoiced together over whisky-and-soda, the first they had allowed themselves since they started on the trip. "never say die! that's the moral. i thought i was done once, though." he screwed up his mouth over the recollection of that quarrel at the tennis courts. "but i got back again all right. it just shows!" he forgot wherein he was most indebted to fortune, as his present companion might have reminded him. but strong men treat fortune as they treat their fellow-creatures; they use her to their best advantage and take to themselves the credit. the admiring world is content to have it so, and raymond sarradet was well content. "i did think she had a bit of a fancy for that chap arthur lisle once," he remarked. "well, i thought so too. but, looking back, i don't believe it." he smiled the smile of knowledge and experience. "the best of girls have their little tricks, raymond, my boy! i don't believe she had, but i fancy she didn't mind my thinking that she had. do you twig what i mean, old fellow?" this reading of the past in the light of the present commended itself to both of them. "oh, they want tackling, that's what they want!" sidney told his admiring young companion. * * * * * the girls shared a room, and upstairs amabel was chirping round marie's bed, perching on it, hopping off it, twittering like an excited canary. what would everybody say--mr. sarradet, mildred, joe halliday? the event was calculated to stir even the olympian melancholy of claud beverley! here too there was an echo of the past--"and mr. arthur lisle can put it in his pipe and smoke it!" she ended, rather viciously. her loyalty to marie had never forgiven arthur for his back-sliding. "you silly!" said marie in indulgent reproof. "as if mr. lisle would care! he thinks of nobody but his cousin--mrs. godfrey lisle, i mean, you know." "he did think about somebody else once," nodded amabel. "oh, you can't tell me, marie! but i suppose mrs. lisle has turned his head. well, she is sweetly pretty, and very nice." "i expect he's quite as fond of her as he ought to be, at all events," smiled marie. "rather romantic, isn't it? like paolo! don't you remember how lovely paolo was?" "but mr. lisle isn't a bit like that. still, nobody could have a chance against her." marie's tone was impartial, impersonal, not at all resentful. sidney barslow's triumphant march swept all obstacles from his path, even the guerilla attack of insurgent memories. they could not cause delay or loss; the sputter of their harmless fire rather added a zest. "he was very attractive in his way," she reflected with a smile. "and i really do believe--no, i musn't tell you!" and in the end she did not. she had, however, said enough to account for amabel's exclamation of "well, it's a blessing you didn't! i like arthur lisle, but to compare him with sidney!" "i've got what i want, anyhow," said marie, with a luxurious nestling-down on her pillow. "how are you and raymond getting on?" she added with a laugh. "marie, as if i should think of it, as if i should let him say a word, oh, for ever so long! one can't be too careful!" "but you mustn't make too much of it. he was very young and--and ignorant." "he's not so ignorant now," amabel remarked drily. "sidney'll keep him in order. you may depend upon that. you see, he can't fool sidney. he knows too much. he'd know in a minute if raymond was up to anything." "oh, that does make it much safer, of course. still----" she broke into a giggle--"perhaps he won't want it after all, marie!" "oh yes, he will, you goose!" said marie. and so they chattered on till the clock struck midnight. when arthur, returned from malvern, came to congratulate marie, he found her in a blaze of family glory, the reward of the girl who has done the wise thing and is content with it, who, feeling herself happy in wisdom, enables everybody else to feel comfortable. old mr. sarradet even seemed grateful to arthur himself for not having deprived him prematurely of a daughter who had developed into such a valuable asset, and been ultimately disposed of to so much greater advantage; at least some warrant for this impression might be found in the mixture of extreme friendliness and sly banter with which he entertained the visitor until marie made her appearance. as soon as she came, she managed to get rid of her father very promptly; she felt instinctively that the triumphant note was out of place. yet she could not hide the great contentment which possessed her; native sincerity made such concealment impossible. arthur saw her enviable state and, while he smiled, honestly rejoiced. the old sense of comradeship revived in him; he remembered how much happiness he had owed her. the last silly remnant of condescending surprise at her choice vanished. "it does one good to see you so happy," he declared. "i bask in the rays, marie!" "i hope you'll often come and bask--afterwards." "i will, if you'll let me. we must go on being friends. i want to be better friends with sidney." she smiled rather significantly. arthur laughed. "oh, that's all over long ago--i was an ass! i mean i want really to know him better." "he'll be very pleased, though he's still a little afraid of you, i expect. he has improved very much, you know. he's so much more--well, responsible. and think what he's done for us!" "i know. joe told me. and he's going into the business?" "he's going to be the business, i think," she answered, laughing. "splendid! and here am i, still a waster! i must get sidney to reform me too, i think." "i don't know about that. i expect nobody's allowed to interfere with you!" she smiled roguishly and asked in banter, "how is the wonderful cousin? you've been staying with her, haven't you?" arthur started; the smile left his face. the question was like a sudden blow to him. but of course marie knew nothing of the disaster; she imagined him to be still happily and gaily adoring. she would know soon, though--all the world would; she would read the hard ugly fact in the papers, or hear of it in unkind gossip. "of course you haven't heard. there's been trouble. she's left us. she's gone away." for the first time the christian name by which she thought of him passed her lips in her eagerness of sympathy: "arthur!" "yes, about a month ago now. you remember the man she was lunching with that day--oliver wyse? he's taken her away." "oh, but how terrible! forgive me for--for----!" "there's nothing to forgive. you couldn't know. but it'll be common property soon. you--you mustn't think too badly of her, marie." but marie came of a stock that holds by the domestic virtues--for women, at all events. she said nothing; she pursed up her lips ominously. was she too going to talk about 'the unfortunate woman'? no, she was surely too just to dispose of the matter in that summary fashion! if she understood, she would do justice. the old desire for her sympathy revived in him--for sympathy of mind; he wanted her to look at the affair as he did. to that end she must know more of bernadette, more of godfrey and of oliver wyse--things that the world at large would never know, though the circle of immediate friends might be well enough aware of them. he tried to hint some of these things to her, in rather halting phrases about uncongeniality, want of tastes in common, not 'hitting it off,' and so forth. but marie was not much disposed to listen. she would not be at pains to understand. her concern was for her friend. "i'm only thinking what it must have meant to you--what it must mean," she said. "because you were so very very fond of her, weren't you? when did you hear of it?" "i was in the house when it happened." now she listened while he told how bernadette had gone--told all save his own madness. "and you had to go through that!" marie murmured. "i deserved it. i'd made such a fool of myself," he said. his self-reproach told her enough of his madness; nay, she read into it even more than the truth. "how could she let you, when she loved another man all the time?" she cried. "she never thought about me in that way for a moment. and i----" he broke off. he would not tell the exact truth; but neither would he lie to marie. she judged the case in its obvious aspect--a flirt cruelly reckless, a young man enticed and deluded. "i wouldn't have believed it of her! you deserve and you'll get something better than that! don't waste another thought on her, arthur." "never mind about me. i want you to see how it happened that bernadette could----" "oh, bernadette!" her voice rang in scorn over the name. "will nothing cure you?" he smiled, though ruefully. this was not now cold condemnation of his old idol; it was a burst of generous indignation over a friend's wrong. bernadette's treatment of her husband, her child, her vows, was no longer in marie's mind; it was the usage of her friend. could the friend be angry at that? "time'll cure me, i suppose--as much as i want to be cured," he said. "and you're just the same jolly good friend you always were, marie. i came to wish you joy, not to whine about myself--only you happened to ask after her, and i couldn't very well hold my tongue about it. only do remember that, whatever others may have, i have no grievance--no cause of complaint. anything that's happened to me i brought on myself." no use! he saw that, and smiled hopelessly over it. marie was resolved on having him a victim; he had to give in to her. she had got the idea absolutely fixed in that tenacious mind of hers. he turned back to the legitimate purpose of his visit. "and when is the wedding to be?" "in about six weeks. you'll come, won't you, mr. lisle?" but arthur had noticed what she called him, when moved by sympathy. "don't go back to that. you called me 'arthur' just now." "did i? i didn't notice. but i shall like to call you arthur, if i may." she gave him her hand with the frankest heartiness. 'arthur' felt himself established in a simple and cordial friendship; it was not quite the footing on which 'mr. lisle' had stood. hopes and fears, dreams and sentiment, were gone from her thoughts of him; a great goodwill was the residuum. perhaps she was generous to give so much, and arthur lucky to receive it; and perhaps the news of bernadette's misdeeds made the measure of it greater. whatever might have been the case previously, it was now plain as day that, in any respect in which arthur's past conduct needed excuse, he had not really been a free agent. he had been under a delusion, a spell, a wicked domination. did ever so fair a face hide such villainy? the tidings of arthur's tragedy went forth to the sarradet household and the sarradet circle. sidney barslow heard of it with a decorous sympathy which masked a secret snigger. amabel twittered over it, with a new reminiscence of her paolo--only that ended differently! joe halliday had strange phrases in abundance, through which he strove to express a byronic recognition of love's joy and woe. he told miss ayesha layard, and thereby invested handsome mr. lisle with a new romantic interest. the story of the unhappy passion and its end, the flight in early morning of the guilty pair, reached even the ears of mr. claud beverley, who sorrowed as a man that such things should happen, and deplored as an artist that they should happen in that way. "there need have been no trouble. why weren't they all open and sensible about it?" he demanded of miss layard--very incautiously. "because there's a b in both--and another in your bonnet, old man," the irrepressible lady answered, to his intense disgust. chapter xxvii in the hands of the gods arthur went to several more rehearsals, but as they progressed, as the production took shape and final form, they became to his unaccustomed mind painfully exciting, so full of ups and downs, now ominous of defeat, now presaging glorious victory. what were to the old hands ordinary incidents and everyday vicissitudes were to him tragedies or triumphs. if mr. etheringham said "that's better," or "well, we've got something like it at last," he swelled with assurance, and his pockets with imaginary bullion. whereas if mr. etheringham flung his script down on the table and exclaimed, "well, it's not _my_ money, thank god!"--or if it appeared that there was no sort of chance of the scenery being ready (and there very seldom is)--or if the author looked more melancholy than usual (and mr. beverley had an extraordinary and apparently inexhaustible gift for crescendos of melancholy)--arthur concluded that all was "up," and that the shutters would soon follow the general example. in view of the vital bearing which success had upon his financial position, the strain was great, almost too exciting and thrilling for endurance. more than once he swore that he would not go near the place again--till "the night." but he could not keep his oath. the fascination of the venture drew him back. besides he was attracted to his co-adventurers--to fiery mr etheringham, with his relentless energy, his passionate pessimism and furious outbursts; to the melancholy author, surveying as it were a folly of his youth and reckoning on the stupidity of the public to release him from "the office" and let him "do" real life; to the leading man, war-worn hero of a hundred farces, whose grey locks were to turn to raven-black, and whose girth must suffer hard constriction to dimensions that become a youthful lover--on the night; to miss ayesha layard with the audacious sillinesses which her laughter and her impudent pug-nose made so strangely acceptable. even though arthur had really no part in it all, and nothing to do but sit and watch and smoke, he could not keep away--and he rejoiced when somebody would come and sit by, and exchange opinions. it says much for his resolutions of reform that, in spite of all, he spent several hours every day at chambers, trying to bend his mind to _benjamin on sales_ and, by virtue of the human interest of that remarkable work, succeeding better than was to be expected. amidst these occupations and distractions the great trouble which had come upon him was no longer the continual matter of his thoughts. the sense of loss and the conviction of folly--the two were inseparably united in consciousness--became rather enemies lurking in the recesses of his mind, ready to spring out at him in hours of idleness or depression. to prevent or evade their attack was a task to which he set himself more instinctively than of deliberate purpose; but in fact the fear of them--the absolute need of keeping them down unless he were to lose heart--co-operated with the good resolutions he had made and with the new interests which had come into his life. to seek fresh objects of effort and to lay himself open to a new set of impressions--here rather than in brooding, or remorse, or would-be philosophising, lay the path of salvation for a spirit young, ardent, and elastic, healthily averse from mental hypochondria, from nursing and cosseting its wounds. he was in the mood of a football player who, sore from a hack and shaken by a hard tackle, picks himself up and rushes to take his place in the scrimmage. three days before "the night"--that date now served him for a calendar--he received a hasty summons from esther norton ward. the lease of the lisles' house in hill street was to be sold, and judith arden had come up to town, to settle matters relating to the furniture; some was to be disposed of, some sent to hilsey. the norton wards were at home, the prospective candidate being engaged in an electoral campaign in his prospective constituency, which could be "worked" most easily from london; judith was to stay a few days with them. though norton ward himself would be away speech-making, the two ladies begged the pleasure of arthur's company that evening. "then judith will be in town on the night," thought arthur. his eye gleamed with a brilliant inspiration. on the night he would be the proud possessor of a box at the burlington theatre--that, at least, his thousand pounds gave him. he instantly determined to invite his friends to share it with him. he added this invitation of his own when he sent his note accepting esther's. "but how comes he to be having boxes at first nights?" asked esther. "oh, don't you know? he's put up some money for the play. quite a lot, in fact," said judith, with a laugh which sounded apologetic. esther raised her brows. that was not the norton ward idea of the way to the woolsack. "can he afford to--to do that sort of thing? to take chances like that?" "oh, of course not! he's quite poor. but, esther, i do pray it'll be a success! he does deserve a turn of good luck. he's been splendid to us all at hilsey." "he was making a great goose of himself, when i was at hilsey." "that was before. i meant he was splendid afterwards. fancy seeing the play after all! he's often talked to me about it." "you're very good friends with him now?" "well, look what we've been through together! if the piece doesn't succeed, i'm afraid it'll be a serious business for him. he'll be very hard up." esther shook her head over arthur when he came to dinner. "i knew you were a man of fashion! now you're blossoming out as a theatrical speculator! where does the law come in?" "next wednesday morning at the very latest--and whatever has happened to _did you say mrs.?_ only, if it's a tumble, i shan't have the money to go circuit, and--well, i hope your husband will get his rent, but i expect he'd be wiser to kick me out of his chambers." "as bad as that? then we really must pray, judith, for frank's sake as well as arthur's!" "do tell us about the play! give us an idea of it." "oh, well, the plot's not the great thing, you know. it's the way it's written. and ayesha layard and willie spring are so good. well, there's a dancing club--a respectable one. a man may take a man, but he may only take a woman if she's his wife or sister. the man spring plays is persuaded to take a friend and his best girl in, and to let the girl call herself mrs. skewes--skewes is spring's name in the piece. well, of course, as soon as he's done that, simply everybody skewes knows begins to turn up--his rich uncle, the rich girl he wants to marry, his village parson--all the lot. and then the other man's people weigh in, and everybody gets mixed--and so on. and there's a comic waiter who used to know flo (ayesha layard plays flo, of course) and insists on writing to her mother to say she's married. oh, it's all awfully well worked out!" "i'm sure it'll be very amusing," said esther norton ward politely. "but isn't it rather like that farce they had at the--the piccadilly, wasn't it?--a year or two ago?" "oh no! i remember the piece you mean; but that wasn't a dancing club--that was an hotel." "so it was. i forgot," said esther, smiling. arthur burst into a laugh. "i'm a fool! of course it's been done a hundred times. but beverley's got in a lot of good stuff. in the second act flo has hidden in skewes' bedroom, and of course everybody turns up there, and he has to get rid of them by pretending he's going to have a bath--keeps taking his coat off, to make 'em clear out." arthur chuckled at the remembrance. "but of course ayesha's the finest thing. her innocent cheek is ripping!" "why does she want to hide in his room?" "she took another woman's bag from the club by accident, and the manager has his suspicions about her and consults the police. but i won't tell you any more, or it'll spoil the evening." "i think we know quite enough to go on with," laughed esther. "i wish frank could come with us, but he's got a meeting every night next week. why don't you go down with him one night? i think it would amuse you." "i will, like a shot, if he'll take me. i'm not sure, though, that i'm a conservative." "that doesn't matter. besides frank will make you one. he's very persuasive." after arthur had said good-night and gone, the two women sat in silence for a few minutes. "it sounds awful stuff, judith," said esther at last, in a tone of candid regret. "yes, it does. but still those things do succeed often." "oh yes, and we'll hope!" she glanced at judith. "he doesn't seem very--lovelorn!" "he was pretty bad at first." she smiled faintly. "i had to be awfully disagreeable. well, i'm quite good at it. ever since then he's behaved wonderfully. but i don't know what he feels." "well, i hope he'll settle down to work, after all this nonsense." "he hasn't got any work to settle to, poor boy!" "frank says it always comes if you watch and wait." "i expect it's the successful men who say that." they had all been gay at dinner, but now judith's voice sounded depressed and weary. esther moved nearer to her side on the sofa. "you've had a pretty hard time of it too, haven't you?" she asked sympathetically. "it may be a funny thing, but i miss bernadette dreadfully. she was always an interest anyhow, wasn't she? and without her--with just godfrey and margaret--hilsey's awfully flat. you see, we're none of us people with naturally high spirits. arthur is, and they used to crop out in spite of everything; so it wasn't so bad while he was there. godfrey and margaret are always wanting to press him to come back, but he must stay and work, mustn't he?" esther took a sidelong glance at her--rather an inquisitive glance--but she said no more than, "of course he must. he can come to you at christmas--unless he's got another farce or some other nonsense in his head." esther had taken bernadette's flight with just a shrug of her shoulders; that had seemed to her really the only way to take it. she had not been surprised--looking back on her sunday at hilsey and remembering bernadette's manner, she now declared that she had expected the event--and it was no use pretending to be much shocked. to her steady and calm temperament, very strong in affection but a stranger to passion, a creature of bernadette's waywardness could assert no real claim to sympathy, however much her charm might be acknowledged. she was surprised that judith should miss her so much, and with so much regret. for arthur's infatuation she still could have only scorn, however kindly the scorn might be. in her eyes bernadette had never been really a wife, and hardly in any true sense a mother; by her flight she merely abdicated positions which she had never effectively filled. she would not even give her credit for courage in going away, in facing the scandal; there she preferred to see only oliver wyse's strong hand and imperious will. on the other hand, there was a true sympathy of mind between her and judith, and she was grieved, and rather indignant, at the heavy burden which the train of events had laid on judith's shoulders. she asked something better for her than to be merely the crutch of the crippled household at hilsey--for which again her self-reliant nature and courageous temper had more pity than esteem. it would be a shame if judith sank into a household hack, bearing the burden which properly belonged to bernadette's pretty shoulders. but judith herself betrayed no sense of hardship; she took what she was doing as a matter of course, though she did regret bernadette's loss and arthur's absence. she pined for the vanished elements of excitement and gaiety in the household; but none the less she meant to stick to it. so esther read her mind. but there was another question--one of proportion. how much of the pining was for bernadette and how much for arthur? it was dress rehearsal. mr. etheringham was a martinet about admitting people to this function; there were only half-a-dozen or so scattered about the stalls--and the author prowling restlessly up and down the pit. mr. etheringham sat by arthur, his hat over his fiery eyes, regarding the performance with a sort of gloomy resentment. he interfered only once or twice--his work was done--but arthur heard him murmur, more than once or twice, "damned bad--too late to change!"--and therewith he sank a little lower down in his seat. arthur did not laugh much now, though he expected to to-morrow; he was too busy thinking whether other people would be amused to be amused himself. all he really knew was that willie spring was acting his very heart out, trying to get every ounce out of the part; and so was ayesha, for all her air of utter unconcern. he ventured on an observation to this effect to mr. etheringham when the curtain fell on the first act. "they're all right. if it fails, it's my fault--and beverley's." he rushed off "behind," and his voice was heard through the curtain in exhortation and correction. joe halliday came across from the other side of the house and sat down in the vacant seat. "right as rain!" he said emphatically. "you may order your motor car, arthur." "i think i won't actually give the order till wednesday morning, old fellow." "may as well. it's a cert. big money! wish i had your share in it." "i sometimes wish i had mine out," arthur confessed. "oh, rot, man! it's the stroke of your life, this is." mr. etheringham returned, glared at the imperturbable joe, and selected another stall. second act. the second act went well, but when they came to set the third, there was a bad breakdown in the scenery. a long long wait--and mr. etheringham audible from behind the curtain, raging furiously. mr. beverley emerged from the pit and came up behind joe halliday and arthur. "just my luck!" he observed, in the apathetic calm of utter despair. "jolly good thing it happened to-night, and not to-morrow!" exclaimed joe. "but it probably will happen to-morrow too," the author insisted. arthur was laughing at the two when miss ayesha layard, in the third of her wonderful frocks, came in front and tripped up to them. "if anybody's cold, they'd better go behind and listen to old langley," she remarked, as she sank into the stall by arthur's side. she had a large towel tied round her waist, and adjusted it carefully beneath and round her before she trusted her frock to the mercies of the seat. "i once spoilt a frock in my early days, and old bramston boxed my ears for it," she explained to arthur. then she turned round and regarded mr. beverley with an air of artless and girlish admiration. "to think that he wrote this masterpiece! he who is known to, and will soon be adored by, the public as claud beverley, but who in private life----" "shut up, will you!" commanded mr. beverley with sudden and fierce fury. "if you do happen to--to----" he was in a difficulty for a phrase and ended without finding it--"well, you might have the decency to hold your tongue about it." "sorry, sorry, sorry! didn't know it was such a secret as all that." the offended man looked implacable. "if you don't forgive me, i shall go and drown myself in that bath! oh, well, he won't, so never mind! here, joe, take him out and give him a drink. there's just time before closing." "first-rate idea!" joe agreed cordially. "come along, old chap." mr. beverley allowed himself to be led away, mournfully yet faintly protesting. "funny thing he should mind having his real name known, isn't it? i'm sure i shouldn't mind mine being known, if i had one, but i don't think i have. i recollect being called 'sal' at the theatre. old bramston--the one who boxed my ears, as i said--named me. he'd been out in the east as a young man and liked reading about it. so, when he named me, he combined his information, like the man in dickens, and made up the name you see on the bills. it'll descend to posterity in old langley etheringham's memoirs. he's writing them, his wife told me so. well, what do you think of the theatre--inside view--mr. lisle?" "i think it's extraordinarily interesting." "i've been in it all my life, and i wouldn't change. it takes your mind off things so--sort of gives you two lives. you come down here in the blues over your debts, or your love-affairs, or something--and in five minutes you're somebody else, or--" she gave a little laugh--"rotting somebody else, which is nearly as good." "by jove, that's exactly what it does do!" cried arthur. "it's done me heaps of good." "you'll have got something for your money, anyhow, won't you?" "oh, but i want to get more than that!" "so do i!" she laughed. "i want the salary. but one never knows. this time to-morrow we may be waiting for the laughs that don't come. you can always pretty well hear willie asking for them in the proper places. and when they don't come, it's such a sell that it makes me want to giggle myself. it might work! what the notices call my infectious laughter!" "well, that's just what your laughter is." "they catch a word like that from one another--like mumps or measles. i'm always 'infectious;' willie's always 'indefat'--'indefatig'--you know; i can never get to the end of it! bramston used to be 'sterling' always; it made him just mad when he saw the word--used awful language!" she laughed, "infectiously," at the recollection. the hammering behind the curtain, which had been incessant during their talk, stopped. a sharp voice rang out, "third act!" there was a scurry of feet. mr. etheringham came in front, very hot and dishevelled; mr. beverley reappeared, only to bolt into his burrow in the pit. miss layard rose to her feet, carefully lifting the precious frock well clear of her ankles. "what do you mean by keeping me waiting like this, mr. etheringham?" she asked with elaborate haughtiness. but poor mr. etheringham was at the end of his tether--beyond repartee, even beyond fury. "for heaven's sake, ayesha my dear, take hold of this damned third act, and pick it _up_!" he implored, with the old weary-titan lift of his hands. "there is a bit of avoirdupois about it, isn't there?" she remarked sympathetically. "all the same, it's suffered a sea-change under your accomplished hands, langley." "oh, get round, there's a good girl, or you'll keep the stage waiting." "what one weak woman can do!" she said, with a nod and a smile as she turned away. mr. etheringham sank into a stall and lay back--with his eyes shut. "i should like to have the blood of those stage-hands," arthur heard him mutter. his eyes remained closed right through the act; he knew it too well to need to see it--every position, every speech, every inflection, every gesture. he did not speak either; only his hands now and then rose up above his head and dropped again gently. when at last the curtain fell, he opened his eyes, took off his hat, smoothed his hair, replaced the hat, and turned to arthur with a sudden expression of peace and relief on his stormy countenance. "now it's in the hands of the gods, mr. lisle," he said. arthur was lighting a cigarette. in the intervals of the operation he asked, "well, what do you think?" mr. etheringham looked at him with a tolerant smile. "think? my dear fellow, to-morrow's the night! what on earth's the use of thinking?" chapter xxviii taking medicine "good-night. thanks awfully for coming, mrs. norton ward! and you too, judith! beg pardon? oh, yes, i hope so--with just a few alterations. wants a bit of pulling together, doesn't it? what? oh, yes, only quite a few--one fellow in the gallery really started it. what? oh, yes, up till then it was all right--yes, it will be really, i'm sure. still i wish----" "move up there!" from the policeman. "all the same i wish--well, good-night. see you soon, shan't i?" thus arthur, outside the burlington theatre, bade farewell to the two ladies who had honoured his box with their presence--arthur very suave, collected, smiling, easy, but rather pale in the face. under pressure from the policeman, esther's car drove off. esther gave a long sigh of relief. judith had thrown herself back in the other corner. "it was very kind of him to take us," said esther, "but really what a trying evening, judith! at first it seemed all right--i laughed anyhow--but then--oh, of course, they'd no business to boo; it's rude and horrid. i was so sorry for them all--especially that pretty girl and the poor man who worked so hard. still, you know, i couldn't see that it was _very_ funny." no answer came from judith's corner. "and a farce ought to be funny, oughtn't it?" esther resumed. "some plays one goes to without expecting to be amused, of course, or--or even thrilled, or anything of that sort. one goes to be--to be--well, because of one's interest in the drama. but i always look forward to a farce; i expect to enjoy myself at it." still no answer from judith in the corner. "and really i don't think i'll ever go again with anybody who's got anything to do with the play. you felt him expecting you to laugh--and you couldn't! or you laughed in the wrong place. he didn't laugh much himself, if you come to that. too anxious perhaps! and when he went out between the acts and came back, and you asked him what the men were saying, and he said, 'oh, they always try to crab it!'--well, that didn't make it any more cheerful, did it?" response being still lacking, and esther having pretty well exhausted her own impressions of the first night of _did you say mrs.?_ at the burlington, she peered enquiringly into the other corner of the car. "are you asleep, judith?" she asked. "no, i'm not asleep. never mind me, esther." "well, why don't you say something?" "what is there to say?" esther peered more perseveringly into the corner. then she stretched out her hand towards the switch of the electric light. "don't," said judith, very sharply. esther's eyes grew wide. "why, you silly girl, i believe you're----!" "yes, i am, and it's a very good thing to cry over. think of all those poor people, working so hard, and--it's all for nothing, i suppose! and arthur! how brave he was over it! he couldn't have been more--more attentive and--and gay if it had been the greatest success. but i knew what he was feeling. i laughed like a maniac--and my hands are sore. what's the use? who's the idiot who wrote it?" "well, if you come to that, i daresay the poor man is just as much upset as arthur lisle is." judith was in no mood for impartial justice. "getting them to produce a thing like that is almost obtaining money under false pretences. why don't they _know_, esther?" "i'm sure i don't know. it's easy enough to tell when you see it." "i was awfully frightened even when he told us about it." "at dinner, you mean? yes, so was i. but it was no use saying----" "oh, of course, it was no use saying anything about it! what will he do now? will he get any of his money back, i wonder!" judith might be seen through the gloom dabbing her cheeks forlornly. "and i did think it was going to be a jolly evening!" she ended. "it wasn't that," esther observed with ample emphasis. protected by the gloom, she drew nearer to judith, put her arm round her, and kissed her. "you mustn't mind so much," she whispered. "men have to take tumbles all the time, and arthur took his bravely." "oh, after the other thing it is such hard luck! and i--we--didn't know how to--to help or console him. i wish bernadette had been there! she'd have known how to do that." esther frowned at the idea of this very desperate remedy. a forlorn silence fell on the car, till they reached home and got out. in the hall esther laid a hand on judith's arm. "frank will be back by now. are you equal to facing him?" she asked. "i'd sooner not, if you don't mind. i shall go to bed." "don't fret. perhaps they will--pull it together, didn't he say?--really!" judith shook her head mournfully and trailed off upstairs to bed. the hostess stood watching her guest's progress for a moment with what seemed a rather critical eye, and then went in to her husband's study. frank norton ward was seated in front of a tray, and was consuming cold beef and claret with an excellent appetite. an open-air meeting at seven, followed by a church bazaar (with "a few words" from the prospective candidate) from eight-thirty till ten, had been his useful, honourable, but exhausting evening. "well, here you are!" he greeted his wife cheerfully. "had a good time, esther?" his question opened the gates again to the doleful flood of esther's impressions. her husband listened with a smile; to the detached mind a fiasco has always its amusing side, and norton ward was by no means particularly concerned about arthur or his fortunes. he finished his claret and lit his pipe during the sorrowful recital, and at the end of it remarked, "well, it serves him right, really. that sort of thing won't do him any good--it's not his job--and perhaps now he'll see it. didn't judith come in with you?" "she's gone to bed." "oh, has she? i say, i had a jolly good meeting to-night--though it's supposed to be a radical centre. i----" "she was reduced to tears, coming home in the car. tears, frank!" "that's rather a strong order, isn't it? she'll be all right in the morning. the fact is, there's been a good deal of trouble at the biscuit works, and since old thorne's a liberal, his men----" "she must be a good deal--well, interested in him to do that!" "wouldn't mind giving him one in the eye. what? i beg your pardon, my dear?" even in the happiest marriages husband and wife do not always pursue the same train of thought. but esther was very dutiful. "never mind! tell me about the meeting," she said. but she went on thinking of judith and her tears. after he had seen his friends off, arthur turned back into the lobby of the theatre. the crowd, that destructive crowd, was thinning quickly; at the tail-end of it there came, hurrying along, a figure vaguely familiar. the next instant its identity was established. there was no mistaking the tremor of the eye. it was mr. mayne, of wills and mayne, of _tiddes v. the universal omnibus company, limited_.. as he came up, he saw arthur, and gave him a quick glance and a faint smile, but no express recognition. he hurried by, as it were furtively, and, before arthur had time to claim acquaintance, disappeared into the street. "shouldn't have imagined he was much of a first-nighter!" thought arthur, as he made his way towards a little group standing by the box office. the two sarradet men were there, talking in low voices but volubly, gesticulating, looking very angry and somehow unusually french. marie stood with her arm in sidney barslow's, rather as if she needed his support, and the big man himself, smiling composedly, seemed as though he were protecting the family. fronting them stood joe halliday, smoking a cigarette and listening to the voluble talk with a pleasant smile. but when the two men saw arthur, their talk stopped--silenced perhaps by the presence of a pecuniary disaster greater than that which had befallen the sarradet house. joe seized his opportunity and remarked, "after all, mr. sarradet, you didn't exactly suppose you were investing in a gilt-edged security!" "i say, where's poor old beverley?" arthur asked. "behind, i think--talking it over with etheringham. well, let 'em talk!" he shaped his lips for a whistle, but thought better of it. "we'll have another flutter some day, mr. sarradet!" he remarked with an air of genial encouragement. "flutter!" the old man was choking with indignation. "if i ever----!" "well, we'd best be getting home," sidney interposed, with an authority which made the suggestion an order. "come along, marie." "bring pops, raymond," marie directed. she gave her free hand to arthur, raising mournful eyes to his. "what a terrible experience!" she murmured. "he calls it a flutter!"--a fragment of old sarradet's indignation was blown back from the pavement into the lobby. "not sports!" joe mused regretfully. "not what i call sports, arthur! i'm really rather sorry we didn't manage to rope old sidney in too. looking so dashed wise, wasn't he? come along, let's find claud--and i want to see ayesha." "i suppose we shall have to settle what's to be done about it, shan't we?" "we'll hear what langley thinks." they found a little party in mr. etheringham's room--that gentleman himself, standing with his back to the fireplace, smoking a cigar; willie spring, an exhausted volcano, lying back in a chair, staring at the ceiling; miss ayesha layard on the sofa, smiling demurely; and the author seated at the table with the script of the play in front of him; he was turning over the leaves quickly and with an appearance of eager industry. "now we know what to think, don't we, mr. lisle? they've done our thinking for us." mr. etheringham smiled quite pleasantly. he was not at all fiery now. arthur laid his hand on mr. beverley's shoulder. "it's an infernal shame, old chap. i'm most awfully sorry." "you gentlemen are two of the principal shareholders," mr. etheringham went on to arthur and joe. "perhaps you'd like to talk over the situation privately?" "we're all right as we are--glad of words of wisdom from any of you! how do we stand, langley?" said joe, sitting down on the sofa by miss layard. "what's the situation?" "well, you know that as well as i do. there's the production to be paid--about twelve hundred, i reckon--and we run into about eight hundred a week." "and what--if any--business shall we play to?" "you can't tell that. you can only guess--and you'd better not guess high! i should say myself that the money might last a fortnight--possibly three weeks. some of 'em'll probably look in now and then, you know--and even if we paper the whole house, the bars bring in a bit." "i'd go a bit more," said joe, "only the truth is i haven't got a bob--absolutely stony!" he jingled the money in his pocket. "hear that--it's the last of it!" "if you think there's any chance," arthur began eagerly, "i think i could----" mr. willie spring's eyes came down from the ceiling and sought those of mr. etheringham; mr. spring also shook his head very slightly and smiled a tired smile. "i don't think we'd better talk about that at this stage," said mr. etheringham. "at least that's my advice. of course, if later on the business warranted the hope that----" "well, anyhow, let's go on as long as the money lasts," said arthur. "all right. can you be ready with those cuts and the new lines by to-morrow afternoon, beverley?" "yes." he had never stopped turning over the pages of the script. "very well, i'll call a rehearsal for two o'clock." ayesha layard rose from the sofa. "well, good-night," she said. "may i wait for you?" asked joe. "yes, if you like, but i want to speak to mr. lisle first." as she passed arthur, she took hold of his arm and led him to her dressing-room. "just a second!" she said to her dresser. when the woman had gone out, she planted herself in the chair before the looking-glass and regarded arthur with a smile. "were you really ready to put up more money?" she asked. "are you a millionaire? because you're not in love with me, and that's the only other thing that might explain it." "i hate being beat," arthur protested. "happened to you before, hasn't it? in other directions, i mean." just as he was looking at her, wondering how much she knew--for something she evidently knew--a knock came at the door, and the dresser appeared with a telegram in her hand. "you're mr. lisle, sir, aren't you? this came for you just as the curtain went up, and it got forgotten till now." she gave it to arthur and went out again. "may i read it?" he opened it. "good luck to you to-night. i wish i could be with you, but circumstances don't permit--bernadette." the despatch came from genoa. bernadette had looked out for the doings of _did you say mrs.?_ in the english papers! "yes, it's happened to me before," said arthur, smiling rather grimly. he put the piece of paper into her hands. "a telegram of good wishes--come to hand rather late." "bernadette? a lady friend? oh, i remember! _the_ lady-friend, isn't it? she thinks of you! touching!" "i find it so, rather. but, i say, aren't you tired to death?" "next door! but i just wanted to say good-bye to you. i like you, you know. you're pleasant, and you lose like a gentleman, and you haven't rounded on willie and me, and told us it's all our fault." "your fault indeed! you were splendid. and mayn't it be just good-night, and not good-bye, miss layard?" "call it which you like. i know what it will be. this isn't your line, really. good-night then--and don't give joe any more money. he'd break the bank of england, if they'd let him." "i won't then. and i like you, if i may say so. and we're all tremendously in your debt." he raised the hand she gave him to his lips and kissed it in a courtly fashion. he looked handsome as he did it, and she was amused that he should do it. she looked up at him with dancing eyes and a merry laugh. "kiss me good-bye, then, really, if you mean it--and don't be too disgusted with all of us to-morrow morning!" he kissed her cheek, laughing. "_au revoir!_ i shan't be disgusted with you anyhow. good-night." he walked to the door, and was just going to open it when she spoke again. "mr. lisle!" "yes." he turned round. she was standing by the table now; her face was very bright; she seemed to struggle against another spasm of laughter. "in the stress of business you've forgotten your telegram from--bernadette!" she waved the missive in her hand, holding her mutinous lips closely together. arthur stood for a moment, looking at the lady and the missive. then he broke into a hearty roar; she let herself go too; their laughter rang through the little room. the door was flung open, and joe halliday appeared on the threshold in a state of some indignation. "pretty good to keep me waiting out in the cold while you--what have you been up to, ayesha?" "nothing that concerns you, joe. i've been giving mr. lisle some medicine." "i should have thought we'd all had enough of that to-night!" "it's a different sort--and different from any i shall give you. but i think it did him good, from the symptoms. oh, here's your wire, mr. lisle!" she seemed to sparkle with mischief as she gave it to him. "now mind you don't give joe any medicine!" he said. "the bottle's finished, for to-night at all events." with this gay promise and a gay nod she let him go. pleased at the promise--quite absurdly pleased at it, in spite of its strict time-limit--and amused with the whole episode, he put bernadette's telegram in his pocket, and walked along towards the stage-door, smiling happily. he was not thinking about the telegram, nor about the fiasco of the evening, nor of his thousand pounds, very little or none of which would ever find its way back into his pocket. the emotions which each and all of these subjects for contemplation might have been expected to raise had been put to rout. a very fine medicine, that of miss ayesha layard's! he said good-night to the doorkeeper and gave him a sovereign; he said good-night to the fireman and gave him ten shillings; it was no moment for small economies, and he was minded to march out with colours flying. but he was not quite done with the burlington theatre yet. outside was a tall figure which moved to his side directly he appeared. it was mr. claud beverley, carrying his play in a large square envelope. "are you going anywhere, lisle?" he asked. "only home--up bloomsbury way." "may i walk with you! the tube at tottenham court road suits me to get home." "why, of course! come along, old chap." they started off together up shaftesbury avenue. mr. beverley said nothing till they had got as far as the palace theatre. then he managed to unburden his heart. "i want to tell you how sorry i am to--to have let you in like this, lisle. i feel pretty badly about it, i can tell you, for all their sakes. but you've been specially--well, you took me on trust, and i've let you in." "my dear fellow, it's all right. it's much worse for you than for me. but i hope the new play will put you all right." the author would not be silenced. "and i want to say that if ever i can do you a turn--a real good turn--i'll do it. if it's to be done, i'll do it!" "i'm sure you will," said arthur, who did not in the least see what mr. beverley could do for him, but was touched by his evident sincerity. "there's my hand on it," said mr. beverley with solemnity. there in charing cross road they shook hands on the bargain. "don't forget! good-night, lisle. don't forget!" he darted away across the road and vanished into the bowels of the earth. arthur lisle strolled on to his lodgings, humming a tune. good sort, weren't they, all of them? suddenly he yawned, and became aware of feeling very tired. been an evening, hadn't it? half-an-hour later he tumbled into bed, with a happy smile still on his lips. he could not get the picture of that girl waving the telegram at him out of his head. chapter xxix tears and a smile in the end the syndicate left to joe halliday the responsibility of deciding on the future of the unfortunate farce, so far as it had a future on which to decide. on mature reflection joe was for acting on the sound business principle of 'cutting a loss,' and the turn of events reinforced his opinion. they had taken the burlington for four weeks certain, and the liability for rent was a serious fact and a heavy item to reckon with. another dramatic venture wanted a home, and joe had the opportunity of sub-letting the theatre for the last two weeks of the term. by and with the advice of mr. etheringham he closed with the offer. _did you say mrs?_ dragged on for its fortnight, never showing vitality enough to inspire any hope of its recovering from the rude blow of the first night. in the day-time new figures filled the stage of the burlington, new hopes and fears centred there. only mr. etheringham remained, producing the new venture with the same fiery and inexhaustible energy, lifting dead weights with his hands, toiling, moiling, in perpetual strife. gone soon were all the others who had become so familiar, from the great mr. spring, the indefatigable, downwards, some to other engagements, some left "out"--_débris_ from the wreck of the unhappy _did you say mrs?_ gone too, soon, was miss ayesha layard with her infectious laugh. for her sake arthur had sat through the farce once again--not even for her sake twice, so inconceivably flat had it now become to him. he had gone round and seen her, but she had other guests and no real conversation was possible. then he saw in the papers that she was to go to america; a manager from that country had come to see the piece, and, though he did not take that, he did take miss layard, with whose talents he was much struck. he offered a handsome salary, and she jumped at it. joe let her go three days before the end of the hopeless little run. one of the last items of the syndicate's expenditure was a bouquet of flowers, presented to her at euston on the morning of her departure. arthur went to see her off, found her surrounded by folk strange to him, had just a hand-clasp, a hearty greeting, a merry flash from her eyes, and, as he walked off, the echo of her laugh for a moment in his ears. the changes and chances of theatrical life carried her out of his orbit as suddenly as she had come into it; she left behind her, as chief legacy, just that vivid memory which linked her so fantastically with bernadette. so the whole thing seemed to him to end--the syndicate, the speculation, his voyage into the unknown seas of the theatre. it was all over, shattered by a blow almost as sudden, almost as tragical, as that which had smitten his adoration itself. both of these things, always connected together for him by subtle bonds of thought and emotion, making together the chief preoccupation of the last six months of his life, now passed out of it, and could occupy his days no longer. they had come like visions--bernadette in her barouche, the glittering thousands dangled in fortune's hand--and seemed now to depart in like fashion, transitory and unsubstantial. yet to arthur lisle they stood as the two greatest things that had up to now happened in his life, the most significant and the most vivid. set together--as they insisted on being set together from the beginning to the end, from the first impulse of ambition roused by bernadette to the coming of her telegram on that momentous evening--they made his first great venture, his most notable experience. they had revealed and developed his nature, plumbed feeling and tested courage. he was different now from marie sarradet's placid, contented, half-condescending wooer, different from him who had worshipped bernadette with virgin eyes--different now even from the forsaken and remorseful lover of that black hour at hilsey. he had received an initiation--a beginning of wisdom, an opening of the eyes, a glimpse of what a man's life may be and hold and do for him. he had seen lights glimmering on the surface of other lives, and now and then, however dimly and fitfully, revealing their deeper waters. sitting among the ruins--if tangible results were regarded, scarcely any other word could be considered appropriate--and acutely awake to what had happened to his fortunes, he was vaguely conscious of what had happened to himself. the feeling forbade remorse or despair; it engendered courage. it enabled him to infuse even a dash of humour into his retrospect of the past and his survey of the present. if he still called himself a fool, he did it more good-naturedly, and perhaps really more in deference to the wisdom of the wise and the prudence of the elders than out of any genuine or deep-seated conviction. and anyhow, if he had been a fool, he reckoned that he had learnt something from it. everybody must be a fool sometimes. in prudent eyes he had been a tolerably complete one, and had paid and must pay for the indulgence. but it had not been all loss--so his spirit insisted, and refused sack-cloth and ashes for its wear. meanwhile, however, the bill! not the rather nebulous balance-sheet of his soul's gains and losses, but the debit account in hard cash. a few sovereigns from the five hundred still jingled forlornly in his pocket; a few might possibly, thanks to the sub-let, stray back from the burlington theatre, but not many. in round figures he was fifteen hundred pounds out, and was left with an income barely exceeding a hundred pounds a year. now that would not support the life and meet the necessary expenses of counsel learned in the law. other prospects he had none; what his mother had anna was to take. he did not want to give up the bar; he still remembered mr. tiddes with a thrill; wills and mayne were alive--at any rate mayne was; a third defeat from fortune was not to his liking. moreover to abandon his chosen career would nearly break his mother's heart. he came to a swift determination to "stick it out" until he had only a thousand pounds left. if that moment came, a plunge into something new! for the present, all useful expenditure, but strict economy! he instructed his broker to sell out two hundred pounds' worth of stock and felt that he had achieved a satisfactory solution of his financial troubles. for a mind bent on industry--and arthur flattered himself that his really was now--his chambers offered new opportunities. norton ward had got his silk gown. his pupils had disappeared; arthur could have the run of his work, could annotate and summarise briefs, and try his hand on draft "opinions." this was much more alluring work than reading at large. he could sit in court too, and watch the progress of the cases with a paternal, a keener, and a more instructed interest. this was how he planned to spend the winter sittings, rejecting the idea of going circuit--the chances of gain were so small, the expenses involved so great. but in the immediate future things fell out differently from what he had planned. the morning after the courts opened, he received a summons to go and see mr. justice lance in his private room. the old judge gave him a very friendly greeting and, being due to take his seat in five minutes, opened his business promptly. "my old friend horace derwent, who generally comes with me as marshal, is down with influenza and won't be available for three or four weeks. esther norton ward was at my house yesterday and, when she heard it, she suggested that perhaps you'd like to take his place. i shall be very glad to take you, if you care to come. if anything crops up for you here, you can run up--because marshals aren't absolutely indispensable to the administration of justice. your function is to add to my comfort and dignity--and i shan't let that stand in your way." "it's most awfully kind of you. i shall be delighted," said arthur. "very well. we start on monday, and open the commission at raylesbury. my clerk will let you know all the details. if you sit in court regularly, i don't think your time will be wasted, and a grateful country pays you two guineas a day--not unacceptable, possibly, at this moment!" his eyes twinkled. arthur felt that his theatrical speculation had become known. "it's uncommonly acceptable, i assure you, sir christopher," said he. "then let's hope poor horace derwent will make a leisurely convalescence," smiled the judge. in high spirits at the windfall, arthur started off in the afternoon to thank esther for her good offices. he had not seen her since they parted, with forced cheerfulness, at the doors of the burlington theatre; neither had he carried out his idea of going to one of her husband's meetings; the urgency of his own affairs would have dwarfed those of the nation in his eyes, even had his taste for politics been greater than it was. "i thought you'd like it. you'll find sir christopher a pleasant chief, and perhaps it'll keep you out of mischief for a few weeks--and in pocket-money," said esther, in reply to his thanks. "i've got no more mischief in view," arthur remarked, almost wistfully. "my wild course is run." "i hope so. did you ever believe in that terrible farce?" "oh yes, rather! that is, i believed in it generally--moments of qualm! that's what made it so interesting." "that evening, arthur! i declare i still shudder! what did you do after you got rid of us? knock your head against the wall, or go to bed to hide your tears?" arthur smiled. "not exactly, mrs. norton ward. i took part in a sort of privy council, about ways and means, though there weren't any of either, to speak of--and claud beverley swore eternal friendship to me, heavens knows why! and i had a talk with miss layard." esther was looking at his smiling face in some amazement; he seemed to find the memory of the evening pleasant and amusing. her own impressions were so different that she was stirred to resentment. "i believe i wasted some good emotion on you," she observed severely. "oh, i forgot! i had a telegram from bernadette--from genoa. good wishes, you know--but i never got it till it was all over." he was smiling still, in a ruminative way now. "very attentive of her! it seems to amuse you, though." "well, it was rather funny. it came when i was in ayesha layard's dressing-room, talking to her, and she--well, rather made fun of it." esther eyed him with curiosity. "did you like that?" she asked. "i didn't seem to mind it at the time." his tone was amused still, but just a little puzzled. "no, i didn't mind it." "i believe--yes, i do--i believe you were flirting with the impudent little creature! oh, you men! this is what we get! we cry our eyes out for you, and all the time you're----!" "men must work and women must weep!" said arthur. "that's just what judith was doing--literally--all the way home in the car; and in bed afterwards, very likely." esther rapped out the disclosure tartly. "and all the while you were----!" words failed the indignant woman. "cried? what, not really? poor old judith! what a shame! i must write to her and tell her i'm as jolly as possible." "oh, i daresay she's got over it by now," said esther, with a dig at his vanity. but he accepted the suggestion with a cheerful alacrity which disappointed her malice. "of course she has! she's a sensible girl. what's the good of crying?" "would you have liked to be asked that at all moments of your life, arthur?" he laughed. "rather a searching question sometimes, isn't it? but poor judith! i had no idea----" his remorse, though genuine enough, was still tinged with amusement. the smile lurked about his mouth. esther's resentment, never very serious, melted away. in the end there was something attractive in his disposition to refuse even a sympathy which was too soft. she thought that she saw change there. hard knocks had been chipping off a youthful veneer of sentimentality. but she would not have him impute a silly softness to judith. "and judith's not a crying woman. i know her," she said. "i know. she's got no end of courage. that's why it's so queer." "she thought your heart was broken, you see." "yes, but--well, i think she ought to know me better than that." "perhaps she doesn't always keep up with you," esther suggested. rather to her surprise he let the suggestion go by, and did not seize the opportunity it offered of considering or discussing himself--his character and its development. instead, he began to talk about the marshalship once more, full of interest and pleasure in it, looking forward to the companionship of sir christopher, to seeing and learning, to the touches of old pomp and ceremony in which he was to assist, unimportantly indeed, but as a favourably placed spectator. "i'm more grateful to you than i can say," he declared. "and not for the two guineas a day only!" his gratitude gave her pleasure, but she could not understand his mood fully. her nature moved steadily and equably on its own lines; so far as she could remember, it always had, aided thereto by the favouring circumstances of assured position, easy means, and a satisfactory marriage. she did not appreciate the young man's reaction after a long period of emotion and excitement, of engrossment in his personal feelings and fortunes. with these he was, for the moment, surfeited, and disposed, consequently, to turn on them a critical, almost a satiric, eye. the need of his mind now was for calmer interests, more impersonal subjects of observation and thought. he was looking forward to being a spectator, a student of other people's lives, acts, and conditions--he was welcoming the prospect of a period during which his mind would be turned outward towards the world. he had had enough of himself for the time being. it was not, then, a moment in which he was likely to ask himself very curiously the meaning of judith's tears, or to find in them much stuff to feed either remorse or vanity. he was touched, he was a little ashamed, though with twitching lips, as he contrasted them with his farewell to ayesha layard at approximately the same moment. but on the whole he felt relieved of a matter with which he had little inclination to occupy himself when esther said, at parting, "i think on the whole you'd better not say anything to judith about what i told you; she might be angry with me for giving her away." judith might well have thought herself betrayed by the disclosure which esther had made in her irritated curiosity, in her resentful desire to confront the smiling young man with the pathetic picture of a girl in tears. when a woman says to a man, of another woman, "see how fond she is of you!" there is generally implied the reproach, "and you under-rate, you slight, you don't return, her affection." such a reproach had certainly underlain the contrast esther drew between judith's tears and the smiles in which arthur had presumably indulged during his talk with ayesha layard. but arthur took the contrast lightly; it did not really come home to him; he did not seek to explore its possible meaning, the suggestion contained in it. lightly too he seemed to have taken bernadette's telegram--her recollection of him at a crisis of his fortunes, coming out of the silence and darkness in which her flight had wrapped her. here was a thing which might surely have moved him to emotion, rousing poignant memories? but when miss ayesha layard rather made fun of it, he had not minded! even this account of what had happened--this faint adumbration of the truth--agreed ill with esther's previous conception of him. but it was of a piece with his new mood, with the present turn of his feelings under the stress of fortune. to this mood matters appertaining to women--to use the old phrase, the female interest--did not belong. he was liberated for the time from the attack of that, from his obsession with it, and in his freedom was turning a detached, a critical, eye on his days of bondage. rather oddly it had been a woman's work, not indeed to bring about his release, but still to mark the moment when he began to be conscious of it; for the turn of the tide of his mind was marked by the moment when, in kissing ayesha layard, he forgot his telegram. that little episode satirically mocked the erstwhile devotee and the inconsolable lover, and all the more because it hovered itself pleasantly near the confines of sentiment. it pointedly and recurringly reminded him that there were more women than one in the world, that there were, in fact, a great many. and when a young man's heart is open to the consideration that there are a great many women in the world, it is, for all serious purposes, much the same with him as though there were none. esther norton ward was not in possession of the full facts, or she might better have understood why arthur's smile had resisted even the appeal of judith's tears. on the last evening before he left london, he dined with joe halliday and, with a heart opened by good wine, joe gave his personal view of the burlington theatre disaster. "i'm sorry i let the sarradets and amabel in," he said, "and of course i'm awfully sorry i stuck you for such a lot--though that was a good deal your own doing----" "it was all my own doing," arthur protested. "and i'm sorry for everybody involved, but for myself i don't care much. as long as a fellow's got a dinner inside him and five quid in his pocket, what's there to worry about? i've got lots of other jobs maturing. in fact, as far as i'm personally concerned, perhaps it's rather a good thing we did take such a toss. the fact is, old chap, i was getting most infernally gone on ayesha." "i thought you were touched! well, she's very attractive." "you're right! if we'd run a hundred nights, i should have been a fair goner! and on the straight too, mind you! even as it is, i don't mind telling you--as a pal--that i'm hardly my usual bright self since she went to yankeeland. keep thinking what's she up to--like a silly ass! beastly! and what did i get out of it? nothing!" his voice grew plaintively indignant. "on my word, not so much as that, arthur!" with the words he put two fingers to his lips and flung a kiss to the empty air. "that was rather hard lines," arthur remarked, smiling, pleased to hear that, so far as joe was concerned at least, miss ayesha's promise about her medicine had been handsomely kept. "well, i suppose you wouldn't notice it much"--(a veiled allusion to the romantic and forsaken lover!)--"but she's enough to make any man make a fool of himself over her." he heaved a ponderous sigh. "i expect i'm well out of it! she'd never have given me more than a string of beads to play with. and if by a miracle she had succumbed to my charms, i should have been as jealous as a dog every time she went to the theatre! no sound way out of it! all just silly!" he looked up and caught arthur smiling at him. he burst into a laugh, "lord, what an ass i am! come along, old chap! if we get moving, we shall be just in time to see trixie kayper at the amphitheatre. i hear she knocks stars out of high heaven with her twinkling feet!" arthur agreed that the performance was one not to be missed. chapter xxx a variety show the majesty of the law--nay, in theory at least, the majesty of england--sat enthroned at raylesbury. in the big chair in the centre the honourable sir christopher lance, in his newly powdered wig and his scarlet robes--the "red judge" whose splendour solaces (so it is said) even the prisoners with a sense of their own importance. on his right the high sheriff, splendid also in deputy-lieutenant's uniform, but bored, sleepy after a good lunch, and half-stifled by sitting indoors all day in bad air, instead of agreeably killing something under the open vault of heaven. beyond him the chaplain, smooth-faced, ruddy, rather severe, in gown and cassock of silk so fine and stiff as to seem capable of standing up straight on its own account, even if his reverence chanced not to be inside. at the end, the under-sheriff, unobtrusively ready to come to his chief's assistance. on his lordship's left--a sad falling off in impressiveness--arthur in mufti, and on his other side mr. williams, the judge's clerk, a fat man of constant but noiseless activity, ever coming in and going out, fetching nothing from nowhere and taking it back again (at any rate so far as the casual spectator could perceive). behind, such county magistrates as were attracted by curiosity or by a laudable desire to take a lesson in doing justice. in front, to right and left, and down below, divided from this august company (for even on marshal and clerk fell rays of reflected dignity) the world of struggle--the bar, the solicitors, jury, witnesses, prisoners, spectators, with great policemen planted at intervals like forest-trees amongst the scrub. for mainspring of the whole machine, the clerk of assize, a charming and courtly old gentleman, telling everybody what to do and when to do it, polite, though mostly unintelligible, to the prisoners, confidential and consolatory to the jury, profoundly anxious that nothing should ruffle so much as a hair of his lordship's wig. in the morning they had tried a yokel for stealing a pig. the defence--a guinea's worth--eloquently advanced and ardently pressed--was that the prosecutor had presented the prisoner with the pig in a moment of conviviality. the prosecutor met the suggestion with amazement, the jury with smiles: one might get drunk, but no man was ever so drunk as to give his pig away! verdict--guilty. his lordship passed a light sentence, faintly smiling over the ways of a world which, after nearly fifty years in the law and eighteen on the bench, still remained to him rather remote and incomprehensible. this case of the pig was a merry case. it lent itself to jokes, and young bertie rackstraw's caricature (he solaced briefless days with art) of counsel for the defence arm-in-arm with a gowned and bewigged pig was circulated and much admired. _pignus amoris_, another wag wrote under it. now, in the afternoon, a different atmosphere obtained in court. there were no jokes and no caricatures. people were very quiet. counsel for the prosecution put his searching questions gravely and gently, almost with pitifulness; counsel for the defence was careful, earnest, anxious. progress was slow, almost every word of the evidence had to go down in the judge's red book, to be written down in sir christopher's neat precise handwriting. a man was on trial for his life and, as afternoon darkened into evening, the battle drew near its fateful issue. he was a big, burly, stolid, honest-looking fellow, inarticulate, not able to help himself by his answers or to take proper advantage of the dexterous leads given him by his counsel, who strained his right to lead since life was at stake. in truth, though he was sorry that he had killed her--since his old tenderness for her had revived, and moreover he wished he had killed the other man instead--he could not see that he had done wrong. he knew that the law said he had, and drew therefrom a most formidable conclusion; but he did not feel convicted in his own heart. she had deceived him and, when discovered, had derided him with ugly words. had he slain her then and there in his rage, the plea of manslaughter might well have prevailed. but he said nothing to her; in grim silence he had taken his way to the town and bought the knife, and waited for two days his opportunity; then cunningly laid in wait where she would come alone, and swiftly, in silence again, killed her. but may not rage--ungovernable rage--last two days and be cunning? round this the battle raged. he had been cunning, calm, methodical. it was seven o'clock when the judge finished his summing-up, and the jury retired. his lordship did not leave the court, but listened to an application relating to a civil cause which was to be heard at the next town. everybody seemed to turn to this matter with relief; and small noises--coughs and fidgetings--began to be audible again. but mr. williams rose and went out noiselessly, soon to return. this time he brought something from somewhere, and held it hidden beneath the bench. the jury came back, and the little noises were all hushed. "how say you--guilty or not guilty?" "guilty," the foreman answered. "but we wish to recommend him to mercy, my lord, in view of his great provocation." the prisoner's eyes turned slowly from the foreman to the judge. mr. williams slid what he had brought--the square of black cloth--into the marshal's hand, and, under the bench still, the marshal gave it to the judge. the prisoner only shook his head in answer to the clerk of assize's question whether he had any reason why the court should not pronounce sentence, and in due form sentence followed. the judge delivered it in low and very gentle tones, with a high compassion. "the jury's recommendation will receive the fullest consideration, but i may not bid you hope for mercy, save for that mercy for which everyone of us equally must pray." at the end the condemned man made a little bow to the court, awkward but not without a pathetic dignity. "thank you, my lord," he said with respectful simplicity. then he was led downstairs, and the black square travelled back on its hidden way to mr. williams' custody. mr. williams stowed it in some invisible place, and issued his summons to all and sundry to attend again at half-past ten on the morrow. the court rose; the work of the day was ended. it remained only for the marshal to write to his majesty's principal secretary of state for the home department, apprising him that sentence of death had been passed and that the judge's notes would be sent to him without delay. his lordship, the sheriff, and the chaplain passed out to the state carriage, attended by the javelin-men. "do you think he's got any chance, my lord?" asked the high sheriff, as they drove to the judge's lodgings. "yes, sir quintin, an off-chance, i should say. in fact i think i shall help him, as far as i can--that's between ourselves, of course. he didn't seem to me a bad sort of man, but--" he smiled faintly--"very primitive! and the poor wretch of a woman certainly didn't let him down easy." "i should like to have seen the other man in the dock beside him, my lord," said the chaplain. "oh, well, chaplain, he wasn't bound to anticipate murder, was he? as it is, he's thought it prudent to get out of the country--at some loss and inconvenience, no doubt; this man's friends were after him. but for that we should have had him here to-day." "he wouldn't have been popular," the high sheriff opined, with a shake of his glossy head. thus, as the days went by, at raylesbury and the succeeding assize towns, drama after drama was unfolded, and varieties of character revealed--knaves guileless and knaves quickwitted; fools without balance or self-restraint; mere animals--or such they seemed--doing animal deeds and confronted with a human standard to which they were not equal and which they regarded with a dull dismay. incidentally there came to light ways of life and modes of thought astonishing, yet plainly accepted and related as things normal; the old hands on the circuit knew all about them and used their knowledge deftly in cross-examination. now and then the dock was filled by a figure that seemed strange to it, by a denizen of the same world that bench and bar, high sheriff and marshal inhabited; in one place there was a solicitor who had been town-clerk and embezzled public moneys; in another a local magistrate stood to plead in the dock side by side with a labourer whom he himself had committed for trial; the labourer was acquitted, and the magistrate sent to prison--with nought to seek thence-forward but oblivion. freaks of destiny and whirligigs of fortune! yet these were the exception. the salient revelation was of a great world of people to whom there was nothing strange in finding themselves, their relatives or friends, in that dock, to whom it was an accident that might well happen to anybody, an incident in many a career. but they expected the game to be played; they were keen on that, and bitterly resented any sharp practice by the police; a "fair cop," on the other hand, begat no resentment. lack of consideration as between man and man, however, stirred ire. one fellow's great grievance was that a zealous officer had arrested him at seven o'clock on a sunday morning. "why couldn't 'e let me 'ave my sunday sleep out?" he demanded. "a bloke's not going to do a bunk at seven on a sunday morning!" his lordship smilingly assured him that he should have seven days less in prison, but he was not appeased. "seven of a sunday, my lordship!" he growled still, in disappearing. "well, i shouldn't like it myself," said "my lordship" aside to the marshal. his lordship's "asides" added something to the marshal's instruction and more to his amusement. sir christopher was not a reformer or a sociologist, nor even an emotionalist either. he took this assize court world as he found it, just as he took west-end drawing-rooms as he found them, at other times of the year. he knew the standards. he was never shocked, and nothing made him angry, except cruelty or a jack-in-office. in presence of these he was coldly dangerous and deadly. to see him take in hand a policeman whose zeal outran the truth was a lesson in the art of flaying a man's skin off him strip by strip. the asides came often then; the artist would have the pupil note his skill and did not disdain his applause. though the marshal's share in the work of the court was of the smallest, his lordship liked him to be there, hearing the cases and qualifying himself for a gossip over them, on an afternoon walk or at dinner in the evening. as the days went by, a pleasant intimacy between the old man and the young established itself, and grew into a mutual affection, quasi-paternal on the one side, almost filial on the other. a bachelor, without near kindred save an elderly maiden sister, the old judge found in arthur something of what a son gives his father--a vicarious and yet personal interest in the years to come--and he found amusement in discovering likenesses between himself and his protégé, or at least in speculating on their existence with a playful humour. "men differ in the way they look at their professions or businesses," he said. "of course everybody's got to live, but, going deeper into it than that, you find one man to whom his profession is, first and foremost, a ladder, and another to whom it's a seat in the theatre--if you follow what i mean. that fellow norton ward's of the first class. he's never looking about him; his eyes are always turned upwards, towards an inspiring vision of himself at the top. but you and i like looking about us; we're not in a hurry to be always on the upward move. the scene delights us, even though we've no part in it, or only a small one. that's been true about me, and i think it's true about you, arthur." "oh, i've my ambitions, sir," laughed arthur. "fits of ambition, anyhow." "fits and starts? that's rather it, i fancy. you probably won't go as far as norton ward in a professional way, but you may very likely make just as much mark on life really, besides enjoying it more; i mean in a richer broader way. purely professional success--and i include politics as well as the law, because they're equally a profession to men like our friend--is rather a narrow thing. the man with more interests--the more human man--spreads himself wider and is more felt really; he gets remembered more too." "the idle man's apologia! very ingenious!" said arthur, smiling. "no, no, you shan't put that on me. it's perfectly true. the greatest characters--i mean characters, not intellects--are by no means generally in the highest places; because, as i say, to climb up there you have to specialise too much. you have to lop off the branches to make the trunk grow. but i don't see you like that. the burlington theatre was hardly in the direct line of ascent, was it?" "i shan't be quite such a fool as that again, sir." "not to that extent, and not perhaps in just that way--no. i don't know exactly how you came to go in for it; indeed you don't quite seem to know yourself, as far as i can gather from what you've said. but i take it that it was to see and find out things--to broaden your life and your world?" arthur hesitated. "yes, i suppose so--complicated by--well, i was rather excited at the time. i was coming new to a good many things." sir christopher nodded his head, smiling. "you may safely assume that esther has gossiped to me about you. well now, take that lady--i don't mean esther norton ward, of course. men like us appreciate her. apart from personal relations, she's something in the world to us--a notable part of the show. so we what is called waste a lot of time over her; she occupies us, and other women like her--though there aren't many." "no, by jove, there are not!" arthur assented. "it's a lucky thing, arthur, that your good cousin isn't built on the lines of our friend at raylesbury, isn't it? the world would have been the poorer! by the way, that fellow's going to get off; i had a note from hurlstone's private secretary this morning." mr hurlstone was the home secretary. "it's a funny thing, but she kept coming into my mind when i was trying the case." arthur's nod confessed to a similar experience. "we didn't know each other well enough to talk about it then," sir christopher observed, smiling. "fancy if we'd had to try godfrey lisle! i hope you're going to stick to the hilsey folk, arthur? it's good for a man to have a family anchorage. i haven't got one, and i miss it." "yes, rather! i shall go down there in the christmas vacation. i'm awfully fond of it." the old man leant forward, warming his hands by the fire. "you'll often find funny parallels like that coming into your head, if you're ever a judge. good thing too; it gives you a broad view." "i never shall be a judge," said arthur, laughing. "very likely not, if they go on appointing the best lawyers. under that system, i should never have been one either." "i think, on the whole, sir, that it's better fun to be a marshal." certainly it was very good fun--an existence full of change and movement, richly peopled with various personalities. from the bar they lived rather apart, except for three or four dinner-parties, but they entertained and were entertained by local notables. the high sheriffs themselves afforded piquant contrasts. bluff and glossy sir quintin, the country gentleman, was one type. another was the self-made man, newly rich, proud of himself, but very nervous of doing something wrong, and with stories in his mind of judges savagely tenacious of their dignity and free with heavy fines for any breach of etiquette: many an anxious question from him about his lordship's likes and dislikes arthur had to answer. and once the office was ornamented by the son and heir of a mighty grandee, who did the thing most splendidly in the matter of equipage and escort--even though his liveries were only the family's "semi-state"--treated his lordship with a deference even beyond the custom, and dazzled arthur, as they waited for mr. justice lance (who was sometimes late), with easy and unaffected anecdotes of the youth of princes with whom he had played in childhood--the perfect man of the great world, with all its graces. between this high personage and the man who stole the pig there ranged surely entire humanity! but the most gracious impression--one that made its abiding mark on memory--was more aloof from their work and everyday experience. it was of an old man, tall and thin, white-haired, very courtly, yet very simple and infinitely gentle in manner. he was an old friend of sir christopher's, a famous leader of his school of thought in the church, and now, after long years of labour, was passing the evening of his days in the haven of his deanery beneath the walls of a stately cathedral. they spent sunday in the city, and, after attending service, went to lunch with him. he knew little of their work, and had never known much of the world they moved in. but he knew the poor by his labours among them, and the hearts of men by the strangely keen intuition of holiness. there was no sanctimoniousness, no pursing-up of lips or turning-away of eyes; on the contrary, a very straight dealing with facts and reality. but all things were seen by him in a light which suffused the universe, in the rays of a far-off yet surely dawning splendour; sorrow endureth for the night, but joy cometh in the morning. as they walked back to the lodgings, sir christopher was silent for awhile. then he said abruptly: "that's a saint! i don't know that it's much use for most of us to try to be saints--that's a matter of vocation, i think--but it does us good to meet one sometimes, doesn't it? all that you and i think--or, speaking for myself perhaps, used to think--so wonderful, so interesting, has for him no importance--hardly any real existence. it's at the most a sort of mist, or mirage, or something of that sort--or a disease of mortal eyes--what you like! are you in any way a religious man?" "no, i'm afraid i'm not." he hesitated a moment and went on: "i don't quite see how one can be, you know, sir." "not as he is, no--i don't either. and i suppose the world couldn't get on, as a working world, if by a miracle everybody became like him. the world wants its own children too--though no doubt it begets some devilishly extreme specimens, as you and i have seen in the last few weeks. well, you'll probably make some sort of creed for yourself presently--oh, a very provisional sketchy sort of affair, i daresay, but still a bit better than club codes and that kind of thing. and----" he laid his hand on arthur's shoulder--"the beginning of it may just as well be this: earn your money honestly. such work as you do get or take, put your back into it." "that after all is just what the dean has done with his job, isn't it?" "why, yes, so it is, though he doesn't do it for money--not even money of his currency. upon my word, i believe he'd sooner be damned than let you or me be, if he could help it! so i've shown you one more variety of human nature, arthur." "it's at least as well worth seeing as any of the rest." "fit it in at leisure with your other specimens," sir christopher recommended. it did not seem altogether easy to follow this advice--even after reflection. but there had been other specimens, also not too easy to fit in with one another or with any neat and compact scheme of society, vindicating to complete satisfaction the ways of god to men and of men to one another. no symmetrical pattern emerged. wherever he looked, life met his enquiring eyes with a baffling but stimulating smile. chapter xxxi start and finish whenever he was at home at the time of the assizes lord swarleigh made a point of inviting the judge to dinner. he was lord-lieutenant of the county, and he considered the attention due from the military to the civil representative of the crown. the occasion was treated as one of ceremony, and though sir christopher, in mercy to the horses and his own patience, refused to drive the six hilly miles which lay between the town and higham swarleigh park in the state carriage, and hired a car, he was in court dress; very refined and aristocratic he looked. "it's an enormous house, but distinctly ugly," he told the marshal as they drove along. "but they've got a lot of fine things, and they're nice people. you'll enjoy yourself, i think." presently the great house came dimly into view, its outline picked out by the lights in the windows. it might be ugly; it was certainly huge; it seemed to squat on the country-side like a mighty toad. it had a tremendous air of solidity, of permanence, of having been there from the beginning of time, and of meaning to stay till the end, of being part of the eternal order of things--rather like a secular cathedral, with powdered footmen for beadles, and a groom of the chambers for chief verger. with courtly punctilio the lord-lieutenant received his guest on the threshold, and himself led him to the state drawing-room, where her ladyship was waiting. the marshal followed behind, rather nervous, not knowing exactly what his part might be in these dignified proceedings. the lord-lieutenant was in full fig too, and several of the men in uniform; the ladies were very sumptuous; the bishop of the diocese in his violet coat was a good touch in the picture. behind the hostess, as she received them, hung a full-length portrait of his majesty king george the fourth of happy memory, arrayed in the robes of the garter; his majesty too was decorative, though in a more florid manner than the bishop. lord swarleigh was not at all like his house, and anything military about him was purely _ex officio_. he was a short thin man with a grey beard, an antiquarian and something of an historian. when he heard arthur's name, he asked what family of lisles he belonged to, and when arthur (with accursed pride in his heart) answered "the lisles of hilsey," he nodded his head with intelligence and satisfaction. lady swarleigh was not at all alarming either. she was a plump middle-aged woman who had been pretty and wore her clothes with an air, but her manner had a natural kindness and simplicity which reminded arthur of esther norton ward's. she handed him over to a pretty gay girl who stood beside her. "fanny, you look after mr. lisle," she commanded. "he's to take you in, i think, but alfred'll tell you about that." lady fanny took possession of him in such a friendly fashion that arthur began to enjoy himself immediately. he saw a tall handsome young fellow moving about the room from man to man and briefly whispering to each; his manner was calm and indolent, and his demeanour rather haughty; he smiled condescendingly over something that the bishop whispered back to him with a hearty chuckle. "alfred daynton's wonderful!" said lady fanny. "he's papa's secretary, you know, though he really does all mamma's work. he can send twenty couples in without a list! he never mixes them up, and always knows the right order." the great alfred came up. "you're all right," he said briefly to lady fanny and arthur, and gave a reassuring nod to lady swarleigh herself. then he looked at his watch, and from it, expectantly, towards the doors. on the instant they opened; dinner was ready. alfred again nodded his head just perceptibly and put his watch back in his pocket. he turned to lady fanny. "you're at the pink table--on the far side." he smiled dreamily as he added, "in the draught, you know." "bother! you always put me there!" "_seniores priores_--and little girls last! sorry for you, mr. lisle, but you see you're on duty--and i've got to sit there myself, moreover. and you'll have to talk to me, because i haven't got a woman. i'm taking in the chief constable--jolly, isn't it?" however, at the pink table--where the host presided, flanked by the high sheriff's wife and the bishop's wife--the young folks in the draught got on very well, in spite of it; and all their wants were most sedulously supplied. "the thing in this house is to sit near alfred," lady fanny observed. "papa and mamma may get nothing, but you're all right by alfred!" "that's a good 'un!" chuckled the chief constable, a stout old bachelor major of ruddy aspect. "thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn," said alfred, who appeared to be fond of proverbial expressions. "you see, he engages and dismisses all the men," lady fanny explained. it struck arthur that lady fanny and alfred were in truth remarkably good friends, and he was not wrong. in the future among his own best friends he counted mr. and lady fanny daynton, and mr. daynton turned his remarkable powers of organisation to the service of the public. but to-night lady fanny dutifully devoted herself to the marshal, and proved an intelligent as well as a gay companion. seeing his interest in his surroundings, she told him about the pictures on the walls, the old silver ornaments on the table, the armorial devices on the silver plates. "you see, papa has drummed all the family history into us," she said, in laughing apology for her little display of learning. "he says people don't deserve to have old things if they don't take an interest in them." "i'm afraid i should take only too much, if they were mine. they appeal to me awfully." he added, smiling in a burst of candour, with a little wave of his hands: "so does all this!" she considered what he said for a moment with a pretty gravity, evidently understanding his words and gesture to refer to the surroundings at large, the pomp and circumstance in which it was her lot to live, to which he came as a stranger and on which he looked with unaccustomed eyes; she liked his frank admission that it was unfamiliar. "i don't think it hurts," she said at last, "if you don't take credit to yourself for it. you know what i mean? if you don't think it makes you yourself different from other people." "but is that easy?" he asked in curiosity. "isn't there a subtle influence?" "you're asking rather hard questions, mr. lisle!" "i suppose i am, but i was thinking mainly of myself. i associate other people with their surroundings and possessions so much that i believe i should do the same with myself. if i had a beautiful house, i should think myself beautiful!" "if you had this house, then, would you think yourself a hideous giant?" she asked, laughing. "but how do you mean about other people?" "well, i've got cousins who live in a fine old house--oh, not a twentieth the size of this!--and i'm sure i like them better because they've got a beautiful house. and the first time i saw a very great friend she was in a very smart carriage; and i'm sure she made a greater impression on me because of the carriage. and i'm afraid that's being a snob, isn't it?" she laughed again. "well, don't think of us in connection with our house, or you'll think of us as snails with shells too large for them on their backs! no, i don't think you're a snob, but i think you must beware of an æsthetic temperament. it makes people rather soft sometimes, doesn't it?" before he had time to answer, alfred cut in firmly: "now it's my turn, lady fanny!" he pointed with his thumb to the chief constable's averted shoulder, and dropped his voice to a whisper; "i've engineered him on to the chaplain's wife!" arthur could not flatter himself that lady fanny showed any annoyance at the interruption. on the other side sat the under-sheriff--the supply of ladies had quite given out--but the good man was not conversational, and arthur was left at leisure to look about him. his eye fell on the small, thin, refined little host, sitting back in his big arm-chair with an air of patient resignation, while two large women--the bishop's wife and the high sheriff's wife--talked to one another volubly across him. perhaps even being the local magnate was not all beer and skittles! if one great man had admired "sustained stateliness of living" another had seen in it a compatibility with every misfortune save one--poverty. a compatibility obviously with boredom, and probably with a great deal of it for a man like lord swarleigh! a continuous annual round of it, always between somebody's wives, wives of eminent persons and not generally in their first youth--nor, on the other hand, interested in the family history, nor in armorial bearings. why even he himself was better off; if he had the under-sheriff on one side, he had youth and beauty on the other. arthur found himself being quite sorry for lord swarleigh, in spite of higham swarleigh park, the old silver, and george the fourth in the robes of the garter. he had a vision of godfrey lisle at one of bernadette's fashionable parties. godfrey had got out of it all--at a price. poor lord swarleigh would never get out of it--till death authoritatively relieved him of his duties. after dinner lady swarleigh signalled him, and made him come and talk to her. "we're always so glad when your judge comes our circuit," she said. "he's a friend, you see, and that makes our assize dinner pleasanter. though i always like it; lawyers tell such good stories. sir christopher's very fond of you, isn't he? oh, yes, he's been talking a lot about you at dinner. and he tells me you know esther norton ward. her mother was at school with me, and i knew her when she was so high! you must come and see us in london in the summer, won't you? i wish the judge and you could come out to dinner again--just quietly, without all these people--but he tells me you're moving on directly; so we must wait for london. now don't forget!" here was a woman to like, arthur made up his mind instantly; a regular good sort of woman she seemed to him, a woman of the order of marie sarradet; ripened by life, marriage, and motherhood, and, besides, amplified as it were by a situation and surroundings which gave greater scope to her powers and broader effect to her actions--yet in essence the same kind of woman, straightforward, friendly, reliable. "i've only one girl left at home," she went on, "and i daresay i shan't keep her long, but the married ones are always running in and out, and the boys too, and their boy and girl friends. so you'll find lots of young people, and lots of racketing going on. they often get up private theatricals and inflict them on the patients at our hospital--my husband is president of st. benedict's, you know--and you ought to be able to help us--with your experience!" arthur smiled and blushed. sir christopher had been talking, it seemed; but apparently the talk had not done him any harm in lady swarleigh's estimation. "we shall be up after easter. don't forget!" she commanded again, rising to meet the judge as he came to take leave of her. with renewed ceremony, escorted by the lord-lieutenant, with the high sheriff, the chaplain, the under-sheriff--last, but certainly not least, alfred--hovering in attendance, his lordship and his satellite returned to their motor-car, the satellite at least having thoroughly enjoyed his evening. "what awfully jolly people they are!" he exclaimed, thinking, plainly, of the ladies of the family; for the adjective was not appropriate to lord swarleigh himself. sir christopher nodded, smiling in amusement at arthur's enthusiasm, but very well pleased with it, and more pleased with the hostess's whispered word of praise for his young friend as she bade him good night. "i got a piece of news to-night which i'm ashamed to say i find myself considering bad," he said. "i thought i wouldn't tell you before dinner, for fear that you'd think it bad too, and so have your evening spoilt to some extent. horace derwent writes that he's quite well again and would like to join me for the rest of the circuit. and i can't very well refuse to have him; he's been with me so often; and, what's more, this'll be the last time. i'm going to retire at christmas." "retire! why, you're not feeling out of sorts, are you, sir? you seem wonderfully fit." "i am. wonderfully fit--to retire! i'm turned seventy and i'm tired. and i'm not as quick as i was. when i sit in the divisional court with a quick fellow--like naresby, for instance, a lad of forty-nine or so--i find it hard to keep up. he's got hold of the point while i'm still putting on my spectacles! it isn't always the point really, but that's neither here nor there. so i'm going. they'll give me my right honourable, i suppose, and i shall vanish becomingly." "i'm awfully sorry. i wanted to have a case before you some day! now i shan't. but, i say, they ought to make you a peer. you're about the--well, the best-known judge on the bench." sir christopher shook his head. "that's my rings, not me," he said, smiling. "no, what's the use of a peerage to me, even if it was offered? i'm not fit to sit in the lords--not enough of a lawyer--and i've no son. if you were my son in the flesh, my dear boy, as i've rather come to think of you in the spirit, these last weeks, i might ask for one for your sake! but i've got only one thing left to do now--and that's a thing a peerage can't help about." arthur was deeply touched, but found nothing to say. "it's a funny thing to come to the end of it all," the old man mused. "and to look back to the time when i was where you are, and to remember what i expected--though, by the way, that's hard to remember exactly! a lot of work, a lot of nonsense! and to see what's become of the other fellows too--who's sunk, and who's swum! some of the favourites have won, but a lot of outsiders! i was an outsider myself; they used to tell me i should marry a rich wife and chuck it. but i've never married a wife at all, and i stuck to it. and the women too!" arthur knew that gossip, floating down the years, credited sir christopher with adventures of the heart. but the old man now shook his head gently and smiled rather ruefully. "very hard to get that back! it all seems somehow faded--the colour gone out." he lapsed into silence till they approached the end of their drive. then he roused himself from his reverie to say, "so old horace must come and see the end of me, and you and i must say good-bye. our jaunt's been very pleasant to me. i think it has to you, hasn't it, arthur?" "it's been more than pleasant, sir. it's been somehow--i don't quite know what to call it--broadening, perhaps. i've spread out--didn't you call it that the other day?" "yes. go on doing that. it enriches your life, though it mayn't fill your pocket. make acquaintances--friends in different sets. know all sorts of people. go and see places. no reason to give up the theatre even! fill your store-house against the time when you have to live on memory." they reached the lodgings and went in together. arthur saw his judge comfortably settled by the fire and supplied with his tumbler of weak brandy and hot water before he noticed a telegram, addressed to himself, lying on the table. he opened and read it, and then came to sir christopher and put it into his hands. "i think i should have had to ask you to let me go anyhow--apart from mr. derwent." sir christopher read: "heavy brief come in from wills and mayne coming on soon please return early as possible--henry." "hum! that sounds like business. who are wills and mayne?" "i haven't an idea. they gave me that county court case i told you about. but i don't in the least know why they come to me." "that's part of the fun of the dear old game. you can never tell! i got a big case once by going to the races. found a fellow there who'd backed a winner and got very drunk. he'd lost his hat and his scarf-pin before i arrived on the scene, but i managed to save his watch, put him inside my hansom, and brought him home. to show his gratitude, he made his lawyers put me in a case he had. first and last, it was worth four or five hundred guineas to me. i believe i'd had a good deal of champagne too, which probably made me very valiant! well, you must go at once, as early as you can to-morrow morning, and send a wire ahead--no, williams can telephone--to say you're coming. you mustn't take any risks over this. it ought to be a real start for you." he stretched out his hands before the fire. "your start chimes in with my finish!" he looked up at arthur with a sly smile. "how are the nerves going to be, if you run up against brother pretyman in the course of this great case of yours?" "i wish he was retiring, instead of you!" laughed arthur. "if you really know your case, he can't hurt you. you may flounder a bit, but if you really know it you'll get it out at last." "i'm all right when once i get excited," said arthur, remembering mr. tiddes. "oh, you'll be all right! now go to bed. it's late, and you must be stirring early to-morrow. i'll say good-bye now--i'm not good at early hours." "i'm awfully sorry it's over, and i don't know how to thank you." "never mind that. you think of your brief. be off with you! i'll stay here a little while, and meditate over my past sins." he held out his hand and arthur took it. they exchanged a long clasp. "the road's before you, arthur. god bless you!" the old man sat on alone by the fire, but he did not think of his bygone sins nor even of his bygone triumphs and pleasures. he thought of the young man who had just left him--his son in the spirit, as he had called him in a real affection. he was planning now a great pleasure for himself. he was not a rich man, for he had both spent and given freely, but he would have his pension for life, quite enough for his own wants, and after providing for the maiden sister, and for all other claims on him, he would have a sum of eight or ten thousand pounds free to dispose of. at his death, or on arthur's marriage--whichever first happened--arthur should have it. meanwhile the intention should be his own pleasant secret. he would say nothing about it, and he was sure that arthur had no idea of anything of the sort in his head. let the boy work now--with the spur of necessity pricking his flank! "if i gave it him now, the rascal would take another theatre, confound him!" said sir christopher to himself with much amusement--and no small insight into his young friend's character. chapter xxxii wisdom confounded "mr. tracy darton was in it, sir. he advised, and drew the pleadings. but he got silk the same time as we did" (henry meant, as mr. norton ward did), "and now they've taken you in." henry's tone was one of admiring surprise. "and sir humphrey fynes is to lead mr. darton--they're sparing nothing! i gather there's a good deal of feeling in the case. i've fixed a conference for you, sir, at four-fifteen. there's one or two points of evidence they want to consult you about." thus henry to arthur--with the "heavy brief" between them on the table. perhaps henry's surprise and enthusiasm had run away with him a little; or perhaps he had wanted to make quite sure of lassoing arthur back. at any rate, had the brief been norton ward's, he would hardly have called it "heavy"--satisfactory and, indeed, imposing as the fee appeared in arthur's eyes. nor was the case what would generally be known as a "heavy" one; no great commercial transaction was involved, no half-a-million or so of money depended on it. none the less, it already displayed a fair bulk of papers--a voluminous correspondence--and possessed, as arthur was soon to discover, great potentialities of further growth. a very grain of mustard seed for that! it was destined, as luck would have it (the lawyers' luck, not the clients'), to a notable career; it engaged the attention of no less than ten of his majesty's judges. it had already been before pretyman, j., in chambers. naresby, j., was to try it (if a glance into the future be allowable). the court of appeal was to send it back for a new trial. the lord chief justice was to take it to himself. again the court of appeal was to figure, disagreeing with the judgment pronounced by the lord chief justice on the findings of the jury. and, at last, four noble and learned lords were to upset the court of appeal, and restore the judgment of the lord chief justice--a decision which, at all events, was final, though arthur, whose feelings were by that time deeply engaged, never pretended to consider it right. and then, when the case was disposed of for good and all, no longer _sub judicibus_ (the plural is obviously demanded), the newspapers took a turn at it with those ironical comments with which their ignorance is rashly prone to assail the mysteries of the law. it--that is, the case of _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_--was about a dog, consigned according to the plaintiff's--which was arthur's--contention (the real movements of the animal were wrapped in doubt from the outset) by a certain startin--who was at that date butler to the plaintiff, but under notice to leave, and who did a few days later vanish into space--to his mistress, miss crewdson, an elderly lady of considerable means and of indomitable temper--from tenterden in sussex to its owner at harrogate, where she was taking the waters. though a very small dog, it was a very precious one, both from a sentimental and from a pecuniary point of view. so it ought to have been, considering the questions of law and fact which it raised! for in reply to miss crewdson's simple, but determined and reiterated, demand for her dog or her damages, the company made answer, first, that they had never received the dog at tenterden, secondly that they had duly delivered the dog at harrogate, and lastly--but it was a "lastly" pregnant with endless argument--that they had done all they were bound to do in regard to the dog, whatever had in truth happened or not happened to the animal. what actually had, nobody ever knew for certain. a dog--some dog--got to harrogate in the end. the company said this was miss crewdson's dog, if they had ever carried a dog of hers at all; miss crewdson indignantly repudiated it. and there, in the end, the question of fact rested--for ever unsolved. the house of lords--though the lord chancellor, basing himself on a comparison of photographs, did indulge in an _obiter dictum_ that the harrogate dog, if it were not the tenterden dog, was as like as two peas to it ("of course it was--both pekinese! but it wasn't our dog," arthur muttered indignantly)--found it unnecessary to decide this question, in view of the fact that, startin having disappeared into space, there was no sufficient evidence to justify a jury in finding that the company had ever received any dog of miss crewdson's. it was this little point of the eternally doubtful identity of the harrogate dog which proved such a godsend to the wits of the press; they suggested that the highest tribunal in the land might have taken its courage in both hands and given, at all events for what it was worth, its opinion about the harrogate dog. was he hsien-feng, or wasn't he? but no. the house of lords said it was unnecessary to decide that. it was certainly extremely difficult, and had given two juries an immensity of trouble. all these remarkable developments, all these delightful ramifications, now lay within the ambit of the red tape which arthur, left alone, feverishly untied. he had to be at it; he could not wait. not only was there the conference at four-fifteen, but he was all of an itch to know what he was in for and what he might hope for, divided between a craven fear of difficulty above his powers and a soaring hope of opportunity beyond his dreams. after three hours' absorbed work he was still on the mere fringe of the case, still in the early stages of that voluminous correspondence, when miss crewdson was tolerably, and the company obsequiously, polite--and no dog at all was forthcoming, to correspond to the dog alleged to have been consigned from tenterden. a dog was being hunted for all over two railway systems; likely dogs had been sighted at guildford, at peterborough, and at york. the letters stiffened with the arrival of the harrogate dog--ten days after the proper date for the arrival of the dog from tenterden. "not my dog," wrote miss crewdson positively, and added an intimation that future correspondence should be addressed to her solicitors. messrs. wills and mayne took up the pen; in their hands and in those of the company's solicitors the letters assumed a courteous but irrevocably hostile tone. meanwhile the unfortunate harrogate dog was boarded out at a veterinary surgeon's--his charges to abide the result of the action; that doubt as to his identity would survive even the result of the action was not then foreseen. arthur broke off for lunch with a tremendous sense of interest, of zest, and of luck--above all, of luck. he had not been called two years yet; he had no influential backing; such a little while ago work had seemed so remote, in hours of depression, indeed, so utterly out of the question. then the tiny glimmer of mr. tiddes, now the glowing rays of _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_! it was not the moment, even if he had been the man, for a measured sobriety of anticipation; it was one of those rare and rich hours of youth when everything seems possible and no man's lot is to be envied. and he owed it to wills and mayne--unaccountably and mysteriously still! the picture of old mr. mayne, with his winking eye, rose before his mind. a strange incarnation of fortune! a very whimsical shape for a man's chance to present itself in! he gave up the mystery of how mr. mayne had ever heard of him originally, but he hugged to his heart the thought that he must have conducted the tiddes case with unexampled brilliancy. only thus could he account for mr. mayne's persistent loyalty. so, after lunch, back to the dog--the harrogate dog, that tichborne claimant of a pekinese dog! four o'clock struck. with a sudden return of fear, with a desperate resolve to seem calm and not over-eager, arthur prepared to face mr. mayne. he wished to look as if cases like _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_ were an everyday occurrence. punctually at four-fifteen, a knock at the outer door--and footsteps! henry threw open the door of his room. "mr. thomas mayne to see you, sir." henry's manner was very important. "oh, show him in, please," said arthur. it struck him, with a sudden pang, that the bareness of his table was glaringly horrible. not even, as it chanced, any of norton ward's briefs which, turned face-downwards, might have dressed it to some degree of decency! "this way, sir, please," said henry, with his head over his shoulder. timidly, rather apologetically, with a shy yet triumphant smile on his melancholy face, mr. claud beverley entered. instantaneously, at the mere sight of him, before henry had finished shutting the door, the truth flashed into arthur's mind, amazing yet supremely obvious; and his mind, thus illuminated, perceived the meaning of things hitherto strange and unaccountable--of wills and mayne's interest and loyalty, of old mr. mayne's presence at the first night, of mr. claud beverley's promise to do him a good turn, no less than of that budding author's bitter references to "the office," which so hampered and confined the flight of his genius. he had been so fierce, too, when ayesha layard threatened to betray his identity! arthur fell back into the chair from which he had just risen to receive his visitor, and burst into a fit of laughter--at mr. beverley, at himself, at the way of the world and the twists of fortune. "by jove, it's you!" he spluttered out, in mirthful enjoyment of the revelation. tom mayne--such was he henceforth to be to arthur, however the world might best know him--advanced to the table and--timidly still--sat down by it. "i swore to get it for you--and i have! tracy darton's taking silk gave me the chance. i had an awful job, though; the governor thought you hadn't enough experience, and he was rather upset about your being away--you remember that time? but i stuck to him, and i brought him round. i managed it!" in mirth and wonder arthur forgot to pay his thanks. "but why the deuce didn't you tell me, old man? why have you been playing this little game on me all this while?" "oh, well, i--i didn't know whether i could bring it off." his timidity was giving way to gratification, as he saw what a success his coup had with arthur. "besides i thought it was rather--well, rather interesting and dramatic." "oh, it is--most uncommonly--both interesting and dramatic," chuckled arthur. "if you knew how i've wondered who in the devil's name wills and mayne were!" "yes, that's just what i thought you'd be doing. that was the fun of it!" "and it turns out to be you! and i wondered why your governor was at the first night!" "i thought you might see him. i was rather afraid that might give it away. but he insisted on coming." "give it away! lord, no! it no more entered my head than----!" a simile failed him. "did nobody know who you were? not joe? not the sarradets?" "none of them--except ayesha layard. she knew who i was, because we once did a case for her." arthur was gazing at him now in an amusement which had grown calmer but was still intense. "well, i was an ass!" he said softly. then he remembered what he ought to have done at first. "i say, i'm most tremendously obliged to you, old fellow." "well, you came to the rescue. we were absolutely stuck up for the rest of the money--couldn't go on without it, and didn't know where to get it. then you planked it down--and i tell you i felt it! you gave me my chance, and i made up my mind to give you one if i could. it's only your being at the bar that made it possible--and my being in the office, of course." "but it wasn't much of a chance i gave you, unfortunately." "you mean because it was a failure? oh, that makes no difference. i was on the wrong tack. i say, lisle, my new play's fixed. we're rehearsing now. the twentieth society's going to do it on sunday week, and, if it's a go, they're going to give me a week at manchester. if that's all right, i ought to get a london run, oughtn't i?" his voice was very eager and excited. "if i do, and if it's a success"--(how the "ifs" accumulated!)--"i shall chuck the office!" it was his old climax, his old hope, aspiration, vision. arthur heard it again, had heard him working up to it through that procession of "ifs," with a mixture of pity and amusement. would the new play do the trick, would "real life" serve him better than the humours of farce? would that "success" ever come, or would all tom mayne's life be a series of vain efforts to chuck an office ultimately unchuckable, a long and futile striving to end his double personality, and to be nobody but claud beverley? full of sympathy, arthur wondered. "it's bound to be a success, old chap. here, have a cigarette, and tell me something about it." eagerly responding to the invitation, the author plunged into an animated sketch of his plot, a vivid picture of the subtleties of his heroine's character and the dour influence of her environment: the drama was realistic, be it remembered. arthur listened, nodding here and there, now murmuring "good!" now "by jove!" now opening his eyes wide, now smiling. "oh, jolly good!" he exclaimed over the situation at the end of the first act. meanwhile _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_ lay on the table between them, unheeded and forgotten. it too, had it been animate, might have mused on the twists of fortune. this afternoon at least it might have expected to hold the pride of place undisputed in arthur lisle's chambers! but not until the scenario of the drama had been sketched out to the very end, not until arthur's murmurs of applause died away, did claud beverley turn again into tom mayne. and the transformation was woefully incomplete; for it was with a sad falling-off in interest, indeed in a tone of deep disgust, that he said, "well, i suppose we must get back to that beastly case!" arthur laughed again. what a way to talk of his precious brief, pregnant with all those wonderful possibilities! what an epithet for the barque that carried cæsar and his fortunes! but his laugh had sympathy and understanding in it. across the narrow table sat another cæsar--and there was a barque that carried his fortunes, and was to set sail within a short space on a stormy and dangerous voyage, over a sea beset with shoals. "well, anyhow, here's jolly good luck to _jephthah's daughter_!" he said. such was the title of mr. claud beverley's play of real life. but when they did at last get back to the neglected case, and tom mayne elbowed out claud beverley, a very good head tom showed himself to have, however melancholy again its facial aspect. they wrestled with their points of evidence for an hour, arthur sending to borrow norton ward's 'taylor,' and at the end tom mayne remarked grimly, "that's a double conference, i think!" "some of it really belongs to _jephthah's daughter_," said arthur with a laugh. "we may as well get something out of her, anyhow!"--and tom mayne absolutely laughed. making an appointment to meet and dine, accepting an invitation to come and see _jephthah's daughter_, full of thanks, friendliness, and sympathetic hopes for the friend who had done him such a good turn, inspired with the thought of the work and the fight which lay before him--in fact, in a state of gleeful excitement and goodwill towards the world at large, arthur accompanied his friend to the door and took leave of him--indeed of both of him; gratitude to tom mayne, hopes for claud beverley, were inextricably blended. and it so fell out--what, indeed, was not capable of happening to-day?--that, as his friend walked down the stairs with a last wave of his arm, mr. norton ward, k.c., walked up them, on his return from a consultation with sir robert sharpe. "who's that?" he asked carelessly, as he went into chambers, followed by arthur, and they reached the place--half room, half hall--which henry and the boy (the junior clerk was his own title for himself) inhabited. "only one of my clients," said arthur, with assumed grandeur, but unable to resist grinning broadly. "one won't be able to get up one's own stairs for the crowd, if you go on like this," observed norton ward. "oh, look here, henry! i met mr. worthing--of the great southern office, you know--over at sir robert's. there's a case coming in from them to-night, and they want a consultation at half-past five to-morrow. just book it, will you?" he turned to go into his own room. but arthur had lingered--and listened. "a case from the great southern? do you know what it's about?" norton ward smiled--rather apologetically. he liked it to be considered that he was in only really "heavy" cases now. "well, it's something about a dog, i believe, arthur." he added, "an uncommonly valuable dog, i'm told, though." a valuable dog indeed--for one person in that room, anyhow! "a dog!" cried arthur. "why, that's my case! i'm in it!" norton ward grinned; arthur grinned; but most broadly of all grinned henry. clerk's fees from both sides for henry, to say nothing of the dramatic interest of civil war, of domestic struggle! "do you mean you're for the plaintiff? how in thunder did you get hold of it?" "that's my little secret," arthur retorted triumphantly. it was not necessary to tell all the world the train of events which led up to his brief in _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_. "well, i congratulate you, old chap," said norton ward heartily. then he grinned again. "come and dine to-morrow, and we'll try to settle it." "settle it be----! not much!" said arthur. "but i'll dine all right." norton ward went off into his room, laughing. that was an awful idea--settling! even though advanced in jest, it had given him a little shock. but he felt pretty safe. he had read miss crewdson's letters; she was most emphatically not a settling woman! her dog, her whole dog, and nothing but her dog, was what miss crewdson wanted. arthur sat down before his fire and lit his pipe. he abandoned himself to a gratified contemplation of the turn in his fortunes. a great moment when a young man sees his chosen profession actually opening before him, when dreams and hopes crystallize into reality, when he plucks the first fruit from branches which a little while ago seemed so far out of reach! this moment it was now arthur's to enjoy. and there was more. for he was not only exulting; he was smiling in a sly triumph. what young man does not smile in his sleeve when the wisdom of the elders is confounded? and what good-natured elder will not smile with him--and even clap his hands? "it's my own fault if that thousand pounds i put in the farce doesn't turn out the best investment of my life!" thought arthur. chapter xxxiii a new vision it was not given to arthur again to hear his mother's voice or to see her alive. a few days after the first round of the protracted battle over the great case had ended in his favour, just before the close of the legal term, news reached him of her death. she had been suffering from a chill and had taken to her bed, but no immediate danger was anticipated. she had read with keen pleasure arthur's letters, full now of a new zest for his work and a new confidence. she breathed her gentle _nunc dimittis_; her daughter's future was happily arranged, her son's now opened before him. in simple and ardent faith her eyes turned to another world. as though in answer to an appeal instinctively issuing from her own soul, the end came very quickly. the tired heart could bear no added strain. after making her comfortable for the night, anna had gone downstairs to eat her own supper; when she came up again, all was over. there was no sign of movement, no look of shock or pain; her eyes were closed. it seemed that sleeping she had fallen asleep, and her peaceful spirit found in an instant the eternal peace of its faithful aspiration. here was no place for the bitterness of grief. death brought a quickened sense of unity and love, and the lost mother joined her children's hands in a renewal of childhood's affection and of sweet old memories. "peace i leave with you," anna whispered to arthur as they stood beside the grave, and he felt that she divined truly the legacy which their mother would have chosen, before all others, to bequeath to them. it was arranged that anna should go and stay with ronald slingsby's people until the time came for her wedding; it was to take place in about three months. the old familiar home was to be broken up. they spent two or three busy days together, sorting out furniture, settling what was to be sold and what either of them would like to keep; regretfully deciding that this or that relic of old days was "rubbish" and must be destroyed, redolent though it was with memories. many a sigh, many a laugh, the old things drew from them; forgotten pass-words of childish intimacy came back to mind; ancient squabbles were recalled with fond amusement. they lived the old days over again together. the consciousness that the old days were finally over, that their paths in life lay henceforth far apart, gave added tenderness to recollection, making this good-bye to the old house and the old things a good-bye to the old days also--even in some sense a good-bye to one another. so it had to be, and so in truth it was best. they were not made to live together. differences now submerged beneath the waves of a common love and a common emotion would rise to the surface again, a menace to their love and peace. both knew it--was there not the memory of arthur's former visit to remind them?--and acquiesced in the separation which their lots in life imposed. yet with sadness. when the actual moment came for leaving the old house and one another, anna threw herself into her brother's arms, sobbing. "we mustn't quite forget one another, arthur!" "please god, never, my dear," he answered gravely. "we've shared too much together for that." "you'll come to the wedding?" her voice fell to a whisper. "you'll be friends with ronald?" "yes, yes, indeed i will. why not?" "he's not narrow or uncharitable really. it's only that his standards are so high," she pleaded. "i know--and i hope mine'll get a little higher. anyhow we shall be jolly good friends, you'll see. come, this isn't really good-bye, anna!" she kissed him tenderly, whispering, "i shall pray for you always, arthur," and so turned from him to ronald, who was to escort her on her journey to his mother's house at worcester. arthur left malvern later in the same day, to spend his christmas at hilsey. he went from his old home to a new one; the manner of his welcome assured him of that plainly. they were all--even godfrey--at the station to meet him. their greetings, a little subdued in deference to his sorrow, seemed full of gladness, even of pride, that they should be there to soothe and soften it, that he should have hilsey to turn to, now that the links with his old life were broken. when they got him to the house, they shewed him, with exulting satisfaction, a new feature, a surprise which judith had conceived and godfrey gladly agreed in carrying out--a room, next to his old bedroom, fitted up as a "den" for his exclusive use, artfully supplied with all male appurtenances and comforts, a place where he could be his own master, a visible sign that he was no more a guest but a member of the household. "well, this is something like!" said arthur, squeezing margaret's little hand in his and looking at judith's eyes, which shone with pleasure over the pretty surprise she had contrived for him. "you needn't be bothered with any of us more than you want now," she told him. "we're never to come in unless you invite us," margaret gravely assured him. "a man's lost without his own room," godfrey remarked; and without doubt he spoke his true feelings. "i take possession--and i'm not sure i shall let any of you in!" arthur declared gaily. "oh, me, sometimes?" implored margaret. "well, you, sometimes--and perhaps one guinea-pig occasionally!" he promised. only a few days before--while arthur was still at malvern--godfrey's case had been heard and had, of course, gone through unopposed. he had performed his part in it with that reserve of quiet dignity which was his in face of things inevitable. save for a formality--in this instance it was no more--he and bernadette were quit of one another. the new state of things was definitely established, the family reconstituted on a fresh basis. little margaret was now its centre, her happiness and welfare its first preoccupation, the mainspring of its life. no longer harassed by the sense of failure, or afraid of a criticism none the less galling for being conveyed in merry glances, godfrey dared to respond openly to his little girl's appeal for love. when the child, tutored by judith's skilful encouragement, made bold to storm the defences of his study and beg his company, she met with a welcome shy still but cordial, with a quiet affection which suited her own youthful gravity. they would wander off together, or busy themselves over margaret's animals, neither of them saying much--and what little they did say impersonal and matter-of-fact--yet obviously content in their comradeship, liking to be left to it, creating gradually, as the days went by, a little tranquil world of their own, free from incursions and alarms, safe from unexpected calls on them, from having to follow other people's changing moods and adapt themselves to other people's fitful emotions. the little maid grave beyond her years--the timid man shrinking back from the exactions of life--they seemed curiously near of an age together, strangely alike in mind. day by day they grew more sufficient for one another--not less fond of judith and of arthur, but more independent even of their help and company. "does she often ask about her mother--about whether she's coming back, and so on?" arthur enquired of judith. "very seldom, and she's quite content if you say 'not yet.' but i think it'll be best to tell her the truth soon; then she'll settle down to it--to tell her that her mother isn't coming back, and isn't married to her father any more. you know how easily children accept what they're told; they don't know what's really involved, you see. by the time she's old enough to understand, she'll quite have accepted the position." "but bernadette will want to see her, won't she?" "i don't know. i really hope not--at present at all events. you see what's happening now--bernadette's just going out of her life. seeing her might stop that. and yet, if we look at it honestly, isn't it the best thing that can happen?" "in fact you want bernadette completely--obliterated?" he frowned a little. to make that their object seemed rather ruthless. "a bit strong, isn't it?" he asked. "can she complain? isn't it really the logic of the situation? with bernadette what she is too--and the child what she is!" "you're always terribly good at facing facts, judith." he smiled. "a little weak in the idealising faculty!" "in this family you've supplied that deficiency--amply." "you musn't sneer at generous emotions. it's a bad habit you've got." she smiled, yet seemed to consider what he said. "i believe it is a bad habit that i used to have. the old state of affairs here rather encouraged it. so many emotions all at cross-purposes! rather a ridiculous waste of them! it made them seem ridiculous themselves. but i think i've got out of the habit." "you've still a strong bias towards the mere matter-of-fact. you like humdrum states of mind--i believe you positively prefer them." "and you like to pass from thrill to thrill!" she laughed. "is that very unfair? because i don't mean it to be. and i am changed a little, i think. what has happened here has made a difference. say you think me a little--just a little--softer?" "say you think me a little--just a little--harder?" he retorted, mocking her. "no, but seriously?" she persisted, fixing her eyes on him almost anxiously. "well then, yes. i think you're perceptibly more human," he acknowledged, laughing still. a more serious description of the change that arthur found in judith might not have gone so near the mark. though her judgment preserved the sanity which he admired--without emulation--and her manner the cool satiric touch which he generally relished and sometimes resented, stress of circumstances had broken down her detachment and forced her out of her pose of critical but scarcely concerned spectator. she had become, willy-nilly, involved in the family fortunes; she could no longer merely look on, and smile, or deride; she had been forced to think, to act, and to feel--to take a part, to shoulder her share of the load. the latent faculties of her nature, ripe to spring into full womanhood, had answered to the call with instinctive readiness. so soon as there was work for her courage, her love and sympathy, she had them to give, and the more she gave the greater grew her store. sustaining godfrey, mothering margaret, she had experienced something of the stirring and development of feeling which comes with marriage and motherhood. through disaster and consolation, in ruin and the need to re-build, she had been forced to seek the rich things of her heart and had found abundance. thus she seemed 'perceptibly more human,' the change of heart revealing itself not only in her dealings with others but as surely, though more subtly, in herself. she opened out in a new spontaneity of feeling; she was easier to approach in confidence, more ready to appreciate and to share the joys of the spirit. even in her bearing and looks there might be discerned a new alacrity, a new brightness of the eyes. her mirth was heartier and more kindly; her mockery had lost its bitterness without losing its flavour. some such new, or revised, impression of her had formed itself in arthur's mind and found voice now in his bantering speech. his gaze rested on her in pleasure as he added, "but you needn't carry it too far. nobody wants you to become a gusher." "heaven forbid!" she murmured. "i really think i'm safe from that. i've too much native malice about me--and it will out!" "perpetual founts of warm emotion--geysers! terrible people!" "oh, even you're hardly as bad as that!" "they debase the emotional currency," said arthur, with a sudden and violent change of metaphor. on christmas day hard weather set in, with a keen frost. a few days of it promised skating on the low-lying meadows, now under flood. full of hope and joyful anticipation, arthur telegraphed for his skates. "can you skate? have you got any skates? if you can't, i'll teach you," he said excitedly to judith. "i have skates, and i can skate--thank you all the same," she replied, smiling demurely. "but you and i can teach margaret between us. i don't suppose godfrey will care about doing it." the frost held, their hopes were realised. godfrey's attitude was what had been expected; with pathetic objurgations on the weather he shut himself up in his study. the other three sallied forth, though margaret seemed alarmed and reluctant. "i haven't skated for years," said arthur, "but i used rather to fancy myself." "well, you start, while i give margaret a lesson." arthur was an average skater--perhaps a little above the average of those who have been content to depend on the scanty natural opportunities offered by the english climate. he was master of the outside edge, and could manage a "three," an "eight" and, in a rather wobbly fashion, a few other simple figures. these he proceeded to execute, rather "fancying himself" as he had confessed, while judith held margaret in a firm grip and tried to direct her helplessly slithering feet. "i don't think i like skating," said margaret, with her usual mild firmness. "i can't stand up, and it makes my ankles ache." "oh, but you're only just beginning, dear." "i don't think i like it, cousin judith." judith's brows went up in humorous despair. "just like godfrey!" she reflected helplessly. "oh well, have a rest now, while i put my skates on and show you how nice it will be, when you've learnt how to do it." "i don't think i shall ever like it, cousin judith. i think i shall go back and see what papa's doing." judith yielded. "do as you like, margaret," she said. "perhaps you'll try again to-morrow?" "well, perhaps," margaret conceded very doubtfully. "the ice is splendid. hurry up!" arthur called. but judith did not hurry. after putting on her skates, she sat on a hurdle for some minutes, watching arthur's evolutions with a thoughtful smile. he came to a stand opposite to her, after performing the most difficult figure in his repertory, his eyes and cheeks glowing and his breath coming fast. "how's that for high?" he asked proudly. "not bad for a beginner," she replied composedly. "would you like really to learn to skate? because, if you would, i'll give you a lesson." "well, i'm hanged! come on, and let's see what you can do yourself!" she got up and peeled off her jacket; before she put it down on the hurdle, she produced an orange from the pocket of it. motioning arthur to follow her, she glided gently to the middle of the ice and dropped the orange on to it. having done this and given him a grave glance, she proceeded to execute what was to him at least an inconceivably and dazzlingly complicated figure. when it was at last achieved, it landed her by his side, and she asked "how's that for high?" "you humbug! how dare you say nothing about it? letting me make a fool of myself like that! how did you learn?" "oh, in switzerland. i often went there in the winter--before hilsey claimed me. come and try." arthur tried, but felt intolerably clumsy. his little skill was vanity, his craft mere fumbling! yet gradually something seemed to impart itself from her to him--a dim inkling of the real art of it, not the power to do as she did, but some idea of why she had the power and of what he must do to gain it. she herself seemed to be far beyond skill or art. she seemed part of the ice--an emanation from it, a spirit-form it gave out. "why, you must be a champion, judith!" "i just missed it, last year i was out," she answered. "i think you show quite a knack." "i've had enough. give me an exibition!" "really?" he nodded, and she smiled in pleasure. "i love it better than anything in the world," she said, as she turned and darted away across the ice. he sat down on the hurdle, and smoked his pipe while he watched her. he could see her glowing cheeks, her eyes gleaming with pleasure, her confident enraptured smile--above all, the graceful daring turns and twists of her slim figure, so full of life, of suppleness, of the beauty of perfect balance and of motion faultlessly controlled--all sign of effort hidden by consummate mastery. she was grace triumphant, and the triumph irradiated her whole being--her whole self--with a rare fine exhilaration; it infected the onlooker and set his blood tingling through his veins in sympathetic exultation. at last she came to a stop opposite to him--cheeks red, eyes shining, chest heaving, still full of that wonderful motion waiting to be loosed again at the bidding of her will. "i never saw anything like it!" he cried. "you're beautiful, beautiful, judith!" "you mean--it's beautiful," she laughed, her cheeks flushing to a more vivid red. "i meant what i said," he persisted almost indignantly. "beautiful!" she did not try to conceal her pleasure and pride. "i'm glad, arthur." "look here, you've got to teach me how to do it--some of it, anyhow." "i will, if the frost will only last. let's pray to heaven!" "and you've got to come to switzerland with me next winter." "i'll think about that!" "in fact every winter--if you'll kindly think about that too!" he got up with a merry ringing laugh. "god bless the frost! let's have another shot at waltzing? you've inspired me--i believe i shall do it better!" he did it--a little better--and she ardently encouraged him; the slender supple strength of her figure resting against his arm seemed a help more than physical, almost, as he said, an inspiration. yet presently he stopped, and would have her skate by herself again. "no, that's enough for this morning," she protested. yet, when he begged, she could not but do as he asked once more; his praises fell so sweet on her ears. at the end she glided to him and held out her hands, putting them in his. "no more, no more! i--i feel too excited!" "so do i, somehow," he said, laughing, as he clasped her hands, and their eyes met in exultant joyfulness. "you've given me a new vision of you, judith!" chapter xxxiv the lines of life the glorious frost lasted a glorious week, generous measure for an english frost, and long enough for arthur to make considerable improvement in the art of skating; since margaret maintained her attitude of not caring about it, he had the benefit of the professor's undivided attention. long enough too it lasted for the new vision to stamp itself deep on his mind. for companion picture he recalled from memory another, which at the outset had made no such vivid impression--judith crying over the failure of the farce. his mind had passed it by lightly when it was first presented to him; it had not availed to turn his amused thoughts from miss ayesha layard and her medicine. it came back now, at first by what seemed only a chance or freak of memory, but presently establishing for itself a relation with its sister-vision of triumphant grace. between them they gave to judith in his eyes something that he had not discerned before--something which had always been there, though not in such full measure in the earlier days of their acquaintance, before disaster and grief, and love and sympathy, had wrought upon her spirit. he saw her now--he was idealising again, no doubt, to some degree, after that generous fashion of his which no cold steel of experience could quite eradicate--as capable of the depths and heights of emotion; no longer as tethered too tight by reason and good sense, somewhat too critical, a trifle too humdrum in her notions--that was the conception of her which he had in the days of bernadette's reign. the solid merits of that type he left to her still; and in this he was indeed on the firm ground of experience; he had tried and tested them. but now he decked them with bright ornaments and blended their sober useful tints with richer colouring--with tenderness of heart, a high brave joy in life, the grace of form and charm of face in which the eye delights. subtly and delightfully sure of his changed vision of her, she dared now to be wholly herself with him, to maintain no shy reserves where prudence held pleasure in bondage, and affection took refuge from the fear of indifference. she borrowed of him too, though this unconsciously, in an instinct to adapt herself to him. as she had lent to him from her stores of fortitude and clear-sightedness, she levied toll for herself on his wealth of persistent and elastic cheerfulness, his gust for life and all that life brings with it. yet her old self was not eclipsed nor wholly transformed. her caution remained, and her healthy distrust of sudden impulses. the satiric smile was still on her lips, to check transports and cool the glow of fascination. she had been so wont to think him bernadette's man--whether in joy or in delusion, or in the cruel shock of sudden enlightenment--so wont to think bernadette invincible, that even bernadette's memory seemed a thing that could hardly be displaced. she craved a probation, a searching test both of her own feelings and of arthur's. she feared while she enjoyed, and of set purpose nursed her doubts. there was not always skating--not always bright sun, keen air, and the rapture of motion, incentives to hot blood. if he deluded himself, she would have compassion ready and friendship for him unimpaired; but if she, with open eyes, walked into a trap, her judgment of herself would be bitter, and friendship would scarcely stand against the shame. arthur went back to town ten days before the christmas vacation ended, to look after his work and, incidentally, to attend marie sarradet's wedding. he left hilsey cheerfully, with no real sense of a parting or of separation. he was still keen and excited about his work, about the life that seemed now to lie before him in the law, and hilsey--with all it meant to him--figured no longer as a distraction from that life, or even an enemy to it, but rather as its background and complement, so much a part of it as to seem with him while he worked. and so it was with judith herself--the new judith of the new vision. she was no enemy to work either. however bedecked and glorified, she was still judith of the cool head and humorous eyes, the foe of extravagance and vain conceits. "back to my dog!" he said gaily. "holding on to his tail, i'll climb the heights of fortune! and i hope one or two more will find their way to chambers--some little puppies, at all events." "ambition is awake! i seem to see a dawning likeness to mr. norton ward." "i seem to see, as in a golden dream, enough to pay his rent, confound him!" "i discern, as it were from afar off, a silk gown gracefully hanging about your person!" "i discern money in my pocket to pay a railway fare to switzerland!" "there rises before my eyes a portly man in a high seat! he administers justice!" "before mine, a lady, gracious and ample, who----" but that final vision was promptly dispelled by a cushion which judith hurled at him with unerring aim. marie sarradet and sidney barslow were married at marylebone church, and after the ceremony there was a gathering of old friends at the house in regent's park--the family (including mrs. veltheim), amabel osling, mildred quain, joe halliday, and mr. claud beverley, the last-named (and so named still in the sarradet circle) blushing under congratulations; for the drama of real life had met with a critical success, though the london run had not as yet followed. indeed, as befitted the occasion, a sense of congratulation pervaded the air. it seemed as though more than a wedding were celebrated. they toasted in their champagne the restored stability of the family and the business also. the bridegroom, managing director of sarradet's limited, showed signs of growing stout; there was a very solid settled look about him; order, respectability, and a comfortable balance at the bank were the suggestions his appearance carried. far, far in the past the rowdy gaieties of oxford street! old sarradet basked in the sun of recovered safety and tranquillity. even raymond, still nominally "on appro," used, all unrebuked, such airs of possession towards amabel that none could doubt his speedy acceptance. marie herself was in a serene content which not even the presence of her aunt could cloud. she greeted arthur with affectionate friendship. "it is good of you to come. it wouldn't have seemed right without you," she told him, when they got a few words apart. "i had to come. you don't know how glad i am of your happiness, marie." she looked at him frankly, smiling in a confidential meaning. "yes, i think i do. we've been very great friends, haven't we? and we will be. yes, i am happy. it's all worked in so well, and sidney is so good to me." she blushed a little as she added, with frank simplicity, "i love him, arthur." he knew why she told him; it was that no shadow of self-reproach should remain with him. he pressed her hand gently. "god bless you, and send you every happiness!" she lowered her voice. "and you? because i've a right to wish you happiness too." "fretting about me! and on your wedding day!" he rebuked her gaily. "yes, just a little," she acknowledged, laughing. "well, you needn't. no, honestly you needn't." he laughed too. "i'm shamefully jolly!" "then it's all perfect," she said with a sigh of contentment. arthur had missed seeing _jephthah's daughter_ owing to his mother's death, but since not having seen or read the work is not always a disadvantage when congratulations have to be offered to the author, he expressed his heartily to mr. beverley. "next time it's put up, i shall be there," he added. "i don't know that it ever will be--and i don't much care if it isn't. it's not bad in its way--you've seen some of the notices, i daresay?--but i'm not sure that it's my real line. i'm having a shot at something rather different. if it succeeds----" arthur knew what was coming. "you shan't chuck the office before we've found the dog, anyhow!" he interrupted, laughing. but none the less he admired the sanguine genius. "only there won't be enough 'lines' to last him out at this rate," he reflected. at the end--when bride and bridegroom had driven off--arthur suddenly found his hand seized and violently shaken by old mr. sarradet, who was in a state of excited rapture. "the happiest day of my life!" he was saying. "what i've always hoped for! always, mr. lisle, from the beginning!" he seemed to have no recollection of a certain interview in bloomsbury street--an interview abruptly cut short by the arrival of a lady in a barouche. he was growing old, his memory played him tricks. he had found a strong arm to lean on and, rejoicing in it, forgot that it had not always been the thing which he desired. "yes, you know a good thing when you see it, mr. sarradet," arthur smilingly told the proud old man. but he did it with an amused consciousness that mrs. veltheim, who stood by, eyeing him rather sourly, had a very clear remembrance of past events. "we'll give 'em a dinner when they come back. you must come, mr. lisle. everybody here must come," old sarradet went on, and shuffled round the room, asking everyone to come to the dinner. "and now, one more glass of champagne! oh yes, you must! yes, you too, amabel--and you, mildred! come, girls, a little drop! here's a health to the happy pair and to sarradet's limited!" "the happy pair and sarradet's limited!" repeated everybody before they drank. "_and_ sarradet's limited!" reiterated the old man, taking a second gulp. "i don't know when he'll stop," whispered joe halliday. "if we don't want to get screwed, we'd better make a bolt of it, arthur." so they did, and went for a stroll in the park to cool their heads. "well, that's good-bye to them!" said joe, when he had lit his cigar. "and it's good-bye to me for a bit too. i'm sailing the day after to-morrow. going to canada." "are you? rather sudden, isn't it? going to be gone long?" "i don't know. just as things turn out. i may be back in a couple of months; i may not turn up again till i'm a colonial premier or something of that sort. the fact is, i've got into no end of a good thing out there. a cert.--well, practically a cert. i wish i'd been able to put you in for a thou. or two, old fellow." "no, thanks! no, thanks!" exclaimed arthur, laughing. "but it wasn't to be done. all i could do to get in myself! especially as i'm pretty rocky. however they wanted my experience----" "of canada? have you ever been there?" "i suppose canada's much like other places," said joe, evading the direct question. "it's my experience of business they wanted, of course, you old fool. i'm in for a good thing this time, and no mistake! if i hadn't had too much fizz already, i'd ask you to come and drink my health." "good luck anyhow, old fellow! i'm sorry you're going away, though. i shan't enjoy seeing trixie kayper half as much without you." joe suddenly put his arm in arthur's. "you're a bit of a fool in some ways, in my humble judgment," he said. "but you're a good chap, arthur. you stick to your pals, you don't squeal when you drop your money, and you don't put on side. as this rotten old world goes, you're not a bad chap." "this sounds like a parting testimonial, joe!" "well, what if it does? god knows when we shall eat a steak and drink a pot of beer together again! a good loser makes a good winner, and you'll be a winner yet. and damned glad i shall be to see it! now i must toddle--get in the tube and go to the city. good-bye, arthur." "good-bye, joe. i say, i'm glad we did _did you say mrs.?_ perhaps you'll run up against ayesha layard over there. give her my love." "oh, hang the girl! i don't want to see her! so long then, old chap!" with a final grip he turned and walked away quickly. arthur saw him go with a keen pang of regret. they had tempted fortune together, and each had liked what he found in the other. joe's equal mind--which smiled back when the world smiled, and, when it frowned, thought a cheerful word of abuse notice enough to take of its tantrums--made him a good comrade, a good stand-by; his humour, crude though it was and pre-eminently of the market-place, put an easier face on trying situations. he had a faithful, if critical, affection for his friends, and arthur was not so rich in friends as to lose the society of one like this without sorrow. as it chanced, his intimates of school and university days had drifted into other places and other occupations which prevented them from being frequent companions, and he had as yet not replaced them from the ranks of his profession, from among the men he met in the courts and in the temple; up to now courts and temple had been too much places to get away from, too little the scene of his spare hours and his real interests, to breed intimacies, though, of course, they had produced acquaintances. as he walked down to the temple now, after parting from joe halliday--and for how long heaven alone could tell!--he felt lonely and told himself that he must get to know better the men among whom his life was cast. he found himself thinking of his life in the temple as something definitely settled at last, not as a provisional sort of arrangement which might go on or, on the other hand, might be ended any day and on any impulse. the coils of his destiny had begun to wind about him. it was vacation still, and chambers were deserted; henry and the boy departed at four o'clock in vacation. he let himself in with his key, lit his fire, induced a blaze in it, and sat down for a smoke before it. marie sarradet came back into his mind now--marie barslow; the new name set him smiling, recalling, wondering. how if the new name had not been barslow but another? would that have meant being the prop of the family and the business, being engulfed in sarradet's limited? that was what it meant for sidney barslow--among other things, of course. but who could tell what things might mean? suppose the great farce had succeeded, had really been a gold mine--of the sort with gold in it--really a second _help me out quickly!_ where would he be now--he and his thousands of pounds--if that had happened? would he have been producing more farces, and giving more engagements to infectious ayesha layard and indefatigable willie spring? _dis aliter visum_--fate decreed otherwise. detached from the fortunes of sarradet's limited, rudely--indeed very rudely--repulsed from the threshold of theatrical venture, he had come back to his legitimate mistress. he knew her ways--her rebuffs, her neglect, her intolerable procrastination; but he had enjoyed just a taste of her favour and attractions too--of the interest and excitement, of the many-sided view of life, that she could give. because of these, and also because of her high dignity and great traditions--things in which sarradet's limited and theatrical ventures seemed to him not so rich--he made up his mind to follow the beckoning of fate's finger and to stick to her, even though she half-starved him, and tried him to the extreme limit of his patience--after her ancient wont. but his renewed allegiance was to be on terms; so at least he tried to pledge the future. he did not want his whole life and thought swallowed up. here his own temperament had much to say, but his talks with sir christopher a good deal also. he would not be a sleuth-hound on the track of success (a norton ward, as he defined it to himself privily), nose to the ground, awake to that scent only, with no eyes for the world about him--or again, as it might be put, he would not have his life just a ladder, a climb up the steep side of a cliff, in hope of an eminence dizzy and uncertain enough even if he got there, and with a handsome probability of tumbling into the tomb half-way up. could terms be made with the exacting mistress about this? really he did not know. so often she either refused all favours or stifled a man under the sheer weight of them. that was her way. still, sir christopher had dodged it. suddenly he fell to laughing over the ridiculousness of these meditations. afraid of too much work, when but for that dog he was briefless still! could there be greater absurdity or grosser vanity? yet the idea stuck--thanks perhaps to sir christopher--and under its apparent inanity possessed a solid basis. there was not only a career which he wished to run; there was a sort of man that he wanted to be, a man with broad interests and far-reaching sympathies, in full touch with the varieties of life, and not starved of its pleasures. thus hazily, with smiles to mock his dreams, in that quiet hour he outlined the future of his choice, the manner of man that he would be. the ringing of the telephone bell recalled him sharply to the present. with a last smiling "rot!" muttered under his breath at himself, with a quick flash of hope that it was wills and mayne again, he went to answer the call. a strange voice with a foreign accent enquired his number, then asked if mr. arthur lisle were in, and, on being told that it was that gentleman who was speaking, begged him to hold the line. the next moment another voice, not strange at all though it seemed long since he had heard it, asked, "is that you, cousin arthur?" "yes, it's me," he answered, with a sudden twinge of excitement. "i'm at the lancaster--over here on business with the lawyers, just for a day or two. oliver's in paris. i want to see you about something, but i hardly hoped to find you in town. i thought you'd be at hilsey. how lucky! can you come and see me some time?" "yes, any time. i can come now, if you like. i'm doing nothing here." a slight pause--then--"are you alone there, or is frank norton ward there too?" "there's absolutely nobody here but me." "then i think i'll come and see you. it's only a step. will you look out for me?" "yes, i'll be looking out for you." "in about a quarter of an hour then. good-bye." arthur hung up the receiver and returned to his room--the telephone was in henry's nondescript apartment. a smile quivered about his lips; he did not sit down again, but paced to and fro in a restless way. strange to hear her voice, strange that she should turn up to-day! of all the things he had been thinking about, he had not been thinking of her. she recalled herself now with all the effectiveness of the unexpected. she came suddenly out of the past and plunged him back into it with her "cousin arthur." he felt bewildered, yet definitely glad of one thing--a small one to all seeming, but to him comforting. he was relieved that she was coming to chambers, that he would not have to go to the lancaster, and ask for her with proper indifference; ask for her by an unfamiliar name--at least he supposed she used that name! he felt certain that he would have blushed ridiculously if he had had to ask for her by that name. he nodded his head in relief; he was well out of that anyhow! and--she would be here directly! chapter xxxv hilsey and its fugitive she met him just as of old; she gave him the same gay, gracious, almost caressing welcome when she found him at the foot of the stairs, awaiting her arrival and ready to escort her to his room. she put her arm through his and let him lead her there; then seated herself by the fire and, peeling off her gloves, looked up at him as he stood leaning his arm on the mantelpiece. she smiled as she used; she was the same bernadette in her simple cordiality, the same too in her quiet sumptuousness. only in her eyes, as they rested on his face, he thought he saw a new expression, a look of question, a half-humorous apprehension, which seemed to say, "how are you going to treat me, cousin arthur?" not penitence, nor apology, but just an admission that he might have his own views about her and might treat her accordingly. "tell me your views then--let's know how we stand towards one another!" perhaps it was because some such doubt found a place in her mind that she turned promptly, and in a rather business-like way, to the practical object of her visit. "i came over to see my lawyers about the money question. they wanted to see me, and convince me i ought to take something from godfrey. i don't know that i should refuse if i needed it, but i don't. you know what lawyers are! they told me oliver would desert me, or practically said he would! well, i said i was going to chance that--as a fact he's settling quite a lot on me--and at last they gave in, though they were really sulky about it. then they told me that i ought to settle something about margaret. godfrey's been very kind there too; he's offered to let me see her practically whenever i like--with just one condition, a natural one, i suppose." she paused for a moment and now leant forward, looking into the fire. "i shouldn't have quarrelled with that condition. i couldn't. of course he wouldn't want her to see oliver." she frowned a little. "i told the lawyers that the matter wasn't pressing, as i was going abroad, for a year probably, perhaps longer; it could wait till i got back." "you're going away?" asked arthur, without much seeming interest. "yes--to brazil. oliver's got some interests there to look after." she smiled. "i daresay you think it happens rather conveniently? so it does, perhaps--but i think he'd have had to go anyhow; and of course i mean to go with him. but about margaret. the real truth is, i didn't want to talk about her to the lawyers; i couldn't tell them what i really felt. i want to tell you, arthur, if i can, and i want you somehow to let godfrey know about it--and judith too. that's what i want you to do for me. will you?" "i'll do my best. he won't like talking about it. he may be very unapproachable." "i know he may!" she smiled again. "but you'll try, won't you?" she looked up at him gravely now, and rather as though she were asking his judgment. "i'm not going to see her, arthur." "you mean--not at all? never?" he asked slowly. "it was always rather difficult for margaret and me to get on together, even before all that's happened. we didn't make real friends. how could we now--with sort of official visits like those? under conditions! still, that's not the main thing; that's not what i want you to say to godfrey. i don't mean to see her till she's old enough--fully old enough--to understand what it all means. then, when she's heard about it--not from me, i don't want to make a case with her or to try to justify myself--when godfrey, or judith, or even you, have told her, i want it to be left to her what to do. if she likes to leave it alone, very good. if she likes to see me, and see if we can make friends, i shall be ready. there'll be no concealment then, no false pretences, nothing to puzzle her. only just what sort of a view she takes of me herself, when she's old enough." she paused and then asked, "have they told her anything yet?" "only that you can't come back yet. but i think they mean to tell her presently that you won't, that--well, that it's all over, you know. judith thinks she'll accept that as quite--well, that she won't see anything very extraordinary about it--won't know what it means, you see." "do you think she misses me much?" "no, i don't think so. she and her father are becoming very great friends. i think she's happy." "you've been there a lot?" "yes, a good deal." "i saw your mother's death in the paper. i'm sorry, arthur." "they make me quite at home at hilsey. they've given me a den of my own." "and godfrey?" "he's very cheerful, with his walks and his books--and, as i say, with margaret." "you're looking very thoughtful, arthur. what are you thinking of? do you think me wrong about margaret? i shall hear of her, you know. i shall know how she's getting on; judith will tell me--and esther. you can too." "it's all so strange!" he broke out. "the way you've just--vanished! and yet the house goes on!" she nodded. "and goes on pretty well?" she hazarded, with raised brows and a little smile. he made a restless impatient gesture, but did not refuse assent. "well, if there's anything to be said for me, there it is! because it means that i was a failure." "you weren't the only failure, bernadette." "no, i wasn't. it was all a failure--all round--except you; you got on with all of us. well, when things are like that, and then somebody comes and--and shows you something quite different, and makes--yes, makes--you look at it--well, when once you do, you can't look at anything else. it swallows up everything." she fell into silence. arthur moved from the mantelpiece, and sat down in a chair by her side, whence he watched her delicate profile as she gazed into the fire thoughtfully. he waited for her to go on--to take up the story from the day when the long failure came to its violent end, from the morning of her flight. "i don't see how i could have done anything different; i don't see it now any more than i saw it then. you won't forgive oliver, i suppose--my old sir oliver! in fact, if i know you, cousin arthur, you've been trying to paint him blacker in the hope of making me whiter! but he gives me a wonderful life. i never really knew what a man could do for a woman's life before. well, i'd had no chance of understanding that, had i? it's not being in love that i mean so much. after all, i've been in love before--yes, and with godfrey, as i told you once. and oliver's not an angel, of course--about as far from it as a man could be----" "i should think so," arthur remarked drily. she smiled at him. "but there's a sort of largeness about him, about the way he feels as well as the things he goes in for. and then his courage! oh, but i daresay you don't want to hear me talk about him. i really came only to talk about margaret." "you must know i'm glad to hear you're happy." she caught a tone of constraint in his voice; the words sounded almost formal. "yes, i suppose you are--and ready to let it go at that?" she asked quickly, with a little resentment. "what else can i do--or say?" he answered, slowly and with a puzzled frown. "i've got nothing more to do with it. i really belong to--to what you've left behind you. i made a queer mess of my part of it, but still i did belong there. i don't belong to this new life of yours, do i?" she shrugged her shoulders. "no, i suppose you don't. you belong to hilsey? is that it? and i'm trying to get you on my side--unfairly?" she challenged him now with something like anger. "oh, it's not a question of sides! i tried not to take sides. the thing went too deep for that. and why must i, why should i? but there's what's happened--the state of things, you see." "and the state of things makes you belong to hilsey, and prevents your having anything to do with me?" "that's putting it too strongly----" he began. "oh, but you mean it comes to that?" she insisted. "i don't see how, in practice, it can work out very differently from that." his voice was low and gentle; he avoided her eyes as he spoke, though he knew they were upon him, watching him closely. he had come to this curious searching talk--or rather it had come upon him--totally unprepared. she had not been much in his thoughts lately; when he had thought of her, it had been in relation to the past, or to the household at hilsey. her present and future life had been remote, out of his ken, perhaps relegated to neglect by an instinctive repugnance, by a latent but surviving jealousy. now he was faced with it, without time to consider, to get a clear view--much less to find diplomatic or dexterous phrases. if he were to say anything in reply to the questions with which bernadette pressed him--and he could hardly be dumb--there was nothing for it but to give her bluntly what he thought, his raw reading of the position as it stood, the best he could make of it on the spur of the moment, without looking far forward, or anticipating future modifications and weighing the possible effect of them, and without going into any of the ethics of the case, without moral judgments or a casuistry nicely balancing the rights and wrongs of it; all that seemed futile, arrogant, not for him anyhow. the real present question was how the state of affairs which had come into being affected him in regard to bernadette, what it left open to them. it was on that point that her questions pressed him so closely and sharply. what did she expect? a resumption of her empire over him? that the idol should be re-erected in the shrine, pieced together again and put in place to receive its worship? then she could not understand all that had gone to the making and the adoration of it. the flight had brought mighty changes in and for her--had she not herself said so? in and for him was it to make none? she could hardly expect or claim that. yet her questions, her resentment, a forlorn pettishness which had crept into her voice and manner, suggested that she was feeling hardly used, that she was disappointed and in some measure affronted by his attitude. she seemed to pit herself against hilsey--against the household and the home she had elected to leave, for reasons good or bad, under impulses whether irresistible or merely wayward--to pit herself against it with something like scorn, even with jealousy. had she not herself been all in all to him at hilsey? had it not been to him a setting for her charm and fascination, dear to him for her sake? the others there--what had they been to him? oh, friends, yes, friends and kinsfolk, of course! but essentially, in his real thoughts, her attendants, her satellites--and largely the grievances against which his adoration had protested. she remembered their last interview, the night before she went away--arthur's despair, his sudden flare of hot passion, even the words in which he told her that she had been everything, nearly everything, in his life. discount them as she might, calling them a boy's madness and self-delusion, how they had moved her even at that crisis of her life! they had smitten her with tender grief, and remained her last impression of her generous young devotee. she did not want to hear them again, nor to find that folly still in his heart. but they had been a witness to her power over him. was it lost? what had destroyed it? her flight with oliver? that would be natural and intelligible, and was true in part, no doubt; nor did she complain of it. but it did not seem to be what was deepest in his mind, not the real stumbling-block. if it were a question of personal jealousy and a lover's disenchantment only, how came hilsey into the matter? and it seemed that it was over hilsey that they had come to an issue. she sat a long while, brooding over his last answer, with her eyes still set on his averted face. "you mean it'll work out that you're part of the family, and i'm not? are you going to cut me, arthur?" "oh, no, no!" he cried, turning to her now. "it's monstrous of you to say that! god knows i've no grudge against you! i've owed you too much happiness and--and felt too much for you. and if we must talk of sides, wasn't i always on your side?" "yes, but now you're not." "i'm not against you--indeed i'm not! but if you're away somewhere with--well, i mean, away from us, and we're all together at home----" "us! we! home!" she repeated after him, with a smile of rather sad mockery. "yes, i suppose i begin to see, arthur." "they've made it home to me--especially since my mother's death." her resentment passed away. she seemed tranquil now, but sad and regretful. "yes, i suppose that's the way it'll work," she said. "i shall get farther and farther off, and they'll get nearer and nearer!" she laid her hand on his for a moment, with one of her old light affectionate caresses. "i was silly enough to think that i could keep you, arthur, somehow, in spite of all that's happened. and i wanted to. because i'm very fond of you. but i suppose i can't. i'm a spoilt child--to think i could have you as well as all the rest i've got!" she smiled. "awfully thorough life is, isn't it? always making you go the whole hog when you think you can go half-way, just comfortably half-way! i don't like it, cousin arthur." "i don't like it either, altogether; but that is the kind of way it gets you," he agreed thoughtfully. "still we can be good friends," she said, and then broke away from the conventional words with a quick impatience. "oh, being good friends is such a different thing from being really friends, though!" she took up her gloves and began to put them on slowly. "i had a letter from judith just before i came over," she remarked. "she writes every three or four weeks, you know. she said you were down there, and that she and you were having a good time skating." "yes, awfully jolly. she's a champion, you know!" bernadette was busy with her gloves. she did not see the sudden lighting-up of his eyes, as her words recalled to him the vision of judith skating, the vivid grace of motion and the triumph of activity, there on the ice down at hilsey. "oh, well, she's been to switzerland in the winter a lot," said bernadette carelessly. "i suppose she'd have gone this year, if it hadn't been for--" she raised her eyes again to his, and stopped with a glove half-way on. "well, if it hadn't been for me, really!" she smiled, and jerked her head impatiently. "how i seem to come in everywhere, don't i? well, i can't help it! she's got no one else belonging to her, and she used to be a lot with us anyhow." "oh, you needn't worry about her; she's quite happy," said arthur confidently. "i don't know that i was worrying, though i daresay i ought to have been. but she likes being there. i expect she'll settle down there for good and all." as she went back to her glove-buttoning she added, by way of an after-thought, "unless she marries." knowing the thing that was taking shape in his own heart, and reading his own thoughts into the mind of another, as people are prone to do, arthur expected here a certain suggestion, was wondering how to meet it, and was in a way afraid of it. he felt a sense of surprise when bernadette passed directly away from the subject, leaving her after-thought to assume the form of a merely perfunctory recognition of the fact that judith was a girl of marriageable age and therefore might marry--perhaps with the implication that she was not particularly likely to, however. he was relieved, but somehow a little indignant. "you've told me hardly anything about yourself," said bernadette. but here again the tone sounded perfunctory, as though the topic she suggested were rather one about which she ought to inquire than one in which she felt a genuine interest. "oh, there's not much to tell. i've sown my wild oats, and now i've settled down to work." she seemed content with the answer, whose meagreness responded sensitively to her own want of a true concern. she was not really interested, he felt, in any life that he might be living apart from her. she was very fond of him, as she said and he believed; but it was fondness, a liking for his company, an enjoyment of him, a desire to have him about her, had such a thing been still possible; it was not such a love or deep affection as would make his doings or his fortunes in themselves of great importance to her. where his life was not in actual contact with her own, it did not touch her feelings deeply. well, she had always been rather like that, taking what she wanted of his life and time, leaving the rest, and paying with her smiles. well paid too, he had thought himself, and had made no complaint. he did not complain now either. he had never advanced any claim to more than her free grace bestowed; and what she gave had been to him great. but he felt a contrast. at home--his thoughts readily used that word now--his fortunes were matter for eager inquiry, excited canvass and speculation. his meagre answer would not have sufficed there. judith and little margaret had to hear about everything; even old godfrey fussed about in easy earshot and listened furtively. it was not that bernadette had changed; there was no reason to blame her, or call her selfish or self-centred. it was the others who had changed towards him, and he towards them, and he in himself. for bernadette he was still what he had been before the flight--what judith had once called a toy, though a very cherished one. to himself he seemed to have found, since then, not only a home but a life. she did not know that; she had not seen it happening. nobody had told her; probably she would not understand if anyone did--not even if he himself tried to; and the task would be difficult and ungracious. and of what use? it would seem like blame, though he intended none, and against blame she was very sensitive. it might make her unhappy--for she was very fond of him--and what purpose was served by marring ever so little a happiness which, whatever else it might or might not be, was at least hard-won? she rose. "it must be getting late," she said, "and i'm going to the theatre. and back to paris to-morrow! i shan't be in london again for a long long while. well, you'll remember what to tell godfrey--how i feel about margaret? and--and anything kind about himself--if you think he'd like it." "i don't really think i'd better risk that." she smiled. "no, i suppose not. i'm never mentioned--is that it?" "oh, judith and i talk about you." "i daresay judith is very--caustic?" "not particularly. not nearly so caustic as when you were with us!" "us! us! i begin to feel as if i'd run away from you too, arthur! though i wasn't your wife, or your mother--or even your chaperon, was i? well, at the end i did run away a little sooner because of you--you'd found me out!--but i don't think i meant to run away from you for ever. but you belong to hilsey now--so it seems as if it was for ever. i ran away for ever from hilsey, all hilsey--and now you're part of it!" she was standing opposite to him, with a smile that seemed half to tease him, half to deride herself. she did not seek to hide her sorrow and vexation at losing him; she hardly pretended not to be jealous--he could think her jealous if he liked! her old sincerity abode with her; she had no tricks. she looked very charming in his eyes; her sorrow at losing her--he did not know what to call it, but whatever it was that she used to get from his society and his adoration--touched him profoundly. he took one of her gloved hands and raised it to his lips. she looked up at him; her eyes were dim. "it's turned out rather harder in some ways than i thought it would--making quite a fresh start, i mean. i do miss the old things and the old friends dreadfully. but it's worth it. it was the only thing for me. there was nothing else left to do. i had to do it." "you're the only judge," he said gently. "thank god it's turned out right for you!" she smiled under her dim eyes. "did you think i should repent? like those frogs--you remember?--in the fable. king stork instead of king log?" she laughed. "it's not like that." she paused a moment. "and oliver and i aren't to be alone together, i think, cousin arthur." he sought for words, but she put her slim fingers lightly on his lips. "hush! i don't want to cry. take me to a taxi--quickly!" she spoke no more to him--nor he to her, save to whisper, with a last clasp of her hand before she drove away, "god bless you!" chapter xxxvi in the spring yes, it was all true! the events of that red letter day had really happened. when arthur awoke the next morning, he had a queer feeling of its all being a dream, a mirage born of ambition. no. the morning paper proved it; a glance at his own table added confirmation. revolving time had brought round the easter vacation again. the last case heard in the court of appeal that sittings was _crewdson v. the great southern railway company_, on appeal from knaresby, j.'s, judgment on the findings of the jury. (the subsequent history of the great dog case lay still in the future.) it was a time of political excitement; sir humphrey fynes, k.c., m.p., had chanced the case being reached, and gone off to rouse the country to a proper sense of its imminent peril if the government continued so much as a day longer in office. consequently he was not there to argue miss crewdson's case. mr. tracy darton, k.c., was there, but he was also in the fashionable divorce case of the moment, and had to address the jury on the respondent's behalf. he cut his argument before the court of appeal suspiciously short, and left to his learned friend mr. lisle the task of citing authorities bearing on tricky points relating to the subject of common carriers. arthur was in a tremor when he rose--nearly as much frightened as he had been before lance and pretyman, jj., a year ago--but his whole heart was with his dog; he grew excited, he stuck to his guns; they should have those authorities if he died for it! he was very tenacious--and in the end rather long perhaps. but the court listened attentively, smiling now and then at his youthful ardour, but letting him make his points. when they came to give judgment against his contention, they went out of the way to compliment him. the master of the rolls said the court was indebted to mr. lisle for his able argument. leonard, l.j., confessed that he had been for a moment shaken by mr. lisle's ingenious argument. pratt, l.j., quite agreed with what had fallen from my lord and his learned brother concerning mr. lisle's conduct of his case. even miss crewdson herself, whose face had been black as thunder at sir humphrey's desertion and mr. darton's unseemly brevity, and whose shoulders had shrugged scornfully when arthur rose, found a smile for him in the hour of temporary defeat; that she would lose in the end never entered the indomitable woman's head. then--out in the corridor, when all was over--tom mayne patted him on the back, and almost danced round him for joy and pride--it was impossible to recognise in him the melancholy mr. beverley--norton ward, hurrying off to another case, called out, "confound your cheek!" and, to crown all, the august solicitor of the great southern railway company, his redoubtable opponents, gave him a friendly nod, saying, "i was afraid you were going to turn 'em at the last moment, mr. lisle!" that his appreciation was genuine arthur's table proved. there, newly deposited by triumphant henry, lay a case to advise the great southern railway company itself. "once you get in with them, sir----!" henry had said, rubbing his hands together and leaving the rest to the imagination. such things come seldom to any man, but once or twice in their careers to many. they came to arthur as the crown of a term's hard work, mostly over norton ward's briefs--for norton ward had come to rely on him now and kept him busy 'devilling'--but with some little things of his own too; for wills and mayne were faithful, and another firm had sent a case also. his neck was well in the collar; his fee book had become more than a merely ornamental appurtenance. long and hard, dry and dusty, was the road ahead. never mind! his feet were on it, and if he walked warily he need fear no fatal slip. letting the case to advise wait--his opinion would not be needed before the latter part of the vacation, henry said--he sat in his chair, smoking and indulging in pardonably rosy reflections. "rather different from what it was this time last year!" said honest pride with a chuckle. a good many things had been rather different with him a year ago, he might have been cynically reminded; for instance the last easter vacation he had dedicated to miss marie sarradet, and he was not dedicating this coming one to mrs. sidney barslow; and other things, unknown a year ago, had figured on the moving picture of his life, and said their say to him, and gone their way. but to-day he was looking forward and not back, seeing beginnings, not endings, not burying the past with tears or smiles, but hailing the future with a cheery cry of welcome for its hazards and its joys. henry put his head in at the door. "sir christopher lance has rung up, sir, and wants to know if you'll lunch with him to-day at one-thirty--at his house." "yes, certainly. say, with pleasure." left alone again, arthur ejaculated "splendid!" sir christopher had seen the report in the paper! he read the law reports, of course. a thought crossed arthur's mind--would they read the law reports at hilsey? they might not have kept their eye on his case. he folded up the paper and put it carefully in the little bag which he was now in the habit of carrying to and fro between his lodgings and his chambers. sir christopher was jubilant over the report. "a feather in your cap to get that out of leonard--a crusty old dog, but a deuced fine lawyer!" he said. but the news of the case from the great southern railway company meant yet more to him. "if they take you up, they can see you through, arthur." "if i don't make a fool of myself," arthur put in. "oh, they'll expect you to do that once or twice. don't be frightened. the dog of yours is a lucky dog, eh? all you've got to do now is to take things quietly, and not fret. remember that only one side can win, and it's not to be expected that you'll be on the right side always. i think you'll be done over the dog even, in the end, you know." "not i!" cried arthur indignantly. "that harrogate cur's not our dog, sir." "human justice is fallible," laughed the old man. "anyhow it's a good sporting case. and what are you going to do with yourself now?" "i'm off to hilsey for a fortnight's holiday. going at four o'clock." "losing no time," sir christopher remarked with a smile. "well, it's jolly in the country in the spring, isn't it?" arthur asked, rather defensively. "yes, it's jolly in the spring--jolly anywhere in the spring, arthur." arthur caught the kindly banter in his tone; he flushed a little and smiled in answer. "it was very jolly there in the winter too, if you come to that, sir. ripping skating!" "does all the family skate?" "no, not all the family." he laughed. "just enough of it, sir christopher." the old man sat back in his chair and sipped his hock. "some men can get on without a woman about them but, so far as i've observed you, i don't think you're that sort. if you must have a woman about you, there's a good deal to be said for its being your own wife, and not, as so often happens, somebody else's. may we include that among our recent discoveries?" "but your own wife costs such a lot of money." "so do the others--very often. don't wait too long for money, or for too much of it. things are jolliest in the spring!" "i suppose i'm rather young. i'm only twenty-five, you know." "and a damned good age for making love too!" sir christopher pronounced emphatically. "oh, of course, if that's your experience, sir!" laughed arthur. sir christopher grew graver. "does the wound heal at hilsey?" "yes, i think so--slowly." "surgery's the only thing sometimes; when you can't cure, you must cut. at any rate we won't think hardly of our beautiful friend. i don't believe, though, that you're thinking of her at all, you young rascal! you're thinking of nothing but that train at four o'clock." arthur was silent a moment or two. "i daresay that some day, when it's a bit farther off, i shall be able to look at it all better--to see just what happened and what it came to. but i can't do that now. i--i haven't time." they had finished lunch. he came and rested his hand on the old man's shoulder. "at any rate, it's brought me your friendship. i can't begin to tell you what that is to me, sir." sir christopher looked up at him. "i can tell you what it is to me, though. it's a son for my barren old age--and i'm quite ready to take a daughter too, arthur." arthur went off by the four o'clock train, with his copy of _the times_ in his pocket. but out of that pocket it never emerged, save in the privacy of his den, and there it was hidden carefully. never in all his life did he confess that he had "happened" to bring it down with him. for, on the platform at hilsey, the first thing he saw was judith waiting for him. as soon as he put his head out of the window, she ran towards him, brandishing _the times_ in her hand. no motive to produce his copy, no need to confess that he had brought it! his attitude towards judith's copy was one of apparent indifference. it could not be maintained in face of her excitement and curiosity. the report seemed to have had on her much the same effect as skating. she proposed to walk home, and let the car take his luggage, and, as soon as they were clear of the station, she cried, "now you've got to tell me all--all--about it! what are the rolls, and who's the master of them? what's lord justice leonard like? and the other one--what's his name?--pratt? and what was it in your speech that they thought so clever?" "i thought perhaps you wouldn't see it," said arthur, not mentioning that he had taken his own measures to meet that contingency, had it arisen. "not see it! why, i hunt all through those wretched cases every morning of my life, looking for that blessed dog of yours! so i shall, till it's found, or buried, or something. now begin at the beginning, and tell me just how everything happened." "i say, this isn't the shortest way home, you know." "i know it isn't. begin now directly, arthur." she had hold of his arm now, _the times_ still in her other hand. "godfrey's quite excited too--for him. he'd have come, only he's got a bad cold; and margaret stayed to comfort him. begin now!" his attitude of indifference had no chance. all the story was dragged from him by reiterated "and thens--?" he warmed to it himself, working up through their lordships, through miss crewdson's smile ("she looks an uncommonly nice old girl," he interjected), through tom mayne's raptures and norton ward's jocose tribute, to the climax of the august solicitor and the case to advise which attested his approval. "that may mean a lot to me," arthur ended. "the people you'd been trying to beat!" her voice sounded awed at the wonder of it. "i should have thought they'd just hate you. i wish i was a man, arthur! aren't you awfully proud of it all?" well, he was awfully proud, there was no denying it. "i wish the dear old mater could have read it!" she pressed his arm. "we can read it. i've helped margaret to spell it out. she's feeling rather afraid of you, now that you've got your name in the paper. and godfrey's been looking up all the famous lisles in the county history! you won't have to be doing frank norton ward's work for him now all the time--and for nothing too!" in vain he tried to tell her how valuable the devilling was to him. no, she thought it dull, and was inclined to lay stress on the way norton ward found his account in it. arthur gave up the effort, but, somewhat alarmed by the expectations he seemed to be raising, ventured to add, "don't think i'm going to jump into five thousand a year, judith!" "let me have my little crow out, and then i'll be sensible about it," she pleaded. but he did not in his heart want her sensible; her eyes would not be so bright, nor her cheeks glow with colour; her voice would not vibrate with eager joyfulness, nor her laugh ring so merrily; infectious as miss ayesha layard's own, it was really! small wonder that he caught the infection of her sanguine pleasure too. long roads seemed short that evening, whether they led to fame and fortune, or only through the meadows and across the river to hilsey manor. "now the others will want to hear all about it," said judith, with something like a touch of jealousy. the story had to be told again--this time with humorous magniloquence for margaret's benefit, with much stress on their lordships' wigs and gowns, a colourable imitation of their tones and manner, and a hint of the awful things they might have done to arthur if he had displeased them--which margaret, with notions of a trial based on _alice in wonderland_, was quite prepared to believe. godfrey shuffled about within earshot, his carpet slippers (his cold gave good excuse for them) padding up and down the room as he listened without seeming to listen, and his shy, "very--very--er--satisfactory to you, arthur!" coming with a pathetic inadequacy at the end of the recital. then--before dinner--a quiet half-hour in his own den upstairs, where everything was ready for him and seemed to expect him, where fresh fragrant flowers on table and chimney-piece revealed affectionate anticipation of his coming, where the breeze blew in, laden with the sweetness of spring, through the open windows. as he sat by them, he could hear the distant cawing of the rooks and see the cattle grazing in the meadows. the river glinted under the setting sun, the wood on the hill stood solid and sombre with clear-cut outline. the peace of god seemed to rest on the old place and to wrap it round in a golden tranquillity. his heart was in a mood sensitive to the suggestion. he rested after his labours, after the joyful excitement of the last twenty-four hours. so hilsey too seemed to rest after its struggle, and to raise in kind security the head that had bent before the storm. he had left his door ajar and had not heard anyone enter. but presently--it may be that he had fallen into a doze, or a state of passive contemplation very like one--he found judith standing by the arm-chair in which he was reclining--oh, so lazily and pleasantly! she looked as if she might have been there for some little while, some few moments at all events, and she was gazing out on the fairness of the evening with a smile on her lips. "i've been putting margaret to bed--she was allowed an extra hour in your honour--and then i just looked in here to see if you wanted anything." "i shall make a point of wanting as many things as i possibly can. i love being waited on, and i've never been able to get enough of it. i shall keep you busy! judith, to think that i was once going to desert hilsey! well, i suppose we shall be turned out some day." he sighed lightly and humorously over the distant prospect of ejection by margaret, grown-up, married perhaps, and the _châtelaine_. "if you want to know your future, i happen to be able to tell you," said judith. "margaret arranged it while she was getting into bed." "oh, let's hear this! it's important--most important!" he cried, sitting up. "if you don't want to go on living here, you're to have a house built for you up on the hill there. on the other side of the wood, i insisted; otherwise you'd spoil the view horribly! but margaret didn't seem to mind about that." "yes, i think i must be behind the wood--especially if i'm to have a modern artistic cottage." "there you're to live--when you're not in london, being praised by judges--and you're to come down the hill to tea every day of the week." "it doesn't seem a bad idea--only she might sometimes make it dinner!" "she'll make it dinner when she's bigger, i daresay. at present, for her, you see, dinner doesn't count." "why does she think i mightn't want to go on living here? is she contemplating developments in my life? or in her own? and where are you going to live while i'm living on the top of the hill, out of sight behind the wood? did margaret settle your future too, judith?" "i don't think it occurs to her that i've got one--except just to go on being here. we women--we ordinary women--get our futures settled for us. i think bernadette settled mine the day she ran away and left poor hilsey derelict." he looked up at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "should you put the settling of your fate quite as early as that, judith?" she saw what he meant and shook her head at him in reproof, but her eyes were merry and happy. "have you thought over that idea of switzerland in the winter?" "it's the spring now. why do you want to think of winter?" "the thought of winter makes the spring even pleasanter." she smiled as she rested her hand on his shoulder and looked down on his face. "well, perhaps--if i can possibly persuade godfrey to come with us." "if he won't? what are we to do if we can get nobody to go with us?" she broke into a low gentle laugh. "well, i don't want to get rusty in my skating. and it's splendid over there." her eyes met his for a moment in gleeful confession. "still--the best day's skating i ever had in my life, arthur, was the first day we skated here at hilsey." printed in great britain by william brandon and son, ltd., plymouth methuen's popular novels crown vo. = s. each= autumn, joseph conrad victory h. g. wells bealby arnold bennett a great man anthony hope a young man's year c. n. and a. m. williamson secret history george a. birmingham gossamer marjorie bowen because of these things d. h. lawrence the rainbow richard pryce david penstephen w. pett ridge the kennedy people e. phillips oppenheim mr. grex of monte carlo lady troubridge the evil day mrs. henry dudeney the secret son ashton hilliers demi-royal p. g. wodehouse something new h. c. bailey the highwayman sax rohmer the yellow claw maurice drake the ocean sleuth constance cotterell the perpetual choice evelyn apted charles quantrill marjorie l. pickthall little hearts order form to.............................. ........................................ kindly send me the several books which i have marked on the above list. name.................................... address................................. [p.t.o. =victory. by joseph conrad,= author of 'chance.' in this story mr. conrad returns to the manner of his famous early romance, _the outcast of the island_. the principal character, a lawless adventurer called 'enchanted heyst,' is one of the great figures in mr. conrad's gallery; the scene is laid in and about the tropical island of samburan; and the theme is love and jealousy. =bealby. by h. g. wells.= this new novel is a feast of fast and furious fun. mr. wells throws problems of all sorts to the dogs, and revels in the diverting adventures of a small boy who, in the course of one brief week, works havoc in the lives of many people. delightful people are they all, as portrayed by mr. wells, from the self-important, philosophic lord chancellor down to the socialistic (and very dirty) tramp. =a great man. by arnold bennett,= author of 'clayhanger.' this is a new edition of a well-known novel by mr. arnold bennett, called by him a 'frolic.' it may be said to have paved the way for his famous comic romance _the card_ and its sequel _the regent_. in _a great man_ mr. bennett describes the life and achievements of henry shakespeare knight, who from humble beginnings becomes a world-famous novelist and one of the wealthiest of playwrights, a goal attained only after much amusing adventure by the way. =a young man's year. by anthony hope.= the story of an eventful year in the life of arthur lisle, of the middle temple, esquire: recounting his fortunes and ventures, professional, speculative, and romantic, and showing how he sought without finding, and found without seeking, and, at the end of the year, was twelve months older and as much wiser as young men are for such experiences. =secret history. by c. n. and a. m. williamson,= authors of 'the lightning conductor.' the title of this book refers to the 'secret history' of a recent critical episode between the united states and mexico. taking the form of the dramatic and sensational love stories of two irish girls and two officers, the romance has its scenes partly at an army post in texas and partly in diplomatic circles in london in - . the story is told in the first person by lady peggy o'malley. =gossamer. by george a. birmingham,= author of 'spanish gold.' in this book the principal characters are a leader in the world of international finance, an irish country gentleman who has parted with his estate, an irish journalist who is also a member of parliament attached to the nationalist party, a lady artist, and an inventor occupied with mechanical devices. the story ends with the declaration of war in august , and culminates in the effect of that catastrophe on the lives and fortunes of the various characters. =because of these things. by marjorie bowen.= this story relates the inevitable tragic drama of the reckless union of two diverse temperaments and races, brought together by a useless passion. the scene changes from bologna, the most dissipated city of italy, to the calvinistic gloom of scotland. =the rainbow. by d. h. lawrence,= author of 'sons and lovers.' this story, by one of the most remarkable of the younger school of novelists, contains a history of the brangwen character through its developing crisis of love, religion, and social passion, from the time when tom brangwen, the well-to-do derbyshire farmer, marries a polish lady, to the moment when ursula, his granddaughter, the leading-shoot of the restless, fearless family, stands waiting at the advance-post of our time to blaze a path into the future. =david penstephen. by richard pryce,= author of 'christopher.' the author deals with the early years of a boy's life. the action of the story, opening abroad, and then moving to london and to english country houses, takes place in the seventies. the story is almost as much the story of david's mother as of david himself, and shows, against a background of the manners of the time, the consequences of a breaking away from the established order. how, under the shadow, david's childhood is yet almost wholly happy, and how on the threshold of manhood he is left ready--his heart's desire in view--to face life in earnest and to make a new name for himself in his own way, these pages tell. =the kennedy people. by w. pett ridge,= author of 'the happy recruit.' the author is, in this novel, still faithful to london, but he sets out here to till something like fresh ground. a description is given of three generations of a family, and particulars are conveyed of the kind of chart that represented their advances and their retreats. the story is told in mr. pett ridge's lively and characteristic manner. =mr. grex of monte carlo. by e. phillips oppenheim,= author of 'master of men.' mr. oppenheim has never written a more absorbing story than this one, in which an adventurous young american first falls in love, then into trouble, and becomes a part of events that are making history. in monte carlo three men skilled in international intrigue meet in secret conference; two ministers of foreign affairs and a grand duke plan to make over the map of europe, while a diplomat representing a fourth great world-power, aided by skilled secret-service men, aims to thwart their endeavours. then--enter the american. how young richard lane, wealthy and used to having his own way, fell in love with mysterious mr. grex's daughter, how he was not discouraged even when he found out what an important personage mr. grex really was, how he took a hand in events and caused an upset, is told in a thrilling love story that lays bare the methods of modern international diplomatists and incidentally conveys a warning to america to arm herself against the possibilities of war. =the evil day. by lady troubridge.= in this book lady troubridge abandons for the first time the study of the very young girl, to give us one of a woman of forty, who, until the story opens, has led a quiet, retired and domestic existence. circumstances, however, bring the heroine face to face with modern life and its developments in their most vivid form, and she does not pass through the experience altogether unscathed. =the secret son. by mrs. henry dudeney.= mrs. henry dudeney's new novel is a delightful story of the sussex downs. its types and characters are rustic, and in it comedy and tragedy are skilfully mingled by this most accomplished writer. the theme of the book is the relation between mother and son, and the reader passes to the close of a very human story with a most absorbing interest. =demi-royal. by ashton hilliers,= author of 'the adventures of a lady of quality.' that the famous mrs. fitzherbert, legal and loyal wife of the regent, _may_ have borne him a child is indisputable. that she did so is the author's thesis in this diverting romance; and the fortunes of this child, legitimate, but un-royal, trepanned, lost, mourned as dead, repudiated, traced, acknowledged, are his theme. the mother-love of a noble woman, the fears of a selfish voluptuary, the self-sacrifice of honest york, form the warp across which runs the woof of a girl's life lived innocently and spiritedly in puritan surroundings, watched over by the order of jesus, the unconscious centre of vehement antagonisms. =something new. by p. g. wodehouse,= author of 'the little nugget.' the treatment of this story is farcical, but all the characters are drawn carefully as if it were a comedy. ashe marson, a struggling writer of adventure stories, sees an advertisement in a paper in which 'a young man of good appearance who is poor and reckless, is needed for a delicate and perilous enterprise.' joan valentine, the heroine, who has been many things in her time, also answers an advertisement requiring 'a woman to conduct a delicate and perilous enterprise.' =the highwayman. by h. c. bailey,= author of 'a gentleman adventurer.' this is a story set in the last years of queen anne. naturally, jacobite and hanoverian plots and conspirators furnish much of the incident. they are, however, only a background to the hero and heroine, whose love with its adventures and misadventures is the main subject of the novel. though marlborough and the old pretender, queen anne and other figures of history play their part, it is the hero and heroine who hold the centre of the stage. =the yellow claw. by sax rohmer,= author of 'dr. fu-manchu.' this is an enthralling tale of eastern mystery and crime in a european setting. the action moves from an author's flat in westminster to the 'cave of the golden dragon,' shadwell, and the weird catacombs below the level of the thames, and circles round 'mr. king,' the sinister and unseen president of the kan-suh opium syndicate. we meet with the beautiful eurasian, mahâra, 'our lady of the poppies,' and are introduced to m. gaston max, europe's greatest criminologist, and to the beetle-like chinaman, ho-pin. =the ocean sleuth. by maurice drake.= this is an exciting story, by one of the most promising of the younger novelists, of perils by sea and criminal hunting by land. the tale begins with some exciting salvage while off the cornish coast, and passes on to the allurements of detective work in england and brittany. in austin voogdt, the hero, mr. drake has created a commanding figure in romance. =the perpetual choice. by constance cotterell,= author of 'the virgin and the scales.' _the perpetual choice_ runs between poverty and wealth, passion and prejudice, london and the country, and is the story of a high-spirited girl. she has to discover the precariousness of housekeeping on enthusiasm with her strange friends, and finds that poverty is partly fun and partly a blight. three men love her, all differently, and when she falls in love her crisis has come. =charles quantrill. by evelyn apted.= a story of quiet charm and of intense human interest. the interest of the book does not depend on sensational effects, but rather in the endeavour to apply insight and imagination to the faithful description of events and problems which might confront any one of its readers. the scene shifts at times from england to south africa, norway, and the riviera. a perfectly natural sequence of events leads to the marriage of a girl of strong character with a man of principles less high than her own. the writer brings the story to a dramatic close about two years after the marriage. =little hearts. by marjorie l. pickthall.= a story of the forest and the downs in the troubled times of the eighteenth century, telling how mr. sampson, a gentleman engaged in the production of a philosophy of poverty, rescues and shelters one anthony oakshott, who is thrown from horseback over his wall, and whom he takes for an heroic jacobite, much wanted by the king's men. by so doing he changes his own life and that of the girl he loves. =methuen & co. ltd., essex street, london, w.c.= google books (harvard university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=e yaaaayaaj (harvard university) the house of the white shadows by b. l. farjeon _author of_ samuel boyd of catchpole square grif, toilers of babylon, etc. r. f. fenno & company publishers, new york: [illustration] copyright, , by new amsterdam book co. _the house of the white shadows_. benjamin leopold farjeon we regret to learn that since this book was sent to press in this country, its gifted author has passed away in london at the ripe age of years. it seems appropriate and indeed necessary to preface "the house of the white shadows," on its appearance in america, with a brief account of mr. farjeon's life and literary career. considering his popularity it is astonishing how very little is generally known regarding this author's personality. the ordinary reference books, if not altogether silent respecting him, have but a line or two, giving the date of his birth with perhaps a list of two or three of his principal novels. it is sincerely to be hoped that a competent biography will ultimately appear, affording to his very many admirers some satisfactory account of a man who has given the world more than twenty-five remarkable works of fiction. mr. farjeon was an englishman, having been born in london in . at an early age he went to australia and from thence to new zealand. it would be exceedingly interesting to learn how he employed himself in those colonies. we know that he engaged in a journalistic venture in dunedin, but how long it continued or how he fed his intellectual life during the years which intervened, until he published his first novel in london, we know little or nothing. at all events he returned home and launched his first literary venture in london in . it was called "grif, a story of australian life." this story proved to be eminently successful, and probably determined its author's future career. he produced "joshua marvel" in ; "london's heart" in ; "jessie trim" in , and a long list of powerful novels ending with "samuel boyd of catchpole square," published only two or three years ago. some of these works, like "blade o' grass," "bread and cheese and kisses," "great porter square," etc., have been very popular both in england and the united states, passing through many editions. mr. farjeon's style is remarkable for its vivid realism. the london "athenæum" in a long and appreciative review styles him "a master of realistic fiction." on account of his sentiment and minute characterization he is regarded as a follower of the method of dickens. no writer since that master can picture like farjeon the touching and pathetic type of innocent childhood, pure in spite of miserable and squalid surroundings. he can paint, too, a scene of sombre horror so vividly that even dickens himself could scarcely emulate its realism. mr. farjeon visited the united states several times during his long life. americans have always regarded him with kindly feelings. perhaps this kindliness was somewhat increased when it became generally known that he had married a daughter of america's genial actor, joseph jefferson. "the house of the white shadows" is published in this country by arrangement with messrs. hutchinson & co., of london, who have been mr. farjeon's publishers in great britain for many years. the publishers. contents chapter book i.--the trial of gautran. i.--only a flower-girl, ii.--the arrival of the advocate, iii.--the advocate's wife insists upon having her way, iv.--jacob hartrich, the baker, gives his reasons for believing gautran the woodman guilty of the murder of madeline, v.--fritz the fool, vi.--mistress and maid, vii.--a visit from pierre lamont--dreams of love, viii.--the interview in prison, ix.--the advocate undertakes a strange case, x.--two letters--from friend to friend, from lover to lover, xi.--fire and snow--fool fritz informs pierre lamont, where actual love commences, xii.--the struggle of love and duty, xiii.--the trial of gautran, xiv.--the evidence of witnesses, xv.--the widow joseph gives evidence respecting a mysterious visitor, xvi.--the conclusion of the prosecution, xvii.--the advocate's defense--the verdict, book ii.--the confession. i.--a letter from john vanbrugh, ii.--a startling interruption, iii.--in the dead of night, iv.--the confession, book iii.--the grave of honour. i.--preparations for a visitor, ii.--a love story of the past, iii.--a mother's treachery, iv.--husband and wife, v.--the gathering of the storm, vi.--the grave of honour, vii.--husband and wife, viii.--the compact, ix.--mother denise has strange fancies in the night, x.--christian almer's child-life, xi.--beatrice almer gives a promise to her son, xii.--the last meeting between husband and wife, xiii.--the arrival of christian almer, book iv.--the battle with conscience. i.--lawyer and priest, ii.--the white shadow, iii.--the watch on the hill, iv.--the silent voice, v.--gautran finds a refuge, vi.--pierre lamont reads love-verses to fritz the fool, vii.--mistress and maid, viii.--in the home of his childhood, ix.--christian almer receives two visitors, x.--a brief survey of the web, xi.--a crisis, xii.--self-justification, xiii.--shadows, xiv.--the advocate fears he has created a monster, xv.--gautran and the advocate, xvi.--pierre lamont seeks the hospitality of the house of white shadows, xvii.--fritz the fool relates a strange dream to pierre lamont, book v.--the doom of gautran. i.--adelaide strives to propitiate pierre lamont, ii.--gautran seeks john vanbrugh, iii.--gautran resolves on a plan of escape, iv.--heaven's judgment, v.--father capel discovers gautran in his peril, vi.--the written confession, book vi.--a record of the past. i.--the discovery of the manuscript, ii.--christian almer's father, iii.--a dishonourable concealment, iv.--m. gabriel is dismissed, v.--the thief in the night, vi.--the hidden crime, vii.--false wife, false friend, book vii.--retribution. i.--john vanbrugh and the advocate, ii.--a terrible revelation, iii.--pauline, iv.--onward--to death, v.--the doom of the house of white shadows, the house of white shadows. _book i.--the trial of gautran_. chapter i only a flower-girl. the feverish state of excitement into which geneva was thrown was not caused by a proclamation of war, a royal visit, a social revolution, a religious wave, or an avalanche. it was simply that a man was on his trial for murder. there is generally in geneva a rational if not a philosophic foundation for a social upheaving; unlike the people of most other countries, the population do not care to play a blind game of follow my leader. they prefer to think for themselves, and their leaders must be men of mark. intellect is passionately welcomed; pretenders find their proper level. what, then, in a simple trial for murder, had caused the excitement? had the accused moved in a high station, was he a poet, a renowned soldier, a philanthropist, a philosopher, or a priest loved for his charities, and the purity of his life? none of these; he was gautran, a woodman, and a vagabond of the lowest type. it would be natural, therefore, to seek for an explanation in the social standing of his victim. a princess, probably, or at least a lady of quality? on the contrary. a common flower-girl, who had not two pair of shoes to her feet. seldom had a trial taken place in which the interest manifested had been so absorbing. while it was proceeding, the questions which men and women asked freely of each other were: "what news from the court-house?" "how many days longer is it likely to last?" "has the monster confessed?" "what will the verdict be?" "do you think it possible he can escape?" "why did the famous advocate undertake the defence?" in fashionable assemblies, and in _cafés_ where the people drank their lager and red wine; in clubs and workshops; on steamboats and diligences; in the fields and vineyards; on high-roads and bye-roads--the trial of gautran formed the principal topic of conversation and debate, to the almost utter exclusion of trade, and science, and politics, and of a new fashion in hats which was setting the women of adjacent countries crazy. so animated were the discussions that the girl lying in her grave might have been supposed to be closely related to half the inhabitants of geneva, instead of having been, as she was, a comparative stranger in the town, with no claim upon any living genevese on the score of kinship. the evidence against the prisoner was overwhelming, and it appeared as though a spirit of personal hatred had guided its preparation. with deadly patience and skill the prosecution had blocked every loophole of escape. gautran was fast in the meshes, and it was observed that his counsel, the advocate, in the line he adopted, elicited precisely the kind of evidence which--in the judgment of those who listened to him now for the first time-strengthened the case against the man he was defending. "ah," said those observers, "this great advocate shares the horror of the murderer and his crime, and has undertaken the defence for the purpose of ensuring a conviction." a conclusion which could only occur to uninformed minds. there were others--among them the prosecuting counsel, the judge, and the members of the legal profession who thronged the court who, with a better knowledge of the advocate's marvellous resources, and the subtle quality of his intellect, were inspired with the gravest doubts as to the result of the trial. this remarkable man, who gazed before him with calm, thoughtful eyes, whose face was a mask upon which no trace of inward emotion could be detected, was to them at once a source of perplexity and admiration. instances were cited of trials in which he had been engaged, in the course of which he had seemed to play so directly into the hands of his antagonists that defeat was not dreamt of until they were startled by the discovery that he had led them into an ambush where, at the supreme moment, victory was snatched from their grasp. and, when it was too late to repair their error, they were galled by the reflection that the advocate had so blinded their judgment, and so cloaked his designs, that he had compelled them to contribute largely to their own discomfiture. it was in the acknowledgment of these extraordinary powers that the doubt arose whether gautran would not slip through the hands of justice. every feature of the case and the proceedings, whether picturesque or horrible, that afforded scope for illustration by pen and pencil was pressed into the service of the public--whose appetite for such fare is regarded as immoderate and not over-nice--by special correspondents and artists. descriptions and sketches of the river and its banks, of the poor home of the unfortunate flower-girl, of the room in which she had slept, of her habits and demeanour, of her dress, of her appearance alive and dead; and, as a contrast, of gautran and his vile surroundings--not a detail was allowed to escape. it was impossible, without favour or influence, to obtain admission to the court in which the trial was held, and, could seats have been purchased, a higher price would willingly have been paid for them than the most celebrated actress or prima donna could have commanded. murders are common enough, but this crime had feverishly stirred the heart of the community, and its strangest feature was that the excitement was caused, not so much by the murder itself, as by an accidental connection which imparted to it its unparalleled interest. the victim was a young girl seventeen years of age, who, until a few months before her cruel and untimely death, had been a stranger in the neighbourhood. nothing was known of the story of her life. when she first appeared in the suburbs of geneva she was accompanied by a woman much older than herself, and two facts made themselves immediately apparent. that a strong attachment existed between the new-comers, and that they were very poor. the last circumstance was regarded as a sufficient indication that they belonged to the lower classes. the name of the younger of the women was madeline, the name of the elder pauline. that they became known simply by these names, madeline and pauline, was not considered singular by those with whom they consorted; as they presented themselves, so they were accepted. some said they came from the mountains, some from the plains, but this was guess-work. their dress did not proclaim their canton, and they brought nothing with them to betray them. to the question asked of them, "what are you?" pauline replied, "cannot you see? we are common working people." they hired a room in a small cottage for three francs a month, and paid the first month's rent in advance, and their landlady was correct in her surmise that these three francs constituted nearly the whole of their wealth. she was curious to know how they were going to live, for although they called themselves working people, the younger of the two did not seem to be fitted for hard work, or to be accustomed to it. for a few days they did nothing, and then their choice of avocation was made. they sold flowers in the streets and _cafés_ of geneva, and gained no more than a scanty living thereby. the woman in whose cottage they lived said she was surprised that they did not make a deal of money, as much because of madeline's beauty as of their exquisite skill in arranging their posies. had pauline traded alone it is likely that failure would have attended her, for notwithstanding that she was both comely and straight-made, there was always in her eyes the watchful look of one who mistrusts honeyed words from strangers, and sees a snare in complimentary phrases. it was otherwise with madeline, in whose young life nature's fairest season was opening, and it would have been strange indeed if her smiling face and winning manners had not attracted custom. this smiling face and these winning manners were not an intentional part of the trade she followed; they were natural gifts. admiration pursued her, not only from those in her own station in life, but from some who occupied a higher, and many an insidious proposal was whispered in her ear whose poisonous flattery would have beguiled her to her ruin. if she had not had in pauline a staunch and devoted protector, it is hard to say whether she could have resisted temptation, for her nature was singularly gentle and confiding; but her faithful companion was ever on the alert, and no false wooer could hope to win his way to madeline's heart while pauline was near. one gave gold for flowers, and was about to depart with a smile at the success of his first move, when pauline, with her hand on his sleeve, stopped his way. "you have made a mistake," she said, tendering the gold; "the flowers you have taken are worth but half-a-franc." "there is no mistake," he said airily; "the gold is yours for beauty's sake." "i prefer silver," she said, gazing steadily at him, "for fair dealing's sake." he took back his gold and gave her silver, with a taunting remark that she was a poor hand at her trade. she made no reply to this, but there was a world of meaning in her eyes as she turned to madeline with a look of mingled anxiety and tenderness. and yet she desired money, yearningly desired it, for the sake of her young charge; but she would only earn it honestly, or receive it from those of whom she had a right to ask. she guarded madeline as a mother guards her young, and their affection for each other grew into a proverb. certainly no harm could befall the young flower-girl while pauline was by her side. unhappily a day arrived when the elder of the women was called away for a while. they parted with tears and kisses, never to meet again! chapter ii the arrival of the advocate among those whom madeline's beauty had attracted was a man in a common way of life, gautran, a woodman, who followed her with dogged persistence. that his company was distasteful to this bright young creature could not be doubted, but he was not to be shaken off, and his ferocity of character deterred others from approaching the girl when he was present. many times had he been heard to say, "madeline belongs to me; let me see who is bold enough to dispute it." and again and again that it would go hard with the man who stepped between him and the girl he loved. even pauline was loth to anger him, and seemed to stand in fear of him. this was singular enough, for when he and madeline were seen together, people would say, "there go the wolf and the lamb." this wretch it was who stood accused of the murder of the pretty flower-girl. her body had been found in the river rhone, with marks of violence upon it, and a handkerchief tightly twisted round its neck. the proofs of a cruel murder were incontestable, and suspicion fell immediately upon gautran, who was the last person known to be in madeline's company. evidence of his guilt was soon forthcoming. he was madly, brutally in love with her, and madly, brutally jealous of her. on the night of the murder they had been seen walking together on the bank of the river; gautran had been heard to speak in a high tone, and his exclamation, "i will kill you! i will kill you!" was sworn to by witnesses; and the handkerchief round her neck belonged to him. a thousand damning details were swiftly accumulated, all pointing to the wretch's guilt, and it was well for him that he did not fall into the hands of the populace. so incensed were they against him that they would have torn him to pieces. not in all geneva could there be found a man or a woman who, by the holding up of a finger, would have besought mercy for him. regret was openly expressed that the death punishment for murder was not lawful, some satisfaction, however, being derived from the reflection that in times gone by certain heinous crimes had brought upon the criminals a punishment more terrible than death. "they should chain the monster by the waist," said a man, "so that he cannot lie down, and can only move one step from the stake. gautran deserves worse than that." but while he lay in prison, awaiting the day of trial, there arrived in geneva an advocate of renown, who had travelled thither with his wife in search of much needed repose from years of continuous mental toil. this man was famous in many countries; he was an indefatigable and earnest worker, and so important were his services deemed that phenomenal fees were frequently paid to secure them. but notwithstanding the exceeding value of his time he had been known to refuse large sums of money in cases offered to him, in order to devote himself to others which held out no prospect of pecuniary reward. wealthy, and held in almost exaggerated esteem, both for his abilities and the cold purity of his life, it was confidently predicted that the highest honours of the state were in store for him, and it was ungrudgingly admitted--so far above his peers did he stand--that the loftiest office would be dignified by association with his name. the position he had attained was due as much to his intense enthusiasm in the cause he championed as to his wondrous capacity for guiding it to victory. as leader of a forlorn hope he was unrivalled. he had an insatiable appetite for obstacles; criminal cases of great moment, in which life and liberty were in imminent peril, and in which there was a dark mystery to be solved, possessed an irresistible fascination for him. labour such as this was a labour of love, and afforded him the keenest pleasure. the more intricate the task the closer his study of it; the deeper the mystery the greater his patience in the unravelling of it; the more powerful the odds against him the more determined his exertions to win the battle. his microscopic, penetrating mind detected the minutest flaw, seized the smallest detail likely to be of advantage to him, and frequently from the most trivial thread he spun a strand so strong as to drag the ship that was falling to pieces to a safe and secure haven. his satisfaction at these achievements was unbounded, but he rarely allowed an expression of exultation to escape him. his outward tranquillity, even in supreme crises, was little less than marvellous. his nerve was of iron, and to his most intimate associates his inner life was a sealed book. accompanied by his wife, the advocate entered geneva, and alighted at one of the principal hotels, four days before that on which the trial of gautran was to commence. chapter iii the advocate's wife insists upon having her way their arrival was expected. the moment they were shown into a private room the proprietor of the hotel waited upon them, and with obsequious bows welcomed them to geneva. "a letter has been awaiting my lord," said this magnate, the whiteness of whose linen was dazzling; he had been considering all the morning whether he should address the great advocate as "your lordship," or "your eminence," or "your highness," and had decided upon the first, "since yesterday evening." the advocate in silence received the letter, in silence read it, then handed it to his wife, who also read it, with a careless and supercilious air which deeply impressed the landlord. "will my lord and my lady," said this official, "honour us by remaining long in our town? the best rooms in the establishment are at their disposal." the advocate glanced at his wife, who answered for him: "we shall remain for a few hours only." despair was expressed in the landlord's face as he left the room, overwhelmed with the desolation caused by this announcement. the letter which he had delivered to the advocate ran as follows: "comrade, whom i have never seen, but intimately know, welcome. were it not that i am a cripple, and physically but half a man--represented, fortunately, by the upper moiety of my body--i should come in person to shake you by the hand. as it is, i must wait till you take up your quarters in christian almer's villa in our quiet village, where i spend my days and nights, extracting what amusement i can from the foibles and weaknesses of my neighbours. my father was steward to christian almer's father, and i succeeded him, for the reason that the office, during the latter years and after the death of the elder almer, was a sinecure. otherwise, another steward would have had to be found, for my labours lay elsewhere. but since the day on which i became a mere bit of animated lumber, unable of my own will to move about, and confined within the narrow limits of this sleepy valley, i have regarded the sinecure as an important slice of good fortune, albeit there was nothing whatever to do except to cause myself to be wheeled past christian almer's villa on fine days, for the purpose of satisfying myself that no thief had run away with its rusty gates. then came an urgent letter from young almer, whom i have not beheld since he was a lad of nine or ten, begging of me to put the house in order for you and your lady, to whom i, as an old gallant, am already in spirit devoted. and when i heard that it was for you the work was to be done, doubly did i deem myself fortunate in not having thrown up the stewardship in my years of active life. all, then, is ready in the old house, which will be the more interesting to you from the fact of its not having been inhabited for nearly a generation. comedies and tragedies have been enacted within its walls, as you doubtless know. does christian almer come with you, and has he grown into the likeness of his father?--your servant and brother, "pierre lamont." "who is this pierre lamont?" asked his wife. "once a famous lawyer," replied the advocate; "compelled some years ago to relinquish the pursuit of his profession by reason of an accident which crippled him for life. you do not wish to stop in geneva, then?" "no," said the beautiful woman who stood before him, his junior by five-and-twenty years; "there is nothing new to be seen here, and i am dying with impatience to take possession of mr. almer's villa. i have been thinking of nothing else for the last week." "captivated by the name it bears." "perhaps. the house of white shadows! could anything be more enticing? why was it so called?" "i cannot tell you. until lately, indeed when this holiday was decided upon"--he sighed as he uttered the word "holiday"; an indication that he was not accepting it in a glad spirit--"i was not aware that almer owned a villa hereabouts. do not forget, adelaide, that he cautioned you against accepting an offer made in a rash moment." "what more was needed to set me longing for it? 'here is a very beautiful book,' said mr. almer, 'full of wonderful pictures; it is yours, if you like--but, beware, you must not open it.' think of saying that to a woman!" "you are a true daughter of eve. almer's offer was unwise; his caution still more unwise." "the moment he warned me against the villa, i fell in love with it. i shall discover a romance there." "i, too, would warn you against it----" "you are but whetting my curiosity," she interrupted playfully. "seriously, though. master lamont, in his letter, says that the house has not been inhabited for nearly a generation----" "there must be ghosts there," she said, again interrupting him. "it will be delightful." "and master lamont's remark," continued the advocate, "that there have been comedies and tragedies enacted within its walls is not a recommendation." "i have heard you say, edward, that they are enacted within the walls of the commonest houses." "but this particular house has been for so long a time deserted! i am in ignorance of the stories attached to it; that they are in some sense unpleasant is proved by almer's avoidance of the place. what occurs to me is that, were it entirely desirable, almer would not have made it a point to shun it." "christian almer is different from other men; that is your own opinion of him." "true; he is a man dominated by sentiment; yet there appears to be something deeper than mere sentiment in his consistent avoidance of the singularly named house of white shadows." "according to master lamont's letter he has been to some trouble to make it agreeable to us. indeed, edward, you cannot argue me out of having my own way." "if the house is gloomy, adelaide----" "i will brighten it. can i not?" she asked in a tone so winning that it brought a light into his grave face. "you can, for me, adelaide," he replied; "but i am not thinking of myself. i would not willingly sadden a heart as joyous as yours. you must promise, if you are not happy there, to seek with me a more cheerful retreat." "you can dismiss your fears, edward. i shall be happy there. all last night i was dreaming of white shadows. did they sadden me? no. i woke up this morning in delightful spirits. is that an answer to your forebodings?" "when did you not contrive to have your own way? i have some banking business to do in geneva, and i must leave you for an hour." she nodded and smiled at him. before he reached the door he turned and said: "are you still resolved to send your maid away? she knows your wants so well, and you are so accustomed to her, that her absence might put you to inconvenience. had you not better keep her with you till you see whether you are likely to be suited at almer's house?" "edward," she said gaily, "have i not told you a hundred times, and have you not found out for yourself a hundred and a hundred times again, that your wife is a very wilful woman? i shall love to be inconvenienced; it will set my wits to work. but indeed i happen to know that there is a pretty girl in the villa, the old housekeeper's granddaughter, who was born to do everything i wish done in just the way i wish it done." "child of impulse and fancy," he said, kissing her hand, and then her lips, in response to a pouting invitation, "it is well for you that you have a husband as serious as myself to keep guard and watch over you. what is the thought that has suddenly entered your head?" "can you read a woman's thoughts?" she asked in her lightest manner. "i can judge by signs. what was your thought, adelaide?" "a foolish thought. to keep guard and watch over me, you said. the things are so different. the first is a proof of love, the second of suspicion." "a logician, too," he said with a pleased smile; "the air here agrees with you." so saying he left her, and the moment he was beyond the reach of her personal influence his native manner asserted itself, and his features assumed their usual grave expression. as he was descending the stairs of the hotel he was accosted by a woman, the maid he had advised his wife to keep. "i beg your pardon, sir," she said; "but may i ask why i am discharged?" "certainly not of me," he replied stiffly; "you are my wife's servant. she has her reasons." "she has not made me acquainted with them," said the woman discontentedly. "will you?" he saw that she was in an ill-temper, and although he was not a man to tolerate insolence, he was attentive to trifles. "i do not interfere with my wife's domestics. she engages whom she pleases, and discharges whom she pleases." "but to do right, sir, that is everyone's affair. i am discharged suddenly, without notice, and without having committed a fault. until this morning i am perfection; no one can dress my lady like me, no one can arrange her hair so admirably. that is what she says to me continually. why, then, am i discharged? i ask my lady why, and she says, for her convenience." "she has paid you, has she not?" "oh yes, and has given me money to return home. but it is not that. it is that it hurts me to be suddenly discharged. it is to my injury when i seek another situation. i shall be asked why i left my last. to speak the truth, i must say that i did not leave, that i was discharged. i shall be asked why, and i shall not be able to say." "has she not given you a character?" "yes; it is not that i complain of; it is being suddenly discharged." "i cannot interfere, mistress. you have no reasonable cause for complaint. you have a character, and you are well paid; that should content you." he turned from her, and she sent her parting words after him: "my lady has her reasons! i hope they will be found to be good ones, and that you will find them so. do you hear?--that you will find them so!" he paid no further heed to her, and entering his carriage drove to the rue de la corraterie, to the business house of jacob hartrich, and was at once admitted to the banker's private room. chapter iv jacob hartrich, the banker, gives his reasons for believing gautran the woodman guilty of the murder of madeline jacob hartrich, by birth a jew, had reached his sixtieth year, and was as hale and strong as a man of forty. his face was bland and full-fleshed, his eyes bright and, at times, joyous, his voice mellow, his hands fat and finely-shaped, and given to a caressing petting of each other, denoting satisfaction with themselves and the world in general. his manners were easy and self-possessed--a characteristic of his race. he was a gentleman and a man of education. he gazed at the advocate with admiration; he had an intense respect for men who had achieved fame by force of intellect. "mr. almer," he said, "prepared me for your arrival, and is anxious that i should forward your views in every possible way. i shall be happy to do so, and, if it is in my power, to contribute to the pleasure of your visit." "i thank you," said the advocate, with a courteous inclination of his head. "when did you last see mr. almer?" "he called upon me this day three weeks--for a few minutes only, and only concerning your business." "he is always thoughtful and considerate. i suppose he was on his road to paris when he called upon you." "no; he had no intention of going to paris. i believe he had been for some time in the neighbourhood of geneva before he favoured me with a visit. he is still here." "here!" exclaimed the advocate, in a tone of pleasure and surprise. "at least in switzerland." "in what part?" "i cannot inform you, but from the remarks he let fall, i should say in the mountains, where tourists are not likely to penetrate." he paused a moment before he continued: "mr. almer spoke of you, in terms it was pleasant to hear, as his closest, dearest friend." "we are friends in the truest sense of the word." "then i may speak freely to you. during the time he was with me i was impressed by an unusual strangeness in him. he was restless and ill at ease; his manner denoted that he was either dissatisfied with himself or was under some evil influence. i expressed my surprise to him that he had been for some time in this neighbourhood without calling upon me, but he did not offer any explanation of his neglect. he told me, however, that he was tired of the light, the gaiety, and the bustle of cities, and that it was his intention to seek some solitude to endeavour to rid himself of a terror which had taken possession of him. no sooner had he made this strange declaration than he strove, in hurried words, to make light of it, evidently anxious that it should leave no impression upon my mind. i need scarcely say he did not succeed. i have frequently thought of that declaration and of christian almer in connection with it." the advocate smiled and shook his head. "mr. almer is given to fantastic expression. if you knew him as well as i do you would be aware that he is prone to magnify trifles, and likely to raise ghosts of the conscience for the mere pleasure of laying them. his nature is of that order which suffers keenly, but i am not disposed on that account to pity him. there are men who would be most unhappy unless they suffered." "my dear sir," said jacob hartrich, "i have known christian almer since he was a child. i knew his father, a gentleman of great attainments, and his mother, a refined and exquisitely beautiful woman. his child-life probably made a sad impression upon him, but he has mixed with the world, and there is a bridge of twenty years between then and now. a great change has taken place in him, and not for the better. there is certainly something on his mind." "there is something on most men's minds. i have remarked no change in mr. almer to cause me uneasiness. he is the same high-minded gentleman i have ever known him to be. he is exquisitely sensitive, responsive to the lightest touch; those who are imbued with such qualities suffer keenly and enjoy keenly." "the thought occurred to me that he might have sustained a monetary loss, but i dismissed it." "a monetary loss would rather exalt than depress him. he is rich--it would have been a great happiness for him if he had been poor. what are termed misfortunes are sometimes real blessings; many fine natures are made to halt on their way by worldly prosperity. had christian almer been born in the lower classes he would have found a worthy occupation; he would have made a name for himself, and in all probability would have won a wife--who would have idolised him. he is a man whom a woman might worship." "you have given me a clue," said jacob hartrich; "he has met with a disappointment in love." "i think not; had he met with such a disappointment i should most surely have heard of it from his own lips." interesting as this conversation was to both the speakers it had now come to a natural break, and jacob hartrich, diverging from it, inquired whether the advocate's visit was likely to be a long one. "i have pledged myself," said the advocate somewhat wearily, "to remain here for at least three months." "rest is a necessary medicine." the advocate nodded absently. "pray excuse me while i attend to your affairs. here are the local and other papers." he left the room, and returning soon afterwards found the advocate engaged in the perusal of a newspaper in which he appeared to be deeply interested. "your business," said jacob hartrich, "will occupy about twenty minutes. there are some trifling formalities to be gone through with respect to signatures and stamps. if you are pressed for time i will send to you at your hotel." "with your permission i will wait," said the advocate, laying aside the paper with a thoughtful air. jacob hartrich glanced at the paper, and saw the heading of the column which the advocate had perused, "the murder of madeline the flower-girl." "you have been reading the particulars of this shocking deed." "i have read what is there written." "but you are familiar with the particulars; everybody has read them." "i am the exception, then. i have seen very few newspapers lately." "it was a foul and wicked murder." "it appears so, from this bare recital." "the foulest and most horrible within my remembrance. ah! where will not the passions of men lead them?" "a wide contemplation. were men to measure the consequences of their acts before they committed them, certain channels of human events which are now exceedingly wide and turbulent would become narrow and peaceful. it was a girl who was murdered?" "yes." "young?" "barely seventeen." "pretty?" "very pretty." "had she no father to protect her?" "no." "nor mother?" "no--as far as is known." "a flower-girl, i gather from the account." "yes. i have occasionally bought a posy of her--poor child!" "did she trade alone?" "she had a companion, an elderly woman, who, unhappily, left her a few days before the murder." "deserted her?" "no; it was an amicable parting, intended to last but a short time, i believe. it is not known what called her away." "this young flower-girl--was she virtuous?" "undoubtedly, in my belief. she was most modest and child-like." "but susceptible to flattery. you hesitate. why? do you not judge human passions by human standards? she was young, pretty, in humble circumstances; her very opposite would be susceptible to flattery; therefore, she." "why, yes, of course; i hesitated because it would pain me to say anything concerning her which might be construed into a reproach." "in such matters there is but one goal to steer for--the truth. i perceive that a man, gautran, is in prison, charged with the murder." "a man?" exclaimed jacob hartrich, with indignant warmth. "a monster, rather! some refined punishment should be devised to punish him for his crime." "his crime! i have, then, been reading an old paper." the advocate referred to the date. "no--it is this morning's." "i see your point, but the proofs of the monster's guilt are irrefragable." "what proofs? the statements of newspaper reporters--the idle and mischievous tattle of persons who cannot be put into the witness-box?" "it is well that you express yourself to me privately on this matter. in public it would not be credited that you were in earnest." "then the facts are lost sight of that the man has to be tried, that his guilt or innocence has yet to be established." "the law cannot destroy facts." "the law establishes facts, which are often in danger of being perverted by man's sympathies and prejudices. are you acquainted with this gautran?" "i have no knowledge of him except from report." "and having no knowledge of him, except from report, you form an opinion upon hearsay, and condemn him offhand. it is justice itself, therefore, that is on its trial, not a man accused of a frightful deed. _he_ is already judged. it is stated in the newspaper that the man's appearance is repulsive." "he is hideous." "then you _have_ seen him." "no." "calmly consider what value can be placed upon your judgment under the circumstances. you say the girl was pretty. her engaging manners have tempted you to buy posies of her, not always when you needed them. in making this statement of a fact which, trivial as it appears to be, is of importance, i judge a human action by a human standard. thus, beauty on one side, and a forbidding countenance on the other, may be the means of contributing--nay, of leading--to a direct miscarriage of justice. this should be prevented; justice must have a clear course, which must not be blocked and choked up by passion and prejudice. the opinion you express of gautran's guilt may be entertained by others to whom he is also a stranger." "my opinion is universal." "the man, therefore, is universally condemned before he is called upon to answer the charge brought against him. amidst this storm, in the wild fury of which reason has lost its proper functions, where shall a jury be found to calmly weigh the evidence on either side, and to judge, with ordinary fairness, a miserable wretch accused of a foul crime?" "gautran is a vagabond," said jacob hartrich feebly, feeling as though the ground were giving way under his feet, "of the lowest type." "he is poor." "necessarily." "and cannot afford to pay for independent legal aid." "it is fortunate. he will meet with his deserts more surely and swiftly." "you can doubtless call to mind instances of innocent persons being accused of crimes they did not commit, and being made to suffer." "there is no fear in the case of gautran." "let us hope not," said the advocate, whose voice during the conversation had been perfectly passionless, "and in the meantime, do not lose sight of this principle. were gautran the meanest creature that breathes, were he the most repulsive being on earth, he is an innocent man until he is declared guilty by the law. equally so were he a man gifted with exceeding beauty of person, and bearing an honoured name. and of those two extremes, supposing both were found guilty of equal crimes, it is worthy of consideration, whether he who walks the gutters be not better entitled to a merciful sentence than he who lives on the heights." at this moment a clerk brought some papers into the room. jacob hartrich looked over them, and handed them, with a roll of notes, to the advocate, who rose and prepared to go. "have you a permanent address?" asked the banker. "we take up our quarters at once," replied the advocate, "at the house of white shadows." jacob hartrich gazed at him in consternation. "christian almer's villa! he made no mention of it to me." "it was an arrangement entered into some time since. i have a letter from master pierre lamont informing me that the villa is ready for us." "it has been uninhabited for years, except by servants who have been kept there to preserve it from falling into decay. there are strange stories connected with that house." "i have heard as much, but have not inquired into them. the probability is that they arise from credulity or ignorance, the foundation of all superstition." with that remark the advocate took his leave. chapter v fritz the fool as the little wooden clock in the parlour of the inn of the seven liars struck the hour of five, fritz the fool ran through the open door, from which an array of bottles and glasses could be seen, and cried: "they are coming--they are coming--the great advocate and his lady--and will arrive before the cook can toss me up an omelette!" and having thus delivered himself, fritz ran out of the inn to the house of white shadows, and swinging open the gates, cried still more loudly: "mother denise! dionetta, my pearl of pearls! haste--haste! they are on the road, and will be here a lifetime before old martin can straighten his crooked back!" within five minutes of this summons, there stood at the door of the inn of the seven liars, the customers who had been tippling therein, the host and hostess and their three children; and ten yards off, at the gates of the villa. mother denise, her pretty granddaughter, dionetta, and old martin, whose breathing came short and quick at the haste he had made to be in time to welcome the advocate and his lady. the refrain of the breaking-up song sung in the little village school was dying away, and the children trooped out, and waited to witness the arrival. the schoolmaster was also there, with a look of relief on his face, and stood with his hand on the head of his favourite pupil. the news had spread quickly, and when the carriage made its appearance at the end of the lane, which shelved downward to the house of white shadows, a number of villagers had assembled, curious to see the great lord and lady who intended to reside in the haunted house. as the carriage drove up at the gates, the courier jumped down from his seat next to the driver, and opened the carriage door. the villagers pressed forward, and gazed in admiration at the beautiful lady, and in awe at the stern-faced gentleman who had selected the house of white shadows for a holiday residence. there were those among them who, poor as they were, would not have undertaken to sleep in any one of the rooms in the villa for the value of all the watches in geneva. there were, however, three persons in the small concourse of people who had no fears of the house. these were mother denise, the old housekeeper, her husband martin, and fritz the fool. mother denise, the oldest servant of the house, had been born there, and was ghost and shadow proof; so was her husband, now in his eighty-fifth year, whose body was like a bent bow stretched for the flight of the arrow, his soul. not for a single night in sixty-eight years had mother denise slept outside the walls of the house of white shadows; nothing did she know of the great world beyond, and nothing did she care; a staunch, faithful servant of the almer family, conversant with its secret history, her duty was sufficient for her, and she had no desire to travel beyond the space which encompassed it. for forty-three years her husband had kept her company, and to neither, as they had frequently declared, had a supernatural visitant ever appeared. they had no belief whatever in the ghostly gossip. fool fritz, on the contrary, averred that there was no mistake about the spiritual visitants; they appeared to him frequently, but he had no fear of them; indeed, he appeared to rather enjoy them. "they may come, and welcome," he said. "they don't strike, they don't bite, they don't burn. they reveal secrets which you would like nobody to find out. if it had not been for them, how should i have known about karl and mina kissing and courting at the back of the schoolhouse when everybody was asleep, or about dame walther and her sly bottle, or about wolf constans coming home at three in the morning with a dead lamb on his back--ah, and about many things you try and keep to yourselves? i don't mind the shadows, not i." there was little in the village that fritz did not know; all the scandal, all the love-making, all the family quarrels, all the secret doings--it was hard to keep anything from him; and the mystery was how he came to the knowledge of these matters. "he is in affinity with the spirits," said the village schoolmaster; "he is himself a ghost, with a fleshly embodiment. that is why the fool is not afraid." truly fritz the fool was ghostlike in appearance, for his skin was singularly white, and his head was covered with shaggy white hair which hung low down upon his shoulders. from a distance he looked like an old man, but he had not reached his thirtieth year, and so clear were his eyes and complexion that, on a closer observance, he might have passed for a lad of half the years he bore. a shrewd knave, despite his title of fool. pretty dionetta did not share his defiance of ghostly visitors. the house of white shadows was her home, and many a night had she awoke in terror and listened with a beating heart to soft footsteps in the passage outside her room, and buried her head in the sheets to shut out the light of the moon which shone in at her window. fritz alone sympathised with her. "two hours before midnight," he would say to her; "then it was you heard them creeping past your door. you were afraid, of course--when one is all alone; i can prescribe a remedy for that--not yet, dionetta, by-and-by. till then, keep all men at a distance; avoid them; there is danger in them. if they look at you, frown, and lower your eyes. and to-night, when you go to bed, lock your door tight, and listen. if the spirits come again, i will charm them away; shortly after you hear their footsteps, i will sing a stave outside to trick them from your door. then sleep in peace, and rely on fritz the fool." very timid and fearful of the supernatural was this country beauty, whom all the louts in the neighbourhood wanted to marry, and she alone, of those who lived in the house of white shadows, welcomed the advocate and his wife with genuine delight. fool fritz thought of secretly-enjoyed pleasures which might now be disturbed, martin was too old not to dislike change, and mother denise was by no means prepared to rejoice at the arrival of strangers; she would have been better pleased had they never shown their faces at the gates. the advocate and his wife stood looking around them, he with observant eyes and in silence, she with undisguised pleasure and admiration. she began to speak the moment she alighted. "charming! beautiful! i am positively in love with it. this morning it was but a fancy picture, now it is real. could anything be more perfect? so peaceful, and quaint, and sweet! look at those children peeping from behind their mother's gown--she can be no other than their mother--dirty, but how picturesque!--and the woman herself, how original! it is worth while being a woman like that, to stand as she does, with her children clinging to her. why does mr. almer not like to live here? it is inexplicable, quite inexplicable. i could be happy here for ever--yes, for ever! do you catch the perfume of the limes? it is delicious--delicious! it comes from the grounds; there must be a lime-tree walk there. and you," she said to the pretty girl at the gates, "you are dionetta." "yes, my lady," said dionetta, and marvelled how her name could have become known to the beautiful woman, whose face was more lovely than the face of the madonna over the altar of the tiny chapel in which she daily prayed. it was not difficult to divine her thought, for dionetta was nature's child. "you wonder who told me your name," said the advocate's wife, smiling, and patting the girl's cheek with her gloved hand. "yes, my lady." "it was a little bird, dionetta." "a little bird, my lady!" exclaimed dionetta, her wonderment and admiration growing fast into worship. the lady's graceful figure, her pink and white face, her pearly teeth, her lovely laughing mouth, her eyes, blue as the most beautiful summer's cloud--dionetta had never seen the like before. "you," said the advocate's wife, turning to the grandmother, "are mother denise." "yes, my lady," said the old woman; "this is my husband, martin. come forward, martin, come forward. he is not as young as he was, my lady." "i know, i know; my little bird was very communicative. you are fritz." "the fool," said the white-haired young man, approaching closer to the lady, and consequently closer to dionetta, "fritz the fool. but that needn't tell against me, unless you please. i can be useful, if i care to be, and faithful, too, if i care to be." "it depends upon yourself, then," said the lady, accepting the independent speech in good part, "not upon others." "mainly upon myself; but i have springs that can be set in motion, if one can only find out how to play upon them. i was told you were coming." "indeed!" with an air of pleasant surprise. "by whom, and when?" "by whom? the white shadows. when? in my dreams." "the white shadows! they exist then! edward, do you hear?" "it is not so, my lady," interposed mother denise, in ill-humour at the turn the conversation was taking; "the shadows do not exist, despite what people say. fritz is over-fond of fooling." "it is my trade," retorted fritz. "i know what i know, grandmother." "is fritz your grandson, then?" asked the advocate's wife, of mother denise. "heaven forbid!" exclaimed mother denise. "what is not," remarked fritz sententiously, "may be. bear that in mind, grandmother; i may remind you of it one day." the advocate, upon whom not a word that had passed had been lost, fixed his eyes upon fritz, and said: "a delusion can be turned to profit. you make use of these shadows." "the saints forbid! they would burn me in brimstone. yet," with a look both sly and vacant, "it would be a pity to waste them." "you like to be called a fool. it pleases you." "why not?" "why, rather?" "i might answer in your own words, that it can be turned to profit. but i am too great a fool to see in what way." "you answer wisely. why do you close your eyes?" "i can see in the dark what i choose to see. when my eyes are open, i am their slave. when they are closed, they are mine--unless i dream." the advocate gazed for a moment or two in silence upon the white face with its closed eyes raised to his, and then said to his wife: "come, adelaide, we will look at the house." they passed into the grounds, accompanied by mother denise, martin, and dionetta. fritz remained outside the gate, with his eyes still closed, and a smile upon his lips. "fritz," said the host of the inn of the seven liars, "do you know anything of the great man?" fritz rubbed his brows softly and opened his eyes. "take the advice of a fool, peter schelt. speak low when you speak of him." "you think he can hear us. why, he is a hundred yards off by this time!" fritz pointed with a waving finger to the air above him. "there are magnetic lines, neighbours, connecting him with everything he once sets eyes on. he can see without seeing, and hear without hearing." "you speak in riddles, fritz." "put it down to your own dulness, peter schelt, that you cannot understand me. master lamont, now--what would you say about him? that he lacks brains?" "a long way from it. master lamont is the cleverest man in the valley." "not now," said fritz, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder in the direction taken by the advocate; "his master has come. master lamont is a great lawyer, but we have now a greater, one who is a more skilful cobbler with his tongue than hans here is with his awl; he can so patch an old boot as to make it better than a new one, and look as close as you may, you will not see the seams. listen, master schelt. when i stood there with my eyes shut i had a dream of a stranger who was found murdered in your house. an awful dream, peter. gather round, neighbours, gather round. there lay the stranger dead on his bed, and over him stood you, peter schelt, with a bloody knife in your hand. people say you murdered him for his money, and it really seemed so, for a purse stuffed with gold and notes was found in your possession; you had the stranger's silver watch, too. suspicious, was it not? it was looking so black against you that you begged the great man who has come among us to plead for you at your trial. you were safe enough, then. he told a rare tale. forty years ago the stranger robbed your father; suddenly he was struck with remorse, and seeking you out, gave you back the money, and his silver watch in the bargain. he proved to everybody's satisfaction that, though you committed the murder, it was impossible you could be guilty. don't be alarmed, madame schelt, it was only a dream." "but are you sure i did it?" asked peter schelt, in no way disturbed by the bad light in which he was placed by fritz's fancies. "what matters? the great man got you off, and that is all you cared for. look here, neighbours; if any of you have black goats that you wish changed into white, go to him; he can do it for you. or an old hen that cackles and won't lay, go to him; she will cackle less, and lay you six eggs a day. he is, of all, the greatest." "ah," said a neighbour, "and what do you know of his lady wife?" "what all of you should know, but cannot see, though it stares you in the face." "let us have it, fritz." "she is too fair. christine," to a stout young woman close to him, "give thanks to the virgin to-night that you were sent into the world with a cast in your eye, and that your legs grow thicker and crookeder every day. _you_ will never drive a man out of his senses with your beauty." fritz was compelled to beat a swift retreat, for christine's arms were as thick as her legs, and they were raised to smite. up the lane flew the fool, and christine after him, amid the laughter of the villagers. chapter vi mistress and maid in the meantime the advocate and his wife strolled through the grounds. although it was evident that much labour had been bestowed upon them, there were signs of decay here and there which showed the need of a master mind; but as these traces were only to be met with at some distance from the villa itself, it was clear that they would not interfere with the comfort of the new arrivals. the house lay low, and the immediate grounds surrounding it were in good condition. there were orchards stocked with fruit-trees, and gardens bright with flowers. at a short distance from the house was an old châlet which had been built with great taste; it was newly painted, and much care had been bestowed upon a covered pathway which led to it from a side entrance to the house of white shadows. the principal room in this châlet was a large studio, the walls of which were black. on the left wall--in letters which once were white, but which had grown yellow with age--was inscribed the legend, "the grave of honour." "how singular!" exclaimed the advocate's wife. "'the grave of honour!' what can be the meaning of it?" but mother denise did not volunteer an explanation. near the end of the studio was an alcove, the space beyond being screened by a dead crimson curtain. holding back the curtain, a large number of pictures were seen piled against the walls. "family pictures?" asked the advocate's wife, of mother denise. "no, my lady," was the reply; "they were painted by an artist, who resided and worked here for a year or so in the lifetime of the old master." by the desire of the lady the housekeeper brought a few of the pictures into the light. one represented a pleasure party of ladies and gentlemen dallying in summer woods; another, a lady lying in a hammock and reaching out her arm to pluck some roses; two were companion pictures, the first subject being two persons who might have been lovers, standing among strewn flowers in the sunshine--the second subject showing the same figures in a different aspect; a cold grey sea divided them, on the near shore of which the man stood in an attitude of despair gazing across the waters to the opposite shore, on which stood the woman with a pale, grief-stricken face. "the sentiment is strained," observed the advocate, "but the artist had talent." "a story could be woven out of them," said his wife; "i feel as if they were connected with the house." upon leaving the châlet they continued their tour through the grounds. already the advocate felt the beneficial effects of a healthy change. his eyes were clearer, his back straighter, he moved with a brisker step. mother denise walked in front, pointing out this and that, martin hobbled behind, and dionetta, encouraged thereto, walked by her new mistress's side. "dionetta," said the advocate's wife, "do you know that you have the prettiest name in the world?" "have i, my lady? i have never thought of it, but it is, if you say so." "but perhaps," said the advocate's wife, with a glance at the girl's bright face, "a man would not think of your name when he looked at you." "i am sure i cannot say, my lady; he would not think of me at all." "you little simpleton! i wish i had such a name; they ought to wait till we grow up, so that we might choose our own names. i should not have chosen adelaide for myself." "is that your name, my lady?" "yes--they could not have given me an uglier." "nay," said dionetta, raising her eyes in mute appeal for forgiveness for the contradiction, "it is very sweet." "repeat it, then. adelaide." "may i, my lady?" "of course you may, if i wish you to. let me hear you speak it." "adelaide! adelaide!" murmured dionetta softly. the permission was as precious as the gift of a silver chain would have been. "my lady, it is pretty." "shall we change?" asked the advocate's wife gaily. "can we?" inquired dionetta in a solemn tone. "i would not mind if you wish it, and if it is right. i will ask the priest." "no, do not trouble. would you really like to change?" "it would be so strange--and it might be a sin! if we cannot, it is of no use thinking of it." "there is no sin in thinking of things; if there were, the world would be full of sin, and i--dear me, how much i should have to answer for! i should not like everyone to know my thoughts. what a quiet life you must live here, dionetta!" "yes, my lady, it is quiet." "would you not prefer to live in a city?" "i should be frightened, my lady. i have been only twice to geneva, and there was no room in the streets to move about. i was glad to get back." "no room to move about, simplicity! that is the delight of it. there are theatres, and music, and light, and life. you would not be frightened if you were with me?" "oh, no, my lady; that would be happiness." "are you not happy here?" "oh, yes, very happy." "but you wish for something?" "no, my lady; i have everything i want." "everything--positively everything?" "yes, my lady." "there is one thing you must want, dionetta, if you have it not already." "may i know what it is?" "yes, child. love." dionetta blushed crimson from forehead to throat, and the advocate's wife laughed, and tapped her cheek. "you are very pretty, dionetta; it is right you should have a pretty name. do you mean to tell me you have not a lover?" "i have been asked, my lady," said the girl, in a tone so low that it could only just be heard. "and you said 'yes'? little one, i have caught you." "my lady, i did not say 'yes.'" "and the men were contented? they must be dolts. really and truly, you have not a lover?" "what can i say, my lady?" murmured dionetta, her head bent down. "there are some who say they--love me." "but you do not love them?" "no, my lady." "you would like to have one you could love?" "one day, my lady, if i am so fortunate." "i promise you," said the advocate's wife with a blithe laugh, "that one day you will be so fortunate. women were made for love--and men, too, or where would be the use? it is the only thing in life worth living for. blushing again! i would give my jewel-case to be able to blush like you." "i cannot help it, my lady. my face often grows red when i am quite alone." "and thinking of love," added the advocate's wife; "for what else should make it red? so you do think of things! i can see, dionetta, that you and i are going to be great friends." "you are very good, my lady, but i am only a poor peasant. i will serve you as well as i can." "you knew, before i came, that you were to be my maid?" "yes, my lady. master lamont said it was likely. grandmother did not seem to care that it should be so, but i wished for it, and now that she has seen you she must be glad for me to serve you." "why should she be glad, dionetta?" "my lady, it could not be otherwise," said dionetta very earnestly; "you are so good and beautiful." "flatterer! master lamont--he is an old man?" "yes, my lady." "there are some old men who are very handsome." "he is not. he is small, and thin, and shrivelled up." "those are not the men for us, are they, little one?" "but he has a voice like honey. i have heard many say so." "that is something in his favour--or would be, if women were blind. so from this day you are my maid. you will be faithful, i am sure, and will keep my secrets. mind that, dionetta. you must keep my secrets." "have you any?" said dionetta, "and shall you tell them to me?" "every woman in the world has secrets, and every woman in the world must have someone to whom she can whisper them. you will find that out for yourself in time. yes, child, i have secrets--one, a very precious one. if ever you guess it without my telling you, keep it buried in your heart, and do not speak of it to a living soul." "i would not dare, my lady." they walked a little apart from the others during this dialogue. the concluding words brought them to the steps of the house of white shadows. "edward," said the advocate's wife to him, as they entered the house, "i have found a treasure. my new maid is charming." "i am pleased to hear it. she has an ingenuous face, but you will be able to judge better when you know more of her." "you do not trust many persons, edward." "not many, adelaide." "me?" she asked archly. "implicitly." "and another, i think." "certainly, one other." "i should not be far out if i were to name christian almer." "it is to him i refer." "i have sometimes wondered," she said, with an artless look, "why you should be so partial to him. he is so unlike you." "we are frequently drawn to our unlikes; but almer and i have one quality in common with each other." "what quality, edward?" "the quality of the dog--faithfulness. almer's friendship is precious to me, and mine to him, because we are each to the other faithful." "the quality of the dog! how odd that sounds! though when one thinks of it there is really something noble in it. and friendship--it is almost as if you placed it higher than love." "it is far higher. love too frequently changes, as the seasons change. friendship is, of the two, the more likely to endure, being less liable to storms. but even a faithful friendship is rare." "and faithful love much rarer, according to your ideas. yet, mr. almer, having this quality of the dog, would be certain, you believe, to be faithful both in love and friendship." "to the death." "you are thorough in your opinions, edward." "i do not believe in half-heartedness, adelaide." the arrangements within the house were complete and admirable. for the advocate's wife, a boudoir and reception-rooms into which new fashions had been introduced with judgment so good as not to jar with the old furnishings which had adorned them for many generations. for the advocate a study, with a library which won from him cordial approval; a spacious and commodious apartment, neither overloaded with furniture nor oppressive with bare spaces; with an outlook from one window to the snow regions of mont blanc, from another to the city of geneva, which was now bathed in a soft, mellow light. this tender evidence of departing day was creeping slowly downwards into the valleys from mount and city, a moving picture of infinite beauty. they visited the study last; adelaide had been loud in her praises of the house and its arrangement, commending this and that, and declaring that everything was perfect. while she was examining the furniture in the study the advocate turned to the principal writing-table, upon which lay a pile of newspapers. he took up the first of these, and instinctively searched for the subject which had not left his mind since his visit to the banker, jacob hartrich--the murder of madeline the flower-girl. he was deep in the perusal of fresh details, confirmatory of gautran's guilt, when he was aroused by a stifled cry of alarm from adelaide. with the newspaper still in his hand, he looked up and asked what had alarmed her. she laughed nervously, and pointed to an old sideboard upon which a number of hideous faces were carved. to some of the faces bodies were attached, and the whole of this ancient work of art was extravagant enough to have had for its inspiration the imaginings of a madman's brain. "i thought i saw them moving," said adelaide. the advocate smiled, and said: "it is the play of light over the figures that created the delusion; they are harmless, adelaide." the glow of sunset shone through a painted window upon the faces, which to a nervous mind might have seemed to be animated with living colour. "look at that frightful head," said adelaide; "it is really stained with blood." "and now," observed the advocate, "the blood-stain fades away, and in the darker light the expression grows sad and solemn." "i should be frightened of this room at night," said adelaide, with a slight shiver; "i should fancy those hideous beings were only waiting an opportunity to steal out upon me for an evil purpose." a noise in the passage outside diverted their attention. "gently, fritz, gently," cried a voice, "unless you wish to make holes in the sound part of me." the advocate moved to the door, and opened it. a strange sight came into view. chapter vii a visit from pierre lamont--dreams of love at the door stood fritz the fool, carrying in his arms what in the gathering dusk looked like a bundle. this bundle was human--a man who was but half a man. embracing fritz, with one arm tightly clutching the fool's neck, the figure commenced to speak the moment the door was opened. "i only am to blame; learning that you were in the study, i insisted upon being brought here immediately; carry me in gently, fool, and set me in that chair." the chair indicated was close to the writing-table, by which the advocate was standing. "fritz made me acquainted with your arrival," continued the intruder, "and i hastened here without delay. when i tell you that i live two miles off, eight hundred feet above the level of this valley, you will realise the jolting i have had in my wheeled chair. fritz, you can leave us; but be within call, as you must help to get me home again. is there any need for me to introduce myself?" he asked. "master lamont," said the advocate. "as much as is left of me; but i manage to exist. i have proved that a man can live without legs. you received my letter?" "yes; and i thank you for your attention. my wife," said the advocate, introducing adelaide. attracted by the dulcet voice of pierre lamont, she had come out of the deeper shadows of the room. dionetta had spoken truly; this thin, shrivelled wreck of mortality had a voice as sweet as honey. "i cannot rise to pay my respects to you," said pierre lamont, his lynx eyes resting with profound admiration upon the beautiful woman, "but i beg you to believe that i am your devoted slave." adelaide bent her head gracefully, and smiled upon the old lawyer. "one of my great anxieties is to know whether i have arranged the villa to your satisfaction. christian almer was most desirous that the place should be made pleasant and attractive, and i have endeavoured to carry out his instructions." "we owe you a debt of gratitude," said adelaide; "everything has been charmingly done." "i am repaid for my labour," said pierre lamont gallantly. "you must be fatigued after your journey. do not let me detain you. i shall remain with the advocate but a very few minutes, and i trust you will allow me to make another and a longer visit." "we shall always be happy to see you," said adelaide, as she bowed and left the room. "you are fortunate, comrade," said pierre lamont, "both in love and war. your lady is the most beautiful i have ever beheld. i am selfishly in hopes that you will make a long stay with us; it will put some life into this sleepy valley. is christian almer with you?" "no; but i may induce him to come. it is to you," said the advocate, pointing to the pile of newspapers, "that i am indebted for these." "i thought you would find something in them to interest you. i see you have one of the papers in your hand, and that you were reading it before i intruded upon you. may i look at it? ah! you have caught up the scent. it was the murder of the flower-girl i meant." "have you formed an opinion upon the case?" "scarcely yet; it is so surrounded with mystery. in my enforced retirement i amuse myself by taking up any important criminal case that occurs; and trying it in my solitude, acting at once the parts of judge and counsel for the prosecution and defence. a poor substitute for the reality; but i make it serve--not to my satisfaction, i confess, although i may show ingenuity in some of my conclusions. but i miss the cream, which lies in the personality of the persons concerned. this case of gautran interests and perplexes me; were i able to take an active part, it is not unlikely i should move in it. i envy you, brother; i should feel proud if i could break a lance with you; but we do not live in an age of miracles, so i must be content, perforce, with my hermit life. what i read does not always please me; points are missed--almost wilfully missed, as it seems to me--strong links allowed to fall, disused, false inferences drawn, and, in the end, a verdict and sentence which half make me believe that justice limps on crutches. 'fools, fools, fools!' i cry; 'if i were among you this should not be.' but what can an old cripple do? grumble? yes; and extract a morsel of satisfaction from his discontent--which tickles his vanity. that men's deserts are not meted out to them troubles me more now than it used to do. the times are too lenient of folly and crime. i would have the old law revived. 'to the doer as he hath done'--thus saith the thrice ancient word--so runs the 'agamemnon.' if my neighbour kill my ass, i would knock his on the head. and this gautran, if he be guilty, deserves the death; if he be innocent, deserves to live and be set free. but to allow a poor wretch to be judged by public passions--heaven send us a beneficent change!" the voice of the speaker was so sweet, and the arguments so palatable to the advocate, and so much in accordance with his own views, that he listened with pleasure to this outburst. he recognised in the cripple huddled up in the chair one whose pre-eminence in his craft had been worthily attained. "i am pleased we have met," he said, and the eyes of pierre lamont glistened. he soon brought his visit to a close, and while fritz the fool was being summoned, he said that in the morning he would send the advocate all the papers he could gather which might help to throw a light on the case of gautran. "you have spoken with fritz, he tells me." "i have; he appears to me worth studying." "there is salt in the knave; he has occasionally managed to overreach me. fool as he is, he has a head with brains in it. farewell." now, although the old lawyer, while he was with the advocate, seemed to think of nothing but his more celebrated legal brother, it was far different as he was carried in his wheeled chair to his home on the heights. he had his own servant to propel him; fritz walked by his side. "you were right, fritz, you were right," said pierre lamont, and he smacked his lips, and his eyes kindled with the fire of youth, "she is a rare piece of flesh and blood--as fair as a lily, as ripe as a peach ready to drop from the wall. with passions of her own, fritz; her veins are warm. to live in the heart of such a woman would be to live a perpetual summer. what say you, fritz?" "nothing." "that is a fool's answer." "then the fools are the real wise men, for there is wisdom in silence. but i say nothing because i am thinking." "a mouse in labour. beware of bringing forth a mountain; it will rend you to pieces." fritz softly hummed a tune as they climbed the hills. only once did he speak till they arrived at pierre lamont's house; it was in reply to the old lawyer, who said: "it is easier going up the hills than coming down." "that depends," said fritz, "upon whether it is the mule or the man on his back." pierre lamont laughed quietly; he had a full enjoyment of fritz's humour. "i have been thinking," said fritz when the journey was completed---- "ah, ah!" interrupted pierre lamont; "now for the mountain." "--upon the reason that made so fair a lady--young, and warm, and ripe--marry an icicle." "there is hidden fire, fritz; you may get it from a stone." "i forgot," said fritz, with a sly chuckle, "that i was speaking to an old man." "rogue!" cried pierre lamont, raising his stick. "never stretch out your hand," said fritz, darting away, "for what you cannot reach." "fritz, fritz, come here!" "you will not strike?" "no." "i will trust you. there are lawyers i would not, though every word they uttered was framed in gold." "so, you have been thinking of the reason that made so fair a lady marry an icicle?" "yes." "the icicle is celebrated." "that is of no account." "he is rich." "that is good." "he is much older than she. he may die, and leave her a young widow." "that is better." "then she may marry again--a younger man." "that is best master lamont, you have a head." "and your own love-affair, fritz, is that flourishing, eh? have the pretty red lips kissed a 'yes' yet?" "the pretty red lips have not been asked. i bide my time. my peach is not as ripe as the icicle's. i'll go and look after it, master lamont. it needs careful watching; there are poachers about." fritz departed to look after his peach, and pierre lamont was carried into his study, where he sat until late in the night, surrounded by books and papers. the advocate was also in his study until two hours past midnight, searching newspaper after newspaper for particulars and details of the murder of the unfortunate girl whose body had been found in the wildly rushing rhone. and while he pondered and mused, and ofttimes paced the room with thoughtful face, his wife lay sleeping in her holiday home, with smiles on her lips, and joy in her heart, for she was dreaming of one far away. and her dream was of love. and dionetta, the pretty maid, also slept, with her hands clasped at the back of her head; and her lady was saying to her: "really and truly, dionetta, you have not a lover? women are made for love. it is the only thing in life worth living for." and a blush, even in her sleep, stole over her fair face and bosom. for her dream was of love. and pierre lamont lived over again the days of his youth, and smirked and languished, and made fine speeches, and moved amidst a paradise of fair faces, all of which bore the likeness of one whom he had but just seen for the first time. and, old as he was, his dream was of love. and fritz the fool tossed in his bed, and muttered: "too fair! too fair! if i were rich she might tempt me to be false to one, and make me vow i would lay down my life for her. it is a good thing for me that i am a fool." and gautran in his prison cell writhed upon his hard bed in the midst of the darkness; for by his side lay the phantom of the murdered girl, and his despair was deep and awful. and in the mountains, two hundred miles distant from the house of white shadows, roamed christian almer in the moonlight, struggling with all his mental might with a terror which possessed him. the spot he had flown to was ten thousand feet above the level of the sea, and his sleeping-room was in the hut of a peasant, mountain-born and mountain-reared, who lived a life of dull contentment with his goats, and wife, and children. far away in the heights immense forests of fir-trees were grouped in dark, solemn masses. not a branch stirred; a profound repose reigned within their depths, while the sleepless waterfalls in the lower heights, leaping, and creeping, and dashing over chasm and precipice, proclaimed the eternal wakefulness of nature. the solitary man gazed upon these majestic signs in awe and despair. "there is no such thing as oblivion," he muttered; "there is no such thing as forgetfulness. these solitudes, upon which no living creature but myself is to be seen, are full of accusing voices. my god! to die and be blotted out for ever and ever were better than this agony! i strive and strive, and cannot rid myself of the sin. i will conquer it--i will--i will--i will!" but even as he spoke there gleamed upon him from a laughing cascade the vision of a face so beautiful as to force a groan from his lips. he turned from the vision, and it shone upon him with a tender wooing in every waterfall that met his sight. trembling with the force of a passion he found it impossible to resist, he walked to his mountain home, and threw himself upon his couch. he was exhausted with sleepless nights, and in a short time he fell into a deep slumber. and a calm stole over his troubled soul, for his dreams were of love! chapter viii the interview in the prison "arise, gautran." at this command gautran rose slowly from the floor of his prison-cell, upon which he had been lying at full length, and shaking himself like a dog, stood before the gaoler. "can't you let me alone?" he asked, in a coarse, savage voice. "scum of the gutter!" replied the gaoler. "speak civilly while you have the power, and be thankful your tongue is not dragged out by the roots." "you would do it if you dared." "ay--and a thousand honest men would rejoice to help me." "is it to tell me this you disturbed me?" "no, murderer!" "what do you want of me?" the gaoler laughed at him in mockery. "you look more like beast than man." "that's how i've been treated," growled gautran. "better than you deserve. so, you have influential friends, it seems." "have i?" with a venomous flash at the taunt. "one will be here to see you directly." "let him keep from me. i care to see no one." "that may be, but the choice is not yours. this gentleman is not to be denied." "a gentleman, eh?" exclaimed gautran, with some slight show of interest. "yes, a gentleman." "who is he, and what is his business with me?" "he is a great lawyer, who has sent murderers to their doom----" "ah!" and gautran drew a long vindictive breath through closed teeth. "and has set some free, i've heard." "is he going to do that for me?" asked gautran, and a light of fierce hope shone in his eyes. "he will earn heaven's curse if he does, and man's as well. here he is. silence." the door was opened, and the advocate entered the cell. "this is gautran?" he asked of the gaoler. "this is he," replied the gaoler. "leave me alone with him." "it is against my orders, sir." "here is your authority." he handed to the gaoler a paper, which gave him permission to hold free and uninterrupted converse with gautran, accused of the murder of madeline the flower-girl. the interview not to last longer than an hour. the gaoler prepared to depart, but before he left the cell he said in an undertone: "be careful of the man; he is a savage, and not to be trusted." "there is nothing to fear," said the advocate. the gaoler lingered a moment, and then retired. the cell was but dimly lighted, and the advocate, coming into it from the full sunlight of a bright day, could not see clearly for a little while. on the other hand. gautran, whose eyes were accustomed to the gloom, had a distinct view of the advocate, and in a furtive, hangdog fashion he closely inspected the features of his visitor. the man who stood before him could obtain his condemnation or his acquittal. dull-witted as he was, this conviction was as much an intuition as an impression gained from the gaoler's remarks. "you are a woodman?" said the advocate. "aye, a woodman. it is well known." "have you parents?" "they are dead." "any brothers or sisters?" "none. i was the only one." "friends?" "no." "have you wife or children?" "neither." "how much money have you?" "not a sou." "what about this murder?" asked the advocate abruptly. "what about it, then?" demanded gautran. the questions asked by the advocate were more judicial than friendly, and he assumed an air of defiance. "speak in a different tone. i am here to assist you, if i see my way. you have no lawyer to defend you?" "how should i get one? what lawyer works without pay, and where should i find the money to pay him?" "heed what i say. i do not ask you if you are innocent or guilty of the crime of which you stand charged, for that is a formula and, guilty or not guilty, you would return but one answer. have you anything to tell me?" "i can't think of anything." "you have led an evil life." "not my fault. can a man choose his own parents and his country? the life i have led i was born into; and that is to stand against me." "are there any witnesses who would come forward and speak in your favour?" "none that i know of." "is it true that you were walking with the girl on the night she was murdered?" "no man has heard me deny it," said gautran, shuddering. "why do you shudder?" "master, you asked me just now whether i had a wife, and i told you i had none. this girl was to have been my wife. i loved her, and we were to have been married." "that is disputed." "everything is disputed that would tell in my favour. the truth is of no use to a poor devil caught in a trap as i am. have you heard any good of me, master?" "not any; all that i have heard is against you." "that is the way of it. well, then, judge for yourself." "can you indicate anyone who would be likely to murder the girl? you shudder again." "i cannot help it. master, put yourself in this cell, as i am put, without light, without hope, without money, without a friend. you would need a strong nerve to stand it. you want to know if i can point out anyone who could have done the deed but me? well, if i were free, and came face to face with him, i might. not that i could say anything, or swear to anything for certain, for i did not see it done. no, master, i will not lie to you. where would be the use? you are clever enough to find me out. but i had good reason to suspect, aye, to know, that the girl had other lovers, who pressed her hard, i dare say; some who were rich, while i was poor; some who were almost mad for her. she was followed by a dozen and more. she told me so herself, and used to laugh about it; but she never mentioned a name to me. you know something of women, master; they like the men to follow them--the best of them do--ladies as well as peasants. they were sent into the world to drive us to perdition. i was jealous of her, yes, i was jealous. am i guilty because of that? how could i help being jealous when i loved her? it is in a man's blood. well, then, what more can i say?" in his intent observance of gautran's manner the advocate seemed to weigh every word that fell from the man's lips. "at what time did you leave the girl on the last night you saw her alive?" "at ten o'clock." "she was alone at that hour?" "yes." "did you see her again after that?" "no." "did you have reason to suspect that she was to meet any other man on that night?" "if i had thought it, i should have stopped with her." "for what purpose?" "to see the man she had appointed to meet." "and having seen him?" "he would have had to answer to me. i am hot-blooded, master, and can stand up for my rights." "would you have harmed the girl?" "no, unless she had driven me out of my senses." "were you in that state on the night of her death?" "no--i knew what i was about." "you were heard to quarrel with her." "i don't deny it." "you were heard to say you would kill her." "true enough. i told her if ever i found out that she was false to me, i would kill her." "had she bound herself to marry you?" "she had sworn to marry me." "the handkerchief round her neck, when her body was discovered in the river, is proved to have been yours." "it was mine; i gave it to her. i had not much to give." "when you were arrested you were searched?" "yes." "was anything taken from you?" "my knife." "had you and the girl's secret lover--supposing she had one--met on that night, you might have used your knife." "that is speaking beforehand. i can't say what might have happened." "come here into the light. let me look at your hands." "what trick are you going to play me, master?" asked gautran, in a suspicious tone. "no trick," replied the advocate sternly. "obey me, or i leave you." gautran debated with himself in silence for a full minute; then, with an impatient movement, as though it could not matter one way or another, he moved into the light, and held out his hands. the advocate, taking a powerful glass from his pocket, examined the prisoner's fingers and nails and wrists with the utmost minuteness, gautran, the while, wrapped in wonder at the strange proceeding. "now," said the advocate, "hold your head back, so that the light may shine on your face." gautran obeyed, warily holding himself in readiness to spring upon the advocate in case of an attack. by the aid of his glass the advocate examined gautran's face and neck with as much care as he had bestowed upon the hands, and then said: "that will do." "what is it all for, master?" asked gautran. "i am here to ask questions, not to answer them. since your arrest, have you been examined as i have examined you?" "no, master." "has any examination whatever been made of you by doctors or gaolers or lawyers?" "none at all." "how long had you known the girl?" "ever since she came into the neighbourhood." "were you not acquainted with her before?" "no." "from what part of the country did she come?" "i can't say." "not knowing?" "not knowing." "but being intimate with her, you could scarcely avoid asking her the question." "i did ask her, and i was curious to find out. she would not satisfy me; and when i pressed her, she said the other one--pauline--had made her promise not to tell." "you don't know, then, where she was born?" "no." "her refusal to tell you--was it lightly or seriously uttered?" "seriously." "as though there was a secret in her life she wished to conceal?" "i never thought of it in that way, but i can see now it must have been so." "something discreditable, then?" "most likely. master, you go deeper than i do." "what relationship existed between pauline and madeline?" "some said they were sisters, but there was a big difference in their ages. others said that pauline was her mother, but i don't believe it, for they never spoke together in that way. master, i don't know what to say about it; it used to puzzle me; but it was no business of mine." "did you never hear pauline address madeline as her child?" "never." "they addressed each other by their christian names?" "yes." "did they resemble each other in feature?" "there was something of a likeness between them." "why did pauline leave the girl?" "no one knew." "that is all you can tell me?" "that is all." then after a slight pause, the advocate asked: "do you value your liberty?" "yes, master," replied gautran excitedly. "let no person know what has passed between us, and do not repeat one word i have said to you." "i understand; you may depend upon me. but master, will you not tell me something more? am i to be set free or not?" "you are to be tried; what is brought against you at your trial will establish either your innocence or your guilt." he knocked at the door of the prison cell, and the gaoler opened it for him and let him out. "well, gautran?" said the gaoler, but gautran, wrapped in contemplation of the door through which the advocate had taken his departure, paid no attention to him. "do you hear me?" cried the gaoler, shaking his prisoner with no gentle hand. "what now?" "is the great lawyer going to defend you?" "you want to know too much," said gautran, and refused to speak another word on the subject. during the whole of the day there were but two figures in his mind--those of the advocate and the murdered girl. the latter presented itself in various accusing aspects, and he vainly strove to rid himself of the spectre. its hair hung in wild disorder over neck and bosom, its white lips moved, its mournful eyes struck terror to his soul. the figure of the advocate presented itself in far different aspects; it was always terrible, satanic, and damning in its suggestions. "what matter," muttered gautran, "if he gets me off? i can do as i please then." in the evening, when the small window in his cell was dark, the gaoler heard him crying out loudly. he entered, and demanded what ailed the wretch. "light--light!" implored gautran; "give me light!" "beast in human shape," said the gaoler; "you have light enough. you'll get no more. stop your howling, or i'll stop it for you!" "light! light! light!" moaned gautran, clasping his hands over his eyes. but he could not shut out the phantom of the murdered girl, which from that moment never left him. so he lay and writhed during the night, and would have dashed his head against the wall to put an end to his misery had he not been afraid of death. chapter ix the advocate undertakes a strange task. it was on the evening of this day, the third since the arrival of the advocate in geneva, that he said to his wife over the dinner-table: "i shall in all likelihood be up the whole of to-night in my study. do not let me be disturbed." "who should disturb you?" asked adelaide languidly. "there are only you and i in the villa; of course i would not venture to intrude upon you without permission." "you misunderstand me, adelaide; it is because we are in a strange house that i thought it best to tell you." "as if there were anything unusual in your shutting yourself up all night in your study! our notions of the way to lead an agreeable life are so different! take your own course, edward; you are older and wiser than i; but you must not wonder that i think it strange. you come to the country for rest, and you are as hard at work as ever." "i cannot live without work; aimless days would send me to my grave. if you are lonely, adelaide----" "oh, no, i am not," she cried vivaciously, "at least, not yet. there is so much in the neighbourhood that is interesting. dionetta and i have been out all day seeing the sights. on the road to master lamont's house there is the loveliest rustic bridge. and the wild flowers are the most beautiful i have ever seen. we met a priest, father capel, a gentle-looking man, with the kindest face! he said he intended to call upon you, and hoped to be permitted. i said, of course, you would be charmed. i had a good mind to visit master lamont, but his house was too far up the hills. fool fritz joined us; he is very amusing, with his efforts to be wise. i was delighted everywhere with the people. i went into some of their cottages, and the women were very respectful; and the children--upon my word, edward, they stare at me as if i were a picture." the advocate looked up at this, and regarded his wife with fond admiration. in his private life two influences were dominant--love for his wife, and friendship for christian almer. he had love for no other woman, and friendship for no other man, and his trust in both was a perfect trust. "i do not wonder that the children stare at you," he said; "you must be a new and pleasant experience to them." "i believe they take me for a saint," she said, laughing gaily; "and i need not tell _you_ that i am very far from being one." "you are, as we all are, human; and very beautiful, adelaide." she gazed at him in surprise. "it is not often you pay me compliments." "do you need them from me? to be sure of my affection--is not that sufficient?" "but i am fond of compliments." "i must commence a new study, then," he said gravely; it was difficult for him to indulge in light themes for many minutes together. "so you are making yourself acquainted with the neighbours. i hope you will not soon tire of them." "when i do i must seek out some other amusement. you have also discovered something since you came here in which you appear to be wonderfully interested." "yes; a criminal case----" "a criminal case!" she echoed pettishly. "in which there is a great mystery. i do not trouble you with these law matters; long ago you expressed weariness of such themes." her humour changed again. "a mystery!" she exclaimed with child-like vivacity, "in a place where news is so scarce! it must be delightful. what is it about? there is a woman in it, of course. there always is." "yes; a young woman, whose body was found in the rhone." "murdered?" "murdered, as it at present seems." "the wretch! have they caught him? for of course it is a man who committed the dreadful deed." "one is in prison, charged with the crime. i visited him to-day." "surely you are not going to defend him?" "it is probable. i shall decide to-night." "but why, edward, why? if the man is guilty, should he not be punished?" "undoubtedly he should. and if he is innocent, he should not be made to suffer. he is poor and friendless; it will be a relief for me to take up the case, should i believe him to be unjustly accused." "is he young--handsome--and was it done through jealousy?" "i have told you the case is shrouded in mystery. as for the man charged with the crime, he is very common and repulsive-looking." "and you intend to defend such a creature?" "most likely." she shrugged her shoulders with a slight gesture of contempt. she had no understanding of his motives, no sympathy in his labours, no pride in his victories. when he retired to his study he did not immediately proceed to the investigation of the case of gautran, as it was set forth in the numerous papers which lay on the table. these papers, in accordance with the given promise, had been sent to him by pierre lamont, and it was his intention to employ the hours of the night in a careful study of the details of the affair, and of the conjectures and opinions of editors and correspondents. but he held his purpose back for a while, and for nearly half-an-hour paced the floor slowly in deep thought. suddenly he went out, and sought his wife's private room. "it did not occur to me before," he said, "to tell you that a friend of christian almer's--mr. hartrich, the banker--in a conversation i had with him, expressed his belief that almer was suffering." "ill!" she cried in an agitated tone. "in mind, not in body. you have received letters from him lately, i believe?" "yes, three or four--the last a fortnight ago." "does he say he is unwell?" "no; but now i think of it, he does not write in his usual good spirits." "you have his address?" "yes; he is in switzerland, you know." "so mr. hartrich informed me--somewhere in the mountains, endeavouring to extract peace of mind from silence and solitude. that is well enough for a few days, and intellectual men are always grateful for such a change; but, if it is prolonged, there is danger of its bringing a mental disease of a serious and enduring nature upon a man brooding upon unhealthy fancies. i value almer too highly to lose sight of him, or to allow him to drift. he has no family ties, and is in a certain sense a lonely man. why should he not come and remain with us during our stay in the village? i had an idea that he himself would have proposed doing so." "he might have considered it indelicate," said adelaide with a bright colour in her face, "the house being his. as if he had a right to be here." "it is by no means likely," said the advocate, shaking his head, "that almer would ever be swayed by other than generous and large-minded considerations. write to him to-night, and ask him to leave his solitude, and make his home with us. he will be company for you, and your bright and cheerful ways will do him good. the prospect of his visit has already excited you, i see. i am afraid," he said, with a regretful pathos in his voice, "that my society affords you but poor enjoyment; yet i never thought otherwise, when you honoured me by accepting my proposal of marriage, than that you loved me." "i hope you do not think otherwise now," she said in a low tone. "why, no," he said with a sigh of relief; "what reason have i to think otherwise? we had time to study each other's characters, and i did not present myself in a false light. but we are forgetting almer. can you divine any cause for unusual melancholy in him?" she seemed to consider, and answered: "no, she could not imagine why he should be melancholy." "mr. hartrich," continued the advocate, "suggested that he might have experienced a disappointment in love, but i could not entertain the suggestion. almer and i have for years exchanged confidences in which much of men's inner natures is revealed, and had he met with such a disappointment, he would have confided in me. i may be mistaken, however; your opinion would be valuable here; in these delicate matters, women are keen observers." "mr. hartrich's suggestion is absurd; i am convinced mr. almer has not met with a disappointment in love. he is so bright and attractive----" "that any woman," said the advocate, taking up the thread, for adelaide seemed somewhat at a loss for words, "might be proud to win him. that is your thought, adelaide." "yes." "i agree with you. i have never in my life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman's heart than christian almer, and i have sometimes wondered that he had not met with one to whom he was drawn; it would be a powerful influence over him for good. of an impure passion i believe him incapable. write to him to-night, and urge him to come to us." "if you wrote to him, also, it would be as well." "i will do so; you can enclose my letter in yours. how does your new maid suit you?" "admirably. she is perfection." "which does not exist." "if i could induce her grandmother to part with her, i should like to keep her with me always." "do not tempt her, adelaide. for a simple maid a country life is the happiest and best--indeed, for any maid, or any man, young or old." "how seldom practice and precept agree! why do you not adopt a country life?" "too late. a man must follow his star. i should die of inaction in the country; and you--i smile when i think what would become of you were i to condemn you to it." "you are not always right. i adore the country!" "for an hour and a day. adelaide, you could not exist out of society." until the alpine peaks were tipped with the fire of the rising sun, the advocate remained in his study, investigating and considering the case of gautran. only once did he leave it to give his wife the letter he wrote to christian almer. newspaper after newspaper was read and laid aside, until the long labour came to its end. then the advocate rose, with no trace of fatigue on his countenance, and according to his wont, walked slowly up and down in deep thought. his eyes rested occasionally upon the grotesque and hideous figures carved on the old sideboard, which, had they been sentient and endowed with the power of speech, might have warned him that he had already, within the past few hours, woven one tragic link in his life, and have held him back from weaving another. but he saw no warning in their fantastic faces, and before he retired to rest he had formed his resolve. on the following day all geneva was startled by the news that the celebrated advocate, who had travelled thither for rest from years of arduous toil, had undertaken the defence of a wretch upon whose soul, in the opinion of nearly every thinking man and woman, the guilt of blood lay heavily. the trial of gautran was instantly invested with an importance which elevated it into an absorbing theme with every class of society. chapter x two letters--from friend to friend, from lover to lover i "my dear almer,--we have been here three days, and are comfortably established in your singularly-named villa, the house of white shadows. it is a perfect country residence, and the scenery around it is, i am told, charming. as you are aware, i have no eyes for the beauties of nature; human nature and human motive alone interest me, and my impressions of the neighbourhood are derived from the descriptions of my wife, who enjoys novelty with the impulsive enjoyment of a child. it appears that she was enchanted when she heard from your lips that your house was supposed to be haunted by shadows, and although you cautioned her immediately afterwards, she was not to be deterred from accepting your invitation. up to this time, no ghost has appeared to her, nor has my composure been disturbed by supernatural visions. i am a non-believer in visions from the spiritual world; she is only too ready to believe. it is the human interest attached to such fancies--for which, of course, there must be some foundation--which fascinates and arrests the general attention. there, for me, the interest ends; i do not travel beyond reality. "i am supposed to have come for rest and repose. the physicians who laid this burden upon me know little of my nature; idleness is more irksome, and i believe more injurious, to me than the severest labour; and it is a relief, therefore, to me to find myself interested in a startling criminal case which is shortly coming on for trial in geneva. it is a case of murder, and a man is in prison, charged with its commission. he has no friends, he has no means, he is a vicious creature of the commonest and lowest type. there is nothing in him to recommend him to favour; he is a being to be avoided--but these are not the points to be considered. is the man guilty or not guilty? he is pronounced guilty by universal public opinion, and the jury which will be empannelled to try him will be ready to convict upon the slightest evidence, or, indeed, without evidence. the trial will be a mockery of justice unless the accused is defended by one who is not influenced by passion and prejudice. there is a feature in the case which has taken powerful possession of me, and which, as far as i can judge, has not occurred to others. i intend to devote the whole of to-night to a study of the details of the crime, and it is likely that i shall undertake the defence of this repulsive creature--no doubt much to his astonishment. i have, with this object in view, already had an interview with him in his prison-cell, and the trouble i had to obtain permission to see him is a sufficient indication of the popular temper. when, therefore, you hear--if in the mountain fastness in which you are intrenched, you have the opportunity of hearing any news at all from the world at your feet--that i have undertaken the defence of a man named gautran, accused of the murder of a flower-girl named madeline, do not be surprised. "what is most troubling me at the present moment is--what is my wife to do, how is she to occupy her time, during our stay in the house of white shadows? at present she is full of animation and delight; the new faces and scenery by which she is surrounded are very attractive to her; but the novelty will wear off and then she will grow dull. save me from self-reproach and uneasiness by taking up your residence with us, if not for the whole of the time we remain here, which i should much prefer, at least for a few weeks. by so doing you will confer a service upon us all. my wife enjoys your society; you know the feeling i entertain for you; and personal association with sincere friends will be of real benefit to you. i urge it earnestly upon you, for i have an impression that you are brooding over unhealthy fancies, and that you have sought solitude for the purpose of battling with one of those ordinary maladies of the mind to which sensitive natures are prone. if it be so, christian, you are committing a grave error; the battle is unequal; silence and seclusion will not help you to a victory over yourself. come and unbosom yourself to me, if you have anything to unbosom, and do not fear that i shall intrude either myself or my advice upon you against your inclination. if you have a grief, meet it in the society of those who love you. there is a medicine in a friendly smile, in a friendly word, which you cannot find in solitude. one needs sometimes, not the sunshine of fair weather, but the sunshine of the soul. here it awaits you, and should you bring dark vapours with you i promise you they will soon be dispelled. i am disposed--out of purest friendliness--to insist upon your coming, and to be so uncharitable as to accept it as an act of weakness if you refuse me. when the case of gautran is at an end i shall be an idle man; you, and only you, can avert the injurious effect idleness will have upon me. we will find occupation together, and create reminiscences for future pleasant thought. it may be a long time, if ever, before another opportunity so favourable occurs for passing a few weeks in each other's society, undisturbed by professional cares and duties. you see i am taking a selfish view of the matter. add an inestimable value to your hospitality by coming here at once and sweetening my leisure. "your friend, "edward." ii "my own,--my husband is uneasy about you, and has imposed a task upon me. you shall judge for yourself whether it is a disagreeable one. i am to write to you immediately, to insist upon your coming to us without an hour's delay. you have not the option of refusal. the advocate insists upon it, and i also insist upon it. you must come. upon the receipt of this letter you will pack up your portmanteau, and travel hither in the swiftest possible way, by the shortest possible route. be sure that you do not disobey me. you are to come instantly, without an hour's--nay, without a moment's delay. if you fail i will not answer for the consequences, and upon you will rest the responsibility of all that follows. for what reason, do you suppose, did i accept the offer of your villa in this strangely quiet valley, unless it was in the hope and the belief that we should be near each other? and now that i _am_ here, pledged to remain, unable to leave without an exhibition of the most dreadful vacillation--which would not matter were i to have my own way, and were everything to be exactly as i wish it--you are bound to fly swiftly to the side of one who entertains for you the very sincerest affection. do not be angry with me for my disregard of your caution to be careful in my manner of writing to you. i cannot help it. i think of you continually, and if you wish me not to write what you fear other eyes than ours might see, you must come and talk to me. i shall count the minutes till you are here. the advocate is uneasy about you, and is, indeed and indeed, most anxious that you should be with us. he seems to have an idea that you have some cause for melancholy, and that you are brooding over it. could anything be more absurd? cause for melancholy! just as if you were alone in the world! you do not need to be told that there is one being who will care for you till she is an old, old woman. think of me as i shall be then. an old woman, with white hair, walking with a crutch-stick, as they do on the stage. if you _are_ sad, it is a just punishment upon you. there was nothing in the world to prevent your travelling with us. what do you think a friend of yours, a banker in geneva, suggested to the advocate? he said that it was probable that you had experienced a disappointment in love. now, this sets me thinking. why have you chosen to hide yourself in the mountains, a hundred and a hundred miles away? have you been there before? is there some pretty girl to attract you, from whom you find it impossible to tear yourself? if it is so, let her beware of me. you have no idea of what i should be capable if you gave me cause for jealousy. what is her disposition--pensive or gay? she is younger than i am, i suppose--though i am not so old, sir!--with hands---- ah, i am easier in my mind; her hands must be coarse, for she is a peasant. i am almost reconciled; you could never fall in love with a peasant. they may be pretty and fresh for a month or two, but they cannot help being coarse, and i know how anything coarse grates upon you. but a peasant-girl might fall in love with you--there are more unlikely things than that. shall i tell you what the advocate said of you this evening? it will make you vain, but never mind. 'i have never in my life known a man more likely to inspire love in a woman's heart than christian almer.' there, sir, his very words. how true they are! ah, how cruel was the chance that separated us from each other, and brought us together again when i was another man's wife! oh, if i had only known! if some kind fairy had told me that the man who, when i was a child, enthralled me with his beautiful fancies, and won my heart, and who then, as it seemed, passed out of my life--if i had suspected that, after many years, he would return home from his wanderings with the resolve to seek out the child and make her his wife, do you for one moment suppose i would not have waited for him? do you think it possible i could ever have accepted the hand of another man? no, it could not have been, for even as a child i used to dream of you, and held you in my heart above all other human beings. but you were gone--i never thought of seeing you again--and i was so young that i could have had no foreshadowing of what was to come. "have you ever considered how utterly different my life might have been had you not crossed it? not that i reproach you--do not think that; but how strangely things turn out, without the principal actor having anything to do with them! it is exactly like sitting down quietly by yourself, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things happen in which you have no hand, though if you were not in existence they could never have occurred. just think for a moment. if it had not happened that you knew me when i was a child, and was fond of me then, as you have told me i don't know how many times--if it had not happened that your restless spirit drove you abroad where you remained for years and years and years--if it had not happened that, tired of leading a wandering life, you resolved to come home and seek out the child you used to pet and make love to (but she did not know the meaning of love then)--if it had not happened that, entirely ignorant of what was passing in your mind, the child, grown into a pretty woman (i think i may say that, without vanity), was persuaded by her friends that to refuse an offer of marriage made to her by a great lawyer, famous and rich, was something too shocking to contemplate--if it had not happened that she, knowing nothing of her own heart, knowing nothing of the world, allowed herself to be guided by these cold calculating friends to accept a man utterly unsuited to her, and with whom she has never had an hour's real happiness--if it had not happened by the strangest chance, that this man and you were friends---- there, my dear, follow it out for yourself, and reflect how different our lives might have been if everything had happened in the way it ought to have done. i was cheated and tricked into a marriage with a man whose heart has room for only one sentiment--ambition. i am bound to him for life, but i am yours till death--although the bond which unites us is, as you have taught me, but a spiritual bond. "are you angry with me for putting all this on paper? you must not be, for i cannot help it if i am not wise. wisdom belongs to men. come, then, and give me wise counsel, and prevent me from committing indiscretions. for i declare to you, upon my heart and honour, if you do not very soon present yourself at the house of white shadows, i will steal from it in the night and make my way to the mountains to see what wonderful attraction it is that separates us. what food for scandal! what wagging and shaking of heads! how the women's tongues would run! i can imagine it all. save me from exposure as you are a true man. "you have made the villa beautiful. as i walk about the house and grounds i am filled with delight to think that you have effected such a magic change for my sake. master lamont has shown really exquisite taste. what a singular old man he is. i can't decide whether i like him or not. but how strange that you should have had it all done by deputy, and that you have not set foot in the house since you were a child. you see i know a great deal. who tells me? my new maid dionetta. do you remember, in one of the letters you showed me from your steward, that he spoke about the old housekeeper, mother denise, and a pretty granddaughter? i made up my mind at the time that the pretty granddaughter should be my maid. and she is, and her name is dionetta. is it not pretty?--but not prettier than the owner. will that tempt you? i have sent my town maid away, much to her displeasure; she spoke to the advocate in complaint, but he did not mention it to me; i found it out for myself. he is as close as the grave. so i am here absolutely alone, with none but strangers around me. "i am very much interested in the pictures in the studio of the old châlet, especially in a pair which represents, the first, two lovers with the sun shining on them; the second, the lovers parted by a cold grey sea. they stand on opposite shores, gazing despairingly at each other. he must have been a weak-minded man indeed; he should have taken a boat, and rowed across to her; and if he was afraid to do that, she should have gone to him. that would have been the most sensible thing. "i could continue my gossip till daylight breaks, but i have already lost an hour of my beauty sleep, and i want you, upon your arrival, to see me at my best. "my heart goes with this letter; bring it swiftly back to me." "yours for ever, "adelaide." chapter xi fire and snow--fool fritz informs pierre lamont where actual love commences "news, master lamont, news!" "of what nature, fritz?" "of a diabolical nature. satan is busy." "he is never idle--for which the priests, if they have any gratitude in them, should be thankful." "you are not fond of the priests, master lamont." "i do not hate them." "still you are not fond of them." "i do not love them. your news, fool--concerning whom?" "a greater than you, or you do not speak the truth." "the advocate, then?" "the same. you are a good guesser." "fritz, your news is stale." "i am unlucky; i thought to be the first. you have heard the news?" "not i." "you have read a letter, informing you of it." "you are a bad guesser. i have neither received nor read a letter to-day." "you have heard nothing, you have read nothing; and yet you know." "as surely as you stand before me. fritz, you are not a scholar, but i will give you a sum any fool can do. add one to one--what do you make of it?" "why, that is easy enough, master lamont." "the answer then, fool?" "one." "good. you shall smart for it, in the most vulnerable part of man. you receive from me, every week, one franc. i owe you, for last week, one franc; i owe you, for this, one." "that is so." "last week, one; this week, one. i discharge the liability." and pierre lamont handed a franc to fritz. fritz weighed the coin in the palm of his hand, spun it in the air and smiled. "master lamont, here is a fair challenge. if i prove to you that one and one are one, this franc you have given me shall not count off what you owe me." "i agree." "when one man and one woman are joined in matrimony, they become one flesh. therefore, one and one are one. "you have earned the franc, fool. here are the two i owe you." "now, perhaps, you will tell _me_ what i came here to tell you." "the advocate intends to defend gautran, who stands charged with the murder of the flower-girl." "you are a master worth serving. i have half a mind to give you back your franc." "make it a whole mind, fritz." "no; second thoughts are best. my pockets are not as warm as yours. they are not so well lined. how did you guess, master lamont?" "by means of a golden rule, an infallible rule, by the rule of one--which, intelligibly interpreted to shallow minds--no offence, fritz, i hope----" "don't mind me, master lamont; i am a fool and used to hard knocks." "then by the rule of one, which means the rule of human nature--as, for example, that makes the drunkard stagger to the wine-shop and the sluggard to his bed--i guessed that the advocate could not withstand so tempting a chance to prove the truth of the scriptural words that all men are liars. what will be palatable information to me is the manner in which the news has been received." "heaven keep me from ever being so received! the advocate has not added to the number of his friends. people are gazing at each other in amazement, and asking for reasons which none are able to give." "and his wife, fritz, his wife?" "takes as much interest in his doings as a bee does in the crawling of a snail." "rogue, you have cheated me! how about one and one being one?" "there are marriages and marriages. this was not made in heaven; when it came about there was a confusion in the pairing, and another couple are as badly off. there will be a natural end to both." "how brought about, fool?" "by your own rule, the rule of human nature." "when a jumper jumps, he first measures his distance with his eye. do they quarrel?" "no." "does she look coldly upon him, or he upon her?" "no." "is there silence between them?" "no." "you are a bad jumper, fritz. you have not measured your distance." "see, master lamont, i will prove it to you by a figure of speech. there travels from the south a flame of fire. there travels from the north a lump of snow. they meet. what happens? either that the snow extinguishes the fire and it dies, or that the fire puts an end to the snow." "fairly illustrated, fritz. fire and snow! truly a most unfortunate conjunction." "she was in the mood to visit you yesterday had you lived a mile nearer the valley." "you were out together." "she and dionetta were walking, and i met them and accompanied them. she spoke graciously to the villagers, and went into the cottages, and drank more than one cup of milk. she was sweeter than sugar, master lamont, and won the hearts of some of the women and of all the men. as for the children, they would have followed her to the world's end, i do believe, out of pure admiration. they carry now in their little heads the vision of the beautiful lady. even father capel was struck by her beauty." "priests are mortals, fritz. on which side did you walk--next to my lady or dionetta?" "i should be wrecked in a tempest. i sail only in quiet lakes." "and the maid--did she object to your walking close to her?--for you are other than i take you to be if you did not walk close." "why should she object? am i not a man? women rather like fools." "how stands the pretty maid with her new mistress?" "in high favour, if one can judge from fingers." "fritz, your wit resembles a tide that is for ever flowing. favour me with your parable." "it is a delicate point to decide where actual love commences. have you ever considered it, master lamont?" "not deeply, fool. in my young days i was a mad-brain; you are a philosopher. like a bee, i took what fell in my way, and did not puzzle myself or the flower with questions. where love commences? in the heart." "no." "in the brain." "no." "in the eye." "no." "where, then?" "in the finger-tips. dionetta and i, walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder, our arms hanging down, brought into close contact our finger-tips. what wonder that they touched!" "natural magnetism, fritz." "with our finger-tips touching, we walked along, and if her heart palpitated as mine did, she must have experienced an inward commotion. master lamont, this is a confession for your ears only. i should be base and ungrateful to hide it from you." "your confidence shall be respected." "it leads to an answer to your question as to how dionetta stands with her new mistress. first the finger-tips, then the fingers, and her little hand was clasped in mine. it was then i felt the ring upon her finger." "ah!" "now, dionetta never till yesterday owned a ring. i felt it, as a man who is curious would do, and suddenly her hand was snatched from mine. a moment or two afterwards, her hand was in mine again, but the ring was gone. a fine piece of conjuring. a man is no match for a woman in these small ways. to-day i saw her for about as long as i could count three. 'who gave you the ring?' i asked. 'my lady,' she answered. 'don't tell grandmother that i have got a ring.' therefore, master lamont, dionetta stands well with her mistress." "logically carried out, fritz. the saints prosper your wooing." chapter xii the struggle of love and duty in his lonely room in the mountain hut in which he had taken up his quarters, christian almer sat writing. it was early morning; he had risen before the sun. during the past week he had struggled earnestly with the terror which oppressed him; his suffering had been great, but he believed he was conquering. the task he had imposed upon himself of setting his duty before him in clear terms afforded him consolation. the book in which he was writing contained the record of a love which had filled him with unrest, and threatened to bring dishonor into his life. * * * * * * "i thank heaven," he wrote, "that i am calmer than i have been for several days. separation has proved an inestimable blessing. the day may come when i shall look upon my love as dead, and shall be able to think of it as one thinks of a beloved being whom death has snatched away. "even now, as i think of her, there is no fever in the thought. i have not betrayed my friend. "how would he regard me if he were acquainted with my mad passion--if he knew that the woman he adored looked upon him with aversion, and gave her love to the friend whom he trusted as a brother? "there was the error. to listen to her confession of love, and to make confession of my own. "that a man should so forget himself--should be so completely the slave of his passions! "how came it about? when were the first words spoken? "she sat by my side, radiant and beautiful. admiring glances from every part of the theatre were cast upon her. in a corner of the box sat her husband, silent and thoughtful, heedless of the brilliant scene before him, heedless of her, as it seemed, heedless of the music and the singers. "royalty was there, immediately facing us, and princes levelled their opera-glasses at her. "there are moments of intoxication when reason and conscience desert us. "we were stepping into the carriage when a note was delivered to him. he read it, and said, 'i cannot go with you; i am called away. you will not miss me, as i do not dance. i will join you in a couple of hours." "so we went alone, we two together, and her hand rested lightly upon mine. and in the dance the words were spoken--words never to be recalled. "what demon prompted them? why did not an angel whisper to me, 'remember. there is a to-morrow.' "but in the present the morrow is forgotten. a false sense of security shuts out all thoughts of the consequences of our actions. a selfish delight enthrals us, and we do not see the figure of retribution hovering above us. "it is only when we are alone with our conscience that this figure is visible. then it is that we tremble; then it is that we hear words which appal us. "again and again has this occurred to me, and i have vowed to myself that i would tear myself from her--a vow as worthless as the gambler's resolve to play no more. drawn irresistibly forward, and finding in every meeting a shameful justification in the delusion that i was seeing her for the last time; and leaving her with a promise to come again soon. incredible infatuation! but to listen to the recital of her sorrows and unhappiness without sympathising with her--it was not possible; and to hear her whisper, 'i love you, and only you,' without being thrilled by the confession--a man would need to be made of stone. "how often has she said to me, when speaking of her husband, 'he has no heart!' "can i then, aver with any semblance of honesty that i have not betrayed my friend? basely have i betrayed him. "if i were sure that she would not suffer--if i were sure that she would forget me! coldness, neglect, indifference--they are sharp weapons, but i deserve to bleed. "still, i cry out against my fate. i have committed no crime. love came to me and tortured me. but a man must perform a man's duty. i will strive to perform mine. then in years to come i may be able to think of the past without shame, even with pride at having conquered. "i have destroyed her portrait. i could not look upon her face and forget her." * * * * * * a voice from an adjoining room caused him to lay aside his pen. it was the peasant, the master of the hut, calling to him, and asking if he was ready. he went out to the man. "i heard you stirring," said the peasant, "and my young ones are waiting to show you where the edelweiss can be found." the children, a boy and a girl, looked eagerly at christian almer. it had been arranged on the previous day that the three should go for a mountain excursion in search of the flower that brings good luck and good fortune to the finder. the children were sturdy-limbed and ruddy-faced, and were impatient to be off. "breakfast first," said christian almer, pinching the little girl's cheek. brown bread, honey, goat's milk, and an omelette were on the table, and the stranger, who had been as a godsend to the poor family, enjoyed the homely fare. the peasant had already calculated that if his lodger lived a year in the hut, they could save five hundred francs--a fortune. christian almer had been generous to the children, in whose eyes he was something more than mortal. money is a magic power. "will the day be fine?" asked christian. "yes," said the peasant; "but there will be a change in the evening. the little ones will know--you can trust to them." young as they were, they could read the signs on nature's face, and could teach their gentleman friend wise things, great and rich as he was. the father accompanied them for a couple of miles; he was a goat-herd, and, unlike others of his class, was by no means a silent man. "you live a happy life here," said christian almer. "why, yes," said the peasant; "it is happy enough. we have to eat, but not to spare; there is the trouble. still, god be thanked. the children are strong and healthy; that is another reason for thankfulness." "is your wife, as you are, mountain born?" "yes; and could tell you stories. and there," said the peasant, pointing upwards afar off, "as though it knew my wife were being talked of, there is the lämmergeier." an enormous vulture, which seemed to have suddenly grown out of the air, was suspended in the clouds. so motionless was it that it might have been likened to a sculptured work, wrought by an angel's hand, and fixed in heaven as a sign. it could not have measured less than ten feet from wing to wing. its colour was brown, with bright edges and white quills, and its fiery eyes were encircled by broad orange-shaded rings. "my wife," said the peasant, "has reason to remember the lämmergeier. when she was three years old her father took her to a part of the mountains where they were hay-making, and not being able to work and attend to her at the same time, he set her down by the side of a hut. it was a fine sunny day, and anna fell asleep. her father, seeing her sleeping calmly, covered her face with a straw hat, and continued his work. two hours afterwards he went to the spot, and anna was gone. he searched for her everywhere, and all the haymakers assisted in the search, but anna was nowhere to be found. my father and i--i was a mere lad at the time, five years older than anna--were walking towards a mountain stream, three miles from where anna had been sleeping, when i heard the cry of a child. it came from a precipice, and above this precipice a vulture was flying. we went in the direction of the cry, and found anna lying on the edge of the precipice, clinging to the roots with her little hand. she was slipping down, and would have slipped to certain death had we been three minutes later. it was a difficult task to rescue her as it was, but we managed it, and carried her to her father. she had no cap to her head, and no shoes or stockings on her feet; she had lost them in her flight through the air in the vulture's beak. she has a scar on her left arm to this day as a remembrance of her acquaintance with the lämmergeier. so it fell out afterwards, when she was a young woman, that i married her." ever and again, as they walked onwards, christian almer turned to look upon the vulture, which remained perfectly still, with its wings outstretched, until it was hid from his sight by the peculiar formation of the valleys they were traversing. hitherto their course had lain amidst masses of the most beautiful flowers; gentians with purple bells, others spotted and yellow, with brilliant whorls of bloom, the lilac-flowered campanula, the anemone, the blue columbine and starwort, the lovely forget-me-not--which christian almer mentally likened to bits of heaven dropped down--and the alpine rose, the queen of alpine flowers. now all was changed. the track was bare of foliage; not a blade of grass peeped up from the barren rocks. "there is good reason for it," said the peasant; "here, long years ago, a man killed his brother in cold blood. since that day no flowers will grow upon the spot. there are nights on which the spirit of the murderer wanders mournfully about these rocks; a black dog accompanies him, whose bark you can sometimes hear. this valley is accursed." soon afterwards the peasant left christian almer to the guidance of the children, and with them the young man spent the day, sharing contentedly with them the black bread and hard sausage they had brought for dinner. this mid-day meal was eaten as they sat beside a lake, in the waters of which there was not a sign of life, and christian almer noticed that, as the children ate, they watched the bosom of this lake with a strange and singular interest. "what are you gazing at?" he asked, curious to learn. "for the dead white trout," answered the boy. "whenever a priest dies it floats upon the lake." in the lower heights, where the fir-trees stretched their feathery tips to the clouds, they found the flower they were in search of, and the children were wild with delight. the sun was setting when they returned to the hut, tired and gratified with their day's wanderings. the peasant's wife smiled as she saw the edelweiss. "a lucky love-flower," she said to christian almer. these simple words proved to him how hard was the lesson of forgetfulness he was striving to learn; he was profoundly agitated by them. night fell, and the clouds grew black. "the wind is rising," said the peasant; "an ill night for travellers. here is one coming towards us." it proved to be a guide who lived in the nearest post village, and who, duly commissioned for the service, brought to christian almer the letters of the advocate and his wife. "a storm is gathering," said the guide; "i must find shelter on the heights to-night." in his lonely room christian almer broke the seals, and by the dull light of a single candle read the lines written by friend to friend, by lover to lover. the thunder rolled over the mountains; the lightning flashed through the small window; the storm was upon him. he read the letters once only, but every word was impressed clearly upon his brain. for an hour he sat in silence, gazing vacantly at the edelweiss on the table, the lucky love-flower. the peasant's wife called to him, and asked if he wanted anything. "nothing," he replied, in a voice that sounded strange to him. "i will leave the bread and milk on the table," she said. "good-night." he did not answer her, nor did he respond to the children's good-night. their voices, the children's especially, seemed to his ears to come from a great distance. a drop of rain fell from the roof upon the candle, and extinguished the light. for a long while he remained in darkness, until all in the hut were sleeping; then he went out into the wild night, clutching the letters tight in his hand. he staggered almost blindly onwards, and in the course of half an hour found himself standing on a narrow and perilous bridge, from which the few travellers who passed that way could obtain a view of a torrent which dashed with sublime and terrific force over a precipice upon the rocks below, a thousand feet down. "if i were to grow dizzy now!" he muttered, with a reckless laugh; and he tempted fate by leaning over the narrow bridge, and gazing downwards into the dark depths. indistinct shapes grew out of the mighty and eternal waterfall. of hosts of angry men battling with each other; of rushing horses; of armies of vultures swooping down for prey; of accusing and beautiful faces; of smiling mouths and white teeth flashing; and, amidst the whirl, sounds of shrieks and laughter. suddenly he straightened himself, and tearing adelaide's letter into a thousand pieces, flung the evidence of a treacherous love into the furious torrent of waters; and as he did so he thought that there were times in a man's life when death were the best blessing which heaven could bestow upon him! chapter xiii the trial of gautran the trial of gautran was proceeding, and the court was thronged with an excited gathering of men and women, upon whom not a word in the story of the tragic drama was thrown away. impressed by the great powers of the advocate who had undertaken to appear for the accused, the most effective measures had been adopted to prove gautran's guilt, and obtain a conviction. it was a legal battle, fought with all the subtle weapons at the disposal of the law. gautran's prosecutors fought with faces unmasked, and with their hands displayed; the advocate, on the contrary, was pursuing a course which none could fathom; nor did he give a clue to it. long before the case was closed the jury were ready to deliver their verdict; but, calm and unmoved, the advocate, with amazing patience, followed out his secret theory, the revelation of which was awaited, by those who knew him best and feared him most, with intense and painful curiosity. every disreputable circumstance in gautran's life was raked up to display the odiousness of his character; his infamous career was tracked from his childhood to the hour of his arrest. a creature more debased, with features more hideous, it would have been difficult to drag forward from the worst haunts of crime and shame. degraded he was born, degraded he had lived, degraded he stood before his judges. it was a horror to gaze upon his face as he stood in the dock, convulsively clutching the rails. for eight days had he so stood, execrated and condemned by all. for eight days he had endured the anguish of a thousand deaths, of a myriad agonising fears. his soul had been harrowed by the most awful visions--visions of which none but himself had any conception. in his cell with the gaolers watching his every movement; in the court with the glare of daylight upon him; in the dusky corridors he traversed morning and evening he saw the phantom of the girl with whose murder he was charged, and by her side the phantom of himself standing on the threshold of a future in which there was no mercy or pity. no communication passed between him and the lawyer who was fighting for him; not once did the advocate turn to the prisoner or address a word to him; it was as though he were battling for a victory in which gautran was in no wise concerned. but if indeed he desired to win, he adopted the strangest tactics to accomplish his desire. not a question he asked the witnesses, not an observation he made to the judge, but tended to fix more surely the prisoner's degradation, and gradually there stole into gautran's heart a deadly hatred and animosity against his defender. "he defends me to ruin me," this was gautran's thought; "he is seeking to destroy me, body and soul." his own replies to the questions put to him by the judge were sufficient to convict him. he equivocated and lied in the most barefaced manner, and when he was exposed and reproved, evinced no shame--preserving either a dogged silence, or obstinately exclaiming that the whole world was leagued against him. apart from the question whether he was lying or speaking the truth, there was a certain consistency in his method which would have been of service to him had his cause been good. this was especially noticeable when he was being interrogated with respect to his relations with the murdered girl. "you insist," said the judge, "that madeline accepted you as her lover?" "yes," replied gautran, "i insist upon it." "evidence will be brought forward to prove that it was not so. what, then, will you answer?" "that whoever denies it is a liar." "and if a dozen or twenty deny it?" "they lie, the lot of them." "what should make them speak falsely instead of truly?" "because they are all against me." "there is no other evidence except your bare statement that madeline and you were affianced." "that is my misfortune. if she were alive she could speak for me." "it is a safe remark, the poor child being in her grave. it is the rule for young girls to love men whose appearance is not repulsive." "is this," cried gautran, smiting his face with his fist, "to stand as a witness against me, too?" "no; but a girl has generally a cause for falling in love. if the man be not attractive in appearance, it is almost certain he will possess some other quality to attract her. he may be clever, and this may win her." "i do not pretend to be clever." "his manners may be engaging. his nature may be kind and affectionate, and she may have had proof of it." "_my_ nature is kind and affectionate. it may have been that, if you are determined upon having a reason for her fondness for me." "she was fond of you?" "aye." "did she tell you so, and when?" "always when we were alone." "we cannot have madeline's evidence as to the feelings she entertained for you; but we can have the evidence of others who knew you both. are you acquainted with katherine scherrer?" "not too well; we were never very intimate." "she is a young woman a few years older than madeline, and she warned madeline against you. she herself had received instances of your brutality. before you saw madeline you made advances towards katherine scherrer." "false. she made advances towards me. she asked me to be her lover, and now she speaks against me out of revenge." "she has not spoken yet, but she will. madeline told her that she trembled at the sight of you, and had entreated you not to follow her; but that you would not be shaken off." "it is my way; i will never be baulked." "it is true, therefore; you paid no attention to this poor girl's entreaties because it is your way not to allow yourself to be baulked." "i did not mean that; i was thinking of other matters." "katherine scherrer has a mother." "yes; a woman of no account." "some time ago this mother informed you, if you did not cease to pester katherine with your insulting proposals, that she would have you beaten." "i should like to see the man who would have attempted it." "that is savagely spoken for one whose nature is kind and affectionate." "may not a man defend himself? i don't say i am kind and affectionate to men; but i am to women." "the murdered girl found you so. hearing from her daughter that madeline was frightened of you, and did not wish you to follow her, katherine's mother desired you to let the girl alone." "she lies." "they all lie who utter a word against you?" "every one of them." "you never courted katherine scherrer?" "never." "her mother never spoke to you about either her daughter or madeline?" "never." "do you know the widow joseph?" "no." "madeline lodged in her house." "what is that to me?" "did she never speak to you concerning madeline?" "never." "attend. four nights before madeline met her death you were seen prowling outside widow joseph's house." "i was not there." "the widow joseph came out and asked you what you wanted." "she did not." "you said you must see madeline. the widow joseph went into the house, and returned with the message that madeline would not see you. upon that you tried to force your way into the house, and struck the woman because she prevented you. madeline came down, alarmed at the sounds of the struggle, and begged you to go away, and you said you would, now that you had seen her, as you had made up your mind to. what have you to say to this?" "a batch of lies. twenty women could not have prevented me getting into the house." "you think yourself a match for twenty women?" "aye." "and for as many men?" "for one man, whoever he may be. give me the chance of proving it." "do you know heinrich heitz?" "no." "he is, like yourself, a woodcutter." "there are thousands of woodcutters." "did you and he not work together as partners?" "we did not." "were you not continually quarrelling, and did he not wish to break the partnership?" "no." "in consequence of this, did you not threaten to murder him?" "no." "did you not strike him with a weapon, and cut his forehead open?" "no." "how many women have you loved?" "one." "her name?" "madeline." "you never loved another?" "never." "have you been married?" "no." "have you ever lived with a woman who should have been your wife?" "never." "did you not continually beat this poor woman until her life became a burden to her, and she was compelled to fly from you to another part of the country?" "no." "do you expect to be believed in the answers you have given?" "no." "it is said that you possess great strength." "it has served me in good stead." "that you are a man of violent passions." "i have my feelings. i would never submit to be trampled on." "you were always kind to madeline?" "always." "on the night of her murder?" "yes." "witnesses will prove that you were heard to say, 'i will kill you! i will kill you!' do you deny saying so?" "no." "how does that cruel threat accord with a mild and affectionate nature?" "i was asking her whether she had another lover, and i said if she had, and encouraged him, that i would kill her." "the handkerchief found round her neck was yours." "i gave it to her as a love-gift." "a terrible love-gift. it was not wound loosely round her neck; it was tight, almost to strangulation." "she must have made it so in her struggles, or----" "or?" "the man who killed her must have attempted to strangle her with it." "that is your explanation?" "yes." "your face is bathed in perspiration; your eyes glare wildly." "change places with me, and see how you would feel." "such signs, then, are the signs of innocence?" "what else should they be?" during this long examination, gautran's limbs trembled violently, and there passed over his face the most frightful expressions. chapter xiv. the evidence of witnesses among the first witnesses called was heinrich heitz, a wood-cutter, who had been for some time in partnership with gautran, and of whom gautran had denied any knowledge whatever. on his forehead was the red scar of a wound inflicted some time before. "look at the prisoner. do you know him?" "i have reason to." "his name?" "gautran." "how did he get his living?" "by wood-cutting." "you and he were comrades for a time?" "we were." "for how long?" "for three years; we were partners." "during the time you worked with him, did he know you as heinrich heitz?" "by no other name. i never bore another." "was the partnership an agreeable one?" "not to me; it was infernally disagreeable. i never want another partner like him." "why?" "because i don't want another savage beast for a partner." "you did not get along well with him?" "quite the reverse." "for what reasons?" "well, for one, i am a hard-working man; he is an indolent bully. the master he works for once does not want to employ him again. when we worked together on a task, the profits of which were to be equally divided between us, he shirked his share of the work, and left me to do the lot." "did you endeavour to separate from him?" "i did; and he swore he would murder me; and once, when i was more than usually determined, he marked me on my forehead. you can see the scar; i shall never get rid of it." "did he use a weapon against you?" "yes; a knife." "his temper is ungovernable?" "he has not the slightest control over it." "he is a man of great strength?" "he is very powerful." "possessed with an idea which he was determined to carry out, is it likely that anything would soften him?" "nothing could soften him." "how would opposition affect him?" "it would infuriate him. i have seen him, when crossed, behave as if he were a mad tiger instead of a human being." "at such times, would it be likely that he would show any coolness or cunning?" "he would have no time to think; he would be carried away by his passion." "you were acquainted with him when he was a lad?" "i was." "was he noted for his cruel disposition in his childhood?" "he was; it was the common talk." "did he take a pleasure in inflicting physical pain upon those weaker than himself?" "he did." "and in prolonging that pain?" "yes." "in his paroxysms of fury would not an appeal to his humanity have a softening effect upon him?" "he has no humanity." "you were acquainted with madeline?" "i was." "was she an amiable girl?" "most amiable." "she was very gentle?" "as gentle as a child." "but she was capable of being aroused?" "of course she was." "she had many admirers?" "i have heard so." "you yourself admired her?" "i did." "you made love to her?" "i suppose i did." "did she encourage you?" "i cannot say she did." "did you ever attempt to embrace her?" the witness did not reply to this question, and upon its being repeated, still preserved silence. admonished by the judge, and ordered to reply, he said: "yes, i have attempted to embrace her." "on more than one occasion." "only on one occasion." "did she permit the embrace?" "no." "she resisted you?" "yes." "there must have been a struggle. did she strike you?" "she scratched my face." "she resisted you successfully?" "yes." "gentle as she was, she possessed strength?" "oh yes, more than one would have supposed." "strength which she would exert to protect herself from insult?" "yes." "her disposition was a happy one?" "that was easy to see. she was always singing to herself, and smiling." "you believe she was fond of life?" "why yes--who is not?" "and would not have welcomed a violent and sudden death?" "certainly not. what a question!" "threatened with such a fate, she would have resisted?" "aye, with all her strength. it would be but natural." "knowing madeline somewhat intimately, you must have known pauline?" "yes, i knew her." "it is unfortunate and inexplicable that we cannot call her as a witness, and are ignorant of the reason why she left madeline alone. can you furnish any clue, even the slightest, which might enable us to find her?" "i cannot; i do not know where she has gone." "were they sisters, or mother and daughter?" "i cannot say." "do you know where they came from?" "i do not." "reflect. during your intimacy, was any chance word or remark made by either of the women which, followed up, might furnish the information?" "i can remember none. but something was said, a few days before pauline left, which surprised me." "relate it, and do not fear to weary the court. omit nothing." "i made love to madeline, as i have said, and she did not encourage me. then, for perhaps a month or two, i said nothing more to her than good-morning or good-evening. but afterwards, when i was told that gautran was following her up, i thought to myself, 'i am better than he; why should i be discouraged because she said "no" to me once?' well, then it was that i mustered up courage to speak to pauline, thinking to win her to my side. i did not, though. pauline was angry and impatient with me, and as much as told me that when madeline married it would be to a better man than i was. i was angry, also, because it seemed as if she looked down on me. 'you think she will marry a gentleman,' said i. 'it might be so,' she answered. 'a fine idea that,' said i, 'for a peasant. but perhaps she isn't a peasant: perhaps she is a lady in disguise.' i suppose i spoke scornfully, for pauline fired up, and asked whether madeline was not good enough, and pretty enough, and gentle enough for a lady; and said, too, that those who believed her to be a peasant might one day find out their mistake. and then all at once she stopped suddenly, with red fire in her face, and i saw she had said that which she had rather left unspoken." this last piece of evidence supplied a new feature of interest in the case. it furnished a clue to a tempting mystery as to the social position of pauline and madeline; but it was a clue which could not be followed to a satisfactory result, although another unexpected revelation was made in the course of the trial which appeared to have some connection with it. much of the evidence given by heinrich heitz was elicited by the advocate--especially those particulars which related to gautran's strength and ferocity, and to madeline's love of life and the way in which she met an insult. it was not easy to see what good could be done for gautran by the stress which the advocate laid upon these points. katherine scherrer was called and examined. she testified that gautran had made advances towards her, and had pressed her to become his wife; that she refused him, and that he threatened her; that as he persisted in following her, her mother had spoken to him, and had warned him, if he did not cease persecuting her daughter, that she would have him beaten. this evidence was corroborated by katherine's mother, who testified that she had cautioned gautran not to persecute madeline with his attentions and proposals. madeline had expressed to both these women her abhorrence of gautran and her fear of him, but nothing could induce him to relinquish his pursuit of her. the only evidence elicited from these witnesses by the advocate related to gautran's strength and ferocity. following katherine scherrer and her mother came a witness whose appearance provoked murmurs of compassion. it was a poor, wretched woman, half demented, who had lived with gautran in another part of the country, and who had been so brutally treated by him that her reason had become impaired. if her appearance provoked compassion, the story of her wrongs, as it was skilfully drawn from her by kindly examination, stirred the court into strong indignation, and threw a lurid light upon the character of the man arraigned at the bar of justice. in the presence of this poor creature the judge interrogated gautran. "you denied having ever lived with a woman who should have been your wife. do you still deny it?" "yes." "shameless obstinacy! look at this poor woman, whom your cruelty has reduced to a state of imbecility. do you not know her?" "i know nothing of her." "you never lived with her?" "never." "you will even go so far as to declare that you never saw her before to-day?" "yes; i never saw her before to-day." "to question you farther would be useless. you have shown yourself in your true colours." to which gautran made answer: "i can't help my colours. they're not of my choosing." the widow joseph was next called. chapter xv the widow joseph gives evidence respecting a mysterious visitor the appearance of this woman was looked forward to by the spectators with lively curiosity, and her evidence was listened to with deep attention. "your name is joseph?" "that was my husband's first name. while he lived i was known as mistress joseph; since his death i have been called the widow joseph." "the poor child, madeline, and her companion, pauline, lived in your house?" "yes, from the first day they came into this part of the country. 'we have come a great distance,' said pauline to me, 'and want a room to sleep in.' i showed her the room, and said it would be twelve francs a month. she paid me twelve francs, and remained with me till she left to go on a journey." "did you ask her where she came from?" "yes; and she answered that it was of no consequence." "did she pay the rent regularly?" "yes; and always without being asked for it." "did she tell you she was poor?" "she said she had but little money." "did they have any settled plan of gaining a livelihood?" "i do not think they had at first. pauline asked me whether i thought it likely they could earn a living by selling flowers. i looked at madeline, and said that i thought they were certain to do well." "you looked at madeline. why?" "she was a very pretty girl." "and you thought, because she was very pretty, that she would have a greater chance of disposing of her flowers." "yes. gentlemen like to buy of pretty girls." "that is not said to madeline's disparagement?" "no. madeline was a good girl. she was full of gaiety, but it was innocent gaiety." "what were your impressions of them? as to their social position? did you believe them to be humbly born?" "pauline certainly; she was a peasant the same as myself. but there was something superior about madeline which puzzled me." "how? in what way?" "it was only an impression. yet there were signs. pauline's hands were hard and coarse; and from remarks she made from time to time i knew that she was peasant-born. madeline's hands were soft and delicate, and she had not been accustomed to toil, which all peasants are, from their infancy almost." "from this do you infer that they were not related to each other?" "i am sure they were related to each other. perhaps few had the opportunities of judging as well as i could. when they were in a quiet mood i have seen expressions upon their faces so exactly alike as to leave no doubt that they were closely related." "sisters?" "i cannot say." "or mother and daughter?" "i wish to tell everything i know, but to say nothing that might be turned into a reproach against them." "we have every confidence in you. judgment can be formed from the bearing of persons towards each other. pauline loved madeline?" "devotedly." "there is a distinctive quality in the attachment of a loving mother for her child which can scarcely be mistaken; it is far different, in certain visible manifestations--especially on occasions where there is any slight disagreement--between sisters. distinctive, also, is the tenderness which accompanies the exercise of a mother's authority. bearing this in mind, and recalling to the best of your ability those particulars of their intercourse which came within your cognisance, which hypothesis would you be the more ready to believe--that they were sisters or mother and child?" "that they were mother and child." "we recognise your anxiety to assist us. pauline's hands, you say, were coarse, while madeline's were soft and delicate. ordinarily, a peasant woman brings up her child as a peasant, with no false notions; in this instance, however, pauline brought madeline up with some idea that the young girl was superior to her own station in life. else why the unusual care of the child? supposing this line of argument to be correct, it appears not to be likely that the attentions of a man like gautran would be encouraged." "they were not encouraged." "do you know that they were not encouraged from statements made to you by pauline and madeline?" "yes." "then gautran's declaration that he was madeline's accepted lover is false?" "quite false." "he speaks falsely when he says that madeline promised to marry him?" "it is impossible." "four nights before madeline met her death, was gautran outside your house?" "yes; he was prowling about there with his evil face, for a long time." "did you go to him, and ask him what he wanted?" "yes." "did he tell you that he must see madeline?" "yes, and i went into the house, and informed the girl. she said she would not see him, and i went down to gautran and told him so. he then tried to force himself into the house, and i stood in his way. he struck me, and madeline, frightened by my cries, ran to the door, and begged him to go away." "it is a fact that he was often seen in madeline's company?" "yes; do what they would, they could not get rid of him; and they were frightened, if they angered him too much, that he would commit an act of violence." "as he did?" "as he did. it is written on madeline's grave." "had the poor girl any other lovers?" "none that i should call lovers. but she was greatly admired." "was any one of these lovers especially favoured?" "not that i knew of." "did any of them visit the house?" "no--but may i speak?" "certainly." "it was not what i should call a visit. a gentleman came once to the door, and before i could get there, pauline was with him. all that i heard was this: 'it is useless,' pauline said to him; 'i will not allow you to see her, and if you persecute us with your attentions i will appeal for help to those who will teach you a lesson.' 'what is your objection to me?' he asked, and he was smiling all the time he spoke. 'am i not a gentleman?' 'yes,' she answered; 'and it is because of that, that i will not permit you to address her. gentlemen! i have had enough of gentlemen!' 'you are a foolish woman,' he said, and he went away. that is all, and that is the only time--except when i saw pauline in conversation with a man. he might have been a gentleman, but his clothes were not the clothes of one; neither were they the clothes of a peasant. they were conversing at a little distance from the house. i did not hear what they said, not a word, and half an hour afterwards pauline came home. there was a look on her face such as i had never observed--a look of triumph and doubt. but she made no remark to me, nor i to her." "where was madeline at this time?" "in the house." "did you see this man again?" "a second time, two evenings after. a third time, within the same week. he and pauline spoke together very earnestly, and when anyone approached them always moved out of hearing. during the second week he came to the house, and inquired for pauline. she ran downstairs and accompanied him into the open road. this occurred to my knowledge five or six times, until pauline said to me, 'to-morrow i am going on a journey. before long i may be able to reward you well for the kindness you have shown us.' the following day she left, and i have not seen her since." "did she say how long she would be likely to be away?" "i understood not longer than three weeks." "that time has passed, and still she does not appear. since she left, have you seen the man who was so frequently with her?" "no." "he has not been to the house to make inquiries?" "no." "is it not possible that he may have been pauline's lover?" "there was nothing of the lover in his manner towards her." "there was, however, some secret between them?" "evidently." "and madeline--was she acquainted with it?" "it is impossible to say." "you have no reason to suppose, when pauline went away, that she had no intention of returning?" "i am positive she intended to return." "and with good news, for she promised to reward you for your kindness?" "yes, she did so." "is it not probable that she, also, may have met with foul play?" "it is probable; but heaven alone knows!" chapter xvi the conclusion of the prosecution it length the case for the prosecution was concluded, with an expression of regret on the part of counsel at the absence of pauline, who might have been able to supply additional evidence, if any were needed, of the guilt of the prisoner. "every effort has been made," said counsel, "to trace and produce this woman, but when she parted from the murdered girl no person knew whither she was directing her steps; even the widow joseph, the one living person besides the mysterious male visitor who was in frequent consultation with her, can furnish us with no clue. the victim of this foul and horrible crime could most likely have told us, but her lips are sealed by the murderer's hand, the murderous wretch who stands before you. "it has been suggested that pauline has met with foul play. it may be so; otherwise, it is humanly impossible to divine the cause that could keep her from this trial. "neither have we been able to trace the man who was in her confidence, and between whom and herself a secret of a strange nature existed. "in my own mind i do not doubt that this secret related to madeline, but whether it did do so or not cannot affect the issue of this trial; neither can the absence of pauline and her mysterious friend affect it. the proofs of the cruel, ruthless murder are complete and irrefragable, and nothing is wanting, not a link, in the chain of evidence to enable you to return a verdict which will deprive of the opportunity of committing further crime a wretch as infamous as ever walked the earth. he declares his innocence; if the value of that declaration is to be gauged by the tissue of falsehoods he has uttered, by his shameless effrontery and denials, by his revolting revelations of the degradation of his nature, he stands self-convicted. "but it needs not that; had he not spoken, the issue would be the same; for painful and shocking as is the spectacle, you have but to glance at him to assure yourself of his guilt. if that is not sufficient to move you unhesitatingly to your duty, cast him from your thoughts and weigh only the evidence of truth which has been laid unfolded to you. "as i speak, a picture of that terrible night, in the darkness of which the fearful deed was committed, rises before me. "i see the river's bank in a mist of shadows; i see two forms moving onward, one a monster in human shape, the other that of a child who had never wronged a fellow creature, a child whose spirit was joyous and whose amiable disposition won every heart. "it is not with her willing consent that this monster is in her company. he has followed her stealthily until he finds an opportunity to be alone with her, at a time when she is least likely to have friends near her; and in a place where she is entirely at his mercy. he forces his attentions upon her; she repulses him. she turns towards her home; he thrusts her roughly back. enraged at her obstinacy, he threatens to kill her; his threats are heard by persons returning home along the river's bank, and, until the sound of their footsteps has died away and they are out of hearing, he keeps his victim silent by force. "being alone with her once more, he renews his infamous suit. she still repulses him, and then commences a struggle which must have made the angels weep to witness. "in vain his victim pleads, in vain she struggles; she clings to him and begs for her life in tones that might melt the stoniest heart; but this demon has no heart. he winds his handkerchief round her neck, he beats and tears her, as is proved by the bruises on her poor body. the frightful struggle ends, and the deed is accomplished which condemns the wretch to life-long torture in this world and to perdition in the next. "do not lose sight of this picture and of the evidence which establishes it; and let me warn you not to be diverted by sophistry or specious reasoning from the duty which you are here to perform. "a most vile and horrible crime has been committed; the life of a child has been cruelly, remorselessly, wickedly sacrificed; her blood calls for justice on her murderer; and upon you rests the solemn responsibility of not permitting the escape of a wretch whose guilt has been proven by evidence so convincing as to leave no room for doubt in the mind of any human being who reasons in accordance with facts. "i cannot refrain from impressing upon you the stern necessity of allowing no other considerations than those supplied by a calm judgment to guide you in the delivery of your verdict. i should be wanting in my duty if i did not warn you that there have been cases in which the guilty have unfortunately escaped by the raising of side issues which had but the remotest bearing upon the crimes of which they stood accused. it is not by specious logic that a guilty man can be proved innocent. innocence can only be established by facts, and the facts laid before you are fatal in the conclusion to be deduced from them. bear these facts in mind, and do not allow your judgment to be clouded even by the highest triumphs of eloquence. i know of no greater reproach from which men of sensibility can suffer than that which proceeds from the consciousness that, in an unguarded moment, they have allowed themselves to be turned aside from the performance of a solemn duty. may you have no cause for such a reproach! may you have no cause to lament that you have allowed your judgment to be warped by a display of passionate and fevered oratory! let a sense of justice alone be your guide. justice we all desire, nothing more and nothing less. the law demands it of you; society demands it of you. the safety of your fellow citizens, the honour of young girls, of your sisters, your daughters, and others dear to you, depend upon your verdict. for if wretches like the prisoner are permitted to walk in our midst, to pursue their savage courses, to live their evil lives, unchecked, life and honour are in fatal peril. the duty you have to perform is a sacred duty--see that you perform it righteously and conscientiously, and bear in mind that the eyes of the eternal are upon you." this appeal, delivered with intense earnestness, produced a profound impression. in the faces of the jury was written the fate of gautran. they looked at each other with stern resolution. under these circumstances, when the result of the trial appeared to be a foregone conclusion, it might have been expected, the climax of interest having apparently been reached, that the rising of the advocate to speak for the defence would have attracted but slight attention. it was not so. at that moment the excitement reached a painful pitch, and every person in the court, with the exception of the jury and the judges, leant forward with eager and absorbed expectation. chapter xvii the advocates defence--the verdict he spoke in a calm and passionless voice, the clear tones of which had an effect resembling that of a current of cold air through an over-heated atmosphere. the audience had been led to expect a display of fevered and passionate oratory; but neither in the advocate's speech nor in his manner of delivering it was there any fire or passion; it was chiefly remarkable for earnestness and simplicity. his first words were a panegyric of justice, the right of dispensing which had been placed in mortal hands by a supreme power which watched its dispensation with a jealous eye. he claimed for himself that the leading principle of his life, not only in his judicial, but in his private career, had been a desire for justice, in small matters as well as in great, for the lowliest equally with the loftiest of human beings. before the bar of justice, prince and peasant, the most ignorant and the most highly cultured, the meanest and the most noble in form and feature, were equal. they had been told that justice was demanded from them by law and by society. he would supply a strange omission in this appeal, and he would tell them that, primarily and before every other consideration, the prisoner it was who demanded justice from them. "that an innocent girl has been done to death," said the advocate, "is most unfortunately true, and as true that a man who inspires horror is charged with her murder. you have been told that you have but to glance at him to assure yourself of his guilt. these are lamentable words to be used in an argument of accusation. the facts that the victim was of attractive, and that the accused is of repulsive appearance, should not weigh with you, even by a hair's weight, to the prejudice of the prisoner. if it does, i call upon you to remember that justice is blind to external impressions. and moreover, if in your minds you harbour a feeling such as exists outside this court against the degraded creature who stands before you, i charge you to dismiss it. "all the evidence presented to you which bears directly upon the crime is circumstantial. a murder has been committed--no person saw it committed. the last person proved to have been in the murdered girl's company, is gautran, her lover, as he declares himself to have been. "and here i would say that i do not expect you to place the slightest credence upon the statements of this man. his unblushing, astonishing falsehoods prove that in him the moral sense is deadened, if indeed it ever existed. but his own statement that, after the manner of his brutal nature, he loved the girl, may be accepted as probable. it has been sufficiently proved that the girl had other lovers, who were passionately enamoured of her. she was left to herself, deprived of the protection and counsel of a devoted woman, who, unhappily, was absent at the fatal crisis in her life. she was easily persuaded and easily led. who can divine by what influences she was surrounded, by what temptations she was beset, temptations and influences which may have brought upon her an untimely death? "gautran was hear to say, 'i will kill you--i will kill you!' he had threatened her before, and she lived to speak of it to her companions, and to permit him, without break or interruption in their intimacy, to continue to associate with her. what more probable than that this was one of his usual threats in his moments of passion, when he jealously believed that a rival was endeavouring to supplant him in her affections? "the handkerchief found about her neck belonged to gautran. the gift of a handkerchief among the lower classes is not uncommon, and it is frequently worn round the neck. easy, then, for any murderer to pull it tight during the commission of the crime. but apart from this, the handkerchief does not fix the crime of murder upon gautran or any other accused, for you have had it proved that the girl did not die by strangulation, but by drowning. these are bare facts, and i present them to you in bare form, without needless comment. i do not base my defence upon them, but upon what i am now about to say. "if in a case of circumstantial evidence there is reasonable cause to believe that the evidence furnished is of insufficient weight to convict; and if on the other side, on the side of the accused, evidence is adduced which directly proves, according to the best judgment we are enabled to form of human action in supreme moments--as to the course it would take and the manner in which it would be displayed--that it is almost beyond the bounds of possibility and nature that the person can have committed the deed, you have no option, unless you yourselves are bent upon judicial murder, than to acquit that person, however vile his character may be, however degraded his career and antecedents. it is evidence of this description which i intend to submit to you at the conclusion of my remarks. "the character of gautran has been exposed and laid bare in all its vileness; the minuteness of the evidence is surprising; not the smallest detail has been overlooked or omitted to complete the picture of a ferocious, ignorant, and infamous being. guilty, he deserves no mercy; innocent, he is not to be condemned because he is vile. "in the world's history there are records of countries and times in which it was the brutal fashion to bring four-footed animals to the bar of justice, there solemnly to try them for witchcraft and evil deeds; and you will find upon examination of those records of man's incredible folly and ignorance, that occasionally even these beasts of the earth--pigs and such-like--have been declared innocent of the crimes of which they have been charged. i ask no more for gautran than the principle involved in these trials. judge him, if you will, as you would an animal, but judge him in accordance with the principles of justice, which neither extenuates nor maliciously and unreasonably condemns. "the single accusation of the murder of madeline, a flower-girl, is the point to be determined, and you must not travel beyond it to other crimes and other misdeeds of which gautran may have been guilty. "it has been proved that the prisoner is possessed of great strength, that he is violent in his actions, uncontrollable in his passions, and fond of inflicting pain and prolonging it. he has not a redeeming feature in his coarse, animal nature. thwarted, he makes the person who thwarts him suffer without mercy. an appeal to his humanity would be useless--he has no humanity; when crossed, he has been seen to behave like a wild beast. all this is in evidence, and has been strongly dwelt upon as proof of guilt. most important is this evidence, and i charge you not for one moment to lose sight of it. "i come now to the depiction of the murdered girl, as it has been presented to you. pretty, admired, gentle in her manners, and poor. although the fact of a person being poor is no proof of morality, we may accept it in this instance as a proof of the girl's virtue. she was fond of life: her disposition was a happy one; she was in the habit of singing to herself. "thus we have the presentment of a young girl whose nature was joyous, and to whom life was sweet. "another important piece of evidence must be borne in mind. she possessed strength, greater strength than would have been supposed in a form so slight. this strength she would use to protect herself from injury: it has been proved that she used it successfully to protect herself from insult. in the whole of this case nothing has been more forcibly insisted upon than that she resisted her murder, and that there was a long and horrible struggle in which she received many injuries, wounds, bruises, and scratches, and in which her clothes were rent and torn. "this struggle, in the natural order of things, could not have been a silent one; accompanying the conflict there must have been outcries, frenzied appeals for mercy, screams of terror and anguish. no witness has been called who heard such sounds, and therefore it must be a fact that the murder must have been committed some time after gautran's threat, 'i will kill you, i will kill you!' was heard by persons who passed along the bank of the river in the darkness of that fatal night. time enough for gautran to have left her; time enough for another--lover or stranger--to meet her; time enough for murder by another hand than that of the prisoner who stands charged with the commission of the crime. "i assert, with all the force of my experience of human nature, that it is impossible that gautran could have committed the deed. there was a long and terrible struggle--a struggle in which the murdered girl's clothes were torn, in which her face, her hands, her arms, her neck, her sides were bruised and wounded in a hundred cruel ways. can you for one moment entertain the belief that, in this desperate fight in which two persons were engaged, only one should bear the marks of a contest so horrible? if you bring yourselves to this belief it must be by the aid of prejudice, not of reason. attend to what follows. "on the very morning after the murder, within four hours of the body being discovered in the river, gautran was arrested. he wore the same clothes he had worn for months past, the only clothes he possessed. in these clothes there was not a rent or tear, nor any indication of a recent rent having been mended. how, then, could this man have been engaged in a violent and prolonged hand-to-hand conflict? it is manifestly impossible, opposed to all reasonable conjecture, that his garments could have escaped some injury, however slight, at the hands of a girl to whom life was very sweet, who was strong and capable of resistance, and who saw before her the shadow of an awful fate. "picture to yourselves this struggle already so vividly painted, so graphically portrayed. the unhappy girl clung to her destroyer, she clutched his dress, his hands, his body in her wild despair--a despair which inspired her with strength beyond her ordinary capacity. and of still greater weight is the fact that there was not to be found on any part of gautran's body a scratch, a wound, or a bruise of any description. "what, then, becomes of the evidence of a terrible life and death struggle in which it is said he was engaged? upon this point alone the entire theory of the prosecution breaks down. the absence from gautran's clothes and person of any mark or identification of a physical contest is the strongest testimony of his innocence of this ruthless, diabolical crime; and, wretched and degraded as is the spectacle he presents, justice demands from you his acquittal. "still one other proof of his innocence remains to be spoken of; i will touch upon it lightly, but it bears a very strange aspect, as though the prosecution were fearful that its introduction would fatally injure their case. "when gautran was searched a knife was found upon him--the knife, without doubt, with which he inflicted upon the face of a comrade a wound which he will bear to the grave. throughout the whole of the evidence for the prosecution i waited and looked for the production of that knife; i expected to see upon it a blood proof of guilt. but it was not produced; no mention has been made of it. why? because there is upon its blade no mark of blood. "do you believe that a ruffian like gautran would have refrained from using his knife upon the body of his victim, to shorten the terrible struggle? even in light quarrels men in his condition of life threaten freely with their knives, and use them recklessly. to suppose that with so swift and sure a means at hand to put an end to the horrible affair, gautran, in the heat and fury of the time, refrained from availing himself of it, is to suppose a thing contrary and opposed to reason. "remember the answer given by one of the witnesses who knows the nature of the man well, when i asked him whether in his passionate moods gautran would be likely to show coolness or cunning. 'he would have no time to think; he would be carried away by his passion.' his is the nature of a brute, governed by brute laws. you are here to try, not the prisoner's general character, not his repulsive appearance, not his brutish nature, but a charge of murder of which he is accused, and of which, in the clear light of human motive and action, it is impossible he can be guilty." the advocate's speech, of which this is but a brief and imperfect summary, occupied seven hours, and was delivered throughout with a cold impressive earnestness and with an absence of passion which gradually and effectually turned the current which had set so fatally against the prisoner. the disgust and abhorrence he inspired were in no wise modified, but the advocate had instilled into the minds of his auditors the strongest doubts of gautran's guilt. two witnesses were called, one a surgeon of eminence, the other a nurse in an hospital. they deposed that there were no marks of an encounter upon the prisoner's person, that upon his skin was no abrasion, that his clothes exhibited no traces of recent tear or repair, and that it was scarcely possible he could have been engaged in a violent personal struggle. upon the conclusion of this evidence, which cross-examination did not shake, the jury asked that gautran should be examined by independent experts. this was done by thoroughly qualified men, whose evidence strengthened that of the witnesses for the defence. the jury asked, also, that the knife found upon gautran should be produced. it was brought into court, and carefully examined, and it was found that its blade was entirely free from blood-stain. the jury, astounded at the turn the affair had taken, listened attentively to the speech of the judge, who dwelt with great care upon every feature in the case. the court sat late to give its decision, and when the verdict was pronounced, gautran was a free man. free, to enjoy the sunlight, and the seasons as they passed; free, to continue his life of crime and shame; free, to murder again! book ii.--the confession. chapter i a letter from john vanbrugh for a little while gautran scarcely comprehended that he was at liberty to wander forth. he had so completely given himself up as lost that he was stupefied by the announcement that his liberty was restored to him. he gazed vacantly before him, and the announcement had to be twice repeated before he arrived at an understanding of its purport; then his attitude changed. a spasm of joy passed into his face, followed immediately by a spasm of fear; those who observed him would indeed have been amazed had they known what was passing through his mind. "free, am i?" he asked. "you have been told so twice," a warder answered. "it astonishes you. well, you are not the only one." as the warders fell from his side he watched them warily, fearing they were setting a trap which might prove his destruction. from where he stood he could not see the advocate, who was preparing to depart. distasteful as the verdict was to every person in court, with the exception of gautran and his counsel, those members of the legal profession who had not taken an active part in the trial were filled with professional admiration at the skill the advocate had displayed. an eminent member of the bar remarked to him: "it is a veritable triumph, the greatest and most surprising i have ever witnessed. none but yourself could have accomplished it. yet i cannot believe in the man's innocence." this lawyer held too high and honourable a position for the advocate to remain silent. "the man is innocent," he said. "you know him to be so?" "i know him to be so. i stake my reputation upon it." "you almost convince me. it would be fatal to any reputation were gautran, after what has passed, to be proved guilty. but that, of course, is impossible." "quite impossible," said the advocate somewhat haughtily. "exactly so. there can be no room for doubt, after your statement that you know the man to be innocent." with no wish to continue the conversation, the advocate turned to leave the court when an officer presented himself. "he wishes to speak to you, sir." "he! who?" asked the advocate. he was impatient to be gone, his interest at the trial being at an end. the victory was gained; there was nothing more to be done. "the prisoner, sir. he desired me to tell you." "the prisoner!" said the advocate. "you forget. the man is free." he walked towards gautran, and for the first time during the long days of the trial gazed directly in his client's face. the magnetism in the advocate's eyes arrested gautran's speech. his own dilated, and he appeared to forget what he had intended to say. they looked at each other in silence for a few moments, the expression on the face of the advocate cold, keen, and searching, that on the face of gautran as of a man entranced; and then the advocate turned sternly away, without a word having been spoken between them. when gautran looked again for his defender he was gone. gautran still lingered; the court was nearly empty. "be off," said the warder, who had been his chief attendant in his cell; "we have done with you for the present." but gautran made no effort to leave. the warder laid his hand upon the ruffian's shoulder, with the intention of expelling him from the court. gautran shook him off with the snarl of a wild beast. "touch me again," he cried, "and i'll strangle you! i can do it easily enough--two of you at a time!" and, indeed, so ferocious was his manner that it seemed as if he were disposed to carry his threat into execution. "women are more in your way," said the warder tauntingly. "look you, gautran; if madeline had been my daughter, your life would not be worth an hour's purchase, despite the verdict gained by your clever advocate." "you would not dare to say that to me if you and i were alone," retorted gautran, scowling at the sullen faces of the officers about him. "away with you!" exclaimed the warder, "at once, or we will throw you into the streets!" "i will go when i get my property." "what property?" "the knife you took from me when you dragged me to prison. i don't move without it." they deemed it best to comply with this demand, the right being on his side, and his knife was restored to him. it was an old knife, with a keen blade and a stout handle, and it opened and closed with a sharp click. gautran tried it three or four times with savage satisfaction and then, with another interchange of threatening glances, he slunk from the court. the advocate's carriage was at the door, ready to convey him to christian almer's villa. but after his long confinement in the close court, he felt the need of physical exercise, and he dismissed his coachman, saying he intended to walk home. as the carriage drove off, a person plucked him by the sleeve, and pressed a letter into his hand. it was dusk, and the advocate, although he looked quickly around, could not discover the giver. his sight was short and strong, and standing beneath the light of a street-lamp he opened and read the letter. "old friend, "it will doubtless surprise you to see my handwriting, it is so long since we met. the sight of it may displease you, but that is of small consequence to me. when a man is in a desperate strait, he is occasionally driven to desperate courses. when needs must, as you are aware, the devil drives. i have been but an hour in geneva, and i have heard of your victory; i congratulate you upon it. i must see you--soon. i know the house of white shadows in the pretty valley yonder. at a short distance from the gates--but far enough off, and so situated as to enable a man to hide with safety if he desires--is a hill upon which i will wait for your signal to come to you, which shall be the waving of a white handkerchief from your study window. at midnight and alone will be best. you see how ready i am to oblige you. i shall wait till sunrise for the signal. if you are too busy to-night, let it be tomorrow night, or the next, or any night this week. "i am, as ever, your friend, "john vanbrugh." the advocate placed the letter in his pocket, and murmured as he walked through the streets of geneva: "john vanbrugh! has he risen from his grave? he would see me at midnight and alone! he must be mad, or drunk, to make such a request. he may keep his vigil, undisturbed. of such a friendship there can be no renewal. the gulf that separates us is too wide to be bridged over by sentimental memories. john vanbrugh, the vagabond! i can imagine him, and the depth to which he has sunk. every man must bear the consequences of his actions. let him bear his, and make the best, or the worst, of them." chapter ii a startling interruption the news of the acquittal of gautran spread swiftly through the town, and the people gathered in front of the _cafés_ and lingered in the streets, to gaze upon the celebrated advocate who had worked the marvel. "he has a face like the sphynx," said one. "with just as much feeling," said another. "do you believe gautran was innocent?" "not i--though he made it appear so." "neither do i believe it, but i confess i am puzzled." "if gautran did not murder the girl, who did?" asked one, a waverer, who formed an exception to the general rule. "that is for the law to find out." "it was found out, and the murderer has been set loose. we shall have to take care of ourselves on dark nights." "would you condemn a man upon insufficient evidence?" "i would condemn such as gautran on any evidence. when you want to get rid of vermin it does not do to be over particular." "the law must be respected." "life must be protected. that is the first law." "hush! here he is. best not let him overhear you." there was but little diversity of opinion. even in the inn of the seven liars, to which fritz the fool--who had attended the court every day of the trial, and who had the fleetest foot of any man for a dozen miles round--had already conveyed the news of gautran's acquittal, the discussion was loud and animated; the women regarding the result as an outrage on their sex, the men more disposed to put gautran out of the question, and to throw upon the advocate the opprobrium of the verdict. "did i not tell you," said fritz, "that he could turn black into white? a great man--a great man! if we had more like him, murdering would be a fine trade." there were, doubtless, among those who thronged the streets to see the advocate pass, some sinners whose consciences tormented them, and who secretly hoped, if exposure ever overtook them, that heaven would send them such a defender. his reception, indeed, partook of the character of an ovation. these tributes to his powers made no impression upon him; he pursued his way steadily onward, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and soon the gaily-lighted shops and _cafés_ of geneva were far behind him. his thoughts were upon john vanbrugh, who had been one of his boy friends, and whom for many years he had believed to be dead. in his lonely walk to the house of white shadows he recalled the image of vanbrugh, and dwelt, with idle curiosity, upon the recollection of their youthful lives. he had determined not to see vanbrugh, and was resolved not to renew a friendship which, during its existence, had been lacking in those sterling qualities necessary for endurance. that it was pleasant while it lasted was the best that could be said of it. when he and vanbrugh grew to manhood there was a wide divergence in their paths. one walked with firm unfaltering step the road which leads to honour and renown, sparing no labour, throwing aside seductive temptation when it presented itself to him, as it did in its most alluring forms, giving all his mental might to the cause to which he had devoted himself, studying by day and night so earnestly that his bright and strong intellect became stronger and clearer, and he could scarcely miss success. only once in his younger days had he allowed himself, for a brief period, to be seduced from this path, and it was john vanbrugh who had tempted him. the other threw himself upon pleasure's tide, and, blind to earnest duty, drank the sunshine of life's springtime in draughts so intemperate that he became intoxicated with poisonous fire, and, falling into the arms of the knaves who thrive on human weakness and depravity, his moral sense, like theirs, grew warped, and he ripened into a knave himself. something of this, but not in its fulness, had reached the advocate's ears, making but small impression upon him, and exciting no surprise, for by that time his judgment was matured, and human character was an open book to him; and when, some little while afterwards, he heard that john vanbrugh was dead, he said, "he is better dead," and scarcely gave his once friend another thought. he was a man who had no pity for the weak, and no forgiveness for the erring. he walked slowly, with a calm enjoyment of the solitude and the quiet night, and presently entered a narrow lane, dotted with orchards. it was now dark, and he could not see a dozen yards before him. he was fond of darkness; it contained mysterious possibilities, he had been heard to say. there was an ineffable charm in the stillness which encompassed him, and he enjoyed it to its full. there were cottages here and there, lying back from the road, but no light or movement in them; the inmates were asleep. soft sighs proceeded from the drowsy trees, and slender boughs waved solemnly, while the only sounds from the farmyards were, at intervals, a muffled shaking of wings, and the barking of dogs whom his footsteps had aroused. as he passed a high wooden gate, through the bars of which he could dimly discern a line of tall trees standing like sentinels of the night, the perfume of limes was wafted towards him, and he softly breathed the words: "my wife!" he yielded up his senses to the thralldom of a delicious languor, in which the only image was that of the fair and beautiful woman who was waiting for him in their holiday home. had any person seen the tender light in his eyes, and heard the tone in which the words were whispered, he could not have doubted that the woman they referred to was passionately adored. not for long was he permitted to muse upon the image of a being the thought of whom appeared to transform a passionless man into an ardent lover; a harsher interruption than sweet perfume floating on a breeze recalled him to his sterner self. "stop!" "for what reason?" "the best. money!" the summons proceeded from one in whom, as his voice betrayed, the worst passions were dominant. chapter iii in the dead of night there lived not in the world a man more fearless than the advocate. at this threatening demand, which meant violence, perhaps murder, he exhibited as little trepidation as he would have done at an acquaintance asking him, in broad daylight, for a pinch of snuff. indeed, he was so perfectly unembarrassed that his voice assumed a lightness foreign to its usual serious tones. "money, my friend! how much?" "all you've got." "terse, and to the point. if i refuse?" "i am desperate. look to yourself." the advocate smiled, and purposely deepened the airiness of his tones. "this is a serious business, then?" "you'll find it so, if you trifle with me." "are you hungry?" "i am starving." "you have a powerful voice for a starving man." "don't play with me, master. i mean to have what i ask for." "how can you, if i do not possess it? how will you if, possessing it, i refuse to give it you?" the reply was a crashing blow at an overhanging branch, which broke it to the ground. it was evident that the man carried a stout weapon, and that he meant to use it, with murderous effect, if driven to extremes. they spoke at arm's-length; neither was quite within the other's grasp. "a strong argument," said the advocate, without blenching, "and a savage one. you have a staff in your hand, and, probably, a knife in your pocket." "ah, i have, and a sharp blade to it." "i thought as much. would not that do your business more effectually?" "perhaps. but i've learnt a lesson to-day about knives, which teaches me not to use mine too freely." the advocate frowned. "other scoundrels would run less risk of the gaol if their proceeding's were as logical. do you know me?" "how should i?" "it might be, then," continued the advocate, secretly taking a box of matches from his pocket, "that, like yourself, i am both a thief and a would-be murderer." as he uttered the last words he flung a lighted match straight at the man's face, and for a moment the glare revealed the ruffian's features. he staggered back, repeating the word "murderer!" in a hoarse startled whisper. the advocate strode swiftly to his side, and striking another match, held it up to his own face. "look at me, gautran," he said. the man looked up, and recognising the advocate, recoiled, muttering: "aye, aye--i see who it is." "and you would rob me, wretch!" "not now, master, not now. your voice--it was the voice of another man. i crave your pardon, humbly." "so--you recommence work early, gautran. have you not had enough of the gaol?" "more than enough. don't be hard on me, master; call me mad if you like." "mad or sane, gautran, every man is properly made accountable for his acts. take this to heart." "it won't do me any good. what is a poor wretch to do with nothing but empty pockets?" "you are a dull-witted knave, or you would be aware it is useless to lie to me. gautran, i can read your soul. you wished to speak to me in the court. here is your opportunity. say what you had to say." "give me breathing time. you've the knack of driving the thoughts clean out of a man's head. have you got a bit of something that a poor fellow can chew--the end of a cigar, or a nip of tobacco?" "i have nothing about me but money, which you can't chew, and should not have if you could. hearken, my friend. when you said you were starving, you lied to me." "how do you know it?" "fool! are there not fruit-trees here, laden with wholesome food, within any thief's grasp? your pockets at this moment are filled with fruit." "you have a gift," said gautran with a cringing movement of his body. "it would be an act of charity to put me in the way of it." "what would you purchase?" asked the advocate ironically. "gold, for wine, and pleasure, and fine clothes?" "aye, master," replied gautran with eager voice. "power, to crush those you hate, and make them smart and bleed?" "aye, master. that would be fine." "gautran, these things are precious, and have their price. what are you ready to pay for them?" "anything--anything but money!" "something of less worth--your soul?" gautran shuddered and crossed himself. "no, no," he muttered; "not that--not that!" "strange," said the advocate with a contemptuous smile, "the value we place upon an unknown quantity! we cannot bargain, friend. say now what you desire to say, and as briefly as you can." but it was some time before gautran could sufficiently recover himself to speak with composure. "i want to know," he said at length, with a clicking in his throat, "whether you've been paid for what you did for me?" "at your trial?" "aye, master." "i have not been paid for what i did for you." "when they told me yonder," said gautran after another pause, pointing in the direction of geneva, where the prison lay, "that you were to appear for me, they asked me how i managed it, but i couldn't tell them, and i'm beating my head now to find out, without getting any nearer to it. there must be a reason." "you strike a key-note, my friend." "someone has promised to pay you." "no one has promised to pay me." "you puzzle and confuse me, master. you're a stranger in geneva, i'm told." "it is true." "i've lived about here half my life. i was born in sierre. my father worked in the foundry, my mother in the fields. you are not a stranger in sierre." "i am a stranger there; i never visited the town." "my father was born in martigny. you knew my father." "i did not know your father." "my mother--her father once owned a vineyard. you knew her." "i did not know her." once more was gautran silent. what he desired now to say raised up images so terrifying that he had not the courage to give it utterance. "you are in deep shadow, my friend," said the advocate, "body and soul. shall i tell you what is in your mind?" "you can do that?" "you wish to know if i was acquainted with the unhappy girl with whose murder you were charged." "is there another in the world like you?" asked gautran, with fear in his voice. "yes, that is what i want to know." "i was not acquainted with her." gautran retreated a step or two, in positive terror. "then what," he exclaimed, "in the fiend's name made you come forward?" "at length," said the advocate, "we arrive at an interesting point in our conversation. i thank you for the opportunity you afford me in questioning my inner self. what made me come forward to the assistance of such a scoundrel? humanity? no. sympathy? no. what, then, was my motive? indeed, friend, you strike home. shall i say i was prompted by a desire to assist the course of justice--or by a contemptible feeling of vanity to engage in a contest for the simple purpose of proving myself the victor? it was something of both, mayhap. do you know, gautran, a kind of self-despisal stirs within me at the present moment? you do not understand me? i will give you a close illustration. you are a thief." "yes, master." "you steal sometimes from habit, to keep your hand in as it were, and you feel a certain satisfaction at having accomplished your theft in a workmanlike manner. we are all of us but gross and earthly patches. it is simply a question of degree, and it is because i am in an idle mood--indeed, i am grateful to you for this playful hour--that i make a confession to you which would not elevate me in the eyes of better men. you were anxious to know whether i have been paid for my services. i now acknowledge payment. i accept as my fee the recreation you have afforded me." "i shall be obliged to you, master," said gautran, "if you will leave your mysteries, and come back to my trial." "i will oblige you. i read the particulars of the case for the first time on my arrival here, and it appeared to me almost impossible you could escape conviction. it was simply that. i examined you, and saw the legal point which, villain as you are, proclaimed your innocence. that laugh of yours, gautran, has no mirth in it. i am beginning to be dangerously shaken. i will do, i said then, for this wretch what i believe no other man can do. i will perform a miracle." "you have done it!" cried gautran, falling on his knees in a paroxysm of fear, and kissing the advocate's hand, which was instantly snatched away. "you are great--you are the greatest! you knew the truth!" "the truth!" echoed the advocate, and his face grew ashen white. "aye, the truth--and you were sent to save me. you can read the soul; nothing is hidden from you. but you have not finished your work. you can save me entirely--you can, you can! oh, master, finish your work, and i will be your slave to the last hour of my life!" "save you! from what?" demanded the advocate. he was compelled to exercise great control over himself, for a horror was stealing upon him. the trembling wretch rose, and pointed to the opposite roadside. "from shadows--from dreams--from the wild eyes of madeline! look there--look there!" the advocate turned in the direction of gautran's outstretched trembling hand. a pale light was coining into the sky, and weird shadows were on the earth. "what are you gazing on?" "you ask me to torture me," moaned gautran. "she dogs me like my shadow--i cannot shake her off! i have threatened her, but she does not heed me. she is waiting--there--there--to follow me when i am alone--to put her arms about me--to breathe upon my face, and turn my heart to ice! if i could hold her, i would tear her piecemeal! you _must_ have known her, you who can read what passes in a man's soul--you who knew the truth when you came to me in my cell! she will not obey me, but she will you. command her, compel her to leave me, or she will drive me mad!" with amazing strength the advocate placed his hands on gautran's shoulders, and twisted the man's face so close to his own that not an inch of space divided them. their eyes met, gautran's wavering and dilating with fear, the advocate's fixed and stern, and with a fire in them terrible to behold. "recall," said the advocate, in a clear voice that rang through the night like a bell, "what passed between you and madeline on the last night of her life. speak!" chapter iv the confession "i sought her in the quartier st. gervais," said i gautran, speaking like a man in a dream, "and found her at eight o'clock in the company of a man. i watched them, and kept out of their sight. "he was speaking to her softly, and some things he said to her made her smile; and every time she showed her white teeth i swore that she should be mine and mine alone. they remained together for an hour, and then they parted, he going one way, madeline another. "i followed her along the banks of the river, and when no one was near us i spoke to her. she was not pleased with my company, and bade me leave her, but i replied that i had something particular to say to her, and did not intend to go till it was spoken. "it was a dark night; there was no moon. "i told her i had been watching her, and that i knew she had another lover. 'do you mean to give me up?' i said, and she answered that she had never accepted me, and that after that night she would never see me again. i said it might happen, and that it might be the last night we should ever see each other. she asked me if i was going away, and i said no, it might be her that was going away on the longest journey she had ever taken. 'what journey?' she asked, and i answered, a journey with death for the coachman, for i had sworn a dozen times that night that if she would not swear upon her cross to be true and faithful to me, i would kill her. "i said it twice, and some persons passed and turned to look at us, but there was not light enough to see us clearly. "madeline would have cried to them for help, but i held my hand over her mouth, and whispered that if she uttered a word it would be her last, and that she need not be frightened, for i loved her too well to do her any harm. "but when we were alone again, and no soul was near us, i told her again that as sure as there was a sky above us i would kill her, unless she swore to give up her other lover, and be true to me. she said she would promise, and she put her little hand in mine and pressed it, and said: "'gautran, i will be only yours; now let us go back.' "but i told her it was not enough; that she must kneel, and swear upon the holy cross that she would have nothing to do with any man but me. i forced her upon her knees, and knelt by her side, and put the cross to her lips; and then she began to sob and tremble. she dared not put her soul in peril, she said; she did not love me--how could she swear to be true to me? "i said it was that or death, and that it would be the blackest hour of my life to kill her, but that i meant to do it if she would not give in to me. i asked her for the last time whether she would take the oath, and she said she daren't. then i told her to say a prayer, for she had not five minutes to live. she started to her feet and ran along the bank. i ran after her, and she stumbled and fell to the ground, and before she could escape me again i had her in my arms to fling her into the river. "she did not scratch or bite me, but clung to me, and her tears fell all about my face. i said to her: "'you love me, kissing me so; swear then; it is not too late!' "but she cried: "no, no! i kiss you so that you may not have the heart to kill me!' "soon she got weak, and her arms had no power in them, and i lifted her high in the air, and flung her far from me into the river. "i waited a minute or two, and thought she was dead, but then i heard a bubbling and a scratching, and, looking down, saw that by a miracle she had got back to the river's brink, and that there was yet life in her. i pulled her out, and she clung to me in a weak way, and whispered, nearly choked the while, that the virgin mary would not let me kill her. "will you take the oath?' i asked, and she shook her head from side to side. "'no! no! no!' "i took my handkerchief, and tied it tight round her neck, and she smiled in my face. then i lifted her up, and threw her into the river again. "i saw her no more that night!" * * * * * * the advocate removed his eyes, with a shudder, from the eyes of the wretch who had made this horrible confession, and who now sank to the ground, quivering in every limb, crying: "save me, master, save me!" "monster!" exclaimed the advocate. "live and die accursed!" but the terror-stricken man did not hear the words, and the advocate, upon whose features, during gautran's narration, a deep gloom had settled, strode swiftly from him through the peaceful narrow lane, fragrant with the perfume of limes, at the end of which the lights in the house of white shadows were shining a welcome to him. book iii.--the grave of honour. chapter i preparations for a visitor at noon the same day the old housekeeper, mother denise, and her pretty granddaughter dionetta were busily employed setting in order and arranging the furniture in a suite of rooms intended for an expected visitor. there were but two floors in the house of white shadows, and the rooms in which mother denise and dionetta were busy were situated on the upper floor. "i think they will do now," said mother denise, wiping imaginary dust away with her apron. "all but the flowers." said dionetta. "no, grandmother, that desk is wrong; it is my lady's own desk, and is to be placed exactly in this corner, by the window. there--it is right now. be sure that everything is in its proper place, and that the rooms are sweet and bright--be sure--be sure! she has said that twenty times this week." "ah," said mother denise testily, "as if butterflies could teach bees how to work! my lady is turning your head, dionetta, it is easy to see that; she has bewitched half the people in the village. here is father, with the flowers. haste, martin, haste!" "easy to say, hard to do," grumbled martin, entering slowly with a basket of cut flowers. "my bones get more obstinate every day. here's my lady been teasing me out of my life to cut every flower worth looking at. she would have made the garden a wilderness, and spoilt every bed, if i had not argued with her." "and what did she say," asked mother denise, "when you argued with her?" "say? smiled, and showed all her white teeth at once. i never saw such teeth in my young days, nor such eyes, nor such hair, nor such hands--enough to drive a young man crazy." "or an old one either," interrupted mother denise. "she smiled as sweet as honey--you silly old man--and wheedled you, and wheedled you, till she got what she wanted." "pretty well, pretty well. you see, dionetta, there are two ways of getting a thing done, a soft way and a hard way." "there, there, there!" cried mother denise impatiently. "do your work with a still tongue, and let us do ours. get back to the garden, and repair the mischief my lady has caused you to do. what does a man want with a room full of roses?" she muttered, when martin, quick to obey his domestic tyrant, had gone. "it is a welcome home," said dionetta. "if i were absent from my place a long, long while, it would make me feel glad when i returned, to see my rooms as bright as this. it is as though the very roses remembered you." "you are young," said mother denise, "and your thoughts go the way of roses. i can't blame you, dionetta." "it was ten years since the master was here, you have told me, grandmother." "yes, dionetta, yes, ten years ago this summer, and even then he did not sleep in the house. christian almer hates the place, and of all the rooms in the villa, this is the room he would be most anxious to avoid." "but why, grandmother?" asked dionetta, her eyes growing larger and rounder with wonder; "and does my lady know it?" "my lady is a headstrong woman; she would not listen to me when i advised her to select other rooms for the young master, and she declares--in a light way to be sure, but these are not things to make light of--that she is very disappointed to find that the villa is not haunted. haunted! i have never seen anything, nor has martin, nor you, dionetta." "oh, grandmother!" said the girl, in a timid voice, "i don't know whether i have or not. sometimes i have fancied----" "of course you have fancied, and that is all; and you have woke up in the night, and been frightened by nothing. mark me, dionetta, if you do no wrong, and think no wrong, you will never see anything of the white shadows of this house." "i am certain," said dionetta, more positively, "when i have been almost falling asleep, that i have heard them creeping, creeping past the door. i have listened to them over and over again, without daring to move in bed. indeed i have." "i am certain," retorted mother denise, "that you have heard nothing of the kind. you are a foolish, silly girl to speak of such things. you put me quite out of patience, child." "but fritz says----" "fritz is a fool, a cunning, lazy fool. if i were the owner of this property i would pack him off. there's no telling which master he serves--christian almer or master pierre lamont. he likes his bread buttered on both sides, and accepts money from both gentlemen. that is not the conduct of a faithful servant. if i acted in such a manner i should consider myself disgraced." "i am sure," murmured dionetta, "that fritz has done nothing to disgrace himself." "let those who are older than you," said mother denise, in a sharp tone, "be judges of that. fritz is good for nothing but to chatter like a magpie and idle round the place from morning to night. when there's work to do, as there has been this week, carrying furniture and moving heavy things about, he must run away to the city, to the court-house where that murderer is being tried. dionetta, i am not in love with the advocate or his lady. the advocate is trying to get a murderer off; it may be the work of a clever man, but it is not the work of a good man. if i had a son, i would sooner have him good than clever; and i would sooner you married a good man than a clever one, i hope you are not thinking of marrying a fool." "oh, grandmother, whoever thinks of marrying?" "not you, of course, child--would you have me believe that? when i was your age i thought of nothing else, and when you are my age you will see the folly of it. no, i am not in love with the advocate. he is performing unholy work down there in geneva. the priest says as much. if that murderer escapes from justice, the guilt of blood will weigh upon the advocate's soul." "oh, grandmother! if my lady heard you she would never forgive you." "if she hears it, it will not be from my tongue. dionetta, it was a young girl who was murdered, about the same age as yourself. it might have been you--ah, you may well turn white--and this clever lawyer, this stranger it is, who comes among us to prevent justice being done upon a murderous wretch. he will be punished for it, mark my words." dionetta, who knew how useless it was to oppose her grandmother's opinions, endeavoured to change the subject by saying: "tell me, grandmother, why mr. almer should be more anxious to avoid this room than any other room in the house? i think it is the prettiest of all." mother denise did not reply. she looked round her with the air of a woman recalling a picture of long ago. "the story connected with this part of the house," she presently said, "gave to the villa the name of the house of white shadows. you are old enough to hear it. let me see, let me see. christian almer is now thirty-one years old--yes, thirty-one on his last birthday. how time passes! i remember well the day he was born----" "hush, grandmother," said dionetta, holding up her hand. "my lady." the advocate's wife had entered the room quietly, and was regarding the arrangements with approval. "it is excellently done," she said, "exactly as i wished. dionetta, it was you who arranged the flowers?" "yes, my lady." "you have exquisite taste, really exquisite. mother denise, i am really obliged to you." "i have done nothing," said mother denise, "that it was not my duty to do." "such an unpleasant way of putting it; for there is a way of doing things----" "just what grandfather said," cried dionetta, gleefully, "a hard way and a soft way." and then becoming suddenly aware of her rudeness in interrupting her mistress, she curtsied, and with a bright colour in her face, said, "i beg your pardon, my lady." "there's no occasion, child," said adelaide graciously. "grandfather is quite right, and everything in this room has been done beautifully." she held a framed picture in her hand, a coloured cabinet photograph of herself, and she looked round the walls to find a place for it. "this will do," she said, and she took down the picture of a child which hung immediately above her desk, and put her own in its stead. "it is nice," she said to mother denise, smiling, "to see the faces of old friends about us. mr. almer and i are very old friends." "the picture you have taken down," said mother denise, "is of christian almer when he was a child." "indeed! how old was he then?" "five years, my lady." "he was a handsome boy. his hair and eyes are darker now. you were speaking of him, mother denise, as i entered. you were saying he was thirty-one last birthday, and that you remember the day he was born." "yes, my lady." "and you were about to tell dionetta why this villa was called the house of white shadows. give me the privilege of hearing the story." "i would rather not relate it, my lady." "nonsense, nonsense! if dionetta may hear it, there can be no objection to me. mr. almer would be quite angry if he knew you refused me so simple a thing. listen to what he says in his last letter," and adelaide took a letter from her pocket, and read: "'mother denise, the housekeeper, and the most faithful servant of the house, will do everything in her power to make you comfortable and happy. she will carry out your wishes to the letter--tell her, if necessary, that it is my desire, and that she is to refuse you nothing.' now, you dear old soul, are you satisfied?" "well, my lady, if you insist----" "of course i insist, you dear creature. i am sure there is no one in the village who can tell a story half as well as you. come and stand by me, dionetta, for fear of ghosts." she seated herself before the desk, upon which she laid the picture of the lad, and mother denise, who was really by no means loth to recall old reminiscences, and who, as she proceeded, derived great enjoyment herself from her narration, thus commenced: chapter ii a love story of the past "i was born in this house, my lady; my mother was housekeeper here before me. i am sixty-eight years old, and i have never slept a night away from the villa; i hope to die here. until your arrival the house has not been inhabited for more than twenty years. i dare say if mr. christian almer, the present master, had the power to sell the estate, he would have done so long ago, but he is bound by his father's will not to dispose of it while he lives. so it has been left to our care all these years. "christian almer's father lived here, and courted his young wife here; a very beautiful lady. that is her portrait hanging on the wall. it was painted by m. gabriel, and is a faithful likeness of mr. christian almer's mother. his father, perhaps he may have told you, was a distinguished author; there are books upon the library shelves written by him. i will speak of him, if you please, as mr. almer, and my present master i will call master christian; it will make the story easier to tell. "when mr. almer came into his property, which consisted of this villa and many houses and much land in other parts, all of which have been sold--this is the only portion of the old estates which remains in the family--there were at least twenty servants employed here. he was fond of passing days and nights shut up with his books and papers, but he liked to see company about him. he had numerous friends and acquaintances, and money was freely spent; he would invite a dozen, twenty at a time, who used to come and go as they pleased, living in the house as if it were their own. mr. almer and his friends understood each other, and the master was seldom intruded upon. in his solitude he was very, very quiet, but when he came among his guests he was full of life and spirits. he seemed to forget his books, and his studies, and it was hard to believe he was the same gentleman who appeared to be so happy when he was in solitude. he was a good master, and although he appeared to pay no attention to what was passing around him, there was really very little that escaped his notice. "at the time i speak of he was not a young man; he was forty-five years of age, and everybody wondered why he did not marry. he laughed, and shook his head when it was mentioned, and said sometimes that he was too old, sometimes that he was happy enough with his books, sometimes that if a man married without loving and being loved he deserved every kind of misfortune that could happen to him; and then he would say that, cold as he might appear, he worshipped beauty, and that it was not possible he could marry any but a young and beautiful woman. i have heard the remark made to him that the world was full of young and beautiful women, and have heard him reply that it was not likely one would fall at the feet of a man of his age. "my mother and i were privileged servants--my mother had been his nurse, and he had an affection for her--so that we had opportunities of hearing and knowing more than the others. "one summer there came to the villa, among the visitors, an old gentleman and his wife, and their daughter. the young lady's name was beatrice. "she was one of the brightest beings i have ever beheld, with the happiest face and the happiest laugh, and a step as light as a fairy's. i do not know how many people fell in love with her--i think all who saw her. my master, mr. almer, was one of these, but, unlike her other admirers, he shunned rather than followed her. he shut himself up with his books for longer periods, and took less part than ever in the gaieties and excursions which were going on day after day. no one would have supposed that her beauty and her winning ways had made any impression upon him. "it is not for me to say whether the young lady, observing this, as she could scarcely help doing, resolved to attract him to her. when we are young we act from impulse, and do not stop to consider consequences. it happened, however, and she succeeded in wooing him from his books. but there was no love-making on his part, as far as anybody could see, and his conduct gave occasion for no remarks; but i remember it was spoken of among the guests that the young lady was in love with our master, and we all wondered what would come of it. "soon afterwards a dreadful accident occurred. "the gentlemen were out riding, and were not expected home till evening, but they had not been away more than two hours before mr. almer galloped back in a state of great agitation. he sought mdlle. beatrice's mother, and communicated the news to her, in a gentle manner you may be sure. her husband had been thrown from his horse, and was being carried to the villa dreadfully hurt and in a state of insensibility. mr. almer's great anxiety was to keep the news from mdlle. beatrice, but he did not succeed. she rushed into the room and heard all. "she was like one distracted. she flew out of the villa in her white dress, and ran along the road the horsemen had taken. her movements were so quick that they could not stop her, but mr. almer ran after her, and brought her back to the house in a fainting condition. a few minutes afterwards the old gentleman was brought in, and the house was a house of mourning. no dancing, no music, no singing; all was changed; we spoke in whispers, and moved about slowly, just as if a funeral was about to take place. the doctors gave no hopes; they said he might linger in a helpless state for weeks, but that it was impossible he could recover. "of course this put an end to all the festivities, and one after another the guests took their departure, until in a little while the only visitors remaining were the family upon whom such a heavy blow had fallen. "mr. almer no longer locked himself up in his study, but devoted the whole of his time to mdlle. beatrice and her parents. he asked me to wait upon mdlle. beatrice, and to see that her slightest wish was gratified. i found her very quiet and very gentle; she spoke but little, and the only thing she showed any obstinacy in was in insisting upon sitting by her father's bedside a few hours every day. i had occasion, not very long afterwards, to learn that when she set her mind upon a thing, it was not easy to turn her from it. these gentle, delicate creatures, sometimes, are capable of as great determination as the strongest man. "'denise,' said mr. almer to me, 'the doctors say that if mdlle. beatrice does not take exercise she will herself become seriously ill. prevail upon her to enjoy fresh air: walk with her in the garden an hour or so every day, and amuse her with light talk; a nature like hers requires sunshine.' "i did my best to please mr. almer; the weather was fine, and not a day passed that mdlle. beatrice did not walk with me in the grounds. and here mr. almer was in the habit of joining us. when he came, i fell back, and he and mdlle. beatrice walked side by side, sometimes arm in arm, and i a few yards behind. "i could not help noticing the wonderful kindness of his manner towards her; it was such as a father might show for a daughter he loved very dearly. 'well, well!' i thought. i seemed to see how it would all end, and i believed it would be a good ending, although there were such a number of years between them--he forty-five, and she seventeen. "a month passed in this way, and the old gentleman's condition became so critical that we expected every moment to hear of his death. the accident had deprived him of his senses, and it was only two days before his death that his mind became clear. then a long private interview took place between him and mr. almer, which left my master more than ever serious, and more than ever gentle towards mdlle. beatrice. "i was present when the old gentleman died. he had lost the power of speech; his wife was sitting by his bedside holding his hand; his daughter was on her knees with her face buried in the bed-clothes; mr. almer was standing close, looking down upon them; i was at the end of the room waiting to attend upon mdlle. beatrice. she was overwhelmed with grief, but her mother's trouble, it appeared to me, was purely selfish. she seemed to be thinking of what would become of her when her husband was gone. the dying gentleman suddenly looked into my master's face, and then turned his eyes upon his daughter, and my master inclined his head gravely, as though he was answering a question. a peaceful expression came upon the sufferer's face, and in a very little while he breathed his last." here mother denise paused and broke off in her story, saying: "i did not know it would take so long a-telling; i have wearied you, my lady." "indeed not," said the advocate's wife; "i don't know when i have been so much interested. it is just like reading a novel. i am sure there is something startling to come. you must go on to the end, mother denise, if you please." "with your permission, my lady," said mother denise, and smoothing down her apron, she continued the narrative. chapter iii a mother's treachery "two days after mdlle. beatrice's father was buried, mr. almer said to me: "'denise, i am compelled to go away on business, and i shall be absent a fortnight at least. i leave mdlle. beatrice in your care. as a mark of faithful service to me, be sure that nothing is left undone to comfort both her and her mother in their great trouble.' "i understood without his telling me that it was really mdlle. beatrice he was anxious about; everyone who had any experience of the old lady knew that she was very well able to take care of herself. "on the same day a long conversation took place between my master and the widow, and before sundown he departed. "it got to be known that he had gone to look after the affairs of the gentleman who died here, and that the ladies, instead of being rich, as we had supposed them to be, were in reality very poor, and likely to be thrown upon the world in a state of poverty, unless they accepted assistance from mr. almer. they were much worse off than poor people; having been brought up as ladies, they could do nothing to help themselves. "while mr. almer was away, mdlle. beatrice and i became almost friends, i may say. she took great notice of me, and appeared to be glad to have me with her. the poor young lady had no one else, for there was not much love lost between her and her mother. the selfish old lady did nothing but bewail her own hard fate, and spoke to her daughter as if the young lady could have nothing to grieve at in being deprived of a father's love. "but sorrow does not last forever, my lady, even with the old, and the young shake it off much more readily. so it was, to my mind, quite natural, when mr. almer returned, which he did after an absence of fifteen days, that he should find mdlle. beatrice much more cheerful than when he left. he was pleased to say that it was my doing, and that i should have no cause to regret it to the last day of my life. i had done so little that the great store he set upon it made me think more and more of the ending to it all. there could be but one natural ending, a marriage, and yet never for one moment had i seen him conduct himself toward mdlle. beatrice as a lover. he brought bad news back with him, and when he communicated it to the old lady she walked about the grounds like a distracted person, moaning and wringing her hands. "i got to know about it, through my young lady. we were out walking in the lanes when we overtook two wretched-looking women, one old and one young. they were in rags, and their white faces and slow, painful steps, as they dragged one foot after another, would have led anybody to suppose that they had not eaten a meal for days. they were truly misery's children. "mdlle. beatrice asked in a whisper, as they turned and looked pitifully at her: "'who are they, denise?' "'they are beggars,' i answered. "she took out her purse, and spoke to them, and gave them some money. they thanked her gratefully, and crawled away, mdlle. beatrice looking after them with an expression of thoughtfulness and curiosity in her lovely face. "denise,' she said presently, 'mr. almer, who, before my father's death, promised to look after his affairs, has told us we are beggars.' "i was very, very sorry to hear it, but i could not reconcile the appearance of the bright young creature standing before me with that of the wretched beings who had just left us; and although she spoke gravely, and said the news was shocking, she did not seem to feel it as much as her words would have led one to believe. it was a singular thing, my lady, that mdlle. beatrice wore black for her father for only one day. there was quite a scene between her and her mother on the subject, but the young lady had her way, and only wore her black dress for a few hours. "'i hate it,' she said; 'it makes me feel as if i were dead.' "i am sure it was not because she did not love her father that she refused to put on mourning for him. never, except on that one day, did i see her wear any dress but white, and the only bits of colour she put on were sometimes a light pink or a light blue ribbon. that is how it got to be said, when she was seen from a distance walking in the grounds: "'she looks like a white shadow.' "so when she told me she was a beggar, and stood before me, fair and beautiful, dressed in soft white, with a pink ribbon at her throat, and long coral earrings in her ears, i could not understand how it was possible she could be what she said. it was true, though; she and her mother had not a franc, and mr. almer, who brought the news, did not seem to be sorry for it. the widow cried for days and days--did nothing but cry and cry, but that, of course, could not go on forever, and in time she became, to all appearance, consoled. no guests were invited to the villa, and my master was alone with mdlle. beatrice and her mother. "it seemed to me, after a time, that he made many attempts to get back into his old groove; but he was not his own master, and could not do as he pleased. now it was mdlle. beatrice who wanted him, now it was her mother, and as they were in a measure dependent upon him he could not deny himself to them. he might have done so had they been rich; he could not do so as they were poor. i soon saw that when mdlle. beatrice intruded herself upon him it was at the instigation of her mother, and that, had she consulted her own inclination, she would have retired as far into the background as he himself desired to be. the old lady, however, had set her heart upon a scheme, and she left no stone unturned to bring it about. oh, she was cunning and clever, and they were not a match for her, neither her daughter, who knew nothing of the world, nor mr. almer, who, deeply read as he was, and clever, and wise in many things, knew as little of worldly ways as the young lady he loved and was holding aloof from. for this was clear to me and to others, though i dare say our master had no idea that his secret was known--indeed, that it was common talk. "one morning i had occasion to go into geneva to purchase things for the house, which i was to bring back with me in the afternoon. as i was stepping into the waggon, mdlle. beatrice came out of the gates and said: "'denise, will you pass the post-office in geneva?' "'yes, mademoiselle,' i replied. "'here is a letter,' she then said, 'i have just written, and i want it posted there at once. will you do it for me?' "'certainly i will,' i said, and i took the letter. "'be sure you do not forget, denise,' she said, as she turned away. "'i will not forget, mademoiselle,' i said. "there was no harm in looking at the envelope; it was addressed to a m. gabriel. i was not half a mile on the road to geneva before i heard coming on behind me very fast the wheels of a carriage. we drove aside to let it pass; it was one of our own carriages, and the old lady was in it. "'ah, denise,' she said, are you going to geneva?' "'yes, my lady.' "'i shall be there an hour before you; i am going to the post-office to get some letters.' as she said that i could not help glancing at the letter mdlle. beatrice had given me, which i held in my hand for safety. 'it is a letter my daughter has given you to post,' she said. "'yes, my lady,' i could say nothing else. "'give it to me,' she said, 'i know she wants it posted immediately. it does not matter who posts a letter.' "she said this impatiently and haughtily, for i think i was hesitating. however, i could do nothing but give her the letter, and as i did not suspect anything wrong i said nothing of the adventure to mdlle. beatrice, especially as she did not speak of the letter to me. had she done so, i might have explained that her mother had taken it from me to post, and quite likely--although i hope i am mistaken--the strange and dreadful events that occurred before three years passed by might have been avoided. "'the old lady was very civil to me after this, and would continually question me about my master. "'he has a great deal of property?' she asked. "'yes, madame.' "'he is very rich, denise?' "'yes, madame.' "'and comes from an old family?' "'yes, madame.' "'it is a pity he writes books; but he is highly respected, is he not, denise?' "'no gentleman stands higher, madame.' "'his nature, denise--though it is exceedingly wrong in me to ask, for i have had experience of it--his nature is very kind?' "'very kind, madame, and very noble.' "a hundred questions of this kind were put to me, sometimes when the young lady was present, sometimes when the mother and i were alone. while this was going on, i often noticed that mdlle. beatrice came from her mother's room in great agitation. from a man these signs can be hidden; from a woman, no; man is too often blind to the ways of women. i am sure mr. almer knew nothing of what was passing between mother and daughter; but even if he had known he would not have understood the meaning of it--i did not at the time. "well, all at once the old lady made her appearance among us with a face in which the greatest delight was expressed. she talked to the servants quite graciously, and nodded and smiled, and didn't know what to do to show how amiable she was. 'what a change in the weather!' we all said. the reason was soon forthcoming. our master and her daughter were engaged to be married. "we were none of us sorry; we all liked mdlle. beatrice, and it was sad to think that a good old race would die out if mr. almer remained single all the days of his life. yes, we talked over the approaching marriage, as did everybody in the village, with real pleasure, and if good feeling and sincere wishes could bring happiness, mr. almer and his young and beautiful wife that was to be could not have failed to enjoy it. "'it is true, mademoiselle, is it not?' i asked of her. 'i may congratulate you?' "'i am engaged to be married to mr. almer,' she said, 'if that is what you mean.' "'you will have a good man for your husband, mademoiselle,' i said; 'you will be very happy.' "but here was something in her manner that made me hope the approaching change in her condition would not make her proud. it was cold and distant--different from the way she had hitherto behaved to me. "so the old house was gay again; improvements and alterations were made, and very soon we were thronged with visitors, who came and went, and laughed and danced, as though life were a perpetual holiday. "but mdlle. beatrice was not as light-hearted as before; she moved about more slowly, and with a certain sadness. it was noticed by many. i thought, perhaps, that the contemplation of the change in her life made her more serious, or that she had not yet recovered the shock of her father's death. the old lady was in her glory, ordering here and ordering there, and giving herself such airs that one might have supposed it was she who was going to get married, and not her daughter. "mr. almer gave mdlle. beatrice no cause for disquiet; he was entirely and most completely devoted to her, and i am sure that no other woman in the world ever had a more faithful lover. he watched her every step, and followed her about with his eyes in a way that would have made any ordinary woman proud. as for presents, he did not know how to do enough for the beautiful girl who was soon to be his wife. i never saw such beautiful jewelry as he had made for her, and he seemed to be continually studying what to do to give her pleasure. if ever a woman ought to have been happy, she ought to have been." chapter iv husband and wife "well, they were married, and the day was never forgotten in the village. mr. almer made everybody merry, the children, the grown-up people, the poor, and the well-to-do. new dresses, ribbons, flags, flowers, music and feasting from morning to night--there was never seen anything like it. the bride, in her white dress and veil, was as beautiful as an angel, and mr. almer's face had a light in it such as i had never seen before--it shone with pride, and joy, and happiness. "in the afternoon they departed on their honeymoon tour, and the old lady was left mistress of the villa during the absence of the newly-married pair. she exercised her authority in a way that was not pleasing to us. no wonder, therefore, that we looked upon her with dislike, and spoke of it as an evil day when she came among us; but that did not lessen our horror at an accident which befell her, and which led to her death. "mr. and mrs. almer had been absent barely three weeks when the old lady going into a distant part of the grounds where workmen were employed in building up some rocks to serve as an artificial waterfall, fell into a pit, and was so frightfully bruised and shaken that, when she was taken up, the doctors declared she could not live another twenty-four hours. letters were immediately sent off to mr. almer, but there was no chance of his receiving them before the unfortunate old lady breathed her last. we did everything we could for her, and she took it into her head that she would have no one to attend to her but me. "'my daughter is fond of you,' she said on her deathbed, 'and will be pleased that i have chosen you before the other servants. keep them all away from me.' "it was many hours before she could be made to believe that there was no hope for her, and when the conviction was forced upon her, she cried, in a tone of great bitterness: "'this is a fatal house! first my husband--now me! will beatrice be the next?' "and then she bemoaned her hard fate that she should have to die just at the time that a life of pleasure was spread before her. yes, she spoke in that way, just as if she was a young girl, instead of an old woman with white hair. a life of pleasure! do some people never think of another life, a life of rewards and punishments, according to their actions in this world? the old lady was one of these, i am afraid. three or four hours before she died she said she must speak to me quite alone, and the doctors accordingly left the room. "'i want you to tell me the truth, denise,' she said; i had to place my ear quite close to her lips to hear her. "'i will tell you,' i said. "'it would be a terrible sin to deceive a dying woman,' she said. "i answered i knew it was, and i would not deceive her. "'beatrice ought to be happy,' she said; 'i have done my best to make her so--against her own wishes! but is it likely she should know better than her mother? you believe she will be happy, do you not, denise?' "i replied that i could not doubt it; that she had married a good man, against whom no person could breathe a word, a man who commanded respect, and who was looked upon by the poor as a benefactor--as indeed he was. "'that is what i thought,' said the dying woman; 'that is what i told her over and over again. a good man, a kind man, a rich man, very rich man! and then we were under obligations to him; had beatrice refused him he might have humiliated us. there was no other way to repay him.' "i could not help saying to her then that when mr. almer rendered a service to anyone he did not look for repayment. "'ah,' she said impatiently, 'but we are of noble descent, and we never receive a favour without returning it. all i thought of was my daughter's happiness. and there was the future--hers as well as mine--it was dreadful to look forward to. denise, did my daughter ever complain to you?' "'never!' i answered. "'did she ever say i was a hard mother to her--that i was leading her wrong--that i was selfish, and thought only of myself? did she? answer me truly.' "'never,' i said, and i wondered very much to hear her speak in that way. 'she never spoke a single word against you. if she had any such thoughts it would not have been proper for her to have confided them to me. i am only a servant.' "'that is true,' she muttered. 'beatrice has pride--yes, thank god, she has pride, and if she suffers can suffer in silence. but why should she suffer? she has everything--everything! i torment myself without cause. you remember the letter my daughter gave you to post--the one to m. gabriel?' "'yes, madame; you took it from me on the road. i hope i did not do wrong in parting with it. mademoiselle beatrice desired me to post it with my own hands.' "'you did right,' she said. 'it does not matter who posts a letter. you did not tell my daughter i took it from you?' "'no, madame.' "'you are faithful and judicious,' she said, but her praise gave me no pleasure. 'if i had lived i would have rewarded you. you must not repeat to my daughter or to mr. almer what i have been saying to you. promise me.' "i gave her the promise, and then she said that perhaps she would give me a message to deliver to her daughter, her last message; but she must think of it first, and if she forgot it i was to ask her for it. after that she was quiet, and spoke to no one. a couple of hours passed, and i asked the doctors whether she had long to live. they said she could not live another hour. i then told them that she had asked me to remind her of a message she wished me to give to her daughter, and whether it was right i should disturb her. they said that the wishes of the dying should be respected, and that i should try to make her understand that death was very near. i put my face again very close to hers. "'can you hear me?' i asked. "'who are you?' she said. "her words were but a breath, and i could only understand them by watching the movements of her lips. "'i am denise.' "'ah, yes,' she replied. 'denise, that my daughter is fond of.' "'you wished to give me a message to your daughter.' "'i don't know what it was. i have done everything for the best--yes, everything. and she was foolish enough to rebel, and to tell me that i might live to repent my work; but see how wrong she was. and presently she said: 'denise, when my daughter comes home ask her to forgive me.' "these were her last words. before the sun rose the next morning she was dead. "mr. and mrs. almer arrived at the villa before she was buried. it was a shocking interruption to their honeymoon, and their appearance showed how much they suffered. it was as if the whole course of their lives had been turned; tears took the place of smiles, sorrow of joy. and how different was the appearance of the village! no feasting, no music and dancing; everybody was serious and sad. "and all within one short month! "i gave mrs. almer her mother's dying message. when she heard the words such a smile came upon her lips as i hope never again to see upon a human face, it was so bitterly scornful and despairing. "'it is too late for forgiveness,' she said, and not another word passed between us on the subject. "mrs. almer did not wear mourning for her mother, nor did her husband wish her to do so. i remember his saying to her: "with some races, white is the emblem of mourning; not for that reason, beatrice, but because it so well becomes you, i like you best in white.' "now, as time went on, we all thought that the sadness which weighed upon mrs. almer's heart, and which seemed to put lead into her feet, would naturally pass away, but weeks and months elapsed, and she remained the same. there used to be colour in her cheeks; it was all gone now--her face was as white as milk. her eyes used to sparkle and brighten, but now there was never to be seen any gladness in them; and she, who used to smile so often, now smiled no more. she moved about like one who was walking slowly to her grave. "mr. almer made great efforts to arouse her, but she met him with coldness, and when he spoke to her she simply answered 'yes' or 'no,' and she did nothing whatever to make his home cheerful and happy. "this weighed upon his spirits, as it would upon the spirits of any man, and during those times i often saw him gazing upon her from a distance, when she was walking in the grounds, with a look in his eyes which denoted how troubled he was. then, as if some thought had suddenly occurred to him, he would join her, and endeavour to entice her into conversation; but she answered him only when she was compelled, and he became so chilled by her manner that soon he would himself grow silent, and they would pace the garden round and round for an hour together in the most complete silence. it hurt one to see it. they were never heard to quarrel, and the little they said to each other was said in a gentle way; but that seemed to make matters worse. much better to have spoken outright, so that they might have known what was in each other's minds. a storm now and then is naturally good; it clears the air, and the sun always shines when it is over; but here a silent storm was brooding which never burst, and the only signs of it were seen in the sad faces of those who were suffering, and who did not deserve to suffer. "imagine what the house was, my lady, and how we all felt, who loved our master, and would have loved our lady too, if she had allowed us. cold as she was to us, we could not help pitying her. for my own part i used to think i would rather live in a hut with a quarrelsome husband who would beat and starve me, than lead such a life as my master and mistress were leading. "once more, after many months has passed in this dreadful way, my master suddenly resolved to make another attempt to alter things for the better. he locked up his study, and courted his wife with the perseverance and the love of a lover. it was really so, my lady. he gathered posies for her, and placed them on her desk and dressing-table; he spoke cheerfully to her, taking no apparent notice of her silence and reserve; he strove in a thousand little delicate ways to bring pleasure into her life. "'we will ride out to-day,' he would say. "'very well,' she would answer. "he would assist her into the saddle, and they would ride away, they two alone, he animated by but one desire--to make her happy; and they would return after some hours, the master with an expression of suffering in his face which he would strive in vain to hide, and she, sad, resigned, and uncomplaining. but that silence of hers! that voice so seldom heard, and, when heard, so gentle, and soft, and pathetic! i would rather have been beaten with an oak stick every day of my life than have been compelled to endure it, as he was compelled. for there was no relief or escape for him except in the doing of what it was not in his nature to do--to be downright cruel to her, or to find another woman to love him. he would have had no difficulty in this, had he been so minded. "still he did not relax his efforts to alter things for the better. he bought beautiful books, and pictures, and dresses, and pet animals for her; he forgot nothing that a man could possibly thing of to please a woman. he had frequently spoken to her of inviting friends to the villa, but she had never encouraged him to do so. now, however, without consulting her, he called friends and acquaintances around him, and in a short time we were again overrun with company. she was the mistress of the house, and it would have been sinful in her to have neglected her duties as mr. almer's wife. many young people came to the villa, and among them one day appeared m. gabriel, the artist who painted the picture." chapter v the gathering of the storm "at about this time it was generally known that mr. almer expected to become a father within three or four months, and some people considered it strange that he should have selected the eve of an event so important for the celebration of social festivities. for my own part i thought it a proof of his wisdom that he should desire his wife to be surrounded by an atmosphere of cheerfulness on such an occasion. innocent laughter, music, pleasant society--what better kind of medicine is there in the world? but it did not do my lady good. she moved about listlessly, without heart and without spirit, and not until m. gabriel appeared was any change observable in her. the manner in which she received him was sufficiently remarkable. my lady was giving me some instructions as mr. almer and a strange gentleman came towards us. "'beatrice,' said mr. almer, 'let me introduce m. gabriel to you. a friend whom i have not seen for years.' "she looked at m. gabriel, and bowed, and when she raised her head, her face and neck were crimson; her eyes, too, had an angry light in them. m. gabriel, also, whose natural complexion was florid, turned deathly white as his eyes fell upon her. "whether mr. almer observed these signs i cannot say; they were plain enough to me, and i did not need anyone to tell me that those two had met before. "my lady turned from her husband and m. gabriel in silence, and taking my arm walked into a retired part of the grounds. she could not have walked without assistance, for she was trembling violently; the moment we were alone her strength failed her, and she swooned dead away. i thought it prudent not to call or run for assistance, and i attended to her myself. presently she recovered, and looking around with a frightened air, asked if any person but myself had seen her swoon. i answered 'no,' and for a moment i thought she had some intention of confiding in me, but she said nothing more than 'thank you, denise; do not speak of my fainting to any person; it is only that i am weak, and that the least thing overcomes me. be sure that no one hears of it.' 'no one shall from me, my lady,' i said. she thanked me again, and pressed my hand, and then we went into the house. "after that, there was no perceptible difference in her manner toward m. gabriel than towards her other guests, but i, whose eyes were in a certain way opened, could not help observing that m. gabriel watched with anxiety her every movement and every expression. the summer-house in which all those pictures are stored away was given to m. gabriel for a studio, and there he painted and passed a great deal of his time. mr. almer often joined him there, and if appearances went for anything, they spent many happy hours together. about three weeks after m. gabriel came to the villa my master took his wife into the studio, and they remained there for some time. it was understood that my lady had been prevailed upon to allow m. gabriel to paint her portrait. from that time my lady's visits to the summer-house were frequent, at first always in her husband's company, but afterwards occasionally alone. one day she said to me: "'denise, i have often wished to ask you a question, but till lately have not thought it worth while.' "'i am ready to answer anything, my lady,' i said. "'one morning,' she said, after a pause, 'shortly after my dear father died, i gave you a letter to post for me in geneva.' "'yes, my lady,' i said, and it flashed upon me like a stroke of lightning that the letter she referred to was addressed to m. gabriel. never till that moment had i thought of it. "'did you post the letter for me, denise, as i desired you? did you do so with your own hands? do not tremble. mistakes often happen without our being able to prevent them--even fatal mistakes sometimes. i saw you drive away with the letter in your hand. you did not lose it?' "'no, my lady; but before i had gone a mile on the road to geneva, your mother overtook me, and said she knew you had given it to me to post immediately in geneva, and that as she would be at the post-office a good hour before me--which was true--she would put it into the post with other letters.' "'and you gave her the letter, denise?' "'yes, my lady.' "'did my mother desire you not to mention to me that she had taken the letter from you?' "'no, my lady, but on her deathbed----' "i hesitated, and my mistress said. 'do not fear, denise; you did no wrong. how should you know that a mother would conspire against her daughter's happiness? on her deathbed my mother spoke to you of that letter?' "'yes, my lady, and asked me if i had told you that she had taken it from me. i answered no, and she said i had done right. my lady, in telling you this. i am breaking the promise i gave her; i hope to be forgiven.' "'it is right that you should tell me the truth, when i desire you, about an affair i entrusted to you. had you told me of your own account, it might have been a sin.' "'i can see, my lady, that i should not have parted with the letter. i am truly sorry.' "'the fault was not yours, denise: the wrong-doing was not yours. i should have instructed you not to part with the letter to anyone; although even then it could not have been prevented; you could not have refused my mother. the past is lost to us forever.' her eyes filled with tears, and she said, 'we will not speak of this again, denise.' "and it was never mentioned again by either of us, though we both thought of it often enough. "it was easy for me to arrive at an understanding of it. m. gabriel and my mistress had been lovers, and had been parted and kept apart by my lady's mother. the old lady had played a false and treacherous part towards her daughter, and by so doing had destroyed the happiness of her life. "whether my young lady thought that mr. almer had joined in the plot against her--that was what puzzled me a great deal at the time; but i was certain that he was innocent in the matter, as much a victim to the arts and wiles of a scheming old woman as the unfortunate lady he had married. "the motive of the treachery was plain enough. m. gabriel was poor, a struggling artist, with his place to make in the world. my master was rich; money and estates were his, and the old woman believed she would live to enjoy them if she could bring about a marriage between him and her daughter. "she succeeded--too well did she succeed, and she met with her punishment. though she was dead in her grave i had no pity for her, and her daughter, also, thought of her with bitterness. what misery is brought about by the mad worship of money which fills some persons' souls! as though hearts count for nothing! "i understood it all now--my lady's unhappiness, her silence, the estrangement between her and her husband. how often did i repeat the sad words she had uttered! 'the past is lost to us forever.' yes, it was indeed true. sunshine had fled; a gloomy future was before her. which was the most to be pitied--my lady, or her innocent, devoted husband, who lived in ignorance of the wrong which had been done? "after the conversation i have just related, the behaviour of my mistress toward m. gabriel underwent a change; she was gracious and familiar with him, and sometimes, as i noticed with grief, even tender. they walked frequently together; she was often in his studio when her husband was absent. following out in my mind the course of events, i felt sure that explanations had passed between them, and that they were satisfied that neither had been intentionally false to the other. it was natural that this should have happened; but what good could come of this better understanding? mischief was in the air, and no one saw it but myself. "my lady recovered her cheerfulness; the colour came back to her face; her eyes were brighter, life once more appeared enjoyable to her. mr. almer was delighted and unsuspicious; but behind these fair clouds i seemed to hear the muttering of the thunder, and i dreaded the moment when my master's suspicions should be aroused. "as my lady's time to become a mother drew near, many of the guests took their departure; but m. gabriel remained. he and mr. almer were the closest friends, and they would talk with the greatest animation about pictures and books. m. gabriel was very clever; the rapidity with which he would paint used to surprise us; his sketches were beautiful, and were hung everywhere about the house. everybody sang his praises. he had a very sweet voice, he was a fine musician, there was not a subject he was not ready to converse upon. if it came to deep scholarship and learning i have no doubt that mr. almer held the first place, but my master was never eager, as m. gabriel was, to display his gifts, and to show off his brilliant qualities in society. certainly he could not win ladies' hearts as easily as m. gabriel. these things are in the nature of a man, and one will play for the mere pleasure of winning, while another does not consider it worth his while to try. of two such men i know which is the better and more deserving of love. "rapid worker as m. gabriel was with his paintings and sketches, my lady's portrait hung upon his hands; he did not seem to be able to satisfy himself, and he was continually making alterations. when master christian was born, his mother's picture was still unfinished in m. gabriel's studio." chapter vi the grave of honour "the birth of the heir was now the most important event; everything gave way to it. congratulations poured in from all quarters, and it really seemed as if a better era had dawned. i believe i was the only one who mistrusted appearances; i should have been easier in my mind had m. gabriel left the villa. but he remained, and as long as he and my lady were near each other i knew that the storm-clouds were not far off. "in a few weeks my lady got about again; she was never strong, and now she was so delicate and weak that the doctors would not allow her to nurse her child. i was very sorry for this; had her baby drawn life from her breast it might have diverted her attention from m. gabriel. "it is hard to believe that so joyful an event as the birth of her first child should not have softened her heart towards her husband. it is the truth, however; they were no nearer to each other than they had been before. mr. almer was not to blame; he did all in his power to win his wife to more affectionate ways, but he might as well have hoped for a miracle as to hope to win a love that was given to another. "the child throve, and it was not till he was a year old that the portrait of his mother was finished--the picture that is hanging on the wall before me. it was greatly admired, and my master set great store upon it. "'it is in every way your finest work,' he said to m. gabriel. 'were it not that i object to my wife's beauty being made a subject of criticism, i should persuade you to exhibit the portrait.' "not long afterwards, m. gabriel was called away. i thanked god for it. the danger i feared was removed; but he returned in the course of a few weeks, and began to paint again in the summer-house. while he was absent my lady fell into her former habits of listlessness; when he returned she became animated and joyous. truly he was to her as the sun is to the flower. this change in her mood, from sadness to gaiety, was so sudden that it frightened me, for i felt that mr. almer must be the blindest of the blind if it did not force itself upon his attention. it did not escape his notice; i saw that, from a certain alteration in his manner toward his wife and his friend. it was not that he was colder or less friendly; but when he looked at them he seemed to be pondering upon something which perplexed him. he said nothing to them, however, to express disapproval of their intimacy. he was not an impulsive man, and i never knew him to commit himself to an important act without deliberation. "in the midst of his perplexity the storm burst. i was an accidental witness of the occurrence which led to the tragic events of which i have yet to speak. "there was at this time among our guests an old dowager, who did nothing but tittle-tattle from morning till night about her friends and acquaintances, and who seemed to be always hunting for an opportunity to make ill-natured remarks. a piece of scandal was a great delight to her. heaven save me from ever meeting with another such a lady. "i was in one of the wooded walks at some distance from the house, gathering balsam for a fellow-servant whose hand had been wounded, when the voice of this old dowager reached my ears. she was speaking to a lady companion, and i should not have stopped to listen had not mrs. almer's name been mentioned in a tone which set my blood tingling. "'it is scandalous, my dear,' the old dowager was saying, 'the way she goes on with m. gabriel. of course, i wouldn't mention it to another soul in the world but you, for it is not my affair. not that it is not natural, for she is young, and he is young, and mr. almer is old enough to be their father; but they really should be more discreet. i can't make up my mind whether mr. almer sees it, and considers it best to take no notice, or whether he is really blind to what is going on. anyway, that does not alter the affair, so far as his wife and m. gabriel are concerned. such looks at each other, my dear!--such pressing of hands!--such sighs! one can almost hear them. it is easy to see they are in love with each other.' "and a great deal more to the same effect until they walked away from the spot and were out of hearing. "i was all of a tremble, and i was worrying myself as to what it was best to do when i heard another step close to me. "it was my master, who must also have been within hearing. his face was stern and white, and there was blood on his lips as though he had bitten them through. "he walked my way and saw me. "'how long have you been here, denise?' he asked. "i could not tell him a falsehood, and i had not the courage to answer him. "'it is enough,' he said; 'you have heard what i have heard. not to a living being must a word of what you have heard pass your lips. i have always believed that you had a regard for the honour of my house and name, and it is for that reason i have placed confidence in you. i shall continue to trust you until you give me cause to doubt your good faith. hasten after that lady and her companion who have been conversing here, and ask them to favour me with an interview. while i speak to them, remain out of hearing.' "i obeyed him in silence, and conducted the ladies to my master's presence. i am in ignorance of what he said to them, but that evening an excuse was made for their sudden departure from the villa. they left, and did not appear again. "grateful as i was at the removal of this source of danger, i soon saw that the time i dreaded had arrived. my master was in doubt whether his wife was faithful to him. "a more cruel suspicion never entered the mind of man, and as false as it was cruel. mrs. almer was a pure woman; basely wronged as she had been, she was a virtuous wife. as i hope for salvation this is my firm belief. "but how can i blame my master? smarting with a grief which had sucked all the light out of his days, which had poisoned his life and his hopes, trusting as he had trusted, deceived as he had been deceived, with every offer of love refused and despised, and with, as he believed, dishonour staring him in the face--he might well be pardoned for the doubt which now took possession of him. "he planned out a course, and steadily followed it. without betraying himself, he watched his wife and his friend, and he could not fail to see that the feelings they entertained for each other were stronger than the ordinary feelings of friendship which may properly be allowed between a man and a woman. i know, also, that he discovered that my lady, before she married him, had accepted m. gabriel as her lover. this in itself was sufficient for him. "under such circumstances it was, in his opinion, a sin for any woman to plight her faith and duty to another. to my master the words used at the altar were, in the meaning they conveyed, most sacred, solemn and binding. for a woman to utter them, with the image of another man in her heart, was a fearful and unpardonable crime. "these perjuries are common enough, i believe, in the great world which moves at a distance from this quiet spot, but that they are common does not excuse them. mr. almer had strict and stern views of the duties of life, and roused as he was roused, he carried them out with cruel effect. "gradually he got rid of all his guests, with the exception of m. gabriel; and then, one fatal morning, he surprised my lady and m. gabriel as they sat together in the summer-house. there was no guilt between them; they were conversing innocently enough, but my lady was in tears, and m. gabriel was endeavouring to console her. sufficient, certainly, to work a husband into a furious state. "none of us knew what passed or what words were spoken; something terrible must have been uttered, for my lady, with a face like the face of death, tottered from the summer-house to this very room, where she lay in a fainting condition for hours. her husband did not come near her, nor did he make any inquiries after her, but in the course of an hour he gave me instructions to have every sketch and painting made by m. gabriel taken from the walls of the villa, and conveyed to the summer-house. i obeyed him, and all were removed except this portrait of my lady; it seemed to me that i ought not to allow it to be touched without her permission, and she was not in a fit condition to be disturbed. "while this work was being accomplished no servant but myself was allowed to enter the studio. two strange men carried the pictures into the summer-house, and these men, who had paint-pots and brushes with them, remained with mr. almer the whole of the afternoon. "dinner was served, but no one sat down to it. my lady was in her chamber, her husband was still in the summer-house, and m. gabriel was wandering restlessly about. in the evening he addressed me. "'where is mr. almer?' he asked. "'in the summer-house,' i replied. "'go to him,' he said, 'and say i desire to have a few words with him.' "in a few minutes they confronted each other on the steps which led to the studio. "'enter,' said my master; 'you also, denise, so that you may hear what i have to say to m. gabriel, and what he has to say to me.' "i entered with them, and could scarcely believe my eyes. the walls of the studio had been painted a deep black. not only the walls, but the woodwork of the windows which gave light to the room. the place resembled a tomb. "m. gabriel's face was like the face of a corpse as he gazed around. "'this is your doing,' he said to my master, pointing to the black walls. "'pardon me,' said my master; 'it is none of my work. _you_ are the artist here, and this is the picture you have painted on my heart and life. denise, are all m. gabriel's sketches and paintings in this studio?' "'they are all here, sir,' i replied. "there was a sense of guilt at my heart, for i thought of my lady's portrait. fortunately for me my master did not refer to it. "'m. gabriel,' said my master to the artist, 'these paintings are your property, and are at your disposal for one week from this day. within that time remove them from my house. you will have no other opportunity. at the end of the week this summer-house will be securely locked and fastened, and thereafter, during my lifetime, no person will be allowed to enter it. for yourself a carriage is now waiting for you at the gates. i cannot permit you to sleep another night under my roof.' "'i had no intention of doing so,' said m. gabriel, 'nor should i have remained here so long had it not been that i was determined not to leave without an interview with you.' "'what do you require of me?' "'satisfaction.' "'satisfaction!' exclaimed my master, with a scornful smile. 'is it not i rather should demand it?' "'demand it, then,' cried m. gabriel. 'i am ready to give it to you.' "'i am afraid,' said my master coldly, 'that it is out of your power to afford me satisfaction. were you a man of honour events might take a different course. it is only lately that i have seen you in your true colours; to afford you the satisfaction you demand would be, on my part, an admission that you are my equal. you are not; you are the basest of cowards. depart at once, and do not compel me to call my servants to force you from my gates.' "'endeavour to evade me,' said m. gabriel, as he walked to the door, 'in every way you can, you shall not escape the consequences of your conduct.' "he carried it with a high hand, this fine gentleman who had brought misery into this house; had i been a man i should have had a difficulty in preventing myself from striking him. "when he was gone my master said: "'you are at liberty to repeat to your lady what has passed between me and m. gabriel.' "i did not repeat it: there was such a dreadful significance in the black walls, and in my master's words, that that was the picture m. gabriel had painted on his heart and life, that i could not be so cruel to my lady as to tell her what had passed between the two gentlemen who held her fate in their hands. "but she herself, on the following day, questioned me: "'you were present yesterday,' she said, 'at an interview between m. gabriel and my husband?' "'yes, my lady,' i answered. "'did they meet in anger, denise?' "'m. gabriel was angry, my lady,' i said. "'and my husband?' she asked. "'appeared to be suffering, my lady.' "'did they part in anger?' "'on m. gabriel's side, my lady, yes.' "'is m. gabriel in the villa?' "'no, my lady. he departed last night. "'of his own accord?' "'my master bade him go, and m. gabriel said he intended to leave without being bidden.' "'it could not be otherwise. my husband is here?' "'yes, my lady.' "that was all that was said on that day. the next day my lady asked me again if her husband was in the villa and i answered 'yes.' the next day she asked me the same question, and i gave the same reply. the fourth day and the fifth she repeated the question, and my reply that my master had not been outside the gates afforded her relief. the fear in her mind was that my master and m. gabriel would fight a duel, and that one would be killed. "during these days my lady did not leave her chamber, nor did her husband visit her. "from the window of this room the summer-house can be seen, and my lady for an hour or two each day sat at the window, gazing vacantly out. "on the evening of the fifth day my lady said: "'denise, there have been workmen busily engaged about the summer-house. what are they doing?' "i bore in mind my master's remark to me that i was at liberty to repeat to my lady what had been said by him and m. gabriel in their last interview. it was evident that he wished her to be made acquainted with it, and it was my duty to be faithful to him as well as to my lady. i informed her of my master's resolve to fasten the doors of the summer-house and never to allow them to be opened during his lifetime. "'there are only two more days,' she said, 'to-morrow and the next.' "i prayed silently that she would not take the fancy in her head to visit the summer-house before it was fastened up, knowing the shock that the sight of the black walls would cause her. "the next day she did not refer to the subject, but the next, which was the last, she sat at the window watching the workmen bring their tools and bars and bolts to complete the work for which they had been engaged. "'come with me, denise,' she said. 'a voice whispers to me that there is something concealed in the summer-house which i must see before it is too late.' "'my lady,' i said, trembling, 'i would not go if i were in your place.' "i could not have chosen worse words. "'you would not go if you were in my place!' she repeated. 'then there _is_ something concealed there which it is necessary for me to see. unless,' she added, looking at me for an answer, 'my husband prohibits it.' "'he has not prohibited it, my lady.' "'and yet you would not go if you were in my place! cannot you see that i should be false to myself if i allowed that place to be sealed forever against me, before making myself acquainted with something that has taken place therein? you need not accompany me, denise, unless you choose.' "'i will go with you, my lady,' i said, and we went out of the villa together. "we entered the summer-house, my lady first, i a few steps behind her. "she placed her hands upon her eyes and shuddered, the moment she saw the black walls. she understood what was meant by this sign. "but there was more to come, of which, up to that day, i had been ignorant. on one of the walls was painted in white, the words, "'the grave of honour.' "it was like an inscription on a tomb. "when my lady opened her eyes they fell upon these cruel words. for many minutes she stood in silence, with eyes fixed on the wall, and then she turned towards me, and by a motion of her hand, ordered me to leave the place with her. never, never, had i seen such an expression of anguish on a face as rested on hers. it was as though her own heart, her own good name, her own honour, were lying dead in that room! there are deeds which can never be atoned for. this deed of my master's was one." chapter vii husband and wife "remain with me, denise,' said my lady, as we walked back to the house. 'i am weak, and may need you." "then, for the first time, i noticed what gave me hope. she took her baby boy in her arms, and pressed him passionately to her bosom, murmuring: "'i have only you--i have only you!' "it was not that hitherto she had been wanting in tenderness, but that in my presence she had never so yearningly displayed it. it gladdened me also to think that her child was a comfort to her in this grave crisis. "but the hope i indulged in was doomed to disappointment. in the evening my lady bade me ascertain whether her husband was in the villa. "i went to him, and made the inquiry. "'tell my wife,' he said, in a gentle tone, 'that i am ready to wait upon her whenever she desires it.' "it was late in the night when my lady called me to assist her to dress. i did so, wondering at the strange proceeding. she chose her prettiest dress, one which she had worn in her maiden days. she wore no ornaments, or flowers or ribbons of any colour. simply a white dress, with white lace for her head and shoulders. "'now go to your master,' she said, 'and say i desire to see him.' "i gave him the message, and he accompanied me to this room, where my lady was waiting to receive him, with as much ceremony as if he had been a stranger guest. "i am here at your bidding,' he said, and turning to me, 'you can go, denise.' "'you will stay, denise,' said my lady. "the manner of both was stern, but there was more decision in my lady's voice than in his. i hesitated, not knowing which of them to obey. "'stay, then, denise,' said my master, 'as your mistress desires it.' "i retreated to a corner of the room, as far away from them as i could get. i was really afraid of what was coming. within the hearts of husband and wife a storm was raging, all the more terrible because of the outward calm with which they confronted each other. "'you know,' said my lady, 'for what reason i desired to see you.' "'i know,' he replied,' that i expected you would send for me. if you had not, i should not have presented myself.' "'you have in your mind,' she said, 'matters which concern us both, of which it is necessary you should speak.' "'it is more than necessary--it is imperative that i should speak of the matters you refer to.' "'the opportunity is yours. i also have something to say when you have finished. the sooner our minds are unburdened the better it will be--for you and me.' "'it were preferable,' he added, 'that what we say to each other should be said without witnesses. consider whether it will not be best that denise should retire.' "'there is no best or worst for me,' she rejoined; 'my course is decided, and no arguments of yours can alter it. denise will remain, as i bade her, and what you have to say must be spoken in her presence.' "'be it so. denise is the most trusted servant of my house; i have every confidence in her. otherwise, i should insist upon her leaving the room.' "'it is right,' said my lady, 'that you should be made acquainted with a resolution i have come to within the last few hours. after this night i will never open my lips to you, nor, willingly, will i ever listen to your voice. i swear most solemnly that i am in earnest--as truly in earnest as if i were on my death-bed!' "i shuddered; her voice and manner carried conviction with them. my master turned to me, and said: "'what you hear must never pass your lips while your mistress and i are alive.' "'it never shall,' i said, shaking like a leaf. "'when we are dead, denise, you can please yourself.' he stood again face to face with his wife. 'madame, it is necessary that i should recall the past. when i spoke to your lady mother on the subject of my love for you--being encouraged and in a measure urged to do so by herself--i was frank and open with her. there was nothing in my life which i concealed, which i had occasion to conceal. i had grave doubts as to the suitability of a marriage with you, doubts which did not place you at a disadvantage. i had not the grace of youth to recommend me; there was a serious difference in our ages; my habits of life were staid and serious. you were fit to be the wife of a prince; your youth, your beauty, your accomplishments, entitled you to more than i could offer--which was simply a life of ease and the homage of a faithful heart. only in one respect were we equal--in respect of birth. had i not been encouraged by your mother, i should not have had the temerity to give expression to my feelings; but i spoke, and for me there was no retreating. i begged your lady mother not to encourage me with false hopes, but to be as frank with me as i was with her. of the doubts which disturbed me, one was paramount. you had moved in the world--you had been idolised in society--and it scarcely seemed possible that your heart could be disengaged. in that case, i informed your lady mother that no earthly consideration could induce me to step between you and your affections; nay, with all the force which earnestness could convey, i offered to do all in my power--if it were possible that my services could avail-- to aid in bringing your life to its happiest pass. at such a moment as this, a solemn one, madame, which shall never be forgotten by you or by me, i may throw aside false delicacy, and may explain the meaning of these last words to your mother. having had in my hands the settlement of your father's affairs, i knew that you were poor, and my meaning was, that if any money of mine could assist in bringing about a union between you and the object of your affections--did any such exist--it was ready, cheerfully offered and cheerfully given for such a purpose. i made but one stipulation in the matter--that it should never, directly or indirectly, be brought to your knowledge.' "he paused, in the expectation that his wife would speak, and she said coldly: "'you are doubtless stating the truth.' "'the simple truth, madame, neither more nor less; and believe it or not, as you will, it was your welfare, not mine, that was uppermost in my mind. your lady mother assured me that before you came to the villa your heart was entirely free, but that since you honoured me by becoming my guest, you had fixed your affections upon myself. my astonishment was great; i could scarcely believe the evidence of my senses. i entreated your lady mother not to mislead me, and she proved to me--to me, to whom the workings of a woman's heart were as a sealed book--in a hundred different ways, which she said i might have discovered for myself if i had had the wit--that you most truly loved me. she professed to be honoured by my proposal, which she accepted for you, and which she said you would joyfully accept for yourself. but she warned me not to be disappointed in the manner in which you would receive me; that your pride and shame might impel you to appear reluctant instead of joyful, and that it behoved me, as a wise man--heaven help me!--to put a right and sensible construction on the natural maidenly reserve of a young girl. the rest you know. the wise man, madame, has been sadly at fault; it has been fatally proved to him that he knows little of the workings of the human heart.' "she held up her hand as a sign that she wished to speak, and he paused. a little thing struck me at the time, which has never passed out of my mind. she held up her hand in front of the lamp, and the light shone through the thin, delicate fingers. seldom do i think of my lady without seeing that slight, beautiful hand, with the pink light shining through it. "'my mother,' she said, 'did not speak the truth. m. gabriel and i were affianced before i became your guest.' "'your information comes too late,' said my master; 'you should have told me so much when i offered you my name. it would have been sufficient. i should not have forced myself upon you, and shame and sin would have been avoided.' "'there has been no sin,' said my lady, 'and who links me with shame brings shame upon himself. i have been wronged beyond the hope of reparation in this life. before you spoke to me of marriage i wrote to m. gabriel frequently from this villa. my letters were intercepted----' "he interrupted her. 'to my knowledge no letters were intercepted; i had no suspicion of such a proceeding.' "i do not say you had; i am making you acquainted with a fact. hurt and vexed at receiving no reply to my letters, and being able to account for it only on the supposition that they had not come into his possession, i wrote one and gave it to denise to post for me. that also, as i learnt after my mother's death, was intercepted, and never reached its destination. in the meantime, false information was given to me respecting m. gabriel; shameful stories were related to me, in which he was the principal actor. he was vile and false, as i was led to believe; and you were held up to me as his very opposite, as noble, chivalrous, generous, disinterested----' "'in all of which you will bear in mind, i was in no way inculpated, being entirely ignorant of what was going on under my roof.' "'and i was, besides, led to believe by my mother that you had laid us under such obligations that there was but one repayment of them----' "'plainly speaking,' he interposed, 'that, in any kindness i had shown, i was deliberately making a purchase, that in every friendly office i performed, i had but one cowardly end in view. it needed this to complete the story.' "'my heart was almost broken,' she continued, making no comment on his bitter interruption; 'but it was pointed out to me that i could at least answer the call of gratitude and duty. doubly did my mother deceive me.' "'and doubly,' said my master, 'did you deceive me.' "'when, some time after our unhappy marriage, you introduced m. gabriel into this house, i was both angry and humiliated. it looked as though you intended to insult me, and denise was a witness of my agitation. it was not unnatural that, remaining here, your guest--bidden by you, not by me--for so long a time explanations should pass between m. gabriel and myself. then it was that my eyes were really opened to the pit into which i had been deliberately dragged.' "'not by me were you dragged into this pit.' "'let it pass for a moment,' she said, in a disdainful voice. 'when my eyes were opened to the truth, how was i to know that you had not shared in the plot against me? how am i to know it now?' "'by my denial. doubt me if you will, and believe that i tricked to obtain you. i shall not attempt to undeceive you. no good purpose would be served by a successful endeavour to soften your feelings towards me; i do not, indeed, desire that they should be softened, for no link of love can ever unite us. it never did, and never can, and i am not a man to live upon shams. if i tricked to obtain you, you will not deny that i have my reward--a rich reward, the rank fruit of which will cling to me and abide with me till the last moment of my life.' "'i went into the summer-house this afternoon,' she said. "'i know it.' "'it was your intention that i should visit it.' "'it was not exactly my intention; i left it to chance.' "'you have made it a memorial of shame, of a cruel declaration against me!' "'i have made it a memorial of my own deep unhappiness. that studio will never again be opened during your life and mine. madame, in all that you have said--and i have followed you attentively--you have not succeeded in making me believe that i have anything to reproach myself for. my blindness was deplorable, but it is not a reproach. my actions were distinguished at least by absolute candour and frankness. can you assert the same? you loved m. gabriel before you met me--was i to blame for that? you were made to believe he was false to you--was i to blame for that? you revenged yourself upon him by accepting my hand, and i, unversed in woman's ways, believed that no pure-minded woman would marry a man unless she loved him. i still believe so. when we stood before the altar, i was happy in the belief that your heart was mine; and certainly from that moment, your faith, your honour, were pledged to me, as mine was pledged to you. m. gabriel was my friend. i was a man when he was a boy, and i became interested in him, and assisted him in his career. we had not met for years: he knew that i had married----' "'but he did not know,' interrupted my lady, 'that you had married _me!_' "'granted. was i to blame for that? after our marriage you fell into melancholy moods, which i at first ascribed to the tragic fate of your parents. most sincerely did i sympathise with you. day after day, night after night, did i ponder and consider how i could bring the smile to your lips, how i could gladden your young heart. reflect upon this, madame, in the days that are before you, and reflect upon the manner in which you received my attentions. at one time, when i had invited to the villa a number of joyous spirits in the hope that their liveliness and gaiety would have a beneficial effect upon you, i received a letter from m. gabriel with reference to a picture he was painting. i invited him here, and he came. what was his duty, what was yours, when you and he met in my presence, when i introduced you to each other, for the first time as i thought? madame, if not before him, at least before you, there was but one honest course. did you pursue it? no; you received m. gabriel as a stranger, and you permitted me to rest in the belief that until that day you had been unconscious of his existence. without referring to my previous sufferings--which, madame, were very great--in what position did i, the husband, stand in relation to my wife and friend, who, in that moment of introduction, tacitly conspired against my honour, and who, after explanations had passed between them, met and conversed as lovers? their guilt was the more heinous because of its secrecy--and utterly, utterly unpardonable because of their treachery towards him who trusted in them both. a double betrayal! but at length the husband's suspicions were aroused. in a conversation which he accidentally overheard between two ladies who were visiting him--the name of his wife--your name, madame--was mentioned in connection with that of m. gabriel; and from their conversation he learnt that their too friendly intimacy had become a subject for common talk. jealous of his honour, and of his name, upon which there had hitherto been no blot, he silenced the scandal-mongers; but from that day he more carefully observed his wife and his friend, until the truth was revealed. then came retribution, and a black chapter in the lives of three human beings was closed--though the book itself is not yet completed.' "he paused, a long time as it seemed to me, before he spoke again. the silence was awful, and in the faces of the husband and the wife there were no signs of relenting. they bore themselves as two persons might have done who had inflicted upon each other a mortal wrong for which there was no earthly forgiveness. from my heart i pitied them both." chapter viii the compact "you sent for me, madame,' he said presently, 'because it was necessary that some explanation should be given of the occurrences that have taken place in my family, of which you are a member. each of us has reason to regret an alliance which has caused us so much suffering. unfortunately for our happiness and our peace of mind the truth has been spoken too late; but it were idle now to waste time in lamentations. there are in life certain bitter trials which must be accepted; in that light i accept the calamity which has fallen upon us, and which, had i known before our marriage what i know now, would most surely have been averted. it was in your power to avert it; you did not do so, but led me blindly into the whirlpool. you have informed me that, after this night, you will never open your lips to me, nor ever again listen to my voice.' "'nor will i,' she said, 'from the rising of to-morrow's sun.' "'i shall do nothing to woo you from that resolve. but you bear my name, and to some extent my honour is still in your keeping.' "'have you, then,' she asked, 'any commands to give me?' "'it will depend,' he replied, 'upon what i hear from you. so far as my honour is concerned i intend to exercise control over you; no farther.' "'your honour is safe with me, as it has always been." "'i will not debate the point with you. you say that you have decided on your course, and that no arguments of mine will turn you from it.' "'yes; my course is decided. am i free to go from your house?' "'you are not free to go. only one thing shall part us--death!' "'we have a child,' she said, and her voice, for that moment, insensibly softened. "'is he asleep?' "'yes.' "he went into the inner room, and remained there for several minutes, and my lady, with a white and tearless face, waited for his return. "i thought i heard the sound of kisses in the bedroom, but i could not be sure. there was, however, a tender light in my master's eyes when he came back, a light which showed that his heart was touched. "'our child shall remain with you,' he said to my lady, 'if you wish.' "'i do wish it," she said. "'i will not take him from you, only that i must sometimes see him.' "'he shall be brought to you every day.' "'i am content. let him grow up to love me or hate me, as the prompting of his nature and your teaching shall direct. from my lips he shall never hear a disparaging word of his mother.' "'nor shall he, from my lips, of his father.' "he bowed to her as he would have bowed to a princess, and said: "'i thank you. but little, then, remains to be said. we are bound to each other irrevocably, and we cannot part without disgrace. we have brought our griefs upon ourselves, and we must bear them in silence. the currents of my life are changed, and these gates shall never again be opened to friends. i have done with friendship as i have done with love. i ask you what course you have determined upon?' "'i propose,' said my lady, 'to make these rooms my home, if you will give them to me to live in.' "'they are yours,' he replied. 'unless i am compelled by duty, or by circumstances which i do not at present foresee, i will never enter them during your lifetime.' "'it is as i would have it,' she said. 'in daylight i shall not leave them. if i walk in the grounds it shall be at nightfall. outside your gates i will never more be seen, nor will i allow a friend or an acquaintance to visit me. will you allow denise to wait upon me?' "'she is your servant, and yours only, from this moment. i am pleased that you have selected her.' "'denise,' said my lady to me, 'are you willing to serve me?' "'yes, my lady,' i answered. i was almost choked with sobs, while they were outwardly calm and unmoved. "'then there is nothing more to be said--except farewell.' and my lady looked towards the door. "he did not linger a moment. he bowed to her ceremoniously, and left the room. "when he was gone i felt as if some sudden and fearful shock must surely take place, as if a thunderbolt would fall and destroy us, or as if my lady would fall dead at my feet, the silence that ensued was so unearthly. but nothing occurred, and when i had courage to look up i saw my lady sitting in a chair, white and still, with a resigned and determined expression on her face. it would have been a great relief to me if she had cried, but there was not a tear in her eyes. "'do you believe me guilty, denise?' she asked. "'the saints forbid,' i cried, 'that such a wicked thought should enter my mind! i know you to be an innocent, suffering lady.' "'you will do as you have been bidden to do, denise. while my husband and i are living you will not speak of what has passed within this room.' "'i will not, my lady.' "and never again was the subject referred to by either of us. she did not make the slightest allusion to it, and i did not dare to do so." chapter ix mother denise has strange fancies in the night "a new life now commenced for us--a new and dreadful life. mr. almer gave orders that no person was to be admitted to the villa without his express permission. he denied himself to every chance visitor, and from that time until you came, my lady, no friend of the family, except a great banker, and occasionally master pierre lamont, both of whom came upon business, ever entered the gates. the doctor, of course, when he was needed; but no one else. "mr. almer passed most of his time in his study, writing and reading, and pacing to and fro as he used to do in times gone by. he did not make any enquiries about my lady, nor did she about him. she lived in these rooms, and, in my remembrance, did not stir out of them during the day. master christian slept in the inner room there, and was free to roam about as he pleased. "every morning i took the child to his father, who sometimes would kiss him and send him back to my lady, and sometimes would say: "'you can leave him with me, denise, for an hour.' "then he would take the child into the study, and lock the door, and nurse and sing to him. i was in the habit of seeing him thus engaged as i walked backwards and forwards in the grounds in front of the study, waiting for his summons to carry master christian to his mother. "his was not a happy childhood, for when he began ta speak and think, the estrangement between his parents puzzled him deeply, and made him sad. he was continually asking questions to which he received replies which perplexed him more and more. with childlike, innocent cunning he strove to draw them to each other. when he was with my lady, it was: "'mamma, why do you not go and speak to papa? there he is walking in the garden. come out with me, mamma--come quickly, or papa will be gone.' "and when he was with his father he would say: "'papa, i have a message for you.' "'yes, christian,' my master would say. "'you are to take hold of my hand, and come with me immediately to mamma. yes, papa, indeed, immediately! she wants to speak to you.' "mr. almer knew that this was nothing but invention on the child's part. "what they learnt of each other's health and doings came through master christian; it is very hard, my lady, to stop a child's innocent prattle. "'papa, i wish to tell you something.' "'tell me, christian.' "'mamma has a bad headache--such a bad, bad headache! i have been smoothing her forehead with my hand, but it will not go away for me. you cured my headache last week; come and cure mamma.' "and at another time: "'papa, is not this beautiful?' "'yes, christian, it is very pretty.' "'mamma painted it for me. do you know, papa, she has painted me--yes, my portrait, and has put it in a book. it is exactly like--you could not tell it from me myself. shall i ask her to give it to you--or will you come and ask for it yourself?' "with my lady it was the same. "'mamma, papa has been writing all day long. i peeped through the window, and he looked so tired--just as you look sometimes. now, mamma, tell me--do you think papa is happy?' "'mamma, see what papa has given me--a musical-box! only because i said to him i should like a musical-box! is he not good?' "and so it went on day after day, week after week, but the child's eager, anxious love brought them no nearer to each other. "in the dark nights when the weather permitted, my lady walked in the grounds. at first i offered to accompany her, but she refused my company. "'i will walk alone, denise.' "the servants used to say, as the moonlight fell on her white dress: "'she looks like a white ghost.' "and at other times: "'she is like a white shadow moving in the moon's light.' "her husband was careful to keep out of her sight when she indulged in these lonely rambles. they would not make the slightest advance to each other. "i must not forget to tell you what occurred about a month after this estrangement. the duties of my attendance on my lady did not keep me with her during the night unless she was ill, and was likely to require my services. generally i waited till i saw her abed and asleep. she retired early, and this afforded me an opportunity of looking after the room occupied by my husband and myself. "i remember that on this night i drew the blind aside after i was undressed, and looked toward my master's study. there were lights in the windows, as usual. i was not surprised, for mr. almer frequently sat up the whole night through. "i went to bed, and soon fell asleep. "quite contrary to my usual habit, i woke up while it was dark, and heard the sound of the clock striking the hour. i counted the strokes, from one to twelve. it was midnight. "i was such a good sleeper--seldom waking till the morning, when it was time to get up--that i wondered to myself what it was that awoke me. the striking of the clock? hardly--for that was no new sound. what, then? gusts of wind were sweeping round the walls of the villa. 'ah,' i thought, 'it was the wind that disturbed me;' and i settled myself for sleep again, when suddenly another sound--an unusual one this time--made me jump up in bed. the sound was like that of a heavy object jumping, or falling, from a height within the grounds. "'can it be robbers,' i thought, 'who have climbed the gates, and missed their footing?' "the thought alarmed me, and i woke my husband, and told him what i had heard. he rose, and looked out of the window. "'mr. almer is up and awake,' said he. 'if there were any cause for alarm he would not be sitting quietly in his study, poring over his books. what you heard is the wind. robbers, indeed! i pity the thief who tries to pass our dogs; he would be torn to pieces. there! let me get to sleep, and don't disturb me again with your foolish fancies; and get to sleep yourself as quick as you can. now your head is stirring, you'll be imagining all sorts of things.' "that was all the satisfaction i could get out of him; the next moment he was fast asleep again. "it was no easy thing for me to follow his example. i lay thinking and thinking for an hour or more. i was glad my husband had mentioned the dogs; in my alarm i had forgotten them. martin was quite right. any stranger who attempted to pass them would have been torn to pieces. "well, but there _was_ somebody walking on the gravelpaths! i heard soft footsteps crunching the stones, stepping cautiously, as though fearful of disturbing the people in the house. these sounds came to my ears between the gusts of wind, which were growing stronger and stronger. "i was on the point of rousing my husband again when it occurred to me that it might be my master, who, restless as usual, was walking about the grounds. "this explanation quieted me, and i was soon asleep. for how long i cannot say, for suddenly i found myself sitting up in bed, wide awake, listening to the wind, which was shaking the house to its foundations. and yet the impression was so strong upon me that it was not the storm that had frightened me, that i went to the window and looked out, expecting to see heaven only knows what. nothing was to be seen, and presently i reasoned myself out of my fears, and was not again disturbed during the night. "in the morning a strange discovery was made. a servant came running to me before i was dressed, with the information that our two dogs were dead. i hurried to the kennel and saw their bodies stretched out, cold and stiff. "mr. almer was very fond of these dogs, and i went to him and told him what had occurred. there was a strange, wild look in his eyes which i attributed to want of sleep. but stranger than this weary, wild expression was the smile on his lips when he heard the news. "he followed me to the kennel, and stooped down. "'they are quite dead, denise,' he said. "'yes, sir,' i said, 'but who could have done such a cruel thing?' "'the dogs have been poisoned,' he said, 'here is the meat that was thrown to them. there is still some white powder upon it.' "'poisoned!' i cried. 'the wretches.' "'whoever did this deed,' said my master, 'deserved to die. it is as bad as killing a human creature in cold blood.' "'are you sure, sir,' i said, 'there has been nothing stolen from the house?' "'you can go and see, denise.' "i made an examination of the rooms. nothing had been taken from them. i tried the door of my master's study to examine that room also, but it was locked. when i returned my master was still kneeling by the dogs. "'it does not appear that anything has been taken,' i said, 'but the sounds i heard in the night prove that there have been robbers here.' "'what sounds did you hear?' asked my master, looking up. "i told him of my alarm, and of my waking my husband, and of my fancies. "'fancies!' he said; 'yes--it could have been nothing but imagination. i have been up the whole night, and had there been an attempt at robbery, i must surely have known it. were any of the other servants disturbed?" "'no, sir.' "i had already questioned them, but they had all slept soundly and had heard nothing. i had been also with my lady for a few moments, but she had not been disturbed during the night by anything but the howling of the wind. "'let the matter rest,' said my master; 'it will be best. it is my wish that you do not speak of it. the dogs are dead, and nothing can restore them to life. evil deeds carry their own punishment with them! the next time you are frightened by fancies in the night, and see a light in my study, you may be satisfied that all is well.' "so the dogs were buried, and no action was taken to punish their murderers; and in a little while the whole affair was forgotten." chapter x christian almer's child-life "the years went by in the lonely villa without any change, except that my lady grew into the habit of taking her walks in the grounds later in the night. not a word was exchanged between her and her husband; had seas divided them they could not have been further apart from each other. "a dreadful, dreary monotony of days. the direction and control of the house was left entirely to me; my master took not the slightest interest in what was going on. i should have asked to be relieved from the service, had it not been for my affection for my mistress. to live with her--as i did for years, attending upon her daily--without loving her was not possible. her gentleness, her resignation, her resolution, her patience, were almost beyond belief with those who were not constant witnesses of her lonely, blameless, suffering life. "she never wrote or received a letter. she severed herself entirely from the world, and these rooms were her living grave. "she loved her child, but she did not give way to any violent demonstration of feeling. i observed, as the lad grew up, that he became more and more perplexed by the relations which existed between his parents. had one or the other been unkind to him, he might have been able to put a reasonable construction upon the estrangement, but they were equally affectionate, equally tender towards him. he continued to exercise the prettiest cunning to bring them together, but without avail. without avail, also, the entreaties he used. "'mamma, the sun is shining beautifully. do come out with me and speak to papa. do, mamma, do! see, he is walking in the garden.' "'mamma, may i bring papa into your room? say yes. i am sure he would be glad.' "'papa, mamma is really very ill. i do so wish you would see her and speak to her! there, papa, i have hold of your hand. come, papa, come!' "it was heart-breaking to hear the lad, who loved both, who received love from both. "'mamma,' he said, 'are you rich?' "'in what way, dear child?' she asked, i have no doubt wondering at his question; 'in money? do you mean that?' "'yes, mamma, i mean that.' "'we are not in want of money, christian.' "'then you can buy whatever you want, mamma.' "'i want very little, christian.' "'but if you wanted a great deal,' he persisted, 'you have money to pay for it?' "'yes, christian.' "'and papa, too?' "'yes, and papa too.' "'i can't make it out,' he said. 'yesterday, i saw a poor little girl crying. i asked her what she was crying for, and she said her mamma was in great trouble because they had no money. i asked her if money would make her mamma happy, and she said yes. then why does it not make you happy?' "'would you like some money, christian,' said my lady, 'to give to this poor girl's mamma?' "'yes, mamma.' "here is my purse. denise will go with you at once.' "we went to the cottage, and found that the family were in deep distress. the father was in arrears with his rent, having been unable to work, through illness, for a good many weeks; he was now strong enough to return to his employment, but he was plunged into such difficulties that all his courage had deserted him. the mother was weak with overpowering anxiety, and the children were in want of food. "i saw that the family were deserving of assistance, and i directed master christian what to give them. he visited them daily for a week and more, and the roses came back to the children's cheeks, and the hearts of the father and mother were filled with hope and gladness. "'mamma,' said master christian, 'you have no idea how happy they are--and all because i gave them a little money. they play and sing together--yes, mamma, all of them; it is beautiful to see them. they call me their good angel.' "'i am very glad you have made them happy, my dear,' said my lady. "'mamma, they are happy because they love each other, and because they laugh and sing together. let me be your good angel, mamma, and papa's. tell me what to do, so that we may live like those poor people!' "these were hard things for parents to hear, and harder because no answers could be given to them. "we went out for a stroll every fine day for an hour or so, and when master christian saw a child walking between father and mother, who smiled at each other and their little one, and spoke pleasantly and kindly one to the other, his eyes would fill with tears. he would peep through cottage windows--nay, he would go into the cottages, where he was always welcome, and would furnish himself with proofs of domestic happiness which never gladdened his heart in his own home. with scanty food, with ragged clothes, the common peasant children were enjoying what was denied to him. "he had one especial friend, a delicate child, who at length was laid on a bed of sickness from which he never rose. master christian, for a few weeks before this child died, visited him daily in my company, and took the poor little fellow many comforting things, for which the humble family were very grateful. my young master would stand by the bedside of the sick child, and witness, in silent pain, the evidences of paternal love which lightened the load of the little sufferer. "the day before the child died we approached the cottage, and master christian peeped through the window. the child was dying, and by his bedside sat the sorrowing parents. the man's arm was round the woman's waist, and her head was resting on her husband's shoulder. we entered the cottage, and remained an hour, and as we walked home master christian said: "'if i were dying, would my mamma and papa sit like that?' "i could find no words to answer this question, which showed what was passing in master christian's mind. "'cannot you tell me,' said master christian, 'whether my rich parents would do for me what that little boy's poor parents are doing for him? it is so very much, denise--so very, very much! it is more than money, for money is no use in heaven, where he is going to. i wish my mamma and papa had been poor; then they would have lived together and have loved each other. denise, tell me what it all means.' "'hush, master christian,' i said, trying to soothe him, for his little bosom was swelling with grief. 'when you are a man you will understand.' "'i want to understand now--i want to understand now!' he cried. 'there is something very wicked about our house. i hate it--i hate it!' "and he stamped his foot, and broke into a fit of sobbing so charged with sorrow that i could not help sobbing with him. "something of this must have reached his parents' ears, and how they suffered only themselves could have known. my master grew thin and wan; dark circles came round his eyes, and they often had a wild look in them which made me fear he was losing his senses. and my lady drooped and drooped, like a flower planted in unwholesome soil. paler and quieter she grew every day; sweeter and more resigned, if that were possible, with every setting of the sun; so weak at last that she could not take her walk in the grounds. "sitting by the window, looking at the lovely sky, she said to me one peaceful evening: "'i shall soon be there, denise.' "'oh, my lady!' was all i could say. "'it rejoices me to think,' she said, 'that this long agony is coming to an end. i pray that the dear child i shall leave behind me will not suffer as i have suffered, that his life may be happy, and his end be peaceful. denise, my mother is in that invisible spirit-land to which i am going. when she sees me coming, will she not be frightened to meet me? for, if it had not been for her, all this misery would have been averted.' "'my lady,' i said--so saint-like was her appearance that i could have knelt to her, 'let me go to my master and bring him to you.' "'he would not come,' she said, 'at your bidding, denise. has he not been often entreated by our child?' "believing that this was a sign of relenting on her part, i said: "'he knows that i dare not deceive him. he will come if i say you sent for him.' "'perhaps, perhaps,' she said; 'but i would not have him come yet. when i summon him here he will not refuse me.' "'you will send for him one day, my lady?' "'yes, denise, unless i die suddenly in my sleep--an end i have often prayed for. but this great blessing may be denied to me.' "ah, how sad were the days! it fills me with grief, even now, to speak of them. all kinds of strange notions entered my head during that time. i used to think it would be a mercy if a terrible flood were to come, or if someone would set fire to the villa. it would bring these two unhappy beings together for a few minutes at least. but nothing happened; the days were all alike, except that i saw very plainly that my lady could not live through another summer. she was fading away before my eyes. "the end came at last, when master christian was nearly nine years old." chapter xi beatrice almer gives a promise to her son "it was a spring morning, and my lady was alone. master christian was in the woods with his father; he was to be home at noon, and my lady was watching for him at her window. "exactly at noon the lad returned, beaming with delight; the hours he spent with his father were memorable hours in his life. "'you have enjoyed yourself, christian,' said my lady, drawing her boy to her side, and smoothing his hair. 'it does you good to go out with papa.' "'yes, mamma,' said the lad, in his eager, excited voice. 'there is no one in the world like papa--no man, i mean. he knows everything--yes, mamma, everything! there isn't a thing you ask him that he can't tell you all about it. we have had such a beautiful walk; the forests are full of birds and squirrels. papa knows the name of every bird and flower. see, mamma, all these are wild flowers--papa helped me to gather them, and showed me where some of the prettiest are to be found. you should hear him talk about the flowers! he has told me such wonderful, wonderful things about them! i believe they live, as we do, and that they have a language of their own. papa smiled when i said i thought the flowers were alive, and he told me that the world was full of the loveliest mysteries, and that, although men thought themselves very wise, they really knew very little. perhaps it is so--with all men but papa. it is because he isn't vain and proud that he doesn't set himself above other men. in the middle of the woods papa stopped and said, as he waved his hand around, "this, christian, is nature's book. not all the wisdom of all the men in all the world could write one line of it. that little bird flying in the air to the nest which it has built for its young, and which is so small that i could hold it in the palm of my hand, is in itself a greater and more marvellous work than the united wisdom of all mankind shall ever be able to produce." there, mamma, you would hardly believe that i should remember papa's words; but i repeated them to myself over and over again as we walked along--they sounded so wonderful! mamma, are there flowers in heaven?' "'yes, my dear,' she answered, gazing upwards, 'forever blooming.' "'then it is always summer there, mamma?' "'yes, dear child--it is the better land on which we dwell in hope. peace is there, and love.' "'we shall all go there, mamma?' "'yes, dear child--one day.' "'and shall live there in peace and love?' "'yes, christian.' "'mamma,' said the child solemnly, 'i shall be glad when the day comes on which you and papa and i shall be together there, in peace and love. mamma, you are crying. i have not hurt you, have i?' "'no, dear child, no. to hear you speak gives me great joy.' "'ah, but i can't speak like papa. he has told me of that better world, and though i can't understand all he says, i know it must be very beautiful. papa is a good man. i love him more than any other man--and i love you, mamma, better than any other woman. papa is a good man, is he not, mamma?' "'yes, my child,' said my lady, 'your father is a good and a just man.' "my heart leapt into my throat as i heard her speak these words of her husband. was it possible that this dreadful estrangement was to end, and that my master and his wife would at length be reconciled, after all these weary years? "my lady was lying back in her chair, gazing now at her boy, now at the bright clouds which were floating in the heavens. ah, my lady, if we were but to follow god's teaching, and learn the lessons he sends us every day and every hour, how much unhappiness should we be spared! but it seems as if there was a wicked spirit within us which is continually dropping poison into the fairest things, for the mere pleasure of destroying their beauty and making us wretched. "there was an angelic expression on my lady's face as she encouraged her boy to speak of his father. "'i have often wished to tell you,' said master christian, 'that papa is not strong--not as strong as i am. he soon gets tired, while i can run about all day. this morning he often stopped to rest, and once he threw himself upon the ground, and fell fast asleep. i sat by his side and listened to the birds, who were all so happy, while papa's face was filled with pain. yes, mamma, he was in great pain, and he sighed, oh, so heavily! as though sleep was hurting him instead of doing him good. and he spoke in his sleep, and his words made me tremble. "i call god to witness"--that was what he said, mamma--"i call god to witness that there was in my mind no design to do wrong." and then he said something about sin and sorrow springing from the flower of innocence. a bird was flying near us, stopping to look at us, and not at all frightened, because i was so very, very quiet. "little bird," i whispered, "that my father could hold in the palm of his hand, do you know what he is dreaming of, and will you, because he is my father and a good man, do something to make him happy?" oh, mamma, the bird at that very moment began to sing, and papa smiled in his sleep, and all the pain in his face disappeared. that bird, mamma, was a fairy-bird, and knew that papa ought not to suffer. and presently papa awoke, and folded me tight in his arms, and we sat there quite still, for a long, long time, listening to the singing of the bird. oh, mamma, mamma! why will you not love papa as i do?' "who could resist such pleading? my lady could not. "'my child,' she said, 'i will send for papa to-morrow.' "'you will--you will!' cried the child. 'oh, how glad i am! papa will be here to-morrow, and we shall live together as poor people do, and be happy, as they are!' he sprang from her side, ready to fly out of the room. 'shall i go and tell papa now? yes, i may, i may--say that i may, mamma!' "'not till to-morrow, christian. come and sit quietly by me, and talk to me.' "he obeyed her, though it was difficult for him to control himself, his joy was so great. he devised numberless schemes in which he and his parents were to take part. they were to go here, and to go there--always together. his friends were to be their friends, and they were to share each other's pleasures. rambles in the woods, hunting for wild flowers, visits to poor cottages--he planned all these things in the delight of his heart. "so they passed the day, the mother and child, and when night came he begged again to be allowed to go to his father and tell him what was in store for him. but my lady was firm. "'no, christian,' she said, 'you must wait yet for a few hours. they will soon pass away. you are tired, dear child. go to bed and sleep well.' "good mamma! beautiful mamma!' said the lad, caressing his mother and stroking her face. 'i shall dream all night long of to-morrow!' "she never kissed her child with deeper tenderness than she did on this night. he knelt at her knees and said his prayers, and of his own accord ended with the words: 'and make my papa and my mamma love each other to-morrow!' "'good-night, dear child.' "'good-night, dear mamma. i want to-morrow to come quickly. good-night, denise.' "'good-night, master christian.' "in a few minutes he was asleep. then my lady called me to her, and spoke gratefully of the manner in which i had performed my services to her. "'you have been a good and faithful servant to me,' she said, 'and you have helped to comfort me. your duties have been difficult, and you have performed them well.' "'my lady,' i said sobbing; i could not keep back my tears, she was so gracious and sweet. 'i have done nothing to deserve such thanks. if what you have said to master christian comes true i shall be very happy. forgive me for asking, but is it really true that you will send for my master to-morrow?' "'it will be so, denise, unless god in his mercy takes me to-night. we are in his hands, and i wait for his summons. his will be done! denise, wear this cross in remembrance of me. i kiss it before i give it to you--and i kiss you, denise!' "and as she put the cross round my neck, which she took from her own, she kissed me on the lips. her touch was like an angel's touch. "then she said, pointing to the posy which had been gathered in the woods by her husband and her child: "'give me those flowers, you faithful woman.' "do not think me vain or proud for repeating the words she spoke to me. they were very, very precious to me, and the sweetness has not died out of them, though she who uttered them is dust. "i gave her the flowers, and she held them to her heart, and encouraged me to sit with her later than usual. two or three times in the midst of our conversation, she asked me to go to master christian's room to see if he was asleep, and when i told her he was sleeping beautifully, and that he looked like an angel, she smiled, and thanked me. "'he will grow into a noble man,' she said, 'and will, i trust, think of me with tenderness. i often look forward and wonder what his life will be.' "'a happy one, i am sure,' i said. "'i pray that it may be so, and that he will meet with a woman who will truly and faithfully love him.' "then she asked me if there was a light in her husband's study, and going out into the balcony to look, i said there was, and said, moreover, that my master often sat up the whole night through, reading and studying. "'you have been in his service a long time, denise,' said my lady. "'yes, my lady. i was born in this house, and my mother lived and died here.' "'was your master always a student, denise?' "always, my lady. even when he was a boy he would shut himself up with his books. he is not like other men. from his youngest days we used to speak of him with wonder.' "'he is very learned,' said my lady. 'how shall one be forgiven for breaking up his life?' "'ah, my lady,' i said, 'if i dared to speak!' "'speak freely, denise!' "and then i described to her what a favourite my master was when he was a lad, and how everybody admired him, although he held himself aloof from people. i spoke of his gentleness, of his kindness, of his goodness to the poor, whom he used to visit and help in secret. i told her that never did woman have a more faithful and devoted lover than my master was to her, nor a man with a nobler heart, nor one who stood more highly in the world's esteem. "she listened in silence, and did not chide me for my boldness, and when i was done, she said she would retire to rest. but she was so weak that she could scarcely rise from her chair. "'i had best remain with you to-night, my lady,' i said; 'you may need my services.' "'it is not necessary," she said; 'i shall require nothing, and i shall be better to-morrow.' "i considered it my duty to make my master acquainted with his wife's condition, but i did not tell him of her intention to ask him to come to her to-morrow for fear that she should alter her mind. there had been disappointment and vexation enough in the house, and i would not add to it. "i could not rest, i was so anxious about my lady, and an hour after i was abed, i rose and dressed myself and went to her room. she was on her knees, praying by the bedside of her child, and i stole softly away without disturbing her. "again, later in the night, i went to her room. she was sleeping calmly, but her breathing was so light that i could scarcely hear it. in the morning i helped her to dress, and afterwards assisted her to her favourite seat by the window. "master christian was already up and about, and shortly after his mother was dressed he came in loaded with flowers, to make the room look beautiful, he said, on this happy day. "it was a day he was never to forget." chapter xii the last meeting between husband and wife "the morning passed, and my lady made no sign. master christian, flitting restlessly in and out and about the room, waited impatiently for his mother's instructions to bring her husband to her. i offered her food, but she could not eat it. on the previous day the doctor, who regularly attended her, had said that his services were required at a great distance from the villa, and that he should not be able to visit my lady on the morrow. she had replied: "'do not trouble, doctor; you can do nothing for me.' "and, indeed, there appeared to be no special necessity for his presence. my lady was not in pain; she looked happy and contented. but she was so quiet, so very, very quiet! not a word of complaint or suffering, not a moan, not a sigh. why, therefore, did my heart sink as i gazed at her? "at length master christian was compelled to speak; he could no longer control his impatience. "'mamma, do you like the way i have arranged the flowers? the room looks pretty, does it not?' "'yes, my child.' "'i wanted it to look very bright to-day. so did you, did you not, mamma? papa will be pleased when he comes.' "'i hope so, my dear.' "'and i shall tell him that it is not so every day, and that it is done for him. shall i go for him now?' "'presently, my dear. wait yet a little while.' "'but, mamma, it was to be to-day, you know, and it is nearly afternoon. just look at the clock, mamma, it is nearly two---- ah, but you are tired, and i am worrying you! now i will sit quite still, and when the clock strikes two, you shall tell me to go for papa. say yes, or look it, mamma.' "'yes, my dear, at two o'clock you shall go. denise will accompany you, for perhaps, christian, your papa will think that the message comes from your affectionate heart, and not from me.' "'that,' said master christian,' is because i have tried to bring papa to you before. but i did it out of love, mamma.' "'i know, my dear, i know. if, when you were a little baby, and could not speak or think of things, i had reflected, it might all have been different. perhaps i have been to blame.' "'no, mamma, you shall not say that; i will not let you say that. you can't do anything wrong, and papa can't do anything wrong. now i shall be quite still, and watch the clock, and i will not say another word till it strikes.' "he sat, as he had promised, quite still, with his eyes fixed on the clock, and i saw by the motion of his lips that he was counting the seconds. slowly, oh, so slowly, the hands moved round till they reached the hour, and then the silver chimes were heard. first, the four divisions of the hour, then the hour itself. one, two. in my ears it was like the chapel bell calling the people to prayer. "'now, mamma!' cried master christian, starting up. "she took his pretty face between her hands, and drew it close to hers. she kissed his lips and his forehead, and then her hands fell to her side. "'may i go now, mamma?' "he saw in her eyes that she was willing he should bring his father, and he embraced her joyfully, and ran out of the room crying: "'come, denise, come! papa, papa!' "he did not wait for me, and when i arrived at the study door, the father and son were standing together, and master christian was trying to pull my master along. "'this little fellow here,' said my master, striving to speak cheerfully, but his lips trembled, and his voice was husky, 'has a strong imagination, and his heart is so full of love that it runs away with his tongue.' "'it does not, papa, it does not,' cried master christian very earnestly. 'and it is not imagination. mamma wants you to come and love her.' "my master turned his enquiring eyes to my face. "'my lady wishes you to come to her, sir,' i said simply. "i knew that the fewer words i spoke at such a time the better it would be. "he did not question me. he was satisfied that i spoke the truth. "his agitation was great, and he walked a few steps from me, holding master christian by the hand, and then stood still for quite a minute. then he stooped and kissed his son, and suffered himself to be led to my lady's room. "i followed them at a little distance, and remained outside my lady's room, while they entered and closed the door behind them. it was not right that any eyes but theirs should witness so sacred a meeting; but though i denied myself the pleasure of being present, my heart was in my ears. it was proper that i should be within call. in my lady's weak state, my services might be required. "from where i stood, i heard master christian's eager, happy voice: "'mamma, mamma--here is papa! he is come at last, mamma! speak to him, and love him, as i do! papa, put your arms around mamma's neck, and kiss her.' "then all was quiet--so quiet, so quiet! not a sound, not a breath. ah, holy mother! i can _hear_ the silence now:--i can _feel_ it about me! it was in this very room, and my lady was sitting in the chair in which you are seated. "suddenly the silence was broken. my master was calling loudly for me. "'denise--denise! where are you? come quickly, for god's sake!' "before the words were out of his lips, i was in the room. my master was looking wildly upon his wife and child. the lad, with his arms about his mother, was kissing her passionately, and crying over her. "'mamma, mamma! why do you not speak? here is papa waiting for you. oh, mamma, say only one word!' "'is it true,' my master whispered to me, 'that your lady sent you for me?' "'it is true, sir,' i replied in a low tone. "'what, then, is the meaning of this?' he asked, still in the same unnatural whisper. 'i have spoken to her--she will not answer me. she will not even look at me!' "a sudden fear smote my heart. i stepped softly to my lady's side. i gently unwound master christian's arms from his mother's neck. i took her hand in mine, and pressed it. the pressure was not returned. her fingers, though still warm, were motionless. "'what is it, denise?' my master asked hoarsely. 'the truth--the truth!' "he read the answer in my eyes. we were gazing on the face of a dead woman! "yes, she was dead, and no word had been exchanged between them--no look of affection--no token of forgiveness. how truly, how prophetically, had she spoken to her husband in their last interview on this spot, eight years before! 'after this night i will never open my lips to you, nor, willingly, will i ever again listen to your voice!' "from that hour to this he had never heard the sound of her voice, and now that, after their long agony--for there is no doubt that his sufferings were as great as hers--she had summoned him to her, she was dead! ah, if she had only lived to say: "'mine was the fault; it was not only i who was betrayed; let there be peace and forgiveness between us!' "did she know, when she called him to her, that he would look upon her dead face? could she so measure her moments upon earth as to be certain that her heart would cease to beat as he entered the room at her bidding? no, it could not have been, for this premeditation would have proclaimed her capable of vindictive passion. she was full of tender feeling and sweet compassion, and the influence of her child _must_ have softened her heart towards the man who had loved and married her, and had done her no wrong. "that she knew she was dying was certain, and she was willing--nay more than willing, wishful to forgive and to ask forgiveness as she stood upon the brink of another world. the sight of his worn and wasted face may have shocked her and caused her sudden death. but it remained a mystery whether she had seen him--whether her spirit had not taken flight before her husband presented himself to her. it was a question none could answer. "i am aware that there are people who would say that my lady deliberately designed this last bitter blow to her husband. my master did not think so. when the first shock of his grief was spent, his face expressed nothing but sorrow and compassion. he kissed her once--on her forehead, not on her lips--and after her eyes were closed and she lay, white and beautiful, upon her bed, he sat by her side the whole of the day and night--for a great part of the time with master christian in his arms. "there were those in the villa who declared that on the night of her death the white shadow of my lady was seen gliding about the grounds, and from that day the place was supposed to be haunted. for my own part i knew that these were foolish fancies, but you cannot reason people out of them. "the next day my master made preparations for the funeral. his strange manner of conducting it strengthened the superstition. he would not have any of his old friends at the funeral, although many wrote to him. only himself and master christian and the servants followed my lady to her grave. he would not allow any black crape to be worn, and all the female servants of the house were dressed in white. "it caused a great deal of talk, a good many people saying that it was a sinful proceeding on the part of my master, and that it was a sign of joy at his wife's death. they must have been blind to the grief in his face--so plainly written there that the tears came to my eyes as i looked at it--when they uttered this slander. and yet, if the truth were told, if it were deeply searched for among the ashes in his heart, it is not unlikely that my master was sorrowfully grateful that his wife's martyrdom was at an end. for her sake, not for his own, did he experience this sad feeling of gratitude. it was entirely in accordance with his stern sense of justice--in the exercise of which he was least likely to spare himself of all people in the world--that, while he was bowed down to the earth in grief, he should be glad that his wife was dead. "all kinds of rumours were afloat concerning the house and the family. the gossips declared that on certain nights the grounds were filled with white shadows, mournfully following each other in a long funeral train. that is how the villa grew to be called the house of shadows. "it was like a tomb. not a person was permitted to pass the gates. not a servant could be prevailed upon to stop. all of them left, with the exception of martin and myself, and my daughter, dionetta's mother. dionetta was not born at the time. we were glad to take fritz the fool into the place, to run of errands and do odd jobs. he was a young lad then, an orphan, and has been hanging about ever since. but for all the good he is, he might as well be at the other end of the world. "the rumours spread into distant quarters, and one day a priest, who had travelled scores of miles for the purpose of seeing my master, presented himself at the gates, which were always kept locked by my master's orders. i asked the priest what he wanted, and he said he must speak to mr. almer. i told him that no person was admitted, and that my master would see none, but he insisted that i should give his errand. i did so, and my master accompanied me to the gates. "'you have received your answer from my servant,' said my master. 'why do you persist in your attempts to force yourself upon me?' "'my errand is a solemn one,' said the priest; 'i am bidden by heaven to come to you.' "my master smiled scornfully. 'what deeds in my life,' he said, 'i shall be called upon to answer for before a divine tribunal, concern me, and me only. were you an officer of justice you should be admitted; but you are a priest, and i do not need you. i am my own priest. begone.' "he was importunate, and was not so easily got rid of. day after day, for two weeks, he made his appearance at the gates, but he could not obtain admittance, and at length he was compelled to forego his mission, whatever it might have been, and to leave without having any further speech with my master. "soon after he left, my master took master christian to school, at a great distance from the village, and returning alone, resumed his solitary habits. "how well do i remember the evening on which he desired me not to disturb him on any account whatever, and to come to his study at four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day. at that hour, i knocked at the door, and received no answer. i knocked several times, and, becoming alarmed, tried the handle of the door. it was unlocked, and i stepped into the study, and said: "'it is i, sir, denise; you bade me come at this hour.' "i spoke to deaf ears. on the floor lay my master stone dead! "he had not killed himself; he died a natural death, and must have been forewarned that his moments on earth were numbered. "that is all i have to tell, my lady." chapter xiii the arrival of christian almer "and you have really told it very well, mother denise," said the advocate's wife; "with such sentiment, and in such beautiful language! it is a great talent: i don't know when i have been so interested. why, in some parts you actually gave me the creeps! and here is dionetta, as white as a lily. what a comfort it must have been to the poor lady to have had a good soul like you about her! if such a misfortune happened to me, i should like to have just such a servant as you were to her." "heaven forbid, my lady," said mother denise, raising her hands, "that such an unhappy lot should be yours!" "well, to tell you the truth," said adelaide, with a bright smile, "i do not think it at all likely to happen. of course, there is no telling what one might have to go through. men are such strange creatures, and lead such strange lives! they may do anything--absolutely anything!--fight, gamble, make love without the least sincerity, deceive poor women and forsake them--yes, they may do all that, and the world will smile indulgently upon them. but if one of us, mother denise, makes the slightest trip, dear me! what a fuss is made about it--how shocked everybody is! a perfect carnival for the scandal-mongers! 'isn't it altogether too dreadful.' 'did you ever hear of such a thing?' 'would you have believed it of her?' that is what is said by all sorts of people. but if _i_ happened to be treated badly i should not submit to it tamely--nor between you and me, mother denise, in my opinion, did the lady whose story you have just related." "everything occurred," said mother denise stiffly, "exactly as i have described it." "with a small allowance," said adelaide archly, "for exaggeration, and with here and there a chapter left out. come, you must admit that!" "i have omitted nothing, my lady. i am angry with myself for having told so much. i doubt whether i have not done wrong." "mr. christian almer, whom i expect every minute"--and adelaide looked at her watch--"would have been seriously annoyed with you if you had not satisfied my curiosity. where is the harm? to be living here, with such an interesting tale untold, would have been inexcusable, perfectly inexcusable. but i am certain that you have purposely passed over more than one chapter, and i admire you for it. it is highly to your credit not to have told all you know, though it could hurt no one at this distance of time." "what do you think i have concealed, my lady?" "there was a certain m. gabriel," said adelaide, "who played a most important part in the story--a good many people would say, the most important part. if it had not been for him, there would have been no story to tell worth the hearing; there would have been no quarrel between husband and wife, and the foolish young lady would not have died, and i should not be here, listening to her story, and ready to cry my eyes out in pity for her. m. gabriel must have been a very handsome young fellow, or there would not have been such a fuss made about him. there! i declare you have never even given me a description of him. of course he was handsome." she was full of vivacity, and as she leaned forward towards the old housekeeper, it appeared as if, in her estimation, nothing connected with the story she had heard was of so much importance as this question, which she repeated anxiously, "tell me, mother denise, was he handsome?" "he was exceedingly good-looking," mother denise was constrained to reply, "but not so distinguished in his bearing as my unhappy master." "tall?" "yes, tall, my lady." "dark or fair? but i think you gave me the impression that he was dark." "yes, my lady, he was dark," replied mother denise, coldly, more and more displeased at the frivolity of the questions. "and young, of course--much younger than mr. almer?" "much younger, my lady." "there would be no sense in the matter otherwise; anyone might guess that he was young and handsome and fascinating. well, as i was about to say--i hope you will forgive me for flying off as i do; my head gets so full of ideas that they tumble over one another--all at once this m. gabriel drops clean out of the story, and we hear nothing more of him. if there is one thing more inexplicable than another in the affair, it is that nothing more should be heard of m. gabriel." "we live out of the gay world, my lady; far removed from it, i am happy to think. it is not at all strange that in this quiet village we should not know what became of him." "that is assuming that m. gabriel went back into the gay world, as you call it, which is not such a bad place, i assure you, mother denise." "he could not have stopped in the village, my lady, without its being known." "probably not; but, you dear old soul!" said adelaide, her manner becoming more animated as that of mother denise became more frigid, "you dear old soul, they always come back! when lovers are dismissed, as m. gabriel was, they always come back. they think they never will--they vow they never will--but they cannot help themselves. they are not their own masters. it is the story of the moth and the candle over again." "you mean, my lady," said mother denise, very gravely, "that m. gabriel returned to the villa." "that is my meaning exactly. what else could he do?" "i will not say whether i am glad or sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but m. gabriel, after the summer-house was barred up, never made his appearance again in the village." "of course, under the circumstances, he could not show himself to everybody. it was necessary that he should be cautious. he had to come quietly--secretly, if you like." "he never came, my lady," said mother denise, with determination. "but he wrote, and sent his letters by a confidential messenger; he did that at least." "i told you, my lady, that while my poor mistress lived in these rooms she never received or wrote a letter." "if that is so, his letters to her must have been intercepted." "there were no letters," said mother denise, stubbornly. "there were," said adelaide, smiling a reproof to mother denise. "i know the ways of men better than you do." "by whom, my lady, do you suppose these imaginary letters were intercepted?" "by her husband, of course, you dear, simple soul!" "mr. almer could not have been guilty of such an act." the advocate's wife gazed admiringly at the housekeeper. "dionetta," she exclaimed, "never be tempted to betray your mistress's secrets; take pattern by your grandmother." "she might do worse, my lady," said mother denise, still unbending. "indeed she might. i am thinking of something. on the night you were aroused from your sleep, and heard the sound of a man falling to the ground----" "i only fancied it was a man, my lady; we never learnt the truth." "it was a man, and he climbed the wall. and he chose a dark and stormy night for his adventure. he was a brave fellow. i quite admire him." "admire a thief!" exclaimed mother denise, in horror. "my dear old soul, you _must_ know it was not a thief. the house was not robbed, was it?" "no, my lady, nothing was taken; but what is the use of speaking of it?" "when once i get an idea into my head," said adelaide, "it carries me along, whether i like it or not. so, then--some time after you heard a man falling or jumping from the wall, you heard the sound of someone walking in the paths outside. he was fearful of disturbing anyone in the house, and he trod very, very softly. i should have done just the same. now can't you guess the name of that man?" "no, my lady, it was never discovered. he was a villain, whoever he was, to poison our dogs." "that was a small matter. what is the life of a dog--of a thousand dogs--when a man is in love?" "my lady!" cried mother denise. "what is it you are saying?" "nothing will deter him," continued adelaide, with an intense enjoyment of the old woman's uneasiness, "nothing will frighten him, if he is brave and earnest, as m. gabriel was. you dear old soul, the man you heard in the grounds that night was m. gabriel, and he came to see your mistress--perhaps to carry her off! this window is not very high; i could almost jump from it myself." mother denise pressed her hand to her side, as though to relieve a sudden pain; her face was white with a newly born apprehension. "do you really believe, my lady," she asked in trembling tones, "that m. gabriel would have dared to enter the grounds in the dead of night, like a thief, after what had occurred?" "i certainly believe it; it was the daring of a lover, not of a thief. were any traces of blood discovered in the grounds?" "none were discovered; but if blood was spilt, the rain would have washed it away." "or it could have been wiped away in the dark night!" "is it possible," said mother denise under her breath, "that you can be right, and that my master and m. gabriel met on that night!" "the most probable occurrence in the world," said adelaide, with a pleasant smile. "what should have made your old master so anxious that you should not speak of the sounds you heard? he had a motive, depend upon it." mother denise, who had sunk into a chair in great agitation, suddenly rose, and said abruptly: "my lady, this is very painful to me. will you allow me to go?" "certainly; do not let me detain you a moment. i cannot express to you the obligations you have laid me under by relating the history of this house and family. there is nothing more to do in these rooms, i believe. how very, very pretty they look! we must do everything in our power to make the place pleasant to the young master who is coming. but i think i can promise he will be happy here." not even adelaide's smiles and good-humour could smooth mother denise's temper for the rest of the day. "mark my words, martin," she said to her husband, "something wrong will happen before the advocate and his fine lady leave the villa. she has put such horrible ideas into my head! ah, but i will not think of them; it is treason, rank treason! we shall rue the day she came among us." "ha, ha!" chuckled the old man slyly. "you're jealous, denise, you're jealous! she is the pleasantest lady, and the sweetest spoken, and the most generous, and the handsomest, for twenty miles round. the whole village is in love with her." "and you as well as the rest, i suppose," snapped mother denise. "i don't say that--i don't say that," piped martin, with a childish laugh. "never kiss and tell, denise, never kiss and tell! if i was young and straight----" "but you're old and crooked," retorted mother denise, "and your mind's going, if it hasn't gone already. you grow sillier and sillier every day." a reproach the old man received with gleeful laughs and tiresome coughs. his worship of the beautiful lady was not to be lightly disturbed. "the sweetest and the handsomest!" he chuckled, as he hobbled away, at the rate of half a mile an hour. "i'd walk twenty mile to serve her--twenty mile--twenty mile!" "and this is actually the room," said adelaide, walking about it, "in which that poor lady spent so many unhappy years! her prison! her grave! dionetta, my pretty one, when the chance of happiness is offered to you, do not throw it away. life is short. enjoy it. a great many people moralise and preach, but if you were to see what they do, and put it in by the side of what they say, you would understand what fools those people must be who believe in their moralising and preaching. the persecuted lady whose story your grandmother has told us--what happiness did she enjoy in her life? none. do you know why, dionetta? because it was life without love. love is life's sunshine. better to be dead than to live without it! hark! is not that a carriage driving up at the gates?" she ran swiftly from the room, down the stairs, into the grounds. the gates were thrown open. a young man, just alighted, came towards her. she ran forward to meet him, with outstretched hands, with face beaming with joy. he took her hands in his. "welcome, mr. almer," she said aloud, so that those around her could hear her. "you have had a pleasant journey, i hope." and then, in a whisper, "christian!" "adelaide!" he said, in a tone as low as hers. "now i am the happiest woman!" she murmured. "it is an eternity since i saw you. how could you have kept away from me so long?" _book iv.--the battle with conscience_ chapter i lawyer and priest it happened that certain persons had selected this evening as a suitable occasion for a friendly visit to the house of white shadows; jacob hartrich, the banker, was one of these. the banker was accompanied by his wife, a handsome and dignified woman, and by his two daughters, whose personal attractions, enhanced by their father's wealth and their consequent expectations, would have created a sensation in fashionable circles. although in his religious observances jacob hartrich was by no means orthodox, he did not consider himself less a true jew on that account. it is recognised by the most intelligent and liberal-minded of his race in the civilised countries of the world that the carrying-out of the mosaic law in its integrity would not only debar them from social relations, but would check their social advancement. it is a consequence of the recognition of this undoubted fact that the severe ordinances of the jewish religion should become relaxed in their fulfilment. jacob hartrich was a member of this band of reformers, and though his conscience occasionally gave him a twinge, he was none the less devoted, in a curiously jealous and illogical spirit, to the faith of his forefathers, to which he clung with the greater tenacity because his daily habits compelled him to act, to some extent, in antagonism with the decrees they had laid down. master pierre lamont was also at the villa. his bodily ailments were more severe than usual, and the jolting over the rough roads, as he was drawn from his house in his hand-carriage, had caused him excruciating suffering. he bore it with grins and grimaces, scorning to give pain an open triumph over him. fritz was not by his side to amuse him with his humour; the fool was at the court, on this last day of gautran's trial, as he had been on every previous day, hastening thence every evening to pierre lamont, to give him an account of the day's proceedings. father capel was there--a simple and learned ecclesiastic, with a smile and a pleasant greeting for old and young, for rich and poor alike. a benevolent, sweet-natured man, who, when trouble came to his door, received it with cheerful resignation; universally beloved; a man whose course through life was strewn with flowers of charity and kindness. the visit of these and other guests was unexpected by adelaide, and she inwardly resented the interruption to a contemplated quiet evening with christian almer; but outwardly she was all affability. the principal topic of conversation was the trial of gautran, and pierre lamont was enthusiastic on the theme. "the trial will end this evening," he said, "and intellect will triumph." "truth, i trust, will triumph," said jacob hartrich, gravely. "intellect is truth's best champion," said pierre lamont. "but some mortals believe themselves to be omniscient, and set up a standard of truth which is independent of proof. i understood that you were to have been on the jury at the trial." "i was excused," said jacob hartrich, "on the ground that i had already formed so strong a view of the guilt of the prisoner that no testimony could affect it." "decidedly," observed pierre lamont, "an unfit frame of mind to take part in a judicial inquiry of great difficulty. for my own part, i would willingly have given a year of my life, which cannot have too many years to run, to have been able to be in geneva these last few days. it will be long before another trial so celebrated will take place in our courts." "i am happy to think so." "it has always been a puzzle to me," said adelaide, whose feelings towards pierre lamont were of the most contradictory character--now inclining her to be exceedingly partial to him, now to detest him--"how such vulgar cases can excite the interest they do." "it is surprising," was pierre lamont's comment, "that the wife of an advocate so celebrated should express such an opinion." "there are stranger things than that in the world, master lamont." "truly, truly," said pierre lamont, regarding her with curiosity; "but cannot you understand how even these vulgar cases become, at least for a time, great and grand when the highest qualities of the mind are engaged in unravelling the threads which bind them?" "no, i cannot understand it," she replied with an amiable smile. "i believe that you lawyers are only happy when people are murdering and robbing each other." "my friend the advocate," said pierre lamont, bending gallantly, an exertion which sent a twinge of pain through his body, "is at least happy in one other respect--that of being the husband of a lady whom none can see without admiring--if i were a younger man i should say without loving." "pierre lamont," said jacob hartrich, "gives us here a proof that love and law can go hand in hand." "nay," said pierre lamont, whose eyes and mind were industriously studying the face of his beautiful hostess, "such proof from me is not needed. the advocate has supplied it, and words cannot strengthen the case." and he waved his hand courteously towards adelaide. these compliments were not wasted upon her, and pierre lamont laughed secretly as he observed their effect. "you are worth studying, fair dame," he thought, "with your smiling face, and your heart of vanity, and your lack of sympathy with your husband's triumphs. if not with his triumphs, then not with him! feeling you _must_ have, though it is born of selfishness. ah! the curtain is drawn aside. which one, which one, you beautiful animal?" his eyes travelled from one to the other in the room, until they fell upon christian almer, whose eyes at that moment met those of adelaide. "ah!" and he drew a deep breath of enjoyment. "are you the favoured one, my master of this house of shadows! then we must take you into the game, for it cannot be played without you." the old lawyer was in his element, probing character and motive, and submitting them to mental analysis. physically he was helpless amidst the animated life around him; curled up in his invalid chair he was dependent for every movement upon his fellow-creatures; despite his intellect, he was at the mercy of a hind; but he was nevertheless the strongest man in all that throng, the man most to be feared by those who had anything to conceal, any secret which it behoved them to hide from the knowledge of men. "how such vulgar cases," he said aloud, to the astonishment of the advocate's wife, who deemed the subject dismissed, "can excite the interest they do! it surprises you. but there is not one of these cases which does not contain elements of human sympathy and affinity with ourselves. this very case of gautran--what is its leading feature? love--the theme of minstrel and poet, the sentiment without which human and divine affairs would be plunged into darkness. crimes for which gautran is being tried are caused by the human passions and emotions which direct our own movements. the balance in our favour is so heavy when our desires and wishes clash with the desires and wishes of other men, that we easily find justification for our misdeeds. father capel is listening to me with more than ordinary attention. he perceives the justice of my argument." "we travel by different roads," said father capel. "you do not take into account the prompting of evil spirits, ever on the alert to promote discord and instigate to crime. it is that consideration which makes me tolerant of human error, which makes me pity it, which makes me forgive it." "i dispute your spiritual basis. all motive for crime springs from within ourselves." "nay, nay," gently remonstrated father capel. "pardon me for restraining you. i was about to say that not only does all motive for human crime spring from within ourselves, but all motive for human goodness as well. if your thesis that evil spirits prompt us to crime is correct, it must be equally correct that good spirits prompt us to deeds of mercy, and charity, and kindness. then there is no merit in performing a good action. you rob life of its grace, and you virtually declare that it is an injustice to punish a man for murdering his fellow-creature. plainly stated, you establish the doctrine of irresponsibility. i will not do you the injustice of believing that you are in earnest. your tolerance of human error, and your pity and forgiveness for it, spring from natural kindliness, as my tolerance of it, and my lack of pity and forgiveness for it, spring from a natural hardness of heart, begot of much study of the weakness, perverseness, and selfishness of my species. in the rank soil of these imperfections grows that wondrous, necessary tree known by the name of law, whose wide-spreading branches at once smite and protect. you may thank this tree for preserving to some extent the decencies of society." "well expressed, pierre lamont," said jacob hartrich approvingly. "i regret that the advocate is not present to listen to your eloquence." "ah," said pierre lamont, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "does your endorsement spring from judgment or self-interest?" "you strike both friend and foe," said father capel, with much gentleness. "it is as dangerous to agree with you as to dissent from you. but in your extravagant laudation of the profession of which you are a representative you lose sight of a mightier engine than law, towering far above it in usefulness, and as a protection, no less than a solace to mankind. without religion, law would be powerless, and the world a world of wild beasts. it softens, humanizes----" "invents," sneered pierre lamont, with undisguised contempt, "fables which sober reason rejects." "if you will have it so, yes. fables to divert men's minds from sordid materialism into purer channels. be thankful for religion if you practise it not. in the sabbath's holy peace, in the hush and calm of one day out of the turbulent seven, in the influences which touch you closely, though you do not acknowledge them, in the restraint imposed by fear, in the charitable feelings inspired by love, in the unseen spirit which softens and subdues, in the yearning hope which chastens grief when one dear to you is lost, lie the safeguard of your days and much of the happiness you enjoy. so much for your body. for your soul, i will pray to-night." "father capel," said pierre lamont in a voice of honey, "if all priests were like you, i would wear a hair-shirt to-morrow." "what need, my son," asked father capel, "if you have a conscience?" "let me pay for my sins," said pierre lamont, handing his purse to the priest. father capel took a few francs from the purse. "for the poor," he said. "in their name i bless you!" "the priest has the best of it," said adelaide to christian almer. "i hate these dry arguments! it is altogether too bad that i should be called upon to entertain a set of musty old men. how much happier we should be, we two alone, even in the mountains where you have been hiding yourself from me!" "you are in better health and spirits," said jacob hartrich, drawing almer aside, "than when i last saw you. the mountain air has done you good. it is strange to see you in the old house; i thought it would never be opened again to receive guests." "it is many years since we were together under this roof," said christian almer thoughtfully. "you were so young at the time," rejoined the banker, "that you can scarcely have a remembrance of it." "my remembrance is very keen. i could have been scarcely six years of age, and we had no visitors. i remember that my curiosity was excited because you were admitted." "i came on business," said jacob hartrich, and then, unwilling to revive the sad reminiscences of the young man's childhood, he said abruptly: "almer, you should marry." his eyes wandered to his two comely daughters. "what is that you are saying?" interposed the advocate's wife; "that mr. almer should marry? if i were a man--how i wish i were!--nothing, nothing in the world would tempt me to marry. i would live a life without chain or shackle." "so, so, my fair dame," thought pierre lamont, who had overheard this remark. "bright as you appear, there is a skeleton in your cupboard. chains and shackles! but you are sufficiently self-willed to throw these off." and he said aloud: "can you ascertain for me if fritz the fool has returned from geneva?" "certainly," replied adelaide, and dionetta being in the room, she sent her out to inquire. "if he has returned," said pierre lamont, "the trial is over. i miss the fool's nightly report of the proceedings, which he has given me regularly since the commencement of the inquiry." "if the trial is over," said christian almer, "the advocate should be here." "you need not expect him so soon," said pierre lamont; "after such exertion as he has gone through, an hour's solitude is imperative. besides, fritz can travel faster than our slow-going horses; he is as fleet as a hare." "a favourite of yours, evidently." "i have the highest respect for him. this particular fool is the wisest fool in my acquaintance." dionetta entered the room with fritz at her heels. "well, fritz," called out pierre lamont, "is the trial over?" "yes, master lamont, and we're ready for the next." "the verdict, fritz, the verdict?" eagerly inquired pierre lamont, and everybody in the room listened anxiously for the reply. "if i were a bandy-legged man," said fritz, ignoring the question, "i would hire some scoundrel to do a deed, so that you might be on one side and my lord the advocate on the other. then we should witness a fine battle of brains." "come, fritz--the verdict!" repeated pierre lamont impatiently. "on second thoughts," said fritz quietly, "you would be no match for the greatest lawyer living. i would not have you on my side. it is as well that your pleading days are ended." "no fooling, fritz. the verdict; acquitted?" "what else? washed white as driven snow." "i knew it would be so," cried the old lawyer triumphantly. "how was it received?" "the town is mad about it. the women are furious, and the men thunderstruck. you should have heard the speech! such a thing was never known. men's minds were twisted inside out, and the jury were convinced against their convictions. why, master lamont, even gautran himself for a few minutes believed himself to be innocent!" "enough," said christian almer sternly. "leave the room." fritz darted a sharp look at the newly returned master, and with a low bow quitted the apartment. the next moment the advocate made his appearance, and all eyes were turned towards him. chapter ii the white shadow he entered the room with a cloud upon his face. gautran's horrible confession had deeply moved him, and, almost for the first time in his life, he found himself at fault. his heart was heavy, and his mind was troubled; but he had never yet lost his power of self-control, and the moment he saw his guests the mask fell over his features, and they assumed their usual tranquil expression. he greeted one and another with calmness and courtesy, leaving his wife and christian almer to the last. "i am happy to tell you, adelaide," he said, "that the trial is over." "oh, we have already had the news," she said coldly. "fool fritz has given us a glowing account of it, and the excitement the verdict created." "did it create excitement?" he asked. "i was not aware of it." "i take no interest in such cases, as you are aware," she rejoined. "you knew the man was innocent, or you would not have defended him. it is a pity the monster is set free." "last, but not least," said the advocate, turning to christian almer, and cordially pressing his hand. "welcome, and again welcome! you have come to stay?" adelaide answered for him: "certainly he has: i have his promise." "that is well," said the advocate. "i am glad to see you looking so bright, christian." "you have not derived much benefit from your holiday," said christian almer, gazing at the advocate's pale face. "was it wise to take upon yourself the weight of so harassing a trial?" "do we always do what is wise?" asked the advocate, with a smile in which there was no light. "but seldom, i should say," replied almer. "i once had great faith in the power of will; but i am beginning to believe that we are as completely slaves to independent forces as feathers in a fierce wind: driven this way or that in spite of ourselves. not inward, but outward magnetism rules us. perhaps the best plan is to submit without a struggle." "of course it is," said adelaide with a bright look, "if it is pleasant to submit. it is ridiculous to make one's head ache over things. i can teach you, in a word, a wiser lesson than either of you have ever learnt." "what is that word, adelaide?" asked the advocate. "enjoy," she replied. "a butterfly's philosophy. what say you, christian? shall we follow the teaching of this solon in petticoats?" "may i join you?" said pierre lamont, who had caused himself to be drawn to this group. "my infirmities make me a privileged person, and unless i thrust myself forward, i might be left to languish like a decrepit spider in a ruined web." "ill-natured people," remarked adelaide, "might say that your figure of speech is a dangerous one for a lawyer to employ." "fairest of dames," said pierre lamont, "your arrows are sugar-tipped; there is no poison in them. use me as your target, i beg. you put new life into this old frame." "the old school can teach the new," said christian almer. "you should open a class of gallantry, master lamont." "i! with my useless limbs! you mock me!" "he will not allow me to be angry with him," said adelaide, smiling on the lawyer. then pierre lamont drew the advocate into a conversation on the trial which the advocate would gladly have avoided, could he have done so without being considered guilty of a breach of courtesy. but pierre lamont was not a man to be denied, and the advocate was fain to answer the questions put to him until the old lawyer was acquainted with every detail of the line of defence. "excellent--excellent!" he exclaimed. "a masterstroke! you do not share my enthusiasm," he said, addressing jacob hartrich, who had stood silently by, listening to the conversation. "you have no understanding of the intense, the fierce delight of such a battle and such a victory." "the last word is not spoken here on earth," said jacob hartrich. "there is a higher tribunal." "well said, my son," said father capel. "son!" said pierre lamont to the banker, with a little scornful laugh. "resent the familiarity, man of another faith." "better any faith than none," warmly remarked jacob hartrich, cordially taking the hand which father capel held out to him. "good! good! good!" cried pierre lamont. "i stand renounced by church and synagogue." "you are uncharitable only to yourself," said father capel. "i, for one, will not take you at your word." pierre lamont lowered his eyes. "you teach me humility," he said. "profit by it," rejoined father capel. "you formed the opinion that gautran was guilty," said pierre lamont to the banker. "upon what evidence?" "inward conviction," briefly replied jacob hartrich. "you, at least," said pierre lamont, turning his wily face to father capel, "although you look at human affairs through divine light, have a respect for the law." "undoubtedly," was the reply. "but this man of finance," said pierre lamont, "would destroy its very fabric when it clashes with his inward conviction. argue with him, and your words fall against a steel wall, impenetrable to logic, reason, natural deduction, and even common sense--and behind this wall lurks a self-sufficient imp which he calls inward conviction. useful enough, nay, necessary, in religion, for it needs no proof. faith answers for all. accept, and rest content. i congratulate you, jacob hartrich. but does it not occur to you that others, besides yourself, may have inward convictions antagonistic to yours, and that occasionally theirs may be the true conviction and yours the false? our friend the advocate, for instance. do you think it barely possible that he would have undertaken the defence of gautran unless he had an inward conviction, formed upon a sure foundation, that the man was innocent of the crime imputed to him?" it was with some indignation that jacob hartrich replied, "that a man of honour would voluntarily come forward as a defender under any conditions than that of the firmest belief in the prisoner's innocence is incredible." "we agree upon this point i am happy to know, and upon another--that in the profession to which i have the honour to belong, there are men whose actions are guided by the highest and finest principles, and whose motives spring from what i conceive to be the most ennobling of all impulse, a desire for justice." "who can doubt it?" "how, then, stands the case as between you and my brother the advocate? you have an inward conviction of gautran's guilt--he an inward conviction of gautran's innocence. up to a certain time you and he are on an equality; your knowledge of the crime is derived from hearsay and newspaper reports. upon that evidence you rest; you have your business to attend to--the value of money, the fluctuations of the exchanges, the public movements which affect securities, in addition to the anxieties springing from your private transactions. the advocate cannot afford to depend upon hearsay and the newspapers. it is his business to investigate, to unearth, to bring together the scattered bones and fit them one with another, to reason, to argue, to deduce. as all the powers of your mind are brought to bear upon your business, which is money, so all the powers of his mind are brought to bear upon his, which is gautran, in connection with the crime of which he stands accused. his inward conviction of the man's innocence is strengthened no less by the facts which come to light than by the presumptive evidence he is enabled by his patience and application to bring forward in favour of his client. you and he are no longer on an equality. he is a man informed, you remain in ignorance. he has dissected the body, and all the arteries of the crime are exposed to his sight and judgment. you merely raise up a picture--a dark night, a river, a girl vainly struggling with her fate, a murderer (with veiled face) flying from the spot, or looking with brutal calmness upon his victim. that is the entire extent of your knowledge. you seize a brush--you throw light upon the darkness--you paint the river and the girl--you paint the portrait of the murderer, gautran. all is clear to you. you have formed your own court of justice, imagination affords the proof, and prejudice is the judge. it is an easy and agreeable task to find the prisoner guilty. you are satisfied. you believe you have fulfilled a duty, whereas you have been but a stumbling-block in the path of justice." "notwithstanding which," said jacob hartrich, who had thoroughly recovered his good humour, "i have as firm a conviction as ever in the guilt of gautran the woodman." "admonish this member of a stiff-necked race, father capel," said pierre lamont, "and tell him why reason was given to man." earnest as the old lawyer was in the discussion, and apparently engaged in it to the exclusion of all other subjects, he had eyes and ears for everything that passed in the room. retirement from the active practice of his profession had by no means rusted his powers; on the contrary, indeed, for it had developed in him a finer and more subtle capacity of observation. it gave him time, also, to devote himself to matters which, at an earlier period of his life, he would have considered trivial. thus, when he moved in private circles, freed from larger duties, there lurked in him always a possible danger, and although he would not do mischief for mischief's sake, he was irresistibly drawn in its direction. the quality of his mind was such as to seek out for itself, and unerringly detect, human blemish. he was ready, when it was presented to him, to recognise personal goodness, but while he recognised he did not admire it. the good man was in his eyes a negative character, pithless, uninteresting; his dominant qualities, being on the surface, presented no field for study. he himself, as has already been seen, was not loth to bestow money in charity, but he was destitute of benevolence; his soul never glowed with pity, nor did the sight of suffering touch his heart. while goodness did not attract him, he took no interest in the profligate or dissolute. his magnet was of the machiavellian type. cunning, craft, duplicity, guile--here he was at home in his glory. as easy to throw him off the scent as a bloodhound. chiefly on this occasion was his attention given to the advocate's wife. not a movement, not a gesture, not a varying shade of expression escaped him. any person, noting his observance of her, would have detected in it nothing but admiration; and to this conclusion adelaide herself--she knew when she was admired--was by no means averse. but his eye was upon her when she was not aware of it. "have i not heard of a case," asked a guest of pierre lamont, "in which a lawyer defended a murderer, knowing him to be guilty?" "yes," said pierre lamont, "there was such a case. the murder was a ruthless murder; the lawyer a man of great attainments. his speech to the court was eloquent and thrilling, and in it he declared his solemn belief in the prisoner's innocence, and made an appeal to god to strengthen the declaration. it created a profound impression. but the evidence was conclusive, and the prisoner was found guilty. it then transpired that the accused, in his cell, had confessed to his advocate that he had perpetrated the murder." "confessed before his trial?" "yes, before the trial." "what became of the lawyer?" "he was ruined, socially and professionally. a great career was blighted." "a deserved punishment," remarked father capel. "yet it is an open question," said pierre lamont, "whether the secrets of the prison-cell should not be held as sacred as those of the confessional." "nothing can justify," said father capel, "the employment of such an appeal, used to frustrate the ends of justice." "then," said pierre lamont with malicious emphasis, "you admit the doctrine of responsibility. your prompting of evil spirits, what becomes of it?" father capel did not have time to reply, for a cry of terror from a visitor gave an unexpected turn to the gossip of the evening, and diverted it into a common channel. the person who had uttered this cry was the youngest daughter of jacob hartrich. she had been standing at a window, the heavy curtains of which she had held aside, in an idle moment, to look out upon the grounds, which were wrapped in a pall of deep darkness. upon the utterance of her terrified scream she had retreated into the room, and was now gazing with affrighted eyes at the curtains, which her loosened hold had allowed to fall over the window. her mother and sister hurried to her side, and most of the other guests clustered around her. what had occasioned her alarm? when she had sufficiently recovered she gave an explanation of it. she was looking out, without any purpose in her mind, "thinking of nothing," as she expressed it, when, in a distant part of the grounds, there suddenly appeared a bright light, which moved slowly onward, and within the radius of this light, of which it seemed to form a part, she saw distinctly a white figure, like a spirit. the curtains of the window were drawn aside, and all within the room, with the exception of pierre lamont, who was left without an audience, peered into the grounds below. nothing was to be seen; no glimpse of light or white shadow; no movement but the slight stir of leaf and branch, but the young lady vehemently persisted in her statement, and, questioned more closely, declared that the figure was that of a woman; she had seen her face, her hair, her white robe. the three persons whom her story most deeply impressed were the advocate's wife, christian almer, and father capel. with the advocate it was a simple delusion of the senses; with jacob hartrich, "nerves." christian almer and father capel went out to search the grounds, and when they returned reported that nothing was to be seen. during this excitement pierre lamont was absolutely unnoticed, and it was not till a groan proceeded from the part of the room where he sat huddled up in the wheeled chair in which he was imprisoned that attention was directed to him. he was evidently in great pain; his features were contracted with the spasms which darted through his limbs. "it almost masters me," he said to the advocate, as he laughed and winced, "this physical anguish. i will not allow it to conquer me, but i must humour it. i am tempted to ask you to give me a bed to-night." "stop with us by all means," said the advocate; "the night is too dark, and your house too far, for you to leave while you are suffering." so it was arranged, and within half an hour all the other guests had taken their departure. chapter iii the watch on the hill for more than twenty years the house of white shadows may be said to have been without a history. its last eventful chapter ended with the death of christian almer's father, the tragic story of whose life has been related by mother denise. then followed a blank--a dull uniformity of days and months and years, without the occurrence of a single event worthy of record in the annals of the family who had held the estate for four generations. the doors and windows of the villa were but seldom opened, and on those rare occasions only by mother denise, who had too strict a regard for the faithful discharge of her duties to allow the costly furniture to fall into decay. suddenly all this was altered. light and life reigned again. startling was the transformation. within a few short weeks the house of white shadows had become the centre of a chain of events, in which the affections which sway and the passions which dominate mankind were displayed in all their strangest variety. at a short distance from the gate, on this dark night, upon the rise of a hill which commanded a view of the villa, sometimes stood and sometimes lay a man in the prime of life. not a well-looking man, nor a desirable man, and yet one who in his better days might have passed for a gentleman. even now, with the aid of fine feathers, he might have reached such a height in the judgment of those who were not given to close observation. his feathers at the present time were anything but fine--a sad fall, for they have been once such as fine birds wear; no barn-door fowl's, but of the partridge's quality. so that, between the man and his garments, there was something of an affinity. he was tall and fairly presentable, and he bore himself with a certain air which, in the eyes of the vulgar, would have passed for grace. but his swagger spoilt him; and his sensual mouth, which had begot a coarseness from long and unrestrained indulgence, spoilt him; and the blotches on his face spoilt him. his hands were white, and rings would have looked well on them, if rings ever looked well on the hands of a man--which may be doubted. as he stood, or lay, his eyes were for the chief part of his time fixed on the house of white shadows. following with precision his line of sight, it would have been discovered that the point which claimed his attention were the windows of the advocate's study. there was a light in them, but no movement. "yet he is there," muttered the man, whose name was john vanbrugh, "for i see his shadow." his sight unassisted would not have enabled him to speak with authority upon this, but he held in his hand a field-glass, and he saw by its aid what would otherwise have been hidden from him. "his guests have gone," continued john vanbrugh, "and he has time to attend to me. i have that to sell, edward, which it is worth your while to purchase--nay, which it is vital you should purchase. every hour's delay increases its price. it must be near midnight, and still no sign. well, i can wait--i can wait." he had no watch to take count of the time, which passed slowly; but he waited patiently nevertheless, until the sound of footsteps, approaching in his direction, diverted his attention. they came nearer, nearer, until this other wanderer of the night was close upon him. "who," he thought, "has taken it into his head to come my way? this is no time for honest men to be about." and then he said aloud--for the intruder had paused within a yard of him: "what particular business brings you here, friend, and why do you not pass on?" a sigh of intense relief escaped the breast of the newcomer, who was none other than gautran. with the cuff of his shirt he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and muttered in a grateful tone: "a man's voice! that is something to be thankful for." the sound of this muttering, but not the words, reached vanbrugh's ears. "well, friend?" said vanbrugh, who, being unarmed, felt himself at a disadvantage. "well?" repeated gautran. "are you meditating an attack upon me? i am not worth the risk, upon my honour. if you are poor, behold in me a brother in misfortune. go to a more profitable market." "i don't want to hurt you." "i'll take your word for it. pass on, then. the way is clear for you." he stepped aside, and observed that gautran took step with him instead of from him. "are _you_ going to pass on?" asked gautran. "upon my soul this is getting amusing, and i should enjoy it if i were not angry. am i going to pass on? no, i am not going to pass on." "neither am i." "in the name of all that is mischievous," cried vanbrugh, "what is it you want?" "company," was the answer, "till daylight. that is all. you need not be afraid of me." "company!" exclaimed vanbrugh. "my company?" "yours or any man's. something human--something living. and you must talk to me. i'm not going to be driven mad by silence." "you are a cool customer, with your this and that. are you aware that you are robbing me?" "i don't want to rob you." "but you are--of solitude. and you appropriate it! no further fooling. leave me." "not till daylight." "there is something strange in your resolve. let me have a better look at you." he laid his hand upon gautran's shoulder, and the man did not resent the movement. in the evening, when he had arrived in geneva, he had made an unsuccessful attempt to enter the court-house; therefore, gautran being otherwise a stranger to him, he did not recognise in the face of the man he was now looking into, and which he could but dimly see in consequence of the darkness of the night, the prisoner whose trial for murder had caused so great an excitement. "if i am any judge of human nature," he said, "you are in a bad way. i can see sufficient of you to discern that from a social point of view you are a ruin, a very wreck of respectability, if your lines ever crossed in that direction. in which respect i, who was once a gentleman, and am still, cannot deny that there is something of moral kinship between us. this confers distinction upon you--upon me, a touch of obloquy. but i am old enough not to be squeamish. we must take the world as we find it--a villainous world! what say you?" "a villainous world! go on talking." vanbrugh stood with his face towards the house of white shadows, watching for the signal he had asked the advocate to give him. gautran, facing the man upon whom he had forced his company, stood, therefore, with his back to the villa, the lights in which he had not yet seen. "our condition may be borne," continued vanbrugh, "with greater or lesser equanimity, so long as we feed the body--the quality of our food being really of no great importance, so far as the tissues are concerned; but when the mind is thrown off its balance, as i see by your eyes is the case with you, the condition of the man becomes serious. what is it you fear?" "nothing human." "yet you are at war with society." "i was; but i am a free man now." "you have been in peril, then--plainly speaking, a gaol-bird. what matters? the world is apt to be too censorious; i find no fault with you for your misfortune. such things happen to the best of us. but you are free now, you say, and you fear nothing in human shape. what is it, then, you do fear?" "were you ever followed by a spirit?" asked gautran, in a hoarse whisper. "a moment," said vanbrugh. "your question startles me. i have about me two mouthfuls of an elixir without which life would not be worth the living. share and share alike." he produced a bottle containing about a quarter of a pint of brandy, and saying, "your health, friend," put it to his lips. gautran watched him greedily, and, when he received the bottle, drained it with a gasp of savage satisfaction. "that is fine, that is fine!" he said; "i wish there were more of it." "to echo your wish is the extent of my power in the direction of fulfilment. now we can continue. was i ever followed by a spirit? of what kind?" "of a woman," replied gautran with a shudder. "being a spirit, necessarily a dead woman!" "aye, a dead woman--one who was murdered." a look of sudden and newly-awakened intelligence flashed into vanbrugh's face. he placed his hand again upon gautran's shoulder. "a young woman?" he said. "aye," responded gautran. "fair and beautiful?" "yes." "who met her death in the river rhone?' "aye--it is known to all the world." "one who sold flowers in the streets of geneva--whose name was madeline?" the utterance of the name conjured up the phantom of the murdered girl, and gautran, with violent shudders, gazed upon the spectre. "she is there--she is there!" he muttered, in a voice of agony. "will she never, never leave me?" these words confirmed vanbrugh's suspicion. it was gautran who stood before him. "another winning card," he said, in a tone of triumph, and with a strange smile. "the man is guilty, else why should he fear? vanbrugh, a life of ease is yours once more. away with these rags, this money-pinch which has nipped you for years. days of pleasure, of luxury, are yours to enjoy. you step once more into the ranks of gentlemen. what would the great advocate in yonder study think of this chance encounter, knowing--what he has yet to learn--that i hold in my hands what he prizes most--his fame and honour?" gautran heard the words; he turned, and followed the direction of vanbrugh's gaze. "there is but one great advocate, the man who set me free. he lives yonder, then?" "you know it, rogue," replied vanbrugh. "there are the lights in his study window. gautran, you and i must be better acquainted." but he was compelled to submit to a postponement of his wish, for the next moment he was alone. gautran had disappeared. chapter iv the silent voice alone in his study the advocate had time to review his position. his first feeling, when he listened to gautran's confession, had been one of unutterable horror, and this feeling was upon him when he entered the villa. from his outward demeanour no person could have guessed how terrible was his inward agitation. self-repression was in him a second nature. the habit of concealing his thoughts had been of incalculable value in his profession, and had materially assisted in many of his great victories. but now he was alone, and when he had locked the study-door, he threw off the mask. he had been proud of this victory; it was the greatest he had ever achieved. he knew that it would increase his fame, and that it was an important step in the ladder it had been the delight of his life to climb. cold as he appeared, and apparently indifferent to success, his ambition was vast, overpowering. his one great aim had been not only to achieve the highest distinction while he lived, but to leave behind him a name which should be placed at the head of all his class--a clear and unsullied name which men in after times would quote as a symbol of the triumph of intellect. it was the sublimity of egoism, contemptible when allied with intellectual inferiority and weakness of character, but justifiable in his case because it was in association with a force of mental gifts little short of marvellous. in the exercise of his public duties he had been careful never to take a false step. before he committed himself to a task he invariably made a study of its minutest detail; conned it over and over, stripped it of its outward coverings, probed it to its very heart, added facets to it which lay not only within the region of probability, but possibility; and the result had been that his triumphs were spoken of with wonderment, as something almost higher than human, and within the capacity of no other man. it had sometimes occurred that the public voice was against a prisoner whose defence he had undertaken, but it was never raised against himself, and perhaps the sweetest reward which was ever bestowed upon him was when, in an unpopular cause which he had conducted to victory, it was afterwards proved that the man he had championed--whose very name was an offence--was in honest truth a victim instead of a wronger. it had grown into a fashion to say, "he must have right on his side, or the advocate would not defend him." here, then, was a triple alliance of justice, truth, and humanity--and he, their champion and the vindicator and upholder of right. in another sphere of life, and in times when the dragon of oppression was weighing heavily upon a people's liberties, such achievements as his would have caused the champion to be worshipped as a saint--certainly as a hero imbued with kingly qualities. no man really deserves this altitude, though it be sometimes reached. human nature is too imperfect, its undercurrents are not sufficiently translucent for truth's face to be reflected as in a crystal. but we judge the deed, not the doer, and the man is frequently crowned, the working of whose inner life, were it laid bare, would shock and disgust. it was when he was at the height of his fame that the advocate met adelaide. hitherto he had seen but little of women, or, seeing them, had passed them lightly by, but there comes a time in the lives of most men, even of the greatest, when they are abruptly arrested by an influence which insensibly masters them. only once in his life had the advocate wandered from the path he had formed for himself; but it was an idle wandering, partly prompted by a small and unworthy desire to prove himself of two men, the superior, and he had swiftly and effectually thrown the folly aside, never again to be indulged in or renewed. that was many years ago, and had been long forgotten, when adelaide appeared to him, a star of loveliness, which proved, what few would have believed, that he had a heart. the new revelation was to him at first a source of infinite gladness, and he yielded to the enchantment. but after a time he questioned himself as to the wisdom of this infatuation. it was then, however, too late. the spell was upon him, and it did not lay in his power to remove it. and when he found that this sweet pleasure did not--as it would have done with most men--interfere with his active duties, nay, that it seemed to infuse a keener relish into their fulfilment, he asked himself the question, "why not?" in the simple prompting of the question lay the answer. he possessed an immense power of concentration. with many subjects claiming close attention he could dismiss them all but the one to which it was necessary he should devote himself, and after much self-communing he satisfied himself that love would be no block to ambition. and indeed so it proved. adelaide, dazzled by the attentions of a man who stood so high, accepted his worship, and, warned by friends not to be exigent, made no demands upon his time which interfered with his duties. he was a devoted but not a passionate lover. on all sides she was congratulated--it gratified her. by many she was envied--it delighted her; and she took pleasure in showing how easily she could lead this man, who to all other women was cold as ice. in those days it was out of her own vanity and thirst for conquest that she evolved pleasure from the association of her name with his. after their marriage he strove to interest her in the cases upon which he was engaged, but, discovering that her taste did not lie in that direction, he did not persist in his endeavour. it did not lessen his love for her, nor her hold upon him. she was to him on this night as she had ever been, a sweet, affectionate, pure woman, who gave him as much love and honour as a man so much older than herself could reasonably expect. something of what has been here expressed passed through his mind as he reflected upon the events of the day. how should he deal with gautran's confession? that was the point he debated. when he undertook the defence he had a firm belief in the man's innocence. he had drawn the picture of gautran exactly as he had conceived it. vile, degraded, brutal, without a redeeming feature--but not the murderer of madeline the flower-girl. he reviewed the case again carefully, to see whether he could have arrived at any other conclusion. he could not perceive a single defect in his theory. he was justified in his own eyes. he knew that the entire public sentiment was against him, and that he had convinced men against their will. he knew that there was imported into this matter a feeling of resentment at his successful efforts to set gautran free. what, then, had induced him to come forward voluntarily in defence of this monster? he asked the question of himself aloud, and he answered it aloud: a reverence for justice. he had not indulged in self-deception when he declared to gautran's judges that the leading principle of his life had been a desire for justice in small matters as well as great, for the meanest equally with the loftiest of his fellow-creatures. that it did not clash with his ambition was his good fortune. it was not tainted because of this human coincidence. so far, then, he was justified in his own estimation. rut he must be justified also in the eyes of the world. and here intruded the torturing doubt whether this were possible. if he made it known to the world that gautran was guilty, the answer would be: "we know it, and knew it, as we believe you yourself did while you were working to set him free. why did you prevent justice being done upon a murderer?" "but i believed him innocent," he would say. "only now do i know him to be guilty!" "upon what grounds?" would be asked. "upon gautran's own confession, given to me, alone, on a lonely road, within an hour after the delivery of the verdict." he saw the incredulous looks with which this would be received. he put himself in the place of the public, and he asked: "why, at such a time, in such a spot, did gautran confess to you? what motive had he? you are not a priest, and the high road is not a confessional." he could supply to this question no answer which common-sense would accept. and say that gautran were questioned, as he would assuredly be. he would deny the statement point-blank. liberty is sweet to all men. then it would be one man's statement against another's; he would be on an equality with gautran, reduced to his level; and in the judgment of numbers of people gautran would have the advantage over him. sides would be taken; he himself, in a certain sense, would be placed upon his trial, and public resentment, which now was smothered and would soon be quite hushed, would break out against him. was he strong enough to withstand this? could he arrest the furious torrent and stand unwounded on the shore, pure and scatheless in the eyes of men? he doubted. he was too profound a student of human nature not to know that his fair fame would be blotted, and that there would be a stain upon his reputation which would cling to him to the last day of his life. still he questioned himself. should he dare it, and brave it, and bow his head? who humbles himself lays himself open to the blow--and men are not merciful when the chance is offered to them. but he would stand clear in his own eyes; his conscience would approve. to none but himself would this be known. inward approval would be his sole reward, his sole compensation. a hero's work, however. for a moment or two he glowed at the contemplation. he soon cooled down, and with a smile, partly of self-pity, partly of self-contempt, proceeded to the calmer consideration of the matter. the meaner qualities came into play. the world did not know; what reason was there that it should be enlightened--that he should enlighten it, to his own injury? the secret belonged to two men--to himself and gautran. it was not likely that gautran would blurt it out to others; he valued his liberty too highly. so that it was as safe as though it were buried in a deep grave. as for the wrong done, it was a silent wrong. to ruin one's self for a sentiment would be madness; no one really suffered. the unfortunate girl was at rest. she was a stranger; no person knew her, or was interested in her except for her beauty; she left no family, no father, mother, or sisters, to mourn her cruel death. there was certainly the woman spoken of as pauline, but she had disappeared, and was probably in no way related to madeline. what more likely than that the elder woman's association with the younger arose out of a desire to trade upon the girl's beauty, and appropriate the profits to her own use? a base view of the matter, but natural, human. and having reaped a certain profit out of their trade in flowers, larger than was suspected, the crafty woman of the world had deliberately deserted madeline and left her to her fate. why, then, should he step forward as her avenger, to the destruction of the great name he had spent the best fruits of his mind and the best years of his life to build up? to think of such a thing was quixotism run mad. one of the threads of these reflections--that which forced itself upon him as the toughest and the most prominent--was contempt of himself for permitting his thoughts to wander into currents so base. but that was his concern; it affected no other person, so long as he chose to hold his own counsel. the difficulty into which he was plunged was not of his seeking. fate had dealt him a hard stroke; he received it on his shield instead of on his body. who would say that that was not wise? what other man, having the option, would not have done as he was about to do? "cunning sophist, cunning sophist!" his conscience whispered to him; "think not that, wandering in these crooked paths of reasoning, you can find the talisman which will transform wrong into right, or remove the stain which will rest upon your soul." he answered his conscience: "to none but myself is my soul visible. who, then, can see the stain?" his conscience replied: "god!" "i will confess to him." he said, "but not to man." "there is but one right course," his conscience said; "juggle as you may, you know that there is but one right course." "i know it," he said boldly, "but i am cast in human mould, and am not heroic enough for the sacrifice you would impose upon me." "listen," said his conscience, "a voice from the grave is calling to you." he heard the voice: "blood for blood." he stood transfixed. the images raised by that, silent voice were appalling. they culminated in the impalpable shape of a girl, with pallid face, gazing sadly at him, over whose form seemed to be traced in the air the lurid words, "blood for blood!" heaven's decree. the vision lasted but for a brief space. in the light of his strong will such airy terrors could not long exist. blood for blood! it once held undisputed sway, but there are great and good men who look upon the fulfilment of the stern decree as a crime. mercy, humanity, and all the higher laws of civilisation were on their side. but he could not quite stifle the voice. he took another view. say that he yielded to the whisperings of his conscience--say that, braving all the consequences of his action, he denounced gautran. the man had already been tried for murder, and could not be tried again. set this aside. say that a way was discovered to bring gautran again to the bar of earthly justice, of what value was the new evidence that could be brought against him? his own bare word--his recital of an interview of which he held no proof, and which gautran's simple denial would be sufficient to destroy. place this new evidence against the evidence he himself had established in proof of gautran's innocence, and it became a feather-weight. a lawyer of mediocre attainments would blow away such evidence with a breath. it would injure only him who brought it forward. he decided. the matter must rest where it was. in silence lay safety. there was still another argument in favour of this conclusion. the time for making public the horrible knowledge of which he had become possessed was passed. after he had received gautran's confession he should not have lost a moment in communicating with the authorities. not only had he allowed the hours to slip by without taking action, but in the conversation initiated that evening by pierre lamont, in which he had joined, he had tacitly committed himself to the continuance of a belief in gautran's innocence. he saw no way out of the fatal construction which all who knew him, as well as all who knew him not, would place upon this line of conduct. he had been caught in a trap of his own setting, but he could hide his wounds. yes; the question was answered. he must preserve silence. this long self-communing had exhausted him. he could not sleep; he could neither read nor study. his mind required relief and solace in companionship. his wife was doubtless asleep; he would not disturb her. he would go to his friend's chamber; christian almer would be awake, and they would pass an hour in sympathising converse. almer had asked him, when they bade each other good-night, whether he intended immediately to retire to rest, and he had answered that he had much to do in his study, and should probably be up till late in the night. "i will not disturb you," almer had said, "but i, too, am in no mood for sleep. i have letters to write, and if you happen to need society, come to my room, and we will have one of our old chats." as he quitted the study to seek his friend the soft silvery chimes of a clock on the mantel proclaimed the hour. he counted the strokes. it was midnight. chapter v gautran finds a refuge when john vanbrugh found himself alone he cried: "what! tired of my company already? that is a fine compliment to pay to a gentleman of my breeding. gautran! gautran!" he listened; no answer came. "a capital disappearance," he continued; "in its way dramatic. the scene, the time, all agreeing. it does not please me. do you hear me, gautran," he shouted. "it does not please me. if i were not tied to this spot in the execution of a most important mission, i would after you, my friend, and teach you better manners. he drank my brandy, too, the ungrateful rogue. a waste of good liquor--a sheer waste! he gets no more without paying its equivalent." vanbrugh indulged in this soliloquy without allowing his wrath to interfere with his watch; not for a single moment did he shift his gaze from the windows of the advocate's study. "now what induced him," he said after a pause, "to spirit himself away so mysteriously? from the violent fancy he expressed for my company i regarded him as a fixture; one would have supposed he intended to stick to me like a limpet to a rock. suddenly, without rhyme or reason, and just as the conversation was getting interesting, he takes french leave, and makes himself scarce. "i hope he has not left his ghost behind him--the ghost of pretty madeline. not likely, though. when a partnership such as that is entered into--uncommonly unpleasant and inconvenient it must be--it is not dissolved so easily. "perhaps he was spirited away--wanted, after the fashion of our dear lothario, don giovanni. there was no blue fire about, however, and i smell no brimstone. no--he disappeared of his own prompting; it will repay thinking over. he saw his phantom--even my presence could not keep her from him. he murdered her--not a doubt of it--and the advocate has proved his innocence. "were it not a double tragedy i should feel disposed to laugh. "we were speaking of the advocate when he darted off. but you cannot escape me, gautran; we shall meet again. an acquaintanceship so happily commenced must not be allowed to drop--nor shall it, while it suits my purpose. "at length, john vanbrugh, you are learning to be wise. you allowed yourself to be fleeced, sucked dry, and being thrown upon the rocks, stripped of fortune and the means to woo it, you strove to live as knaves live, upon the folly of others like yourself. but you were a poor hand at the trade; you were never cut out for a knave, and you passed through a succession of reverses so hard as almost to break an honest man's heart. it is all over now. i see the sun; bright days are before you, john, the old days over again; but you will spend your money more prudently, my lad; no squandering; exact its value; be wise, bold, determined, and you shall not go down with sorrow to the grave. edward, my friend, if i had the liquor i would drink to you. as it is----" as it was, he wafted a mocking kiss towards the house of white shadows, and patiently continued his watch. meanwhile gautran had not been idle. upon quitting vanbrugh, the direction he took was from the house of white shadows, but when he was at a safe distance from vanbrugh, out of sight and hearing, he paused, and deliberately set his face towards the villa. he skirted the hill at its base, and walking with great caution, pausing frequently to assure himself that he was alone and was not being followed, arrived at the gates of the villa. he tried the gates--they were locked. could he climb over them? he would have risked the danger--they were set with sharp spikes--had he not known that it would take some time, and feared that some person passing along the high road might detect him. he made his way to the back of the villa, and carefully examined the walls. his eyes were accustomed to darkness, and he could see pretty clearly; it was a long time before he discovered a means of ingress, afforded by an old elm which grew within a few yards of the wall, and the far-spreading branches of which stretched over the grounds. he climbed the tree, and crept like a cat along the stoutest branch he could find. it bent beneath his weight as he hung suspended from it. it was a fall of twenty feet, but he risked it. he unloosed his hands, and dropped to the earth. he was shaken, but not bruised. his purpose, thus far, was accomplished. he was within the grounds of the villa. all was quiet. when he had recovered from the shock of the fall, he stepped warily towards the house. now and then he was startled and alarmed at the shadows of the trees which moved athwart his path, but he mastered these terrors, and crept on and on till he heard the soft sound of a clock striking the hour. he paused, as the advocate had done, and counted the strokes. midnight. when the sound had quite died away, he stepped forward, and saw the lights in the study windows. was anybody there? he guessed shrewdly enough that if the room was occupied it would be by no other person than the advocate. well, it was the advocate he came to see; he had no design of robbery in his mind. he stealthily approached a window, and blessed his good fortune to find that it was partly open. he peered into the study; it was empty. he climbed the sill, and dropped safely into the room. what a grand apartment! what costly pictures and vases, what an array of books and papers! beautiful objects met his eyes whichever way he turned. there was the advocate's chair, there the table at which he wrote. the advocate had left the room for a while--this was gautran's correct surmise--and intended to return. the lamps fully turned up were proof of this. he looked at the papers on the table. could he have read, he would have seen that many of them bore his own name. on a massive sideboard there were bottles filled with liquor, and glasses. he drank three or four glasses rapidly, and then, coiling himself up in a corner of the room, in a few moments was fast asleep. chapter vi pierre lamont reads love-verses to fritz the fool the bedroom allotted to pierre lamont by mother denise was situated on the first floor, and adjoined the apartments prepared for christian almer. as he was unable to walk a step it was necessary that the old lawyer should be carried upstairs. his body-servant, expressly engaged to wheel him about and attend to his wants, was ready to perform his duties, but into pierre lamont's head had entered the whim that he would be assisted to his room by no person but fritz the fool. the servant was sent in search of fritz, who could not easily be found. it was quite half an hour before the fool made his appearance, and by that time all the guests, with the exception of pierre lamont, had left the house of white shadows. out of sympathy with pierre lamont's sufferings father capel had remained to chat with him until fritz arrived. but the priest was suddenly called away. mother denise, entering the room, informed him that a peasant who lived ten miles from the house of white shadows urgently desired to see him. father capel was about to go out to the man, when adelaide suggested that he should be brought in, and the peasant accordingly disclosed his errand in the presence of the advocate and his wife, pierre lamont, and christian almer. "i have been to your house," said the peasant, standing, cap in hand, in humble admiration of the grandeur by which he was surrounded, "and was directed here. there is a woman dying in my hut." "what is her name, and where does she come from?" "i know not. she has been with us for over three weeks, and it is a sore burden upon us. it happened in this way, reverend father. my hut, you know, is in the cleft of a rock, at the foot of the burger pass, a dangerous spot for those who are not familiar with the track. some twenty-four days ago it was that my wife in the night roused me with the tale of a frightful scream, which, proceeding from one in agony near my hut, pierced her very marrow, and woke her from sleep. i sprang from my bed, and went into the open, and a few yards down i found a woman who had fallen from a height, and was lying in delirious pain upon the sharp stones. i raised her in my arms; she was bleeding terribly, and i feared she was hurt to death. i did the best i could, and carried her into my hut, where my wife nursed and tended her. but from that night to this we have been unable to get one sensible word from her, and she is now at death's door. she needs your priestly offices, reverend father, and therefore i have come for you." "how interesting!" exclaimed adelaide. "who will pay you for your goodness to this poor creature?" "god," said father capel, replying for the peasant. "it is the poor who help the poor, and in the kingdom of heaven our gracious lord rewards them." "i am content," said the peasant. "but in the contemplation of the hereafter," said pierre lamont, "let us not forget the present. there are many whose loads are too heavy--for instance, asses. there are a few whose loads are too light--scoffers, like myself. you have had occasion to rebuke me, this night, father capel, and were i not a hardened sinner i should be groaning in tribulation. that to the last hour of my life i shall deserve your rebukes, proves me, i fear, beyond hope of redemption. still i bear in mind the asses' burden. you have used my purse once, in penance; use it again, and pay this man for the loss inflicted upon him by his endeavours to earn the great spiritual reward--which, in all humility i say it, does not put bread into human stomachs." father capel accepted pierre lamont's purse, and said: "i judge not by words, but by works; your offering shall be justly administered. come, let us hasten to this unfortunate woman." when he and the peasant had departed, pierre lamont said, with mock enthusiasm: "a good man! a good man! virtue such as his is a severe burden, but i doubt not he enjoys it. i prefer to earn my seat in heaven vicariously, to which end my gold will materially assist. it is as though paradise can be bought by weight or measure; the longer the purse the greater the chance of salvation. ah, here is fritz. good-night, good-night. bright dreams to all. gently, fritz, gently," continued the old lawyer, as he was being carried up the stairs, "my bones are brittle." "brittle enough i should say," rejoined fritz; "chicken bones they might be from the weight of you." "are diamonds heavy, fool?" "ha, ha!" laughed fritz, "if i had the selling of you, master lamont, i should like to make you the valuer. i should get a rare good price for you at that rate." in the bedroom pierre lamont retained fritz to prepare him for bed. the old lawyer, undressed, was a veritable skeleton; there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his shrivelled bones. "what would you have done in the age of giants?" asked fritz, making merry over pierre lamont's attenuated form. "this would have served," replied pierre lamont, tapping his forehead with his forefinger. "i should have contrived so as to be a match for them. bring that small table close to the bedside. now place the lamp on it. put your hand into the tail-pocket of my coat; you will find a silk handkerchief there." he tied the handkerchief--the colour of which was yellow--about his head; and as the small, thin face peeped out of it, brown-skinned and hairless, it looked like the face of a mummy. fritz gazed at him, and laughed immoderately, and pierre lamont nodded and nodded at the fool, with a smile of much humour on his lips. "enjoy yourself, fool, enjoy yourself," he said kindly; "but don't pass your life in laughter; it is destructive of brain power. what do you think of the spirit, fritz, the appearance of which so alarmed one of the young ladies in our merry party to-night?" "what do you think of it?" asked fritz in return, with a quivering of his right eyelid, which suspiciously resembled a wink. "ah, ah, knave!" cried pierre lamont, chuckling. "i half suspected you." "you will not tell on me, master lamont?" "not i, fool. how did you contrive it?" "with a white sheet and a lantern. i thought it a pity that my lady should be disappointed. should she leave the place without some warranty that spirits are here, the house would lose its character. then there is the young master, your christian almer. he spoke to me very much as if i were a beast of the field instead of a--fool. so i thought i would give him food for thought." "a dangerous trick, fritz. your secret is safe with me, but i would not try it too often. are there any books in the room? look about, fritz, look about." "for books!" exclaimed fritz. "people go to bed to sleep." "i go to bed to think," retorted pierre lamont, "and read. people are idiots--they don't know how to use the nights." "men are not owls," said fritz. "there are no books in the room." "how shall i pass the night?" grumbled pierre lamont. "open that drawer; there may be something to read in it." fritz opened the drawer; it was filled with books. pierre lamont uttered a cry of delight. "bring half-a-dozen of them--quick. now i am happy." he opened the books which fritz handed to him, and placed them by his side on the bed. they were in various languages. lavater, zimmermann, a latin book on demonology, poems of lope da vega, klingemann's tragedies, italian poems by zappi, filicaja, cassiani, and others. "you understand all these books, master lamont?" "of course, fool." "what language is this?" "latin." "and this?" "spanish." "and this?" "italian. no common mind collected these books, fritz." "the master that's dead--father of him who sleeps in the next room." "ha, ha!" interposed pierre lamont, turning over the pages as he spoke. "he sleeps there, does he? "yes. his father was a great scholar, i've heard." "a various scholar, fritz, if these books are an epitome of his mind. love, philosophy, gloomy wanderings in dark paths--here we have them all. the lights and shadows of life. which way runs your taste, fool?" "i love the light, of course. what use in being a fool if you don't know how to take advantage of your opportunities?" "well said. let us indulge a little. these poets are sly rascals. they take unconscionable liberties, and play with women's beauty as other men dare not do." fritz's eyes twinkled. "it does not escape even you, master lamont." "what does not escape me, fool?" "woman's beauty, master lamont." "have i not eyes in my head and blood in my veins?" asked pierre lamont. "it warms me like wine to know that i and the loveliest woman for a hundred miles round are caged within the same roof." fritz indulged in another fit of laughter, and then exclaimed: "she has caught you too, eh? now, who would have thought it? two of the cleverest lawyers in the world fixed with one arrow! beauty is a divine gift, master lamont. to possess it is almost as good as being born a fool." "i shall lie awake and read love-verses. listen to zappi, fool." and in a voice really tender, pierre lamont read from the book: "a hundred pretty little loves, in fun, were romping; laughing, rioting one day." "a hundred!" cried fritz, chuckling and rubbing his hands. "a hundred--pretty--little loves! if father capel were to hear you, his face would grow as long as my arm. "wrong, fritz, wrong. his face would beam, and he would listen for the continuation of the poem." and pierre lamont resumed: "'let's fly a little now,' said one, 'i pray.' 'whither?' 'to beauty's face.' 'agreed--'tis done.' "faster than bees to flowers they wing their way to lovely maids--to mine, the sweetest one; and to her hair and panting lips they run-- now here, now there, now everywhere they stray. "my love so full of loves--delightful sight! two with their torches in her eyes, and two upon her eyelids with their bows alight." "you read rarely, master lamont," said fritz. "it is true, is it not, that, when you were in practice, you were called the lawyer with the silver tongue?" "it has been said of me, fritz." the picture of this withered, dried-up old lawyer, sitting up in bed, with a yellow handkerchief for a night-cap tied round his head, reading languishing verses in a tender voice, and striving to bring into his weazened features an expression in harmony with them, was truly a comical one. "why, master lamont," said fritz in admiration, "you were cut out for a gallant. had you recited those lines in the drawing-room, you would have had all the ladies at your feet--supposing," he added, with a broad grin, "they had all been blind." "ah me!" said pierre lamont, throwing aside the book with a mocking sigh. "too old--too old!" "and shrunken," said fritz. "it is not to be denied, fritz. and shrunken." "and ugly." "you stick daggers into me. yes--and ugly. ah!" and with simulated wrath he shook his fist in the air, "if i were but like my brother the advocate! eh, fritz--eh?" fritz shook his head slowly. "if i were not a fool, i should say i would much rather be as you are, old, and withered, and ugly, and a cripple, than be standing in the place of your brother the advocate. and so would you, master lamont, for all your love-songs." "i can teach you nothing, fool. push the lamp a little nearer to me. give me my waistcoat. here is a gold piece for you. i owe you as much, i think. we will keep our own counsel, fritz. good-night." "good--night, master lamont. i am sorry that trial is over. it was rare fun!" chapter vii mistress and maid "dionetta?" "yes, my lady." the maid and her mistress were in adelaide's dressing-room, and dionetta was brushing her lady's hair, which hung down in rich, heavy waves. she smiled at herself in the glass before which she was sitting, and her mood became more joyous as she noted the whiteness of her teeth and the beautiful expression of her mouth when she smiled. there was an irresistible fascination in her smile; it flashed into all her features, like a laughing sunrise. she was never tired of admiring her beauty; it was to her a most precious possession of which nothing but time could rob her. "to-day is mine," she frequently said to herself, and she wished with all her heart that there were no to-morrow. yes, to-day was hers, and she was beautiful, and, gazing at the reflection of her fair self, she thought that she did not look more than eighteen. "do you think i do, child?" she asked of dionetta. "think you do what, my lady?" inquired dionetta. adelaide laughed, a musical, child-like laugh which any man, hearing, would have judged to be an expression of pure innocent delight. she derived pleasure even from this pleasant sound. "i was thinking to myself, and i believed i was speaking aloud. do you think i look twenty-five?" "no, indeed, my lady, not by many years. you look younger than i do." "and you are not eighteen, dionetta." "not yet, my lady." adelaide's eyes sparkled. it was indeed true that she looked younger than her maid, who was in herself a beauty and young-looking. "dionetta," she said, presently, after a pause, "i have had a curious dream." "i saw you close your eyes for a moment, my lady." "i dreamt i was the most beautiful woman in all this wide world." "you are, my lady." the words were uttered in perfect honesty and simplicity. her mistress was truly the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. "nonsense, child, nonsense--there are others as fair, although i should not fear to stand beside them. it was only a dream, and this but the commencement of it. i was the most beautiful woman in the world. i had the handsomest features, the loveliest figure, and a shape that sculptors would have called perfection. i had the most exquisite dresses that ever were worn, and everything in that way a woman's heart could desire." "a happy dream, my lady!" "wait. i had a palace to live in, in a land where it was summer the whole year through. such gardens, dionetta, and such flowers as one only sees in dreams. i had rings enough to cover my fingers a dozen times over; diamonds in profusion for my hair, and neck, and arms,--trunks full of them, and of old lace, and of the most wonderful jewels the mind can conceive. would you believe it, child, in spite of all this, i was the most miserable woman in the universe?" "it is hard to believe, my lady." "not when i tell you the reason. dionetta, i was absolutely alone. there was not a single person near me, old or young--not one to look at me, to envy me, to admire me, to love me. what was the use of beauty, diamonds, flowers, dresses? the brightest eyes, the loveliest complexion, the whitest skin--all were thrown away. it would have been just as well if i had been dressed in rags, and were old and wrinkled as pierre lamont. now, what i learn from my dream is this--that beauty is not worth having unless it is admired and loved, and unless other people can see it as well as yourself." "everybody sees that you are beautiful, my lady; it is spoken of everywhere." "is it, dionetta, really, now, is it?" "yes, my lady. and you are admired and loved." "i think i am, child; i know i am. so that my dream goes for nothing. a foolish fancy, was it not, dionetta?--but women are never satisfied. i should never be tired--never, never, of hearing the man i love say, 'i love you, i love you! you are the most beautiful, the dearest, the sweetest!'" she leant forward and looked closely at herself in the glass, and then sank back in her chair and smiled, and half-closed her eyes. "dionetta," she said presently, "what makes you so pale?" "it is the shadow, my lady, that was seen to-night," replied dionetta in a whisper; "i cannot get it out of my mind." "but you did not see it?" "no, my lady; but it was there." "you believe in ghosts?" "yes, my lady." "you would not have the courage to go where one was to be seen?" "not for all the gold in the world, my lady." "but the other servants are more courageous?" "they may be, but they would not dare to go; they said so to-night, all of them." "they have been speaking of it, then?" "oh, yes; of scarcely anything else. grandmother said to-night that if you had not come to the villa, the belief in the shadows would have died away altogether." "that is too ridiculous," interrupted adelaide. "what can i have to do with them?" "if you had not come," said dionetta, "grandmother said our young master would not be here. it is because he is in the house, sleeping here for the first night for so many, many years, that the spirit of his mother appeared to him." "but your grandmother has told me she did not believe in the shadows." "my lady, i think she is changing her opinion--else she would never have said what she did. it is long since i have seen her so disturbed." adelaide rose from her chair, the fairest picture of womanhood eyes ever gazed upon. a picture an artist would have contemplated with delight. she stood still for a few moments, her hand resting on her writing-desk. "your grandmother does not like me, dionetta." "she has not said so, my lady," said dionetta after an awkward pause. "not directly, child," said adelaide, "and i have no reason to complain of want of respect in her. but one always knows whether one is really liked or not." "she is growing old," murmured dionetta apologetically, "and has seen very little of ladies." "neither have you, child. yet you do not dislike me." "my lady, if i dare to say it, i love you." "there is no daring in it, child. i love to be loved--and i would sooner be loved by the young than the old. come here, pretty one. your ears are like little pink shells, and deserve something better than those common rings in them. put these in their place." she took from a jewel-case a pair of earrings, turquoise and small diamonds, and with her own hands made the exchange. "oh, my lady," sighed dionetta with a rose-light in her face. "they are too grand for me! what shall i say when people see them?" the girl's heart was beating quick with ecstasy. she looked at herself in the glass, and uttered a cry of joy. "say that i gave them to you because i love you. i never had a maid who pleased me half as much. does this prove it?" and she put her lips to dionetta's face. the girl's eyes filled with tears, and she kissed adelaide's hand in a passion of gratitude. "i love you, dionetta, because you love me, and because i can trust you." "you can, my lady. i will serve you with all my heart and soul. but i have done nothing for you that any other girl could not have done." "would you like to do something for me that i would trust no other to do?" "yes, my lady," eagerly answered dionetta. "i should be proud." "and you will tell no one?' "not a soul, my lady, if you command me." "i do command you. it is easy to do--merely to deliver a note, and to say: 'this is from my mistress.'" "oh, my lady, that is no task at all. it is so simple." "simple as it is, i do not wish even your grandmother to hear of it." "she shall not--nor any person. i swear it." in the extravagance of her gratitude and joy, she kissed a little cross that hung from her neck. "you have made me your friend for life," said adelaide, "the best friend you ever had, or ever will have." she sat down to her desk, and on a sheet of note-paper wrote these words: "dear christian: "i cannot sleep until i wish you good-night, with no horrid people around us. let me see you for one minute only. "adelaide." placing the sheet of note-paper in an envelope, she gave it to dionetta, saying: "take this to mr. almer's room, and give it to him. it is nothing of any importance, but he will be pleased to receive it." dionetta, marvelling why her lady should place any value upon so slight a service, went upstairs with the note, and returned with the information that christian almer was not in his room. "but his door is open, my lady," she said, "and the lamps are burning." "go then, again," said adelaide, "and place the note on his desk. there is no harm, child; he cannot see you, as he is not there, and if he were, he would not be angry." dionetta obeyed without fear, and when she told her mistress that the note was placed where christian almer was sure to see it, adelaide kissed her again, and wished her "good-night." chapter viii in the home of his childhood upon no person had the supposed appearance of a phantom in the grounds of the house of white shadows produced so profound an impression as upon christian almer. this was but natural. even supposing him not to have been a man of susceptibility, the young lady's terror, as she gazed at the shadow, could not have failed to make an impression upon him. it was the first night of his return, after an absence of many years, to the house in which he had been born and had passed his unhappy childhood's life: and the origin of the belief in these white shadows which were said to haunt his estate was so closely woven into his personal history as almost to form a part of himself. he had never submitted his mind to a rigid test of belief or disbelief in these signs; one of the principal aims of his life had been, not only to avoid the villa, but to shut out all thought of the tragic events which had led to the death of his parents. he loved them both with an equal love. when he thought of his mother he saw a woman patient in suffering, of a temper exquisitely sweet, whose every word and act towards her child was fraught with tenderness. when he thought of his father he saw a man high-principled and just, inflexible in matters of right and conscience, patient also in suffering, and bearing in silence, as his mother did, a grief which had poisoned his life and hers. neither of his parents had ever spoken a word against the other; the mystery which kept this tender, loving woman, and this just, high-principled man, apart, was never disclosed to their child. on this subject they entrenched themselves behind a barrier of silence which the child's love and winning ways could not penetrate. only when his mother's eyes were closed and her lips sealed by death was he privileged to witness how deeply his father had loved her. much of what had been disclosed to the advocate's wife by mother denise was absolutely unknown to him. doubtless he could have learned every particular of the circumstances which had led to the separation of his parents, had his wish lain in that direction; but a delicate instinct whispered to him not to lift the veil, and he would permit no person to approach the subject in his presence. the bright appearance of his sitting-room cheered him when he entered it, after bidding the advocate good-night. but this pleasurable sense was not unalloyed. his heart and his conscience were disturbed, and as he took up a handful of roses which had been thrown loose into a bowl and inhaled their fragrance, a guilty thrill shot through his veins. with the roses in his hand he stood before the picture of adelaide, which she had hung above his desk. how bright and beautiful was the face, how lovely the smile with which she greeted him! it was almost as if she were speaking to him, telling him that she loved him, and asking him to assure her once more that her love was returned. for a moment the fancy came upon him that adelaide and he were like two stars wandering through a dark and dangerous path, and that before them lay death, and worse than death--dishonour and irretrievable ruin; and that she, the brighter star, holding him tightly by the hand, was whispering: "i will guide you safely; only love me!" there was one means of escape--death! a coward's refuge, which might not even afford him a release from dishonour, for adelaide in her despair might let their secret escape her. why, then, should he torture himself unnecessarily? it was not in his power to avert the inevitable. he had not deliberately chosen his course. fate had driven him into it. was it not best, after all, to do as he had said to the advocate that night, to submit without a struggle? men were not masters, but slaves. when the image of the advocate, of his friend, presented itself to him, he thrust it sadly from him. but it came again and again, like the ghost of banquo; conscience refused to be tricked. crumbling the roses in his hand, and strewing the floor with the leaves, he turned, and saw, gazing wistfully at him, the eyes of his mother. the artist who had painted her picture had not chosen to depict her in her most joyous mood. in _his_ heart also, as she sat before him, love's fever was burning, and he knew, while his brush was fixing her beauty on the canvas, that his love was returned, though treachery had parted them. he had striven, not unsuccessfully, to portray in her features the expression of one who loved and to whom love was denied. the look in her eyes was wistful rather than hopeless, and conveyed, to those who knew her history, the idea of one who hoped to find in another world the happiness she had lost in this. sad and tender reminiscences of the years he had lived with his mother in these very rooms stole into christian almer's mind, and he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the question, "why had she been unhappy?" she was young, beautiful, amiable, rich; her husband was a man honoured and esteemed, with a character above reproach. what secret would be revealed if the heart of this mystery were laid bare to his sight? if it were in his power to ascertain the truth, might not the revelation cause him additional sorrow? better, then, to let the matter rest. no good purpose could be served by raking up the ashes of a melancholy past. his parents were dead---- and here occurred a sudden revulsion. his mother was dead--and, but a few short minutes since, her spirit was supposed to have appeared in the grounds of the villa. almost upon the thought, he hurriedly left the room, and made his way into the gardens. * * * * * * "my neighbour, and master of this house," said pierre lamont, who was lying wide awake in the adjoining room, "does not seem inclined to rest. something disturbs him." pierre lamont was alone; fritz the fool had left him for the night, and the old lawyer, himself in no mood for sleep, was reading and listening to the movements around him. there was little to hear, only an occasional muffled sound which the listener interpreted as best he could; but christian almer, when he left his room, had to pass pierre lamont's door in his progress to the grounds, and it was the clearer sound of his footsteps which led pierre lamont to his correct conclusion. "he is going out of the house," continued pierre lamont. "for what? to look for his mother's ghost, perhaps. fool fritz, in raising this particular ghost, did not foresee what it might lead to. ghosts! and fools still live who believe in them! well, well, but for the world's delusions there would be little work for busy minds to accomplish. as a fantastic piece of imagery i might conjure up an army of men sweeping the world with brooms made of brains--of knavery, folly, trickery, and delusion. what is that? a footstep! human? no. too light for any but the feet of a cat!" but here pierre lamont was at fault. it was dionetta who passed his door in the passage, conveying to christian almer's room the note written by the advocate's wife. before the arrival of her new mistress, dionetta had always worn thick boots, and the sound of her footstep was plain to hear; but adelaide's nerves could not endure the creaking and clattering, and she had supplied her maid with shoes. besides, dionetta had naturally a light step. * * * * * * christian almer met with nothing in the grounds to disturb him. no airy shadow appeared to warn him of the danger which threatened him. were it possible for the spirits of the dead to make themselves seen and heard, assuredly the spirit of his mother would have appeared and implored him to fly from the house without delay. happy for him would it have been were he one of the credulous fools pierre lamont held in despisal--happy for him could he have formed, out of the shadows which moved around him, a spirit in which he would have believed, and could he have heard, in the sighing of the breeze, a voice which would have impressed him with a true sense of the peril in which he stood. but he heard and saw nothing for which he could not naturally account, and within a few minutes of midnight he re-entered his room. * * * * * * "my neighbour has returned," said pierre lamont, "after his nocturnal ramble in search of the spirit of his dead mother. hark! that sound again! as of some living thing stepping cautiously on the boards. if i were not a cripple i would satisfy myself whether this villa is tormented by restless cats as well as haunted by unholy spirits. when will science supply mankind with the means of seeing, as well as hearing, what is transpiring on the other side of stone and wooden walls? "ah, that door of his is creaking. it opens--shuts. i hear a murmur of voices, but cannot catch a word. almer's voice of course--and the advocate's. no--the other voice and the soft footsteps are in partnership. not the advocate's, nor any man's. men don't tread like cats. it was a woman who passed my door, and who has been admitted into that room. being a woman, what woman? if fool fritz were here, we would ferret it out between us before we were five minutes older. "still talking--talking--like the soft murmur of peaceful waves. ah! a laugh! by all that's natural, a woman's laugh! it is a woman! and i should know that silvery sound. there is a special music in a laugh which cannot be mistaken. it is distinctive--characteristic. "ah, my lady, my lady! fair face, false heart--but woman, woman all over!" and pierre lamont rubbed his hands, and also laughed--but his laugh was like his speech, silent, voiceless. chapter ix christian almer receives two visitors upon christian almer's desk lay the note written by adelaide. he saw it the moment he entered the room, and knew, therefore, that some person had called during his absence. at first he thought it must have been the advocate, who, not finding him in his room, had left the note for him; but as he opened the envelope a faint perfume floated from it. "it is from adelaide," he murmured. "how often and how vainly have i warned her!" he read the note: "dear christian: "i cannot sleep until i wish you good-night, with no horrid people around us. let me see you for one minute only. "adelaide." to comply with her request at such an hour would be simple folly; infatuated as he was he would not deliberately commit himself to such an act. "surely she cannot have been here," he thought. "but if another hand placed this note upon my desk, another person must share the secret which it is imperative should never be revealed. i must be firm with her. there must be an end to this imprudence. fortunately there is no place in edward's nature for suspicion." he blushed with shame at the unworthy thought. five years ago, could he have seen--he who up to that time never had stooped to meanness and deceit--the position in which he now stood, he would have rejected the mere suspicion of its possibility with indignation. but by what fatally easy steps had he reached it! in the midst of these reflections his heart almost stopped beating at the sound of a light footstep without. he listened, and heard a soft tapping on the door, not with the knuckles, but with the finger-tips; he opened the door, and adelaide stood smiling before him. with her finger at her lips she stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. "it would not do for me to be seen," she whispered. "do not be alarmed; i shall not be here longer than one little minute. i have only come to wish you good-night. give me a chair, or i shall sink to the ground. i am really very, very frightened. quick; bring me a chair. do you not see how weak i am?" he drew a chair towards her, and she sank languidly into it. "as you would not come to me," she said, "i was compelled to come to you." "compelled!" he said. they spoke in low tones, fearful lest their voices should travel beyond the room. "yes, compelled. i was urged by a spirit." his face grew white. "a spirit!" "how you echo me, christian. yes, by a spirit, to which you yourself shall give a name. shall we call it a spirit of restlessness, or jealousy, or love?" she gazed at him with an arch smile. "adelaide," he said, "your imprudence will ruin us." "nonsense, christian, nonsense," she said lightly; "ruined because i happened to utter one little word! to be sure i ought, so as to prove myself an apt pupil, to put a longer word before it, and call it platonic love. how unreasonable you are! what harm is there in our having a moment's chat? we are old friends, are we not? no, i will not let you interrupt me; i know what you are going to say. you are going to say, think of the hour! i decline to think of the hour. i think of nothing but you. and instead of looking delighted, as you should do, as any other man would do, there you stand as serious as an owl. now, answer me, sir. why did you not come to me the moment you received my note?" "i had but just read it when you tapped at my door." "i forgive you. where have you been? with the advocate?" "no; i have been walking in the grounds." "you saw nothing, christian?" she asked with a little shiver. "nothing to alarm or disturb me." "there was a light in the advocate's study, was there not?" "yes." "he will remain up late, and then he will retire to his room. my life is a very bright and beautiful life with him. he is so tender in his ways--so fond of pleasure--pays me so much attention, and _such_ compliments--is so light--hearted and joyous--sings to me, dances with me! oh, you don't know him, you don't indeed. i remember asking him to join in a cotillon; you should have seen the look he gave me!" she laughed out loud, and clapped her hand on her mouth to stifle the sound. "i wonder whether he was ever young, like you and me. what a wonderful child he must have been--with scientific toys, and books always under his arm--yes, a wonderful child, holding in disdain little girls who wished him to join in their innocent games. what is your real opinion of him, christian?" "it pains me to hear you speak of him in that way." "it should please you; but men are never satisfied. i speak lightly, do i not, but there are moments when i shudder at my fate. confess, it is not a happy one." "it is not," he replied, after a pause, "but if i had not crossed your path, life would be full of joy for you." it was not this he intended to say, but there was such compelling power in her lightest words that his very thoughts seemed to be under her dominion. "there would have been no joy in my life," she said, "without you. we will not discuss it. what is, is. sometimes when i think of things they make my head ache. then i say, i will think of them no longer. if everybody did the same, would not this world be a great deal pleasanter than it is? oh, you must not forget what the advocate called me to-night in your presence--a philosopher in petticoats. don't you see that even he is on my side, though it is against himself? of course one can't help respecting him. he is a very learned man. he should have married a very learned woman. what a pity it is that i am not wise! but that is not my fault. i hate learning, i hate science, i hate theories. what is the good of them? they say, this is not right, that is not right. and all we poor creatures can do is to look on in a state of bewilderment, and wonder what they mean. if people would only let the world alone, they would find it a very beautiful world. but they will _not_ let it alone; they _will_ meddle. a flower, now--is it not sweet--is it not enough that it is sent to give us pleasure? but these disagreeable people say, 'of what is this flower composed--is it as good as other flowers--has it qualities, and what qualities?' what do i care? i put it in my hair, and i am happy because it becomes me, because it is pretty, because nature sent it to me to enjoy. why, i have actually made you smile!" "because there is a great deal of natural wisdom in what you are saying----" "natural wisdom! there now, does it not prove i am right? thank you, christian. it comes to you to say exactly the right thing exactly at the right time. i shall begin to feel proud." "and," continued almer, "if you were only to talk to me like that in the middle of the day instead of the middle of the night----" she interrupted him again: "you have undone it all with your 'ifs.' what does it matter if it is in the middle of the day or the middle of the night? what is right, is right, is it not, without thinking of the time? don't get disagreeable; but indeed i will not allow you to be anything but nice to me. you have made me forget everything i was going to say." "except one thing," he said gravely, "which you came to say, 'good-night.'" "the minute is not gone yet," she said with a silvery laugh. "many minutes, many minutes," he said helplessly, "and every minute is fraught with danger." "i will protect you," she said with supreme assurance. "do not fear. i see quite plainly that if there is a dragon to kill i shall have to be the st. george. well, i am ready. danger is sweet when you are with me." he was powerless against her; he resigned himself to his fate. "who brought your letter to my room?" he asked. "dionetta." "have you confided in her?" "she knows nothing, and she is devoted to me. if the simple maid thought of the letter at all--as to what was in it, i mean--she thought, of course, that it was something i wanted you to do for me to-morrow, and had forgotten to tell you. but even here i was prudent, although you do not give me credit for prudence. i made her promise not to tell a soul, not even her grandmother, that queer, good old mother denise, that she had taken a letter from me to you. she did more than promise--she swore she would not tell. i bribed her, christian--i gave her things, and to-night i gave her a pair of earrings. you should have witnessed her delight! i would wager that she is at this moment no more asleep than i am. she is looking at herself in the glass, shaking her pretty little head to make the diamonds glisten." "diamonds, adelaide! a simple maid like dionetta with diamond earrings! what will the folks say?" "oh, they all know i am fond of her----" they started to their feet with a simultaneous movement. "footsteps!" whispered almer. "the advocate's," said adelaide, and she glided to the door, and turned the key as softly as if it were made of velvet. "he will see a light in the room," said christian. "he has come to talk with me. what shall we do?" she gazed at him with a bright smile. his face was white with apprehension; hers, red with excitement and exaltation. "i am st. george," she whispered; "but really there is no dragon to kill; we have only to send him to sleep. of course you must see him. i will conceal myself in the inner room, and you will lock me in, and put the key in your pocket, so that i shall be quite safe. do not be uneasy about me; i can amuse myself with books and pictures, and i will turn over the leaves so quietly that even a butterfly would not be disturbed. and when the dragon is gone i will run away immediately. i am almost sorry i came, it has distressed you so." she kissed the tips of her fingers to him, and entered the adjoining room. then, turning the key in the door christian almer admitted the advocate. chapter x a brief survey of the web pause we here a moment, and contemplate the threads of the web which chance, fate, or retribution was weaving round this man. with the exception of a few idle weeks in his youth, his life had been a life of honour and renown. his ambition was a worthy one, and success had not been attained without unwearying labour and devotion. close study and application, zeal, earnestness, unflagging industry, these were the steps in the ladder he had climbed. had it not been for his keen intellect these qualities would not have been sufficient to conduct him to the goal he had in view. good luck is not to be despised, but unless it is allied with brain power of a high order only an ephemeral success can be achieved. never, to outward appearance, was a great reputation more stable or better deserved. his wonderful talents, and the victories he had gained in the face of formidable odds, had destroyed all the petty jealousies with which he had to cope in the outset of his career, and he stood now upon a lofty pinnacle, acknowledged by all as a master in his craft. wealth and distinction were his, and higher honours lay within his grasp; and, in addition, he had won for his wife one of the most beautiful of women. it seemed as if the world had nothing to add to his happiness. and yet destruction stared him in the face. the fabric he had raised, on a foundation so secure that it appeared as if nothing could shake it, was tottering, and might fall, destroying him and all he had worked for in the ruins. he stood at the door of the only man in the world to whom he had given the full measure of his friendship. with all the strength of his nature he believed in christian almer. in the gravest crisis of his life he would have called this friend to his side, and would have placed in his hands, without hesitation, his life, his reputation, and his honour. to almer, in their conversation, he had revealed what may be termed his inner life, that life the workings of which were concealed from all other men. and in this friend's chamber his wife was concealed; and dishonour hung over him by the slenderest thread. not only dishonour, but unutterable grief, for he loved this woman with a most complete undoubting love. little time had he for dalliance; but he believed in his wife implicitly. his trust in her was a perfect trust. within the room at the door of which he was waiting, stood his one friend, with white face and guilty conscience, about to admit him and grasp his hand. had the heart of this friend been laid bare to him, he would have shrunk from it in horror and loathing, and from that moment to the last moment of his life the sentiment of friendship would have been to him the bitterest mockery and delusion with which man could be cursed. not five yards from where he stood lay pierre lamont, listening and watching for proofs of the perfidy which would bring disgrace upon him--which would cause men and women to speak of him in terms of derision for his blindness and scorn for his weakness--which would make a byeword of him--of him, the great advocate, who had played his part in many celebrated cases in which woman's faithlessness and disloyalty were the prominent features--and which would cause him to regard the sentiment of love as the falsest delusion with which mankind was ever afflicted. in the study he had left but a few minutes since slept a man who, in a certain sense, claimed comradeship with him, a man whom he had championed and set free, a self-confessed murderer, a wretch so vile that he had fled from him in horror at the act he had himself accomplished. and in the open air, upon a hill, a hundred yards from the house of white shadows, lay john vanbrugh, a friend of his youth, a man disgraced by his career, watching for the signal which would warrant him in coming forward and divulging what was in his mind. if what john vanbrugh had disclosed in his mutterings during his lonely watch was true, he held in his hands the key to a mystery, which, revealed, would overwhelm the advocate with shame and infamy. thus was he threatened on all sides by friend and foe alike. chapter xi a crisis "have i disturbed you, christian?" asked the advocate, entering the room. "i hesitated a moment or two, hearing no sound, but seeing your lamp was lighted, i thought you were up, and might be expecting me." "i had an idea you would come," said almer, with a feeling of relief at the advocate's statement that he had heard no sound; and then he said, so that he might be certain of his ground, "you have not been to my room before to-night?" "no; for the last two hours i have not left my study. half an hour's converse with you will do me good. i am terribly jaded." "the reaction of the excitement of the long trial in which you have been engaged." "probably; though i have endured fatigue as great without feeling as jaded as i do now." "you must take rest. your doctors who prescribed repose for you would be angry if they were aware of the strain you have put upon your mind." "they do know. the physician i place the greatest faith in writes to me that i must have been mad to have undertaken gautran's defence. it might have been better if i had not entered into that trial." "you have one consolation. defended by a lawyer less eminent than yourself, an unfortunate man might have been convicted of a crime he did not commit." "yes," said the advocate slowly, "that is true." "you compel admiration, edward. with frightful odds against you, with the public voice against you, you voluntarily engage in a contest from which nothing is to be gained, and come out triumphant. i do not envy the feelings of the lawyers on the other side." "at least, christian, as you have said, they have the public voice with them." "and you, edward, have justice on your side, and the consciousness of right. the higher height is yours; you must regard these narrower minds with a feeling of pity." "i have no feeling whatever for them; they do not trouble me. christian, we will quit the subject of gautran; you can well understand that i have had enough of him. let us speak of yourself. i am an older man than you, and there is something of a fatherly interest in the friendship i entertain for you. since my marriage i have sometimes thought if i had a son i should have been pleased if his nature resembled yours, and if i had a daughter it would be in the hands of such a man as yourself i should wish to place her happiness." "you esteem me too highly," said almer, in a tone of sadness. "i esteem you as you deserve, friend. within your nature are possibilities you do not recognise. it is needful to be bold in this world, christian; not arrogant, or over-confident, or vain-glorious, but modestly bold. unless a man assert himself his powers will lie dormant; and not to use the gifts with which we are endowed is a distinct reproach upon us. i have heard able men say it is a crime to neglect our powers, for great gifts are bestowed upon us for others' good as well as for our own. besides, it is healthy in every way to lead a busy life, to set our minds upon the accomplishment of certain tasks. if we fail--well, failure is very often more honourable than success. we have at least striven to mount the hill which rises above the pettiness and selfishness of our everyday life; we have at least proved ourselves worthy of the spiritual influences which prompt the execution of noble deeds. you did not reply to the letter i sent you in the mountains; but adelaide heard from you, and that is sufficient. sufficient, also, that you are here with us, and that we know we have a true friend in the house. you were many weeks in the mountains." "yes." "were you engaged on any work? did you paint or write?" "i made a few sketches, which pleased me one day and displeased me the next, so i tore them up and threw them away. there is enough indifferent work in the world." "nothing short of perfection will satisfy you," said the advocate with a serious smile; "but some men must march in the ranks." "i am not worthy even of that position," said almer moodily. the advocate regarded him with thoughtful eyes. "if your mind is not deeply reflective, if your power of observation applies only to the surface of things, you are capable of imparting what some call tenderness and i call soul, to every subject which presents itself to you. i have detected this in your letters and conversation. it is a valuable quality. i grant that you may be unfit to cope with practical matters, but in your study you would be able to produce works which would charm if they did not instruct. there is in you a heart instinct which, as it forms part of your nature, would display itself in everything you wrote." "useless, edward, useless! my father was an author; it brought him no happiness." "how do you know? it may have afforded him consolation, and that is happiness. but i was not speaking of happiness. the true artist does not look to results. he has only one aim and one desire--to produce a perfect work. his task being done--not that he produces a perfect work, but the ennoblement lies in the aspiration and the earnest application--that being done, he has accomplished something worthy, whatever its degree of excellence. the day upon which a man first devotes himself to such labour he awakes within his being a new and delightful life, the life of creative thought. fresh wonders continually reveal themselves--quaint suggestions, exquisite fancies, and he makes use of them according to the strength of his intellect. he enriches the world." "and if he is a poor man, starves." "maybe; but he wears the crown. you, however, are rich." "nothing to be grateful for. i had no incentive to effort, therefore i stand to-day an idle, aimless man. you have spoken of books. when i looked at crowded bookshelves, i should blush at the thought of adding to them any rubbish of my own creation." "i find no fault with you for that. blush if you like--but work, produce." "and let the world call me vain and presumptuous." "give it the chance of judging; it may be the other way. perhaps the greatest difficulty we have to encounter in life is in the discovery of that kind of work for which we are best fitted. fortunate the man who gravitates to it naturally, and who, having the capacity to become a fine shoemaker, is not clapped upon a watchmaker's bench instead of a cobbler's stool. being fitted, he is certain to acquire some kind of distinction. believe me, christian, it is not out of idleness, or for the mere purpose of making conversation that i open up this subject. it would afford me great pleasure if you were in a more settled frame of mind. you cannot disguise from me that you are uneasy, perhaps unhappy. i see it this very moment in your wandering glances, and in the difficulty you experience in fixing your attention upon what i am saying. you are not satisfied with yourself. you have probably arrived at that stage when a man questions himself as to what is before him--when he reviews the past, and discovers that he has allowed the years to slip by without having made an effort to use them to a worthy end. you ask yourself, 'is it for this i am here? are there not certain duties which i ought to perform? if i allow the future to slip away as the past has done, without having accomplished a man's work in the world, i shall find myself one day an old man, of whom it may be said, "he lived only for himself; he had no thought, no desire beyond himself; the struggles of humanity, the advance of civilisation, the progress and development of thought which have effected such marvellous changes in the aspects of society, the exposing of error--these things touched him not; he bore no part in them, but stood idly by, a careless observer, whose only ambition it was to utilise the hours to his own selfish pleasures."' a heavy charge, christian. what you want is occupation. politics--your inclinations do not lead that way; trade is abhorrent to you. you are not sufficiently frivolous to develop into a butterfly leader of fashion. law is distasteful to you. science demands qualities which you do not possess. for a literary life you are specially adapted. i say to you, turn your attention to it for a while. if it disappoint you, it is easy to relinquish it. it will be but an attempt made in the right direction. but understand, christian, without earnestness, without devotion, without application, it will be useless to make the attempt." "and that is precisely the reason why i hesitate to make it. i am wanting in firmness of purpose. i doubt myself; i should have begun earlier." "but you will think over what i have said?" "yes, i will think of it, and i cordially thank you." "and now tell me how you enjoyed yourself in the mountains." "passably well. it was a negative sort of life. there was no pleasure in it, and no pain. one day was so exactly like another, that i should scarcely have been surprised if i had awoke one morning and discovered that in the dull uniformity of the hours my hair had grown white and i into an old man. the principal subject of interest was the weather, and that palled so soon that sunshine or storm became a matter of indifference to me." "look at me a moment, christian." they sat gazing at each other in silence for a little while. there was an unusual tenderness in the advocate's eyes which pierced christian almer to the heart. during the whole of this interview the thought never left his mind: "if he knew the part i am playing towards him--if he suspected that simply by listening at this inner door he could hear his wife's soft breathing--in what way would he call me to account for my treachery?" he dreaded every moment that something would occur to betray him. adelaide was careless, reckless. if she made a movement to attract attention, if she overturned a chair, if she let a book fall, what was he to say in answer to the advocate's questioning look? but all was quiet within; he was tortured only by the whisperings of his conscience. "you are suffering, christian," said the advocate. almer knew intuitively that on this point, as on many others, it would be useless to attempt to deceive the advocate. to return an evasive answer might arouse suspicion. he said simply: "yes, i am suffering." "it is not bodily suffering, though your pulse is feverish." he had taken almer's wrist, and his fingers were on the pulse. "your disease is mental." he paused, but almer did not speak. "it is no breach of confidence," continued the advocate, "to tell you that on the first day of my entering geneva, jacob hartrich and i had a conversation about you. there was nothing said that need be kept private. we conversed as two men might converse concerning an absent friend in whom both took an affectionate interest. he had noticed a change in you which i have noticed since i entered this room. when you visited him he was impressed by an unusual strangeness in your manner. that strangeness of manner, without your being aware of it, is upon you now. he said that you were restless and ill at ease. you are at this moment restless and ill at ease. the muscles of your face, your eyes, your hands, are not under your control. they respond to the mental disease which causes you to suffer. you will forgive me for saying that you convey to me the impression that you would be more at ease at the present time if i were not with you." "i entreat you," said almer eagerly, "not to think so." "i accept your assurance, which, nevertheless, does not convince me that i am wrong in my impression. the friendship which exists between us is too close and binding--i may even go so far as to say, too sacred--for me, a colder and more experienced man than yourself, to allow it to be affected by any matter outside its boundary. deprive it of sympathy, and friendship is an unmeaning word. i sympathise with you deeply, sincerely, without knowing how to relieve you. i ask you frankly, however, one question which you may freely answer. have you fixed your affections upon a woman who does not reciprocate your love?" the advocate was seated by the desk upon which almer had, after reading it, carelessly thrown the note written to him by adelaide, and as he put the question to his friend, he involuntarily laid his hand upon this damning evidence of his wife's disloyalty. chapter xii self-justification the slight action and the significant question presented a coincidence so startling that christian almer was fascinated by it. that there was premeditation or design in the coincidence, or that the advocate had cunningly led the conversation to this point for the purpose of confounding him and bringing him face to face with his treachery, did not suggest itself to his mind. he was, indeed, incapable of reasoning coherently. all that he was momentarily conscious of was, that discovery was imminent, that the sword hung over him, suspended by a hair. would it fall, and in its fall compel into a definite course the conflicting passions by which he was tortured? it would, perhaps, be better so. already did he experience a feeling of relief at this suggestion, and it appeared to him as if he were bending his head for the welcome blow. but all was still and quiet, and through the dim mist before his eyes he saw the advocate gazing kindly upon him. then there stole upon him a wild prompting, a mad impulse, to expedite discovery by his own voluntary act--to say to the advocate: "i have betrayed you. read that note beneath your hand; take this key, and open yonder door; find there your wife. what do you propose to do?" the words did actually shape themselves in his mind, and he half believed that he had uttered them. they did not, however, escape his lips. he was instinctively restrained by the consideration that in his punishment adelaide would be involved. what right had he deliberately to ruin and expose her? a cowardly act thus to sacrifice a woman who in this crisis relied upon him for protection. in a humiliating, shameful sense it is true, but none the less was she under his direct protection at this moment. self-tortured as he was he could still show that he had some spark of manliness left in him. to recklessly dispose of the fate of the woman whose only crime was that she loved him--this he dared not do. his mood changed. arrived at this conclusion, his fear now was that he had betrayed himself--that in some indefinite way he had given the advocate the key to his thoughts, or that he had, by look or expression, conveyed to his friend a sense of the terrible importance of the perfumed note which lay upon the desk. "you do not answer me, christian," said the advocate. but almer could not speak. his eyes were fixed upon adelaide's note, and he found it impossible to divert his attention from the idle movements of the advocate's fingers. his unreasoning impulse to hasten discovery was gone, and he was afflicted now by a feeling of apprehension. it was his imperative duty to protect adelaide; while the advocate's hand rested upon the envelope which contained her secret she was not safe. at all risks, even at the hazard of his life, must she be held blameless. had the advocate lifted the envelope from the desk, almer would have torn it from him. "why do you not speak?" asked the advocate. "surely there is nothing offensive in such a question between friends like ourselves." "i can offer you no explanation of what i am about to say," replied almer: "it may sound childish, trivial, pitiful, but my thoughts are not under my own control while your hand is upon that letter." with the slightest expression of surprise the advocate handed almer the envelope, scarcely looking at it as it passed from his possession. "why did you not speak of it before?" he said. "but when a mind is unbalanced, trifling matters are magnified into importance." "i can only ask you to forgive me," said almer, placing the envelope in his pocket-book. "i have no doubt in the course of your career you have met with many small incidents quite as inexplicable." then an excuse which would surely be accepted occurred to him. "it may be sufficient for me to say that this is the first night of my return to the house in which i was born and passed a not too happy boyhood, and that in this room my mother died." the advocate pressed almer's hand. "there is no need for another word. you have been looking over some old family papers, and they have aroused melancholy reminiscences. i should have been more thoughtful; i was wrong in coming to you. it will be best to say good-night." but almer, anxious to avoid the slightest cause for suspicion in the right direction, said: "nay, stay with me a few minutes longer, or i shall reproach myself for having behaved unreasonably. you were asking----" "a delicate question. whether you love without being loved in return?" "no, edward, that is not the case with me." "you have no intention of marrying?" "no." "then your heart is still free. you reassure me. you are not suffering from what has been described as the most exquisite of all human sufferings--unrequited love. neither have you experienced a disappointment in friendship?" "no. i have scarcely a friend with the exception of yourself." "and my wife. you must not forget her. she takes a cordial interest in you." "yes, and your wife." "it was jacob hartrich who suggested that you might have met with a disappointment in love or friendship. i disputed it, in the belief that had it been unhappily so you would have confided in me. i am glad that i was right. shall i continue?" "yes." "the banker, who entertains the most kindly sentiments towards you, based all his conjectures upon a certain remark which made a strong impression upon him. you told him you were weary of the gaiety and the light and bustle of cities, and that it was your intention to seek some solitude where, by a happy chance, you might rid yourself of a terror which possessed you. i can understand your weariness of the false glare of fashionable city life; it can never for any long period satisfy the intellect. but neither can it instil a terror into a man's soul. that would spring from another and a deeper cause." "the words were hastily spoken. look upon them as an exaggeration." "i certainly regard them in that light, but they were not an invention, and there must have been a serious motive for them. it is not in vain that i have studied your character, although i feel that i did not master the study. i am subjecting you, christian, to a kind of mental analysis, in an endeavour to arrive at a conclusion which will enable me to be of assistance to you. and i do not disguise from you that, were it in my power, i would assist you even against your will. our friendship, and my age and more varied experience, would justify me. i do not seek to force your confidence, but i ask you in the spirit of true friendship to consider--not at present, but in a few days, when your mind is in a calmer state--whether such counsel and guidance as it may be in my power to offer will not be a real help to you. do not lightly reject my assistance in probing a painful wound. i will use my knife gently. there was a time when i believed there was nothing that could happen to either of us which we should be unwilling to confide each to the other, freely and without restraint. i find i am not too old to learn the lesson that the strongest beliefs, the firmest convictions, may be seriously weakened by the occurrence of circumstances for which the wisest foresight could not have provided. keep, then, your secret, if you are so resolved, and bear in mind that on the day you come to me and say, 'edward, help me, guide me,' you will find me ready. i shall not fail you, christian, in any crisis." almer rose and slowly paced the room, while the advocate sat back in his chair, and watched his friend with affectionate solicitude. "does this lesson," presently said almer, "which you are not too old to learn, spring entirely from the newer impressions you are receiving of my character, or has something in your mind which you have not disclosed helped to lead you to it?" it was a chance shot, but it strangely hit the mark. the question brought forcibly to the advocate's mind the position in which he himself was placed by gautran's confession, and by his subsequent resolve to conceal the knowledge of gautran's crime. "what a web is the world!" he thought. "how the lines which here are widely apart, but a short space beyond cross and are linked in closest companionship!" both christian and himself had something to conceal, and it would be acting in bad faith to his friend were he to return an evasive answer. "it is not entirely from the newer impressions you speak of that i learn the lesson. it springs partly from a matter which disturbs my mind." "referring to me?" "no, to myself. you are not concerned in it." in his turn almer now became the questioner. "a new experience of your own, edward?" "yes." "which must have occurred to you since we were last together?" "it originated during your absence." "which came upon you unaware--for which your foresight could not have provided?" "at all events it did not." "you speak seriously, edward, and your face is clouded." "it is a very serious matter." "can i help you? is it likely that my advice would be of assistance?" "i can speak of it to no one." "you also have a secret then?" "yes, i also have a secret." christian almer appeared to gather strength--a warranty, as it were, for his own wrong-doing--from the singular direction the conversation had taken. it was as though part of a burden was lifted from him. he was not the only one who was suffering--he was not the only one who was standing on a dangerous brink--he was not the only one who had drifted into dangerous waters. even this strong-brained man, this advocate who had seemingly held aloof from pleasure, whose days and nights had been given up to study, whose powerful intellect could pierce dark mysteries and bring them into clear light, who was the last man in the world who could be suspected of yielding to a prompting of which his judgment and conscience could not approve--even he had a secret which he was guarding with jealous care. was it likely then, that he, the younger and the more impressionable of the two, could escape snares into which the advocate had fallen? the fatalist's creed recurred to him. all these matters of life were preordained. what folly--what worse than folly, what presumption, for one weak man to attempt to stem the irresistible current! it was delivering himself up to destruction. better to yield and float upon the smooth tide and accept what good or ill fate has in store for him. what use to infuse into the sunlight, and the balmy air, and into all the sweets of life, the poison of self-torture? the confession he had extracted from the advocate was in a certain sense a justification of himself. he would pursue the subject still further. as he had been questioned, so he would question. it was but just. "to judge from your manner, edward, your secret is no light one." "it is of most serious import." "i almost fear to ask a question which occurs to me." "ask freely. i have been candid with you, in my desire to ascertain how i could help you in your trouble. be equally candid with me." "but it may be misconstrued. i am ashamed that it should have suggested itself--for which, of course, the worser part of me is responsible. no--it shall remain unspoken." "i should prefer that you asked it--nay, i desire you to do so. there is no fear of misconstruction. do you think i wish to stand in your eyes as a perfect man? that would be arrogant, indeed. or that i do not know that you and i and all men are possessed of contradictions which, viewed in certain aspects, may degrade the most noble? the purest of us--men and women alike--have undignified thoughts, unworthy imaginings, to which we would be loth to give utterance. but sometimes, as in this instance, it becomes a duty. i have had occasion quite lately to question myself closely, and i have fallen in my own estimation. there is more baseness in me than i imagined. hesitate no longer. ask your question, and as many more as may arise from it; these things are frequently hydra-headed. i shall know how far to answer without disclosing what i desire shall remain buried." almer put his question boldly. "is the fate of a woman involved in your secret?" an almost imperceptible start revealed to almer's eyes that another chance arrow had hit the mark. truly, a woman's fate formed the kernel of the advocate's secret--a virtuous, innocent woman who had been most foully murdered. he answered in set words, without any attempt at evasion. "yes, a woman's fate is involved in it." "your wife's?" had his life depended upon it, almer could not have kept back the words. "no, not my wife's." "in that case," said almer slowly, "a man's honour is concerned." "you guess aright--a man's honour is concerned." "yours?" "mine." for a few moments neither of them spoke, and then the advocate said: "to men suspicious of each other--as most men naturally are, and generally with reason--such a turn in our conversation, and indeed the entire conversation in which we have indulged, might be twisted to fatal disadvantage. in the way of conjecture i mean--as to what is the essence of the secret which i do not reveal to my dearest friend, and the essence of that which my dearest friend does not reveal to me. it is fortunate, christian, that you and i stand higher than most. we have rarely hesitated to speak heart to heart and soul to soul; and if, by some strange course of events, there has arisen in each of our inner lives a mystery which we have decided not to reveal, it will not weaken the feeling of affection we entertain for each other. is that so, christian?" "yes, it is so, edward." "men of action, of deep thought, of strong passion, of sensitive natures, are less their own masters than peasants who take no part in the turmoil of the world. an uneventful life presents fewer temptations, and there is therefore more freedom in it. we live in an atmosphere of wine, and often miss our way. well, we must be indulgent to each other, and be sometimes ready to say, 'the position of difficulty into which you have been thrust, the error you have committed, the sin--yes, even the sin--of which you have been guilty, may have fallen to my lot had i been placed in similar circumstances. it is not i who will be the first to condemn you.'" "even," said almer, "if that error or that sin may be a grievous wrong inflicted against yourself. even then you would be ready to excuse and forgive?" "yes, even in that case. i should be taking a narrow view of an argument if i applied to all the world what i hesitated to apply to myself." "so that the committal of a great wrong may be justified by circumstances?" "yes, i will go as far as that. the fault of the child or the fault of the man, is but a question of degree. some err deliberately, some are hurried into error by passions which master them." "by natural passions?" "all such passions are natural, although it is the fashion to condemn them when they clash with the conditions of social life. the workings of the moral and sympathetic affections are beyond our own control." "of those who have erred with deliberate intention and those who have been hurried blindly into error, which should you be most ready to forgive?" "the latter," replied the advocate, conscious that in his answer he was condemning himself; "they are comparatively innocent, having less power over, and being less able to retrace their steps." "you pause," said almer, a sudden thrill agitating his veins. "why?" "i thought i heard a sound--like a suppressed laugh! did you not hear it?" "no. i heard nothing." almer's teeth met in scorn of himself as he uttered this falsehood. the sound of the laugh was low but distinct, and it proceeded from the room in which adelaide was concealed. the advocate stepped to the door by which he had entered, and looked up and down the passage, to which two lamps gave light. it was quiet and deserted. "my fancy," he said, standing within the half-open door. "my physicians know more of the state of my nerves than i do myself. it is interesting, however, to observe one's own mental delusions. but i was wrong in mixing myself up with that trial." still that trial. always that trial. it seemed to him as if he could never forget it, as if it would forever abide with him. it coloured his thoughts, it gave form to his arguments. would it end by changing his very nature? "you are over-wrought, edward," said almer. "if you were to seek what i have sought, solitude, it might be more beneficial to you than it has been to me." "there is solitude enough for me in this retired village," said the advocate, "and had i not undertaken the defence of gautran, my health by this time might have been completely established. we are here sufficiently removed from the fierce passions of the world--they cannot touch us in this primitive birthplace of yours. do you recognise how truly i spoke when i said that men like ourselves are the slaves, and peasants the free men? besides, christian, there is a medicine in friendship such as yours which i defy the doctors to rival. even though there has been a veil over our confidences to-night, i feel that this last hour has been of benefit to me. you know that i am much given to thinking to myself. as a rule, at those times, one walks in a narrow groove; if he argues, the contradiction he receives is of that mild character that it can be easily proved wrong. no wonder, when the thinker creates it for the purpose of proving himself right. it is seldom healthy, this solitary communionship--it leads rarely to just conclusions. but in conversation new byeroads reveal themselves, in which we wander pleasantly--new vistas appear--new suggestions arise, to give variety to the argument and to show that it has more than one selfish side. he who leads entirely a life of thought lives a dead life. good-night, christian. i have kept you from your rest. good-night. sleep well." chapter xiii shadows christian almer stood at the door, gazing at the retreating figure of the advocate. it passed through the clear light of the lamps, became blurred, was merged in the darkness. the corridor was long, and before the advocate reached the end he was a shadow among shadows. in almer's excited mood the slightest impressions became the medium for distorted reflection. the dim form of the advocate was pregnant with meaning, and when it was finally lost to sight, almer's eyes followed an invisible figure moving, not through space, but through events in which he and his friend and adelaide were the principal actors. a wild whirl of images crowded to his mind, presenting in the midst of their confusion defined and distinct pictures, the leading features of which were the consequences arising from the double betrayal of love and friendship. violent struggles, deadly embraces--in houses, in forests, on the brinks of precipices, in the torrents of furious rivers. the proportions of these images were vast, titanic. the forests were interminable, the trees rose to an immense height, the rivers resembled raging seas, the presentments of animated life were of unnatural magnitude. even when he and adelaide were flying through a trackless wood, and were overtaken by the advocate, this impression of gigantic growth prevailed, as though there were room in the world for naught but themselves and the passions by which they were swayed. he was recalled to himself by a soft tapping at the door of the inner room. he instantly unlocked it, and released adelaide, who raised her eyes, beaming with animation, to his. he was overcome with astonishment. he thought to see her pale, frightened, trembling. never had he beheld her more radiant. "he is gone," she said in a gay tone. "hush!" whispered almer, "he may return." "he will not," she said. "you will see him no more to-night." "thank heaven the danger is averted! i feel as if i had been guilty of some horrible crime." "whereas you have simply indulged poor innocent me in a harmless fancy. christian, i heard every word." "i thought you would have fallen asleep. how could you have been so imprudent, so reckless, as to laugh?" "how can i help being a woman of impulse? were you very much frightened? i was not--i rather enjoyed it. christian, there is not a single thing my immaculate husband does which does not convince me he has no heart. just think what might have happened if he had come to the right door and thrown it open and seen me! there! you look so horrified that i feel i have said something wrong again. christian, what did you mean by saying to him, 'my thoughts are not under my control while you have your hand on that letter'? what letter was it?" "your note, which dionetta left in the room. he was sitting by the desk upon which i had laid it, and his hand was upon it." "and it made you nervous? to think that he had but to open that innocent bit of paper! what a scene there would have been! i should have gloried in the situation--yes, indeed. there is no pleasure in life like the excitement of danger. those who say women are weak know nothing of us. we are braver than men, a thousand, thousand times braver. i tried to peep through the door, but there wasn't a single friendly crevice. what a shock it would have given him if i had suddenly called out as he held the letter: 'open it, my love, open it and read it!'" "that is what you call being prudent?" said almer in despair. "tyrant! i cannot promise you not to think. i have a good mind to be angry with you. you are positively ungrateful. you shut me up in a room all by myself, where i quietly remain, the very soul of discretion--you did not so much as hear me breathe--only forgetting myself once when my feelings overcame me, and you don't give me one word of praise. tell me instantly, sir, that i am a brave little woman." "you are the personification of rashness." "how ungrateful! did you think of me, christian, while i was locked up there?" "my thoughts did not wander from you for a moment." "if you had only given me a handful of these roseleaves so that i might have buried my face in them and imagined i was not tied to a man who loves another woman than his wife! you seem amazed. do you forget already what has passed between you? if it had happened that i loved him, after his confession to-night i should hate him. but it is indifferent to me upon whom he has set his affections--with all my heart i pity the unfortunate creature he loves. she need not fear me; i shall not harm her. you got at the heart of his secret when you asked him if a woman was involved in it; and you compelled him to confess that his honour--and of course hers; mine does not matter--was at stake in his miserable love-affair. he loves a woman who is not his wife; with all his evasions he could not help admitting it. and this is the man who holds his head so high above all other men--the man who was never known to commit an indiscretion! of course he must keep his secret close--of course he could not speak of it to his friend, whom he tries to hoodwink with professions and twisted words! he married me, i suppose, to satisfy his vanity; he wanted the world to see that old as he was, grave as he was, no woman could resist him. and i allowed myself to be persuaded by worldly friends! is it not a proof of my never having loved him, that, instead of hating him when in my hearing he confesses he loves another, i simply laugh at him and despise him? i should not shed a tear over him if he died to-night. he has insulted me--and what woman ever forgets or forgives an insult? but he has done me a good service, too, and i thank him. how sleepy i am! good-night. my minute is up, and i cannot stay longer; i must think of my complexion. goodnight, christian; that is all i came to say." chapter xiv the advocate fears he has created a monster the advocate did not immediately return to his study. darkness was more congenial to his mood, and he spent a few minutes in the gardens of the villa. although he had stated to christian almer that the conversation which had passed between them had been of benefit to him, he felt, now that he was alone, that there was much in it to give rise to disturbing thought and conjecture. he had not foreseen the difficulty, in social intercourse, of avoiding the subject uppermost in his mind. a morbid self-consciousness, at present in its germ, and from which he had hitherto been entirely free, seemed to unlock all roads in its direction. it was, as it were, the converging-point of all matters, even the most trivial, affecting himself. having put the seal upon his resolution with respect to gautran's confession, he became painfully aware that he had committed himself to a line of action from which he could not now recede without laying himself open to such suspicion, from friend and foe alike, as might fatally injure his reputation. he was a lawyer, and he knew what powerful use he could make of such a weapon against any man, high or low. if it could be turned against another it could be turned against himself. he must not, therefore, waver in his resolution. only his conscience could call him to account. well, he would reckon with that. it was a passive, not an active accuser. gautran would seek some new locality, in which he would be lost to sight. as a matter of common prudence, it was more than likely he would change his name. the suspicion which attached itself to him, and the horror with which he was regarded in the neighbourhood in which he had lived, would compel him to fly to other pastures. in this, and in the silence of time, lay the advocate's safety, for every day that passed would weaken the fever of excitement created by the trial. after a few weeks, if it even happened that gautran were insanely to make a public declaration of his guilt, and to add to this confession a statement that the advocate was aware of it during the trial, by whom would he be believed? certainly not by the majority of the better classes of the people; and in the event of such a contingency, he could quote with effect the poet's words: "be thou chaste as ice, and pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." so much, then, for himself: but he was more than ever anxious and ill at ease regarding christian almer. the secret which his friend dared not divulge to him was evidently of the gravest import--probably as terrible in its way as that which lay heavily on the advocate's soul; and the profound mystery in which it was wrapt invested it with a significance so unusual, even in the advocate's varied experience of human nature, that he could not keep from brooding upon it. was it a secret in which honour was involved? he could not bring himself to believe that almer could be guilty of a dishonourable act--but a man might be dragged into a difficulty against his will, and might have a burden of shame unexpectedly thrust upon him which he could not openly fling off without disgrace. and yet--and yet--that he should be so careful in concealing it from the knowledge of the truest of friends--it was inexplicable. ponder as long as he might, the advocate could arrive at no explanation of it, nor could his logical mind obtain the slightest clue to the mystery. the cool air in the gardens refreshed him, and he walked about, always within view of the lights in his study windows, with his head uncovered. it was during the first five minutes of his solitude that an impression stole upon him that he was not alone. he searched the avenues, he listened, he asked aloud: "is any person near, and does he wish to speak to me?" no voice answered him. the gardens, with the exception of the soft rustling of leaf and branch, were as silent as the grave. towards the end of his solitary rambling, and as he was contemplating leaving the grounds, this impression again stole upon him. was it the actual sound of muffled footsteps, or the spiritual influence of an unseen presence, which disturbed him? he could not decide. again he searched the avenues, again he listened, again he asked a question aloud. all was silent. this was the third time during the night that he had allowed himself to be beguiled. once in christian almer's room, when he thought he had heard a laugh, and now twice in the solitude of the grounds. he set it down as an unreasoning fancy springing from the agitation into which he had been thrown by his interview with gautran, and he breathed a wish that the next fortnight were passed, when his mind would almost certainly have recovered its equilibrium. the moment the wish was born, he smiled in contempt of his own weakness. it opened another vein in the psychological examination to which he was subjecting himself. he entered his study, and did not perceive gautran, who was asleep in the darkest corner of the room. but his quick observant eye immediately fell upon the glass out of which gautran had drunk the wine. the glass was on his writing-table; it was not there when he left his study. he glanced at the wine-bottles on the sideboard; they had been disturbed. "some person has been here in my absence," he thought. "who--and for what purpose?" he hastily examined his manuscripts and, missing none, raised the wine-glass and held it mouth downwards. as a couple of drops of red liquor fell to the ground, he heard behind him the sound of heavy breathing. an ordinary man would have let the glass fall from his hand in sudden alarm, for the breathing was so deep, and strong, and hoarse, that it might have proceeded from the throat of a wild beast who was preparing to spring upon him. but the advocate was not easily alarmed. he carefully replaced the glass, and wheeled in the direction of the breathing. he saw the outlines of a form stretched upon the ground in a distant corner; he stepped towards it, and stooping, recognised gautran. he was not startled. it seemed to be in keeping with what had previously transpired, that gautran should be lying there slumbering at his feet. he stood quite still, regarding the sleeping figure of the murderer in silence. he had risen to his full height; one hand rested upon the back of a massive oak chair: his face was grave and pale; his head was downwards bent. so he stood for many minutes almost motionless. not the slightest agitation was observable in him; he was calmly engaged in reflecting upon the position of affairs, as though they related not to himself, but to a client in whose case he was interested, and he was evolving from them, by perfectly natural reasoning, the most extraordinary complications and results. in all his experience he had never been engaged in a case presenting so many rare possibilities, and he was in a certain sense fascinated by the powerful use he could make of the threads of the web in which he had become so strangely and unexpectedly entangled. gautran's features were not clearly visible to him; they were too much in shadow. he took from his writing-table a lamp with a soft strong light, and set it near to the sleeping man. it brought the ruffian into full view. his unshaven face, his coarse, matted hair, his brutal sensual mouth, his bushy eyebrows, his large ears, his bared neck, his soiled and torn clothes, the perspiration in which he was bathed, presented a spectacle of human degradation as revolting as any the advocate had ever gazed upon. "by what means," he thought, "did this villain obtain information of my movements and residence, and what is his motive in coming here? when he accosted me tonight he did not know where i lived--of that i am convinced, for he had no wish to meet me, and believed he was threatening another man than myself on the high road. that was a chance meeting. is this, also, a chance encounter? no; there is premeditation in it. had he entered another house he would have laid his hands on something valuable and decamped, his purpose being served. he would not dare to rob me, but he dares to thrust his company upon me. of all men, i am the man he should be most anxious to avoid, for only i know him to be guilty. have i created a monster who is destined to be the terror and torture of my life? is he shrewd enough, clever enough, cunning enough, to use his power as i should use it were i in his place, and he in mine? that is not to be borne, but what is the alternative? i could put life into the grotesque oaken features upon which my hand is resting, and they might suggest a remedy. the branches of the tree within which these faces grew in some old forest waved doubtless over many a mystery, but this in which i am at present engaged matches the deepest of them. some demon seems to be whispering at my elbow. speak, then; what would you urge me to do?" the unseen: "gautran entered unobserved." the advocate: "that is apparent, or he would not be lying here with the hand of fate above him." the unseen: "no person saw him--no person is aware that he is in your study, at your mercy." the advocate: "at my mercy! you could have found a better word to express your meaning." the unseen: "you know him to be a murderer." the advocate: "true." the unseen: "he deserves death! you have already heard the whisperings of the voice which urged you to fulfil the divine law, blood for blood!" the advocate: "speak not of what is divine. tempter, have you not the courage to come straight to the point?" the unseen: "kill him where he lies! he will not be missed. it is night--black night. every living being in the house, with the exception of yourself, is asleep. you have twisted justice from its rightful course. the wrong you did you can repair. kill him where he lies!" the advocate: "and have the crime of murder upon my soul?" the unseen: "it is not murder. standing as you are standing now, knowing what you know, you are justified." the advocate: "i will have no juggling. if i kill him it is not in the cause of justice. speak plainly. why should he die at my hands?" the unseen: "his death is necessary for your safety." the advocate: "ah, that is better. no talk of justice now. we come to the coarse selfishness of things, which will justify the deadliest crimes. his death is necessary for my safety! how am i endangered? say that his presence here is a threat. am i not strong enough to avoid the peril? how vile am i that i should allow such thoughts to suggest themselves! christian, my friend, whatever is the terror which has taken possession of you, and from which you vainly strive to fly, your secret is pure in comparison with mine. if it were possible that the secret which oppresses you concerned your dearest friend, concerned me, whom perchance it has in some hidden way wronged, how could i withhold from you pity and forgiveness, knowing how sorely my own actions need pity and forgiveness? for the first time in my life i am brought face to face with my soul, and i see how base it is. has my life, then, been surrounded by dreams, and do i now awake to find how low and abominable are the inner workings of my nature? i must arouse this monster. he shall hide nothing from me." he spurned gautran with his foot. it was with no gentle touch, and gautran sprang to his feet, and would have thrown himself upon the advocate had he not suddenly recognised him. chapter xv gautran and the advocate "how long have i been asleep?" muttered gautran, shaking himself and rubbing his eyes. "it seems but a minute." the clock on the mantel struck the hour of two. "i counted twelve when i was in the grounds; i have been here two hours. you might have let me sleep longer. it is the first i have enjoyed for weeks--a sleep without a dream. as i used to sleep before----" he shuddered, and did not complete the sentence. "give me something to drink, master." "you have been helping yourself to my wine," said the advocate. "you know everything, master. yes, it was wine i drank, as mild as milk. it went down like water. good for gentlemen, perhaps, but not for us. i must have something stronger." he looked anxiously round the room, and sighed and smiled; no appalling vision greeted his sight. "ah," he said, "i am safe here. give me some brandy." "you will have none, gautran," said the advocate sternly. "ah, master," implored gautran, "think better of it, i must have brandy--i must!" "must!" echoed the advocate, with a frown. "yes, master, must; i shall not be able to talk else. my throat is parched--you can hear for yourself that it is as dry as a raven's. i must have drink, and it mustn't be milk-wine. i am not quite a fool, master. if that horrible shadow were never to appear to me again, i would show those who have been hard on me a trick or two that would astonish them. if you've a spark of compassion in you, master, give a poor wretch a glass of brandy." the advocate considered a moment, and then unlocked a small cupboard, from which he took a bottle of brandy. he filled a glass, and gave it to gautran. "here's confusion to our enemies," said gautran. "ah, this is fine! i have never tasted such before. it puts life into a man." "what makes you drink to _our_ enemies, gautran?" asked the advocate. "why, master, are not my enemies yours, and yours mine? we row in the same boat. if they found us out, it would be as bad for you as it would be for me. worse, master, worse, for you have much to lose; i have nothing. you see, master, i have been thinking over things since we met in the lane yonder." "you are bold and impudent. what if i were to summon my servants and have you marched off to gaol?" "what would you accuse me of? i have not stolen anything; you may search me if you like. no, no, master, i will take nothing from you. what you give i shall be grateful for; but rob you? no--you are mistaken in me. i owe you too much already. i am bound to you for life." "you do not seem afraid of the gaol, gautran." "not when you threaten me with it, master, for you are jesting with me. it is not worth your while; i am a poor creature to make sport of." "yet i am dangerously near handing you over to justice." "for what, master, for what? for coming into your room, and not finding you there, throwing myself in a corner like a dog?" "it is sufficient--and you have stolen my wine. these are crimes which the law is ready to punish, especially in men with evil reputations." "you are right, i've no doubt; you know more about the law than i do. i don't intend to dispute with you, master. but when they got hold of me they would question me, and my tongue would be loosened against my will. i say again, you are jesting with me. how warm and comfortable it is in this grand room, and how miserable outside! ah, why wasn't i born rich? it was a most unfortunate accident." "your tongue would be loosened against your will! what could you say?" "what everybody suspects, but could not prove, master, thanks to you. they owe me a grudge in the prison yonder--lawyers and judges and gaolers--and nothing would please them better than to hear what i could tell them--that i killed the girl, and that you knew i killed her. you don't look pleased, master. you drove me to say it." "you slanderous villain!" "i don't mind what you call me, master. i can bear anything from you. i am your slave, and there is nothing you could set me to do that i am not ready to perform. i mean it, master. try me--only try me! think of something fearful, something it would take a bold, desperate man to do, and see if i shrink from it. the gaoler was right when he said i was a lucky dog to get such an advocate as you to defend me. you knew the truth--you knew i did the deed--you knew no one else could save me--and you wanted to show them how clever you were, and what a fool any lawyer was to think he could stand against you. and you did it, master, you did it. how mad they must be with you! i wonder how much they would give to cry quits! and you've done even more than that, master. the spirit which has been with me night and day, in prison and out of prison, lying by me in bed, standing by my side in the court--you saw it there, master--dogging me through the streets and lanes, hiding behind trees and gliding upon me when i thought i had escaped it--it is gone, master, it is gone! it will not come where you are. it is afraid of you. i don't care whether it is a holy or an unholy power you possess, i am your slave, and you can do with me as you will. but you must not send me to prison again--no, you must not do that! why, master, simple as i am, and ignorant of the law, i feel that you are joking with me, when you threaten to summon your servants to march me off to gaol for coming into your house. i should say to them, 'you are a pack of fools. don't you see he is jesting with you? here have we been talking together for half an hour, and he has given me his best brandy as a mark of friendship. there is the bottle--feel the rim of it, and you will find it wet. look at the glass, if you don't believe me. smell it--smell my breath.' why, then they would ask you again if you were in earnest, and you would have to send them away. master, i was never taught to read or write, and there is very little i know--but i know well that there is a time to do a thing and a time not to do it, and that unless a thing is done at the proper time, there is no use afterwards attempting it. i will tell you something, though i dare say i might save myself the trouble, for you can read what is in me. if madeline, when she ran from me along the river's bank, had escaped me, it is likely she would be alive at this moment, for the fiend that spurred me on to kill her might never again have been so strong within me, might never again have had such power over me as he had that night. but he was too strong for me, and that was the time to do the deed, and she had to die. do you think i don't pity her? i do, when she is not tormenting me. but when she follows me, as she has done to-night, when she stands looking at me with eyes in which there is fire, but no light, i feel that i could kill her over again if i dared, and if i could get a good grip of her. are all spirits silent? have they no voice to speak? it is terrible, terrible! i must buy masses for her soul, and then, perhaps, she will rest in peace. master, give me another glass of that rare brandy of yours. talking is dry work." "you'll get no more till you leave me." "i am to leave you, then?" "when i have done with you--when our conversation is at an end." "i must obey you, master. you could crush me if you liked." "i could kill you if i liked," said the advocate, in a voice so cold and determined that gautran shuddered. "you could, master--i know it well enough. not with your hands; i am your match there. few men can equal me in strength. but you would not trust to that; you are too wise. you would scorch and wither me with a lightning touch. i should be a fool to doubt it. if you will not give me brandy, give me a biscuit or some bread and meat. since noon i have had nothing to eat but a few apples, to which i helped myself. the gaolers robbed me of my dinner in the middle of the day, and put before me only a slice of dry bread. i would cut off two of my fingers to be even with them." in the cupboard which contained the brandy and other liquors was a silver basket containing biscuits, which the advocate brought forward and placed before gautran, who ate them greedily and filled his pockets with them. during the silence the advocate's mind was busy with gautran's words. ignorant as the man was, and confessed himself to be, there was an undisputable logic in the position he assumed. shrink from it as he might, the advocate could not avoid confessing that between this man, who was little better than an animal, and himself, who had risen so high above his fellows--that in these extremes of intellectual degradation and superiority--existed a strange and, in its suggestiveness, an awful, equality. and what afforded him food for serious reflection, from an abstract point of view, was that, though they travelled upon roads so widely apart, they both arrived at the same goal. this was proved by gautran's reasoning upon the advocate's threat to put him in prison for breaking into the house of white shadows. "sound logic," thought the advocate, "learnt in a school in which the common laws of nature are the teachers. a decided kinship exists between this murderer and myself. am i, then, as low as he, and do the best of us, in our pride of winning the crown, indulge in self-delusions at which a child might feel ashamed? or is it that, strive as he may, the most earnest man cannot lift himself above the grovelling motives which set in motion every action of a human life?" "now, master," said gautran, having finished munching. "now, gautran," said the advocate, "why do you come to me?" "i belong to you," replied gautran. "you gave me my life and my liberty. you had some meaning in it. i don't ask you what it is, for you will tell me only what you choose to tell me. i am yours, master, body and soul." "and soul?" questioned the advocate ironically. "so long," said gautran, crossing himself, "as you do not ask me to do anything to imperil my salvation." "is it not already imperilled? murderer!" "i have done nothing that i cannot buy off with masses. ask the priests. if i could not get money any other way, to save myself i would rob a church." "admirable!" exclaimed the advocate. "you interest me, gautran. how did you obtain admission into the grounds?" "over the wall at the back. it is a mercy i did not break my bones." "and into this room--how did you enter?" "through the window." "knowing it was my room?" "yes, master." "how did you gain that knowledge?" "i was told--and told, as well, that you lived in this house." "by whom were you told?" "as i ran from madeline--she has left me forever, i hope--i came upon a man who, for some purpose of his own, was lingering on a hill a little distance from here. i sought company, and was glad of his. i made up my mind to pass my night near something human, and did not intend to leave him. but when he said that yonder was the house in which the great advocate lived, and when he pointed out your study window, i gave him the slip, knowing i could do better than remain with him. that is the truth, master." "are you acquainted with this man?" "no, i never saw him before; i saw but little of him as it was, the night was so dark; but i know voices when i hear them. his voice was strange to me." "how happened it, then, that you conversed about me?" "i can't remember exactly how it came about. he gave me some brandy out of a flask--not such liquor as yours, master, but i was thankful for it--and i asked him if he had ever been followed by the spirit of a dead woman. he questioned me about this woman, asking if she was fair and beautiful, whether she had met her death in the rhone, whether her name was madeline. yes, he called her up before me and i was spellbound. when i came to my proper senses he was talking to himself about a great advocate in the house he was staring at, and i said there was only one great advocate--you who set me free--and i asked him if you lived in the house. he said yes, and that the lights i saw were the lights in your study windows. upon that i left him, suddenly and secretly, and made my way here." "was the man watching this house?" "it had the look of it. he is no friend of yours, that i can tell you. when he spoke of you it was with the voice of a man who could make you wince if he pleased. you have served him some trick, and he wants to be revenged, i suppose. but you can take care of yourself, master." "that will do. leave me and leave this house, and as you value your life, enter it no more." "then, you will see me elsewhere. where, master, and when?" "i will see you in no place and at no time. i understand the meaning of looks, gautran, and there is a threat in your eyes. beware! i have means to punish you. you have escaped the penalty of your crime, but there is no safety for you here. you do not wish to die; the guilt of blood is on your soul, and you are afraid of death. well may you be afraid of it. such terrors await you in the life beyond as you cannot dream of. live, then, and repent; or die, and be eternally lost! dare to intrude yourself upon me, and death will be your portion, and you will go straight to your punishment. here, and at this moment only, you have the choice of either fate. choose, and swiftly." the cold, stern, impressive voice, the commanding figure, had their effect upon gautran. he shook with fear; he was thoroughly subdued. "if i am not safe here, master, where shall i find safety?" "in a distant part of the country where you are not known." "how am i to get there? i have no money." "i will give you sufficient for flight and subsistence. here are five gold pieces. now, go, and let me never see your murderous face again." "master," said gautran humbly, as he turned the money over in his hand and counted it. "i must have more--not for myself, but to pay for masses for the repose of madeline's soul. then i may hope for forgiveness--then she will leave me in peace!" the advocate emptied his purse into gautran's open palm, saying, "let no man see you. depart as secretly as you came." but gautran lingered still. "you promised me some more brandy, master." the advocate filled the glass, and gautran, with fierce eagerness, drank the brandy. "you will not give me another glass, master?" "no, murderer. i have spoken my last word to you." gautran spoke no more, but with head sunk upon his breast, left the room and the house. "a vulgar expedient," mused the advocate, when he was alone, "but the only one likely to prove effective with such a monster. it is perhaps best that it has happened. this man watching upon the hill is none other than john vanbrugh. i had almost forgotten him. he does not come in friendship. let him watch and wait. i will not see him." chapter xvi pierre lamont seeks the hospitality of the house of white shadows. the following day pierre lamont did not leave his bed, and was visited in his room by the advocate and christian almer. to the advocate he said: "i trust i shall not incommode you, for i am compelled to throw myself upon your hospitality." "get well, then," said the advocate, "and enjoy it--which you cannot do, thus confined." "i do not know--i do not know," said the old lawyer, gazing at the advocate, and wondering how it was possible that this profound thinker and observer could be blind to the drama which was being acted at his very door, "one can still follow the world. have you read the papers this morning?" "no--i have not troubled myself to look at them." "here is one that will interest you. what is called the freedom of the press is growing into a scandal. editors and critics abuse their charter, and need some wholesome check. but you are not likely to be moved by what they say." he handed a newspaper to the advocate, who walked to the window and read the editorial comments upon the trial and the part he had played in it. "the trial of gautran is over, and the monster whom all believe to be guilty of a foul murder is set free. the victim, unavenged, is in her grave, and a heavy responsibility lies not only upon the city, but upon the nation. neither for good nor ill can the words we write affect the future of gautran. released, by the law, he is universally condemned. justice is not satisfied. in all switzerland there is but one man who in his soul believes the degraded wretch to be innocent, and that this man should be right and all others wrong we refuse to believe. never in a cause so weighty have we felt it our duty to raise our voice against a verdict reluctantly wrung from the citizens whose lot it was to judge a human being accused--and we insist, righteously accused--of a horrible crime. the verdict cannot be disturbed. gautran is free! there is a frightful significance in these words--gautran is free! "removed from the feverish excitement of the court in which the trial took place, the report of the proceedings reads more like a stage drama than an episode of real life. all the elements which led to the shameful result are eminently dramatic, and were, without doubt, planned by the great advocate who defended the accused with an eye to dramatic effect. it would scarcely surprise us were the climax now reached to be followed by an anti-climax in which gautran's champion of yesterday would become his accuser of to-day. our courts of justice are becoming accustomed to this kind of theatrical display. consider the profound sensation which would be produced by the great lawyer coming forward and saying, 'yesterday, after a long and exciting struggle, i proved to you that gautran was innocent, and by my efforts he was let loose upon society. to-day i propose to prove to you that he is guilty, and i ask you to mete out to him his just punishment.' a dangerous temptation, indeed, to one who studies effect. but there is a safeguard against such a course. it would so blacken the fame of any man who adopted it, however high that man might stand in the estimation of his peers and the people, that he could never hope to rise from the depths of shame into which his own act had plunged him. "many persons who believe that way will doubtless argue that there is something providential in the history of this ruthless murder of an unfortunate innocent being. she is slain. not a soul comes forward to claim kinship with her. none the less is she a child of god. human reason leads to the arrest and imprisonment of gautran. providence brings upon the scene a great lawyer, who, unsolicited, undertakes the defence of a monster, association with whom is defilement. the wretch is set free, and justice stands appalled at what has been done in the name of the law. but this is not the end. providence may have something yet in store which will bring punishment to the guilty and unravel this tangled skein. what, then, will the great advocate have to say who deliberately and voluntarily brought about a miscarriage of justice so flagrant as to cause every honest heart to thrill with indignation?" the advocate did not read any further, but laid the paper aside and said: "men who take part in public matters are open to attacks of this kind. there is nothing to complain of." "and yet," thought pierre lamont, when the advocate left him, "there was in his face, as he read the article, an expression denoting that he was moved. well,--well--men are but human, even the greatest." later in the day he was visited by christian almer, to whom he repeated his apologies. "i have one of my bad attacks on me. they frequently last for days. at such times it is dangerous for me to be moved about." "then do not be moved about," said almer, with a smile. but despite this smile. almer was inwardly disquieted. he had not been aware on the previous night that pierre lamont occupied the next room to his. after the departure of the advocate, adelaide had not been careful; her voice had been frequently raised, and almer was anxious to ascertain whether it had reached the old lawyer's ears. "you slept well, i hope," he said. "yes, until the early morning, a little after sunrise. i am a very deep sleeper for four or five hours. the moment i close my eyes sleep claims me, and holds me so securely that, were the house on fire, it would be difficult to arouse me. but the moment the sunshine peeps into my room, my rest is at an end. when i had the use of my limbs i was an early riser." almer's mind was relieved. "sleeping in a strange bed is often not conducive to repose." "i have slept in so many strange beds." and pierre lamont thought as he spoke: "but never in a stranger bed than this." "you can still find occupation," said almer, pointing to the books on table and bed. "ah, books, books, books!" said pierre lamont. "what would the world do without them? how did it ever do without them? but i am old, and i am talking to a young man." "my father was a bookworm and a student," said almer. "were he alive, he would be disappointed that i do not tread in his footsteps." "perhaps not. he was a wise man, with a comprehensive mind. it would not do for us all to be monks." chapter xvii fritz the fool relates a strange dream to pierre lamont half-a-dozen times in the course of the day pierre lamont had sent in search of fritz the fool, and it was not till the afternoon that fritz made his appearance. "you should have come earlier, fool," said pierre lamont with a frown. "i was better engaged," said fritz coolly. "you fired me with those love-verses last night, and i have been studying what to say to my peach." "the pretty dionetta! rehearse, then; i am dull." "ah, i have much to tell you. i am thinking of saying to the peach, 'dionetta, place your hand in mine, and we will both serve pierre lamont. he will give us a home; he will pay us liberally; and when he dies he will not leave us unprovided for.'" "and if the peach should laugh in your face?" "i would reason with it. i would say, 'look you now; you cannot be always ripe, you cannot be always mellow and luscious. do not waste the precious sunshine of life, but give yourself to a clever fool, who cares quite as much for your fair face and beautiful skin as he does for the diamond baubles in your ears.'" "diamond earrings, fritz! are you dreaming?" "not at this moment--though i had a dream last night after i left you which i may tell you if i don't repent of it before i disclose it. yes, master lamont, diamond earrings--as i'm a living fool, diamonds of value. see, master lamont, i don't want this peach to be gathered yet. it is well placed, it is in favour; it is making itself in some way useful, not to finer, but to richer fruit. heaven only knows what may be rained upon it when the very first summer shower brings a diamond finger-ring, and the second a pair of diamond earrings. a diamond brooch, perhaps; money for certain, if it will take a fool's advice. and of course it will do that if, seeing that the fool is a proper fool, the peach says kindly, 'i am yours.' that is the way of it, is it not, master lamont?" "i am waiting to hear more, fritz," said pierre lamont, with a full enjoyment of fritz's loquacity. "behind the summer-house, master lamont, lies a lovely lake, clear as crystal in parts where it is not covered with fairy lilies. i am as good as a pair of eyes to you to tell you of these beauties. the water is white and shining and at one part there is a mass of willows bending over; then there is a break, clear of the shadow of branch and leaf; then there is another mass of willows. from a distance you would think that there was no break in the foliage; you have to go close to it to make the discovery, and once you are there you are completely hidden from sight. not more than two hours ago i was passing this spot at the back of the willows, when i heard a voice--a girl's voice, master lamont--saying quite softly, 'oh, how lovely! how beautiful--how beautiful!' it was dionetta's voice; i should know it among a thousand. through the willows i crept with the foot of a cat till i came to the break, and there was dionetta herself, bending over the water, and sighing, 'oh, how lovely! how beautiful!' she could not see me, for her back was towards me, and i took care she did not hear me. she was shaking her pretty head over the water, and i shouldn't deserve to be called a fool if i had not felt curious to see what it was in the lake that was so lovely and beautiful. perhaps it was her own face she was admiring. well, she had a perfect right, and i was ready to join in the chorus. i crept up to her as still as a mouse, and looked over her shoulder. she gave a great scream when she saw my face in the lake, and i caught hold of her to prevent her from falling in. then i saw what almost took away my breath. in her ears there flashed a pair of diamond earrings, the like of which i never in my life beheld in our village. her face got as red as a sunset as i gazed at her. 'how you frightened me, fritz!' she said. i set the earrings swinging with my fingers and said, 'where did you get these wonderful things from?' she answered me pat. 'my lady gave them to me.' 'they are yours, then?' i asked. 'yes, fritz,' she said, 'they are mine, and i came here to see how i look in them. they are so grand that i am ashamed to put them on unless i am alone. don't tell anybody, will you, fritz? if grandmother knew i had them, she would take them from me. she would never, never let me wear them. don't tell anybody.' why, of course i said i would not, and then i asked why my lady gave them to her, and she said it was because my lady loved her. so, so! thought i, as i left my peach--i would like to have given her just one kiss, but i did not dare to try--so, so! my lady gives her maid a pair of diamond earrings that are as suitable to her as a crown of gold to an ass's head. there is something more than common between lady and maid. what is it, master lamont, what is it?" "a secret, fool, which, if you get your peach to tell, will be worth much to you. and as you and i are going to keep our own counsel, learn from me that this secret has but one of two kernels. love or jealousy. set your wits at work, fritz, set your wits at work, and keep your eyes open. i may help you to your peach, fool. and now about that dream of yours. were you asleep or awake at the time?" fritz stepped cautiously to the door, opened it, looked along the passage, closed the door, and came close to the bedside. "master lamont," he said, "what i dreamt is something so strange that it will take a great deal of thinking over. do you know why i tell you things?" "i might guess wrong, fritz. save me the trouble." "you have never been but one way with me; you have never given me a hard word; you have never given me a blow. when i was a boy--twenty years ago and more, master lamont--you were the only man who spoke kind words to me, who used to pat my head and pity me. for, if you remember, master lamont, i was nothing but a castaway, living on charity, and everybody but you made me feel it. cuffed by this one and that one, kicked, and laughed at--but never by you. even a fool can bear these things in mind." "well, well, fritz, go on with your dream. you are making me hungry." "it came nearly two hours after midnight. at that time i was in the grounds. all was dark. there was nobody about but me, until the advocate came. then i slipped aside and watched him. he walked up and down, like a machine. it was not as if a man was walking, but a figure of steel. it was enough to drive me crazy, it was so like clockwork. twice he almost discovered me. he looked about him, he searched the grounds, still with the same measured step, he called aloud, and asked if anybody was near. then he went into the house and into the study. i knew he was there by the shifting of the lights in the room. being alone with the shadows, your love-verses came into my mind, and you may believe me, master lament, i made my way to the window of the room in which dionetta sleeps, and stood there looking up at it. i should have been right down ashamed of myself if i hadn't been dreaming. is it the way of lovers, master lamont? 'faster than bees to flowers they wing their way;' that is how the line runs, is it not? well, there stood i, a bee, dreaming in the dark night, before the window of my flower. an invisible flower, unfortunately. but thoughts are free; you can't put chains on them. so there stood i, for how many minutes i cannot say, imagining my flower. now, if i had known that her pretty head was lying on the pillow, with great diamond earrings in her ears--for that is a certainty--i might not perhaps have been able to tear myself away. luckily for my dream, that knowledge had still to come to me, so i wandered off, and found myself once more staring at the lights in the advocate's study windows. now, what made me step quite close to them, and put my eye to a pane which the curtains did not quite cover? i could see clear into the room. imagine my surprise, master lamont, when i discovered that the advocate was not alone! master lamont, you know every man in the village, but i would give you a thousand guesses, and you would not hit upon the name of the advocate's friend. from where i stood i could not hear a word that was said, but i saw everything. i saw the advocate go to a cupboard, and give this man liquor; he poured it out for him himself. then they talked--then the advocate brought forward a silver basket of biscuits, and the man ate some, and stuffed some into his pockets. they were on the very best of terms with each other. the advocate gave his friend some money--pieces of gold, master lamont; i saw them glitter. the man counted them, and by his action, asked for more; and more was given; the advocate emptied his purse into the man's hand. then, after further conversation, the man turned to leave the room. it was time for me to scuttle from my peep-hole. presently the man was in the grounds stepping almost as softly as i stepped after him. for i was not going to lose him, master lamont; my curiosity was whetted to that degree that it would have taken a great deal to prevent me from following this friend of the advocate's. 'how will he get out?' thought i; 'the gates are locked; he will hardly venture to scale them.' two or three times he stopped, and looked behind him; he did not see me. he arrived at the wall which stretches at the back; he climbed the wall; so did i, in another and an easier part; he dropped down with a thud and a groan; i let myself to the ground without disturbing a leaf. presently he picked himself up and walked off, with more haste than before. i followed him. he stopped; i stopped; he walked on again, and so did i. again he stopped and cried aloud: 'i hear you follow me! is not one killing enough for you?' and then he gave a scream so awful that the hair rose on my head. 'she is here!' he screamed; 'she is here, and is driving me to madness!' with that he took to his heels and tore through field and forest really like a madman. i could not keep up with him, and after an hour's running i completely lost sight of him. there was nothing for me to do but to get back to the villa. i returned the way i came--i had plenty to think about on the road--and i was once more before the windows of the advocate's study. the lights were still there. the advocate, i believe, can live without sleep. i peeped through the window, and there he was, sitting at his table reading, with an expression of power in his face which might well make any man tremble who dared to oppose him. that is the end of my dream, master lamont." "but the man, fritz, the man!" exclaimed pierre, lamont. "i am still in ignorance as to who this strange, nocturnal visitor can be." "there lies the pith of my dream. if i were to tell you that this man who makes his way secretly into the grounds in the darkness of the night--who is closeted with the advocate for an hour at least--who is treated to wine and cake--who is presented with money, and grumblingly asks for more, and gets it--if i were to tell you that this man is gautran, who was tried for the murder of madeline, the flower-girl, and who was set free by the advocate--what would you say, master lamont?" "i should say," replied pierre lamont with some difficulty controlling his excitement, "that you were mad, fool fritz." "nevertheless," said fritz with great composure, "it is so. i have related my dream as it occurred. the man was gautran and no other. can you explain that to me in one word?" "no," said pierre lamont, gazing sharply at fritz. "you are not fooling me, fritz?" "if it were my last word it would make no difference. i have told you the truth." "you know gautran's face well?" "i was in the court every day of the trial, and there is no chance of my being mistaken. see here, master lamont. i can do many things that would surprise people. i can draw faces. give me a pencil and some paper." with a few rapid strokes he produced the very image of pierre lamont, sitting up in bed, with thin, cadaverous face, with high forehead and large nose; even the glitter of the old lawyer's eyes was depicted. pierre lamont examined the portrait with admiration. "i am proud of you, fritz," he said; "you have the true artist's touch." fritz was busy with the pencil again. "who may this be?" he asked, holding another sketch before pierre lamont. "the advocate. to the life, fritz, to the life." "this is also to the life," said fritz, producing a third portrait. "this is gautran. it is all i can draw, master lamont--human faces; i could do it when i was a boy. there is murder in gautran's face; there was murder in the words i heard him speak as i followed him: 'is not one killing enough for you?' there is only one meaning to such words. i leave you to puzzle it all out, master lamont. you have a wise head; i am a fool. mother denise may be right, after all, when she said--not knowing i was within hearing--that it was an evil day when my lady, the advocate's wife, set foot in the grounds of the house of white shadows. but it is no business of mine; only i must look after my peach, or it may suddenly be spirited away on a broomstick. unholy work, master lamont, unholy work! what do you say to letting father capel into the mystery?" "not for worlds!" cried pierre lamont. "priests in such matters are the rarest bunglers. no--the secret is ours, yours and mine; you shall be well paid for your share in it. without my permission you will not speak of it--do you hear me, fritz?" "i hear you, and will obey you." "good lad! ah, what would i give if i had the use of my limbs! but you shall be my limbs and my eyes--my second self. help me to dress, fritz--quick, quick!" "master lamont," said fritz with a sly laugh, "be careful of your precious self. you are ill, you know, very, very ill! you must keep your bed. i cannot run the risk of losing so good a master." "i have a dozen years of life in me yet, fool. this dried-up old skin, these withered limbs, this lack of fat, are my protection. if i were a stout, fine man i might go off at any moment. as it is, i may live to a hundred--old enough to see your grandchildren, fritz. but yes, yes, yes--i am indeed very ill and weak! let everybody know it--so weak and ill that it is not possible for me to leave this hospitable house for many, many days. the medicine i require is the fresh air of the gardens. with my own eyes i must see what i can of the comedy that is being played under our very noses. i, also, had dreams last night, fritz, rare dreams! ah--what a comedy, what a comedy! but there are tragic veins in it, fool, which make it all the more human." _book v.--the doom of gautran_. chapter i adelaide strives to propitiate pierre lamont the following night was even darker than the preceding one had been. in the afternoon portents of a coming storm were apparent in the sky. low mutterings of thunder in the distance travelled faintly to the ears of the occupants of the house of white shadows. the advocate's wife shuddered as she heard the sounds. "there are only two things in the world i am afraid of," she said to pierre lamont, "and those are thunder and lightning. when i was a little child a dreadful thing occurred to me. i was playing in a garden when a storm came on. i was all alone, and it was some distance to the house. the storm broke so suddenly that i had not time to reach shelter without getting myself drenched. i dare say, though, i should have run through it had i not been frightened by the flashes of lightning that seemed to want to cut me in two. i flew behind a tree, and stood there trembling. every time a flash came i shut my eyes tight and screamed. but the storm did not allow my cries to be heard. you can imagine the state i was in. it would not have mattered, except for the wetting, had i kept my eyes closed, but like a little fool, i opened them once, and just at that moment a flash seemed to strike the tree behind which i stood. i can almost hear the shriek i gave, as i fell and fainted dead away. there, lying on the wet grass, i was found. a dreadful looking object i must have been! they carried me into the house, and when i was conscious of what was passing around me, i asked why they did not light the gas. the fact is i was quite blind, and remained so for several days. was it not shocking? i shall never, never forget my fright. can you imagine anything more dreadful than being struck blind? to be born blind cannot be half as bad, for one does not know what one loses--never having seen the flowers, and the fields, and the beautiful skies. but to enjoy them, and then to lose them! it is altogether too horrible to think of." she was very gracious to the old lawyer during the afternoon. "do you know," she said, "i can't quite make up my mind whether to be fond or frightened of you." "be fond of me," said pierre lamont, with a queer look. "i shall see how you behave. i am afraid you are very clever. i don't like clever people, they are so suspicious, pretending to know everything always." "i am very simple," said pierre lamont, laughing inwardly. he knew that she wanted to propitiate him; "and beauty can lead me by a silken thread." "is that another of your compliments? i declare, you speak as if you were a young man." she did, indeed, desire to win pierre lamont entirely to her, and she would have endured much to make him her friend instead of her enemy. christian almer had told her that the old lawyer had slept in the next room to his, and she had set herself the task of sounding the old fellow to ascertain whether his suspicions were aroused, and whether she had anything to fear from him. she could not help saying to herself what a fool mother denise--who looked after the household arrangements--was to put him so close to christian. "i do believe," thought adelaide, "that she did it to spite me." her mind, however, was quite at ease after chatting with the old lawyer. "i am so glad we are friends," she said to him; "it is altogether so much nicer." pierre lamont looked reproachfully at her, and asked how she could ever have supposed he was anything but her most devoted admirer. "lawyers are so fond of mischief," she replied, "that if it does not come to them ready-made they manufacture it for themselves." "i am no longer a lawyer," he said; "if i were twenty years younger i should call myself a lover." "if you were twenty years younger," she rejoined gaily, "i should not sit and listen to your nonsense." being called from his side she turned and gave him an arch look. "all that only makes the case stronger, my lady," he said inwardly. "you cannot deceive me with your wiles." chapter ii gautran seeks john vanbrugh during the chief part of the day gautran concealed himself in the woods. twice had he ventured to present himself to his fellow--creatures. he was hungry, and in sore need of food, and he went to a wayside inn, and called for cold meat and bread and brandy. "can you pay for it?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously. gautran threw down a gold piece. the innkeeper took it, bit it, turned it over and over, rang it on the wooden table, and then set the food before gautran. the murderer ate ravenously; it was the first sufficient meal he had eaten for days. the innkeeper gave him his change, and he ordered more meat and brandy, and paid for them. while he was disposing of this, two men came up, eyed him, and passed into the inn; gautran was eating at a little table in the open air. presently the innkeeper came out and looked at him; then the innkeeper's wife did the same; then other men and women came and cast wrathful glances upon him. at first he was not conscious that he was being thus observed, he was so ravenously engaged; but his hunger being appeased, he raised his head, and saw seven or eight persons standing at a little distance from him, and all with their eyes fixed upon his face. "what are you staring at?" he cried. "did you never see a hungry man eat before?" they did not answer him, but stood whispering among themselves. the idea occurred to gautran to take away with him a supply of food, and he called to the innkeeper to bring it to him. instead of doing so, the innkeeper removed the plates and glasses in which the meal had been served. having done this, he joined the group, and stood apart from gautran, without addressing a word to him. "do you hear me?" shouted gautran. "are you deaf and dumb?" "neither deaf nor dumb," replied the innkeeper; "we hear you plain enough." "bring me the bread and meat, then," he said. "not another morsel," said the innkeeper. "be off with you." "when i get the food." "you will get none here--nor would you have had bite or sup if i had known." "known what?" demanded gautran fiercely. "is not my money as good as another man's?" "no." "why?" "because there is blood upon it." if this did not convince him that his name was known and execrated, what next transpired would have enlightened him. the innkeeper's wife came out with a glass and two plates in her hands. "are these the things," she asked of her husband, "the monster has been eating out of?" "yes," replied the innkeeper. she dashed them to the ground and shivered them to pieces, and the onlookers applauded the act. "why do you do that, mistress?" cried gautran. "so that honest men shall not be poisoned," was the answer, "by eating out of a murderer's dish or putting their lips to a murderer's glass." and the onlookers again applauded her, and kicked away the pieces. gautran glared at the men and women, and asked: "who do you take me for?" "for gautran. there is but one such monster. if you do not know your own face, look upon it there." she pointed to the window, and there he beheld his own portrait, cut out of an illustrated newspaper, and beneath it his name--"gautran," to which had been added, in writing, the words, "the murderer of madeline, the flower-girl." he could not read the inscription, but he correctly divined its nature. the moment before he saw his portrait, it had entered his mind to deny himself; he recognised now how futile the attempt would be. "what if i am gautran?" he exclaimed. "do you think the law would set me free if i was guilty?" to which the innkeeper's wife replied: "you have escaped by a quibble. you are a murderer, and you know yourself to be one." "mistress," he said, "if i had you alone i would make you smart." "how does that sound, men?" cried the innkeeper's wife with excited gestures. "is it the speech of an innocent man? he would like to get me alone. yes, he got one poor girl alone, and we know what became of her. the coward! the murderer! hunt him away, neighbours. it is a disgrace to look upon him." they advanced towards gautran threateningly, and he drew his knife and snapped it open. "who will be the first?" he asked savagely, and seeing that they held together, he retreated backwards, with his face to them, until a turn in the road hid them from his sight. then he fled into the woods, and with wild cries slashed the trees with his knife, which he had sharpened in the early morning. on the second occasion he presented himself at a cottage door, with the intention of begging or buying some food. he knocked at the door, and not receiving an answer, lifted the latch. in the room were two children--a baby in a cradle, and a five-year-old boy sitting on the floor, playing with a little wooden soldier. looking up, and seeing the features of the ruffian, the boy scrambled to his feet, and rushing past gautran, ran screaming down the road. enraged almost to madness, gautran ran after the child, and catching him, tossed him in the air, shouting: "what! you, too, brat? this for your pains!" and standing over the child, was about to stamp upon him, when he found himself seized by the throat. it was the father, who, hearing the child's screams, came up just in time to save him. then ensued a desperate struggle, and gautran, despite his boast to the advocate, found that he had met more than his match. he was beaten to the ground, lifted, and thrown into the air, as he had thrown the child. he rose, bruised and bleeding, and was slinking off, when the man cried: "holy mother! it is the murderer, gautran!" some labourers who were coming across the fields, were attracted by the scuffle, and the father called out to them: "here is gautran the murderer, and he has tried to murder my child!" this was enough for them. they were armed with reaping-hooks, and they raced towards gautran with loud threats. they chased him for full a mile, but he was fleeter of foot than they, and despair gave him strength. he escaped them, and sank, panting, to the ground. the advocate had spoken truly. there was no safety for him. he was known for miles round, and the people were eager for vengeance. he would hide in the woods for the rest of the day. there was but one means of escape for him. he must seek some distant spot, where he and his crime were unknown. but to get there he would be compelled to pass through villages in which he would be recognised. it was necessary that he should disguise himself. in what way could this be done? he pondered upon it for hours. in the afternoon he heard the muttering of the thunder in the distant mountains. "there's a storm coming," he said, and he raised his burning face to meet the welcome rain. but only a few heavy drops fell, and the wind moaned through the woods as if in pain. night stole upon him swiftly, and wrapt him in horrible darkness. he bit his lips, he clenched his hands, his body shook with fear. solitude was worse than death to him. he tried to sleep; in vain. terrible images crowded upon him. company he must have, at all hazards. suddenly he thought of john vanbrugh, the man he had met the night before on the hill not far from the advocate's house. this man had not avoided him. he would seek him again, and, if he found him, would pass the night with him. so resolving, he walked with feverish steps towards the hill on which john vanbrugh was keeping watch. chapter iii gautran resolves on a plan of escape the distance was longer than gautran had calculated, and he did not shorten it by the devious tracks he took in his anxiety to avoid meeting with his enemies. the rainstorm still kept off, but, in spite of the occasional flashes of lightning, the darkness seemed to grow thicker and thicker, and he frequently missed his way. he kept on doggedly, however, and although the shadow of his crime waited upon his steps, and made itself felt in the sighing and moaning of the wind, in the bending of every branch, and in the fluttering of every leaf, the craving for human companionship in which there was something of sympathy, and from which he would not be hunted like a dog, imbued him with courage to fight these terrors. often, indeed, did he pause and threaten with fearful words the spectre of the girl he had murdered; and sometimes he implored her to leave him, and told her he was going to pay for masses for the repose of her soul. occasionally he was compelled to take the high road, and then he was grateful for the darkness, for it prevented his face from being seen. at those times he slunk close to the hedges, as though dreading that the slightest contact with a human being would lead to discovery. terrible as the night was to him, he feared the approach of day, when it would be more difficult to conceal himself from his pursuers. he knew that his life was not safe while he remained in this fatal neighbourhood. he _must_ escape, and in disguise, before he was many hours older. how was this to be accomplished? once, in the roadway, he followed with stealthy steps two men who were conversing. he would have avoided them, as he had avoided others, had it not been that he heard his name mentioned, and was morbidly curious to hear what they were saying about him. said one: "i have not set eyes upon this man-monster, but i shall know him if i meet him in the light." to which the other replied: "how will you manage that, if you have never seen his face?" "you ask a foolish question. have not full descriptions of the murderer been put about everywhere? his features, the colour of his hair, his clothes, from his cap to his boots--all is known. his face he might disguise by a slash of his knife, if he has courage enough for it, or he might stain it--and in that way, too, he might change the colour of his hair. but his clothes would remain. the shirt he wears is one in a thousand, and there's no mistaking it. it is blue, with broad yellow bands, which encircle his villainous body like rings. let him get another shirt if he can. the country is aroused for twenty miles round, and men are resolved to take justice into their own hands. the law has allowed him to slip through its fingers; he shall not slip through ours. why, he said to a woman this morning that he would know how to serve her if he had her alone, and not long afterwards he tried to murder a child! shall such a monster be allowed to remain at liberty to strike women down and murder the helpless? no--we don't intend to let him escape. men are on the watch for him everywhere, and when he is caught he will be beaten to death, or hung upon the nearest tree. there is another end for him, if he chooses to take it. he can hide in the woods and starve, and when his body is found, we'll drive a stake through it. take my word for it, gautran, the murderer, has not long to live." gautran shook with fear and rage. "i could spring upon them with my knife," he thought, "but they are two to one." and then, when the men were out of hearing, he shook his fist at them, and muttered: "curse you! i will cheat you yet!" but how? the description given of his shirt was a faithful one; the broad yellow bands were there, and he remembered that, two days before the end of his trial, the gaolers had taken it from his cell in the night, and returned it to him in the morning, washed, with the yellow colour brighter than it had been for months. he knew now that this had been done out of malice, in case he should be acquitted, so that he might be the more readily recognised and shunned, or the more easily tracked and caught if he was again wanted. there loomed upon him a way to foil those who had vowed to kill him. the man he was seeking had spoken in a reckless manner; he had complained of the world, and was doubtless in want of money. he had gold which the advocate had given him; he would offer to buy the man's clothes, and would give him his own, and one, two, or even three gold pieces in exchange; an easy thing to accomplish. but if the man would not consent to the bargain! he smiled savagely, and felt the edge of his knife. he was thoroughly desperate. he would sacrifice a thousand lives to save his own. out of this murderous alternative--and out of the words uttered by the man he had overheard, "his face he might disguise by a slash of his knife if he has courage for it"--grew ideas which, as he plodded on gradually arranged themselves into a scheme which would ensure him an almost sure escape from those who had leagued themselves against him. its entire success depended upon certain physical attributes in john vanbrugh--but he would risk it even if these were not as he wished them to be. the plan was horrible in its design, and needed strength and cunning. he had both, and would use them without mercy, to ensure his safety. john vanbrugh, with whose name he was not acquainted, was probably a stranger in the locality; something in vanbrugh's speech caused him to suspect this. he would assure himself first of the fact, and then the rest was easy. vanbrugh was about his own height and build; he had stood by his side and knew this to be so. gautran should die this night in the person of another man, and should be found in the morning, murdered, with features so battered as to defy recognition. but he would be attired in gautran's clothes, and would by those means be instantly identified. then he, the true gautran, would be forever safe. in john vanbrugh's garments he could make his way to a distant part of the country, and take another name. no one would suspect him, for gautran would be dead; and he would buy masses for the repose of madeline's soul, and so purge himself of blood-guiltiness. as to this second contemplated crime he gave it no thought, except that it was necessary, and must be done. chapter iv heaven's judgment within half an hour of midnight he arrived at the hill, and saw the shadow of a man who was leaning against a tree. gautran had been walking for nearly three hours, and during the whole time the storm of thunder and lightning had continued at intervals, now retreating, now advancing; but its full force had been spent many miles away, and it did not seem likely to approach much nearer to the house of white shadows. "the man is there," muttered gautran, "with his face still towards the advocate's window. what is his purpose?" he was curious about that, too, and thought he would endeavour to ferret it out. it might be useful to him in the future, for it concerned the advocate. there was plenty of time before him to accomplish his own murderous design. john vanbrugh heard gautran's footsteps. "who comes this way?" he cried. "a friend," replied gautran. "that is easily said," cried vanbrugh. "i am not in a trustful mood. hold off a bit, or i may do you mischief." "do you not know me?" asked gautran, approaching closer, and measuring himself with the dark form of vanbrugh. they were of exactly the same height. "what, gautran!" exclaimed vanbrugh in a gay tone. "yes, gautran." "welcome, friend, welcome," said vanbrugh, with a laugh. "give me your hand. veritable flesh and blood. you have a powerful grip, gautran. i thought we should meet again. what caused you to make yourself scarce so suddenly last night? you vanished like a cloud." "i had business to do. have you got any more of that brandy about you?" "i am not sure whether you deserve it. after emptying my flask, you may make off again. a poor return for hospitality, my friend." "i promise to remain with you--it is what i came for--if you give me brandy." "i take your word," said vanbrugh, producing a flask. "drink, but not too greedily." gautran took a long draught and returned the flask, saying, "you have no food, i suppose?" "why, yes, i have. warned by previous experiences i supplied myself liberally for this night's watch. i'll not refuse you, though i spent my last franc on it." "ah," said gautran, with some eagerness, for an amicable exchange of clothing would render the more villainous part of his task easier of accomplishment, "you are poor, then?" "poor? yes, but not for long, gautran. the days of full purses are coming. here is the food. eat, rogue, eat. it is honest bread and meat, bought and paid for; but none the sweeter for that. we know which fruit is the sweetest. so you had business to do when you took french leave of me! how runs the matter? i had just pointed out the advocate's window to you--your own special advocate, my friend, to whom you have so much reason to be grateful--when you disappeared like an arrow from a bow. what follows then? that, leaving me so abruptly, your business was important, and that it concerned the advocate. right or wrong, rogue?" "right," replied gautran, as he devoured the food. "come, that's candid of you, and spoken like a friend. you did not know, before i informed you, that he lived in the villa yonder?" "i did not." "i begin to have hopes of you. and learning it from me, you made up your mind on the spur of the moment--your business being so important--to pay him a friendly visit, despite the strangeness of the hour for a familiar call?" "you've hit it," said gautran. john vanbrugh pondered a while. these direct answers, given without hesitation, puzzled him. he had expected to meet with prevarication, and he was receiving, instead, straightforward confidence. "you are not afraid," he said, "to speak the truth to me, gautran?" "i am not." "but i am a stranger to you." "that's true." "why, then, do you confide in me?" it was gautran's turn now to pause, but he soon replied, with a sinister look which john vanbrugh, in the darkness, could not see: "because, after what passes between us this night, i am sure you will not betray me." "good," said vanbrugh; "then it is plain you sought me deliberately, because you think i can in some way serve you." "yes, because you can in some way serve me--that is why i am here." "then you intend to hide nothing from me?" "nothing--for the reason i have given." a flash of lightning seemed to strike the spot on which he and gautran were conversing, and he waited for the thunder. it came--long, deep, and threatening. "there is a terrible storm somewhere," he said. "it does not matter," rejoined gautran, with a shudder, "so long as a man is not alone. don't mind my coming so close. i have walked many a mile to find you. i have not a friend in the world but you." "not even the advocate?" "not even him. he will see me no more." "he told you that last night?" "yes." "but how did you get to him, gautran? you did not enter by the gates." "no; i dropped over the wall at the back. tell me. it is but fair; i answer you honestly enough. what are you watching his house for? a man does not do as you are doing, on such black nights as this, for idle pastime." "no, indeed, gautran! i also have business with him. and strangely enough, you, whom i met in the flesh for the first time within these last twenty-four hours, are indirectly concerned in it." "am i? strange enough, as you say. but it will not matter after to-night." some hidden meaning in gautran's tone struck warningly upon john vanbrugh, and caused him to bestow a clearer observance upon gautran's movements from this moment. "there is a thing i wish to know, gautran," he said. "between vagabonds like ourselves there is no need for concealment. it is a delicate question, but you have been so frank with me that i will venture to ask it. besides, there are no witnesses, and you will not, therefore, incriminate yourself. this girl, madeline, whose spirit follows you----" vanbrugh hesitated. the question he was about to ask trembled on his lips, and he scarcely knew how to give it shape in words that would not provoke an outbreak on the part of gautran. he had no desire to come into open collision with this ruffian, of whose designs upon himself he was inwardly warned. gautran, with brutal recklessness, assisted him. "you want to know if i killed her?" "why, yes--though you put it roughly." "what matter? well, then, she died at my hands." john vanbrugh recoiled from the murderer in horror, and in a suppressed tone asked: "when the advocate defended you, did he know you were guilty?" "aye. we kept the secret to ourselves. it was cleverly worked, was it not?" "and last night," continued john vanbrugh, "he received you in his study?" "aye--and gave me liquor, and food, and money. listen to it." he rattled the gold pieces in the palms of his hands. "look you. i have answered questions enough. i answer no more for a while. it is my turn now." "proceed, gautran," said vanbrugh; "i may satisfy you or not, according to my whim." "you'll satisfy me, or i'll know the reason why. there is no harm in what i am going to say. you are a stranger in these parts--there is no offence in that, is there?" "none. yes, i am a stranger in these parts. heavens! what a flash! the storm is coming nearer." "all the better. you will hardly believe that i have been bothering myself about the colour of your hair. i hate red-haired men. yours, now. is there any offence in asking the colour of it?" "none. my hair is black." gautran's eyes glittered and a flash of lightning illuminated his face, and revealed to vanbrugh the savage and ruthless look which shone there. "and your height and build, about the same as mine," said gautran. "let us strike a bargain. i have gold--you have none. i have taken a fancy to your clothes; i will buy them of you. two gold pieces in exchange for them, and mine thrown in." "the clothes of a murderer," said vanbrugh, slowly retreating as gautran advanced upon him. "thank you for nothing. not for two hundred gold pieces, poor as i am. keep off. do not come so near to me." "why not? you are no better than i. three gold pieces! that should content you." "you have my answer, gautran. leave me, i have had enough of you." "you will have had more than enough before i have done with you," said gautran, and vanbrugh was satisfied now, from the man's brutal tones, that it was a deadly foe who stood within a few inches of him, "if you do not do as i bid you. say, done and done; you had better. by fair means or foul i mean to have what i want." "not by fair means, you murderous villain. be warned. i am on my guard." "if you will have it, then!" cried gautran, and with a savage shout he threw himself upon vanbrugh. so sudden and fierce was the attack that vanbrugh could not escape from it; but although he was no match for gautran in strength, he had had, in former years, some experience in wrestling which came to his aid now in this terrible crisis. the struggle that ensued was prolonged and deadly, and while the men were locked in each other's arms, the storm broke immediately over their heads. the thunder pealed above them, the lightning played about their forms. "you villain!" gasped vanbrugh, as he felt himself growing weaker. "have you been paid by the advocate to do this deed?" "yes," answered gautran, between his clenched teeth; "he is the fiend's agent, and i am his! he bade me kill you. your last moment has come!" "not yet," cried vanbrugh, and by a supreme and despairing effort he threw gautran clear from him, and stood again on the defensive. simultaneously with the movement a flash of forked lightning struck the tree against which vanbrugh had been leaning when gautran first accosted him, and cleft it in twain; and as gautran was about to spring forward, a huge mass of timber fell upon him with fatal force, and bore him to the earth--where he lay imprisoned, crushed and bleeding to death. chapter v father capel discovers gautran in his peril father capel was wending his way slowly over the hill from the bedside of the sick woman whom he had attended for two nights in succession. on the first night she was in a state of delirium, and father capel could not arouse her to a consciousness of surrounding things. in her delirium she had repeatedly uttered a name which had powerfully interested him. "madeline! madeline! my madeline," she moaned again and again. "is it possible," thought the priest, "that the girl whose name she utters with agonised affection is the poor child who was so ruthlessly murdered?" on this, the second night, the woman whose last minutes on earth were approaching, was conscious, and she made certain disclosures to father capel which, veiled as they were, had grievously disturbed his usually serene mood. she had, also, given him a mission to perform which did not tend to compose his mind. he had promised faithfully to obey her, and they were to meet again within a few hours. to his earnest request that she would pray with him, she had impatiently answered: "there will be time enough after i have seen the man you have promised to bring with you. i shall live till then." so he had knelt by her bedside and had prayed for her and for himself, and for all the erring. his compassionate heart had room for them all. for twenty miles around there was no man better loved than he. his life had been reproachless, and his tender nature never turned from the performance of a good deed, though it entailed suffering and privation upon himself. these were matters not to be considered when duty beckoned to him. a poor man, and one who very often deprived himself of a meal in the cause of charity. a priest in the truest sense of the word. seldom, in the course of a long, merciful, and charitable career, had he met with so much cause to grieve as on the present occasion. in the first place, because it was an added proof to the many he had received that a false step in life, in the taking of which one human being caused another to suffer, was certain to bring at some time or other its own bitter punishment; in the second place, because in this particular instance, the punishment, and the remorse that must surely follow, were as terrible as the mind of man could conceive. his road lay towards the hill upon which the desperate conflict between john vanbrugh and gautran was taking place. there was no occasion for him to cross this hill; by skirting its base he could follow the road he intended to take. but as he approached the spot, the wind bore to him, in moments when the fury of the storm was lulled, cries which sounded in his ears like cries of pain and despair they were faint, and difficult to ascribe to any precise definite cause; they might be the cries of an animal, but even in that case it was more than likely that father capel would have proceeded in their direction. presently, however, he heard a human cry for help; the word was distinct, and it decided his movements. without hesitation he began to climb the hill. as he approached nearer and nearer to the spot on which the struggle was proceeding, there was no longer room to doubt its nature. "holy mother!" murmured the priest, quickening his steps, "will the evil passions of men never be stilled? it seems as if murder were being done here. grant that i am not too late to avert the crime!" then came the terrific lightning-flash, followed immediately by gautran's piercing scream as he was struck down by the tree. "who calls for help?" cried father capel, in a loud voice, but his words were lost in the peals of thunder which shook the earth and made it tremble beneath his feet. when comparative silence reigned, he shouted again: "who calls for help? i am a priest, and tender it." gautran's voice answered him: "here--here! i am crushed and dying!" this appeal was not coherently made, but the groans which accompanied it guided father capel to the spot upon which gautran lay. he felt amid the darkness and shuddered at the touch of blood, and then he clasped gautran's right hand. the tree had fallen across the murderer's legs, and had so crushed them into the earth that he could not move the lower part of his body; his chest and arms were free. a heavy branch had inflicted a terrible gash on his forehead, and it was from this wound that he was bleeding to death. "who are you?" said father capel, kneeling by the dying man, "that lies here in this sad condition? i cannot see you. is this heaven's deed, or man's?" "it is heaven's," gasped gautran, "and i am justly punished." "i heard the sounds of a struggle between two men. are you one of those who were fighting in the midst of this awful darkness?" "yes, i am one." "and the design," continued father capel, "was murder. you do not answer me; your silence is sufficient confirmation. are you hurt much?" "i am hurt to death. in a few minutes i shall be in eternal fire unless you grant me absolution and forgiveness for my crimes." "speak first the truth. were you set upon, or were you the attacker in this evil combat?" "i attacked him first." "then he may be dead!" exclaimed father capel, and rising hastily to his feet, he peered into the darkness, and felt about with his hands, and called aloud to know if the other man was conscious. "this is horrible," said the priest, in deep perplexity, scarcely knowing what it was best to do; "one man dying, another in all likelihood dead." he turned as if about to go, and gautran, divining his intention, cried in a tone of agony: "do not leave me, father, do not leave me!" "truly," murmured the priest, "it seems to me that my present duty is more with the living than the dead." he knelt again by the side of gautran. "miserable wretch, if the man you attacked be dead, you have murdered him, and you have been smitten for your crime. it may not be the only sin that lies upon your soul." "it is not, it is not," groaned gautran. "my strength is deserting me; i can hardly speak. father, is there hope for a murderer? do not let me die yet. give me something to revive me. i am fainting." "i have nothing with me to restore your strength. to go for wine, and for assistance to remove this heavy timber which imprisons you--my weak arms cannot stir it--cannot be accomplished in less than half an hour. it will be best, perhaps, for me to take this course; in the meantime, pray, miserable man, with all the earnestness of your heart and soul, for divine forgiveness. what is your name?" "i am gautran," faintly answered the murderer. father capel's frame shook under the influence of a strong agitation. "from the bedside of the woman i have left within the hour," he murmured, "to this poor sinner who has but a few minutes to live! the hand of god is visible in it." he addressed himself to the dying man: "you are he who was tried for the murder of madeline, the flower-girl?" "i am he," moaned gautran. "hearken to me," said father capel. "for that crime you were tried and acquitted by an earthly tribunal, which pronounced you innocent. but you are now about to appear before the divine throne for judgment; and from god nothing can be hidden. he sees into the hearts of men. who is ready--as you but now admitted to me--to commit one murder, and who, perhaps, has committed it, for, from the silence, i infer that the body of your victim lies at no great distance, will not shrink from committing two. answer me truly, as you hope for mercy. were you guilty or innocent of the murder of madeline?" "i was guilty," groaned gautran. "wretch that i am, i killed her. i loved her, father--i loved her!" gautran, from whose lips these words had come amid gasps of agony, could say no more; his senses were fast leaving him. "ah me--ah me!" sighed father capel; "how shall such a crime be expiated?" "father," moaned gautran, rallying a little, "had i lived till to-morrow, i intended to buy masses for the repose of her soul. i will buy them now, and for my own soul too. i have money. feel in my pocket; there is gold. take it all--all--every piece--and tell me i am forgiven." father capel did not attempt to take the money. "stolen gold will not buy absolution or the soul's repose," he said sadly. "crime upon crime--sin upon sin! gautran, evil spirits have been luring you to destruction." "i did not steal the gold," gasped gautran. "it was given to me--freely given." "forgiveness you cannot hope for," said father capel, "if in these awful moments you swerve from the truth by a hair's-breadth. confess you stole the gold, and tell me from whom, so that it may be restored." "may eternal torments be mine if i stole it! believe me, father--believe me. i speak the truth." "who gave it to you, then?" "the advocate." "the advocate! he who defended you, and so blinded the judgment of men as to cause them to set a murderer loose?" "yes; he, and no other man." "from what motive, gautran--compassion?" "no, from fear." "what reason has he to fear you?" "i have his secret, as he had mine, and he wished to get rid of me, so that he and i should never meet again. it was for that he gave me the gold." "what is the nature of this secret which made him fear your presence?" "he knew me to be guilty." "what do you say? when he defended you, he knew you to be guilty?" "aye, he knew it well." "incredible--horrible!" exclaimed father capel, raising his hands. "he shared, then, your crime. yes; though he committed not the deed, his guilt is as heavy as the guilt of the murderer. how will he atone for it?--how _can_ atone for it? and if what i otherwise fear to be true, what pangs of remorse await him!" a frightful scream from gautran arrested his further speech. "save me, father--save me!" shrieked the wretch. "send her away! tell her i repent. see, there--there!--she is creeping upon me, along the tree!" "what is it you behold amidst the darkness of this appalling night?" asked father capel, crossing himself. "it is madeline--her spirit that will never, never leave me! will you not be satisfied, you, with my punishment? is not my death enough for you? you fiend--you fiend! i will strangle you if you come closer. have mercy--mercy! you are a priest; have you no power over her? then what is the use of prayer? it is a mockery--a mockery! my eyes are filled with blood! ah!" then all was silent. "gautran," whispered father capel, "take this cross in your hand; put it to your lips and repeat the words i say. gautran, do you hear me? no sound--no sound! he has gone to his account, unrepentant and unforgiven!" father capel rose to his feet. "i will seek assistance at once; there is another to be searched for. ah, terrible, terrible night! heaven have mercy upon us!" and with a heart overburdened with grief, the good priest left the spot to seek for help. chapter vi the written confession during the whole of this interview john vanbrugh had lain concealed within two or three yards of the fallen tree, and had heard every word that had passed between gautran and father capel. for a few moments after he had thrown gautran from him he was dazed and exhausted by the struggle in which he had been engaged, and by the crashing of the timber which had saved him from his deadly foe. gradually he realised what had occurred, and when father capel's voice reached his ears he resolved not to discover himself, and to be a silent witness of what transpired. in this decision lay safety for himself and absolute immunity, for gautran knew nothing of him, not even his name, and to be dragged into the light, to be made to give evidence of the scene in which he had been a principal actor, would have seriously interfered with his plan of action respecting the advocate. favoured by the night, he had no difficulty in concealing himself, and he derived an inward satisfaction from the reflection that he might turn even the tragic and unexpected event that had occurred to his own immediate advantage. he had not been seriously hurt in the conflict; a few bruises and scratches comprised the injuries he had received. among his small gifts lay the gift of mimicry; he could imitate another man's voice to perfection; and when father capel left gautran for the purpose of obtaining assistance, an idea crossed his mind which he determined to carry out. he waited until he was assured that father capel was entirely out of hearing, and then he stepped from his hiding-place, and knelt by the side of gautran. having now no fear of his enemy, he placed his ear to gautran's heart and listened. "he breathes," he muttered, "there is yet a little life left in him." he raised gautran's head upon his knee, and taking his flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured some of the liquor down the dying man's throat. it revived him; he opened his eyes languidly; but he had not strength enough left in him to utter more than a word or two at the time. "i have returned, gautran," said john vanbrugh, imitating the voice of the priest; "i had it not in my heart to desert you in your last moments. the man you fought with is dead, and in his pocket i found this flask of brandy. it serves one good purpose; it will give you time to earn salvation. you have two murders upon your soul. are you prepared to do as i bid you?" "yes," replied gautran. "answer my questions, then. what do you know of the man whom you have slain?" "nothing." "was he, then, an absolute stranger to you?" "yes." "you do not even know his name?" "no." "there is no time to inquire into your reasons for attacking him, for i perceive from your breathing that your end is very near, and the precious moments must not be wasted. it is your soul--your soul--that has to be saved! and there is only one way--the guilty must be punished. you have met your punishment. heaven's lightning has struck you down. these gold pieces which i now take from your pocket shall be expended in masses. rest easy, rest easy, gautran. there is but one thing for you to do--and then you will have made atonement. you hear me--you understand me?" "yes--quick--quick!" "to die, leaving behind you no record of the guilt of your associate--of the advocate who, knowing you to be a murderer, deliberately defeated the ends of justice--will be to provoke divine anger against you. there is no hope for pardon in that case. can you write?" "no." "your name, with my assistance, you could trace?" "perhaps." "i will write a confession which you must sign. then you shall receive absolution." he poured a few drops of brandy into gautran's mouth, and they were swallowed with difficulty. after this he allowed gautran's head to rest upon the earth, and tore from his pocket-book some sheets of blank paper, upon which, with much labour, he wrote the following: "i, gautran, the woodman, lately tried for the murder of madeline, the flower-girl, being now upon the point of death, and conscious that i have only a few minutes to live, and being in full possession of my reason, hereby make oath, and swear: "that being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial. i believed there was no escape from the doom i justly merited, for the reason that i was guilty of the murder. "that some days before my trial was to take place, the advocate who defended me voluntarily undertook to prove to my judges that i was innocent of the crime i committed. "that with this full knowledge he conducted my case with such ability that i was set free and pronounced innocent. "that on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had struck, and when every person but himself in the house of white shadows was asleep, i secretly visited him in his study, and remained with him some time. "that he gave me food and money, and bade me go my way. "that i am ignorant of the motives which induced him to whom i was a perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat the ends of justice. "that the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the fact that i made a full confession to him. "to which i solemnly swear, being about to appear before a just god to answer for my crime. i pray for forgiveness and mercy. "signed----." and here john vanbrugh left a space for gautran's name. he read the statement to gautran, who was now fast sinking, and then he raised the dying man's head in his arms, and holding the pencil in the almost nerveless fingers, assisted him to trace the name "gautran." this was no sooner accomplished than gautran, with a wild scream, fell back. john vanbrugh lost not another moment. with an exultant smile he placed the fatal evidence in his pocket, and prepared to depart. as he did so he heard the voices of men who were ascending the hill. "this paper," thought vanbrugh, as he crept softly away in an opposite direction, "is worth, i should say, at least half the advocate's fortune. it is the ruin of his life and career, and, if he does not purchase it of me on my own terms, let him look to himself." when father capel, with the men he had summoned to his assistance, arrived at the spot upon which gautran lay, the murderer was dead. _book vi.--a record of the past_ chapter i the discovery of the manuscript all was silent in the house of white shadows. strange as was the drama that was in progress within its walls it found no open expression, and to the advocate, seated alone in his study, was about to be unfolded a record of events long buried in the past, the disclosure of which had not, up to this moment, been revealed to man. during the afternoon, the advocate had said to christian almer: "now that i have leisure, i intend, with your permission, to devote some time to your father's works. in his day, certainly for a number of years, he was celebrated, and well known in many countries, and i have heard surprise expressed that a career which promised to shed lasting lustre upon the name you bear seemed suddenly to come to an end. of this abrupt break in the labours of an eminent man there is no explanation--as to what led to it, and in what way it was broken off. i may chance upon the reason of a singular and complete diversion from a pursuit which he loved. it will interest me, if you will give me permission to search among his papers." "a permission," rejoined christian almer, "freely accorded. everything in the study is at your disposal. for my own part the impressions of my childhood are of such a nature as to render distasteful the records of my father's labours. but you are a student and a man of deeper observation and research than myself. you may unearth something of value. i place all my father's manuscripts at your unreserved disposal. pray, read them if you care to do so, and use them in any way you may desire." thus it happened that, two hours before midnight, the advocate, after looking through a number of manuscripts, most of them in an incomplete shape, came upon some written pages, the opening lines of which exercised upon him a powerful fascination. the only heading of these pages was, "a faithful record." and it was made in the following strain: chapter ii christian almer's father "it devolves upon me, ernest christian almer, as a duty, to set down here, in a brief form, before i die, the record of certain events in my life which led me to the commission of a crime. whether justifiable or not--whether this which i call a crime may be otherwise designated as an accident or as the execution of a just punishment for trust and friendship betrayed--is for others to determine. "it is probable that no human eye will read what i am about to write until i am dead; but if it should be brought to light in my lifetime i am ready to bear the consequences of my act. the reason why i myself do nothing to assist directly in the discovery (except in so far as making this record and placing it without concealment among my manuscripts) is that i may in that way be assisting in bringing into the life of my dear son, christian almer, a stigma and a reproach which will be a cause of suffering to him. if it should happen that many years elapse before these lines fall into the hands of a human being, if may perhaps be for the best. what is done is done, and cannot be recalled. even had i the power to bring the dead to life i doubt whether i should avail myself of it. "my name is not unknown to the small world in which i live and move, and i once cherished a hope that i should succeed in making it famous. that hope is now like a flower burnt to ashes, never more to blossom. it proves the vanity of ambition upon which we pride ourselves and which we imbue with false nobility. "as a lad i was almost morbidly tender in my nature; i shrank from giving pain to living creature; the ordinary pursuits of childhood, in which cruelty to insects forms so prominent a feature, were to me revolting; to strip even a flower of its leaves was in my eyes a cruel proceeding. and yet i have lived to take a human life. "my earliest aspiration was to win a name in literature. every book i read and admired assisted in making this youthful aspiration a fixed purpose when i became a man. often, as i read the last words of a book which had fired my imagination, would i think, and sometimes say aloud, 'gladly would i die were i capable of writing a work so good, so grand as this.' "my parents were rich, and allowed me to follow my bent. when they died i was left sole heir to their wealth. i had not to struggle as poorer men in the profession to which i resolved to devote myself have had to do. so much the worse for me perhaps--but that now matters little. whether the books i hoped to write would be eagerly sought after or not was of no moment to me. what i desired was to produce; for the rest, as to being successful or unsuccessful, i was equal to either fortune. "i made many friends and acquaintances, who grew to learn that they could use and enjoy my house as their own. in setting this down i lay no claim to unusual generosity; it was on my part simply the outcome of a nature that refused to become a slave to rigid forms of hospitality. the trouble entailed would have been too great, and i declined to undertake it. i chose to employ my hours after my own fashion--the fashion of solitude. i found great pleasure in it, and to see my friends around me without feeling myself called upon to sacrifice my time for their enjoyment, knowing (as they well knew) that they were welcome to the best my wealth and means could supply them with--this added to my pleasure a peculiar charm. they were satisfied, and so was i; and only in one instance was my hospitality abused and my friendship betrayed. but had i been wise, this one instance would never have occurred to destroy the hopes of my life. "although it is running somewhat ahead of the sequence of events, i may mention here the name of the man who proved false to friendship. it was m. gabriel. he was almost young enough to be my son, and when i first knew him he was a boy and i was a man. he was an artist, with rare talents, and at the outset of his career i assisted him, for, like the majority of artists, he was poor. this simple mention of him will be sufficient for the present. "as when i was a lad i took no delight in the pleasures of lads of my own age, so when i was a man i did not go the way of men in that absorbing passion to which is given the name of love. those around me were drawn into the net which natural impulse and desire spread for mankind. there was no credit in this; it was simply that it did not happen. i was by no means a woman-hater, but it would seem as if the pursuits to which i was devoted were too engrossing to admit of a rival. so i may say what few can say--that i had passed my fortieth year, and had never loved. "my turn came, however. "among my guests were the lady who afterwards became my wife, and her parents. a sweet and beautiful lady, twenty-five years my junior. my unhappiness and ruin sprang from the chance which brought us together--as did her wretchedness and misery. in this i was more to blame than she--much more to blame. in the ordinary course of a life which had reached beyond its middle age i should have acquired sufficient experience to learn that youth should mate with youth--that nature has its laws which it is dangerous to trifle with. but such experience did not come to me. at forty-five years of age i was as unlearned as a child in matters of the heart; i had no thought of love or marriage, and the youngest man of my acquaintance would have laughed at my simplicity had the opportunity been afforded him of seeing my inner life. it was not the fault of the young lady that she knew nothing of this simplicity. no claim whatever had i to demand to be judged by special and exceptional rules. she had a perfect right to judge me as any other man of my age would have been judged. all that can be said of it was that it was most unfortunate for her and for me. if it should happen (which is not unlikely, for the unforeseen is always occurring) that these pages should be read by a man who is contemplating marriage with one young enough to be his daughter, i would advise him to pause and submit his case to the test of natural reason; for if both live, there must come a time when nature will take its revenge for the transgression. the glamour of the present is very alluring, but it is the duty of the wiser and the riper of the twain to consider the future, which will press more hardly upon the woman than upon the man. with the fashion of things as regards the coupling of the sexes i have nothing to do; fashions are artificial and often most mischievous. frequently, when the deeper laws of nature are involved, they are destructive and fatal. "it was my misfortune that during the visit of the young lady and her parents, the father, an old and harmless gentleman, met his death through an accident while he, i, and other gentlemen were riding. in my house he died. "it occasioned me distress and profound sorrow, and i felt myself in some way accountable, though the fault was none of mine. before his death he and i had private confidences, in which he asked me to look after his affairs, and if, as he feared, they were in an embarrassed state, to act as protector to his daughter. i gave him the promise readily, and, when he died, i took a journey for the purpose of ascertaining how the widow and the orphan were circumstanced. i found that they were literally beggars. as gently as i could i broke the news to them. the mother understood it; the daughter scarcely knew its meaning. her charming, artless ignorance of the consequences of poverty deeply interested me, and i resolved in my mind how i could best serve her and render her future a happy one. "speaking as i am in a measure to my own soul, i will descend to no duplicity. that i was entirely unselfish in my desire that her life should be bright and free from anxieties with which she could not cope is true; but none the less true is it that, for the first time, i felt myself under the dominion of a passion deeper and more significant than i had ever felt for woman. it was love, i believe, but love in which there was reason. for i took myself to task; i set my age and hers before me; i did this on paper, and as i gazed at the figures i said. absurd; it is not in nature, and i must fight it down.' i did wrestle with it, and although i did not succeed in vanquishing it, i was sufficiently master of myself to keep the struggle hidden in my own breast. "how, then, did this hapless lady become my wife? not, in the first instance, through any steps voluntarily and unreasoningly taken by myself. i had firmly resolved to hold my feelings in check. it was the mother who accomplished that upon which she had set her heart. i may speak freely. this worldly mother has been long dead, and my confession cannot harm her. it was she who ruined at least the happiness of one life, and made me what i am. "needless here to recount the arts by which she worked to the end she desired; needless to speak of the deceits she practised to make me believe her daughter loved me. it may be that the fault was mine, and that i was too ready to believe. sufficient to say that we fell into the snare she prepared for us; that, intoxicated by the prospect of an earthly heaven, i accepted the meanings she put on her daughter's reserve and apparent coldness, and that, once engaged in the enterprise, i was animated by the ardour of my own heart, in which i allowed the flower of love to grow to fruition. so we were married, and with no doubt of the future i set out with my wife on our bridal tour. she was both child and wife to me, and i solemnly resolved and most earnestly desired to do my duty by her. "before we were many days away news arrived that my wife's mother had met with an accident, in a part of the grounds which was being beautified by my workmen according to plans i had prepared for the pleasure of my young bride--an accident so serious that death could not be averted. in sadness we returned to the villa. my wife's coldness i ascribed to grief--to no other cause. and, indeed, apart from the sorrow i felt at the dreadful news, i was myself overwhelmed for a time by the fatality which had deprived my wife of her parents within so short a time on my estate, and while they were my guests. 'but it will pass away,' i thought, 'and i will be parents, lover, husband, to the sweet flower who has given her happiness into my keeping.' when we arrived at the villa, her mother was dead. "i allowed my wife's grief to take its natural course; seeing that she wished for solitude, i did not intrude upon her sorrow. i had to study this young girl's feelings and impulses; it was my duty to be tender and considerate to her. i was wise, and thoughtful, and loving, as i believed, and i spared no effort to comfort without disturbing her. 'time will console her,' i thought, 'and then we will begin a new life. she will learn to look upon me not only as a husband, but as a protector who will fully supply the place of those she has lost.' i was patient--very patient--and i waited for the change. it never came. "she grew more and more reserved towards me; and still i waited, and still was patient. not for a moment did i lose sight of my duty. "but after a long time had passed i began to question myself--i began to doubt whether i had not allowed myself to be deceived. is it possible, i asked myself, that she married me without loving me? when this torturing doubt arose i thrust it indignantly from me; it was as though i was casting a stain upon her truth and purity." chapter iii a dishonourable concealment "i will not recount the continual endeavours i made to win my wife to cheerfulness and a better frame of mind. sufficient to say that they were unsuccessful, and that many and many a time i gave up the attempt in despair, to renew it again under the influence of false hopes. unhappy and disheartened, the pursuits in which i had always taken delight afforded me now no pleasure, and though i sought relief in solitude and study, i did not find it. my peace of mind was utterly wrecked. there was, however, in the midst of my wretchedness, one ray of light. in the course of a little while a child would be born to us, and this child might effect what i was unable to accomplish. when my wife pressed her baby to her breast, when it drew life from her bosom, she might be recalled to a sense of duty and of some kind of affection which i was ready to accept in the place of that thorough devoted love which i bore to her, and which i had hoped she would bear to me. "considering this matter with as much wisdom as i could bring to my aid, i recognised the desirability of surrounding my wife with signs of pleasant and even joyful life. gloomy parents are cursed with gloomy children. i would fill my house once more with friends; my wife should move in an atmosphere of cheerfulness; there should be music, laughter, sunny looks, happy voices. these could not fail to influence for good both my wife and our little one soon to be born. "i called friends around me, and i took special care that there should be many young people among them. their presence, however, did not at first arouse my wife from her melancholy, and it was not until the man whose name i have already mentioned--m. gabriel--arrived that i noticed in her any change for the better. "he came, and i introduced him to my wife, believing them to have been hitherto strangers to each other. i had no reason to believe otherwise when i presented m. gabriel to her; had they met before, it would have been but honest that one or both should have made me acquainted with the fact. they did not, by direct or indirect word, and i had, therefore, no cause for suspicion. "things went on as usual for a week or two after m. gabriel's arrival, and then i noticed with joy that my wife was beginning to grow more cheerful. my happiness was great. i have been too impatient, i thought, with this young girl. the shock of losing her parents, one after another, under circumstances so distressing, was sufficient to upset a stronger mind than hers. how unwise in me that i should have tormented myself as i had been doing for so many months past! and how unjust to her that, because she was sorrowful and silent, i should have doubted her love for me! but all was well now: comfort had come to her bruised heart, and the book of happiness was not closed to me as i had feared. a terrible weight, a gnawing grief, were lifted from me. for i could imagine no blacker treason than that a woman should deliberately deceive a man into the belief that she loved him, and that she should marry him under such conditions. my wife had not done this; i had wronged her. most fervently did i thank heaven that i had discovered my error before it was too late to repair it. "i saw that my wife took pleasure in m. gabriel's society, and i made him as free of my house as if it had been his own. he had commissions to execute, pictures to paint. "'paint them here,' i said to him, 'you bring happiness to us. i look upon you as though you belonged to my family.' "in the summer-house was a room which he used as a studio; no artist could have desired a better, and m. gabriel said he had never been able to paint as well as he was doing in my house. it gladdened me to observe that my wife, who had for a little while been reserved towards m. gabriel, looked upon him now as a sister might look upon a brother. i encouraged their intimacy, and was grateful to m. gabriel for accepting my hospitality in the free spirit in which it was tendered. he expressed a wish to paint my wife's portrait, and i readily consented. my wife gave him frequent sittings, sometimes in my company, sometimes alone. and still no word was spoken to acquaint me with the fact that my wife and he had known each other before they met in my house. "my child was born--a boy. my happiness would have been complete had my wife shown me a little more affection; but again, after the birth of our child, it dawned upon me that she cared very little for me, and that the feelings she entertained for me in no wise resembled those which a loving woman should feel towards a husband who was indefatigable, as indeed i was, in his efforts to promote her happiness. even then it did not strike me that she was happier in m. gabriel's society than she was in mine. the truth, however, was now to be made known to me. it reached me through the idle tittle-tattling of one of my guests; of my own prompting i doubt whether i should ever have discovered it. i overheard this lady making some injurious observations respecting my wife; no man's name was mentioned, but i heard enough to cause me to resolve to hear more, and to put an end at once to the utterances of a malicious tongue. "during my life, in matters of great moment, i have seldom acted upon impulse, and the value of calm deliberation after sudden excitement of feeling has frequently been made apparent to me. "i sought this lady, and told her that i had overheard the remarks she had made on the previous day; that i was profoundly impressed by them, and intended to know what foundation there was for even a breath of scandal. i had some difficulty in bringing her to the point, but i was determined, and would be satisfied with no evasions. "'i love my wife, madam,' i said, 'too well to be content with half words and innuendoes, which in their effect are worse than open accusations.' "'accusations!' exclaimed the lady. 'good heavens! i have brought none.' "'it is for that reason i complain,' i said; 'accusations can be met, and are by no means so much to be feared as idle words which affect the honour of those who are the subject of them.' "'i merely repeated,' then said the lady, 'what others have been saying for a long time past.' "'and what have others been saying for a long time past, madam?' i asked, with an outward calmness which deceived her into the belief that i was not taking the matter seriously to heart. "'i am sure it is very foolish of them,' said the lady, 'and that there is nothing in it. but people are so mischievous, and place such dreadful constructions upon things! it is, after all, only natural that when, after a long separation, young lovers meet, they should feel a little tender towards each other, even though one of them has got married in the interval. we all go through such foolish experiences, and when we grow as old as you and i are, we laugh at them.' "'probably, madam,' i said, still with exceeding calmness; 'but before we can laugh with any genuineness or enjoyment, it is necessary to have some knowledge of the cause of our mirth. when young lovers meet, you said, after a long separation, it is natural they should feel a tenderness towards each other. but we are speaking of my wife.' "'yes,' she replied, 'of your wife, and i am sure you are too sensible a man--so much older than that sweet creature!--to make any unnecessary bother about it.' "she knew well how to plant daggers in my heart. "'my wife, then, is one of those young lovers? you really must answer me, madam. these are, after all, but foolish experiences.' "'i am glad you are taking it so sensibly,' she rejoined. 'yes, your wife is one of the young lovers.' "'and the other, madam.' "'why, who else should it be but m. gabriel?' "i did not speak for a few moments. the shock was so severe that i required time to recover some semblance of composure. "'my mind is much relieved,' i said. 'there is not the slightest foundation for scandal, and i trust that this interview will put an effectual stop to it. my wife and m. gabriel have not been long acquainted. they met each other for the first time in this house.' "'ah,' cried the lady very vivaciously, 'you want to deceive me now; but it is nonsense. your wife and m. gabriel have known each other for many years. they were once affianced. had you not stepped in, there is no knowing what might have occurred. it is much better as it is--i am sure you think so. what can be worse for a young and beautiful creature than to marry a poor and struggling artist? m. gabriel is very talented, but he is very poor. by the time he is a middle-aged man he may have made his way in the world, and then his little romance will be forgotten--quite forgotten. i dare say you can look back to the time when you were as young as he is, and can recall somebody you were madly in love with, but of whom you never think, except by the merest chance. these things are so common, you see. and now don't let us talk any more about it.' "i had no desire to exchange another word with the lady on the subject; i allowed her to rest in the belief that i had been acquainted with the whole affair, and did not wish it to get about. she promised me never to speak of it again to her friends in any injurious way, said it was a real pleasure to see what a sensible view i took of the matter, and our interview was at an end. "i had learnt all. at length, at length my eyes were opened, and the perfidy which had been practised towards me was revealed. all was explained. my wife's constant coldness, her insensibility to the affectionate advances i had made towards her, her pleasure at meeting her lover--the unworthy picture lay before my sight. there was no longer any opportunity for self-deception. had i not recognised and acknowledged the full extent of the treason, i should have become base in my own esteem. it was not that they had been lovers--that knowledge in itself would have been hard to bear--but that they should have concealed it from me, that they should have met in my presence as strangers, that they should have tacitly agreed to trick me!--for hours i could not think with calmness upon these aspects of the misery which had been forced upon me. for she, my wife, was in the first instance responsible for our marriage; she could have refused me. i was in utter ignorance of a love which, during all these years, had been burning in her heart, and making her life and mine a torture. had she been honest, had she been true, she would have said to me: 'i love another; how, then, can i accept the love you offer me, and how can you hope for a return? if circumstances compel me to marry you there must be no concealment, no treason. you must take me as i am, and never, never make my coldness the cause of reproach or unhappiness.' yes, this much she might have said to me when i offered her my name--a name upon which there had hitherto been no stain and no dishonour. i should not have married her; i should have acted as a father towards her; i should have conducted her to the arms of her lover, and into their lives and mine would not have crept this infamy, this blight, this shame which even death cannot efface. "of such a nature were my thoughts during the day. "then came the resolve to be sure before i took action in the matter. the evidence of my own senses should convince me that in my own house my wife and her lover were playing a base part, were systematically deceiving me and laughing at me. "of this man, this friend, whom i had taken to my heart, my horror and disgust were complete. i, whose humane instincts had in my youth been made the sport of my companions, who shrank from inflicting the slightest injury upon the meanest creature that crawled upon the earth, who would not even strip the leaves from a flower, found myself now transformed. had m. gabriel been in my presence at any moment during these hours of agonising thought, i should have torn him limb from limb and rejoiced in my cruelty. so little do we know ourselves." chapter iv m. gabriel is dismissed "i was up the whole of the night; i did not close my eyes, and when morning broke i had schooled myself to the task before me--to assure myself of the truth and the extent of the shame. "i kept watch, and did not betray myself to them, and what i saw filled me with amazement at my blindness and credulity. that my wife was not guilty, that she was not faithless to me in the ordinary acceptation of the term, was no palliation of her conduct. "steadfastly i kept before me one unalterable resolve. in the eyes of the world the name i bore should not be dishonoured, if by any means it could be prevented. we would keep our shame and our deep unhappiness within our own walls. in the light of this resolve it was impossible that i could challenge m. gabriel; he must go unpunished by me. my name should not be dragged through the mire, to become a byeword for pity. "by degrees, upon one excuse and another, i got rid of my visitors, and there remained in the villa only i, my wife and child, and m. gabriel. then, in m. gabriel's studio, i broke in upon the lovers, and found my wife in tears. "for a moment or two i gazed upon them in silence, and they, who had risen in confusion when i presented myself, confronted me also in silence, waiting for the storm of anger which they expected to burst from me, an outraged husband. they were mistaken; i was outwardly calm. "'madam,' i inquired, addressing my wife, 'may i inquire the cause of your tears?' "she did not reply; m. gabriel did. 'let me explain,' he said, but i would not allow him to proceed. "'i do not need you,' i said, 'to interpose between man and wife. i may presently have something to say to you. till then, be silent.' again i addressed my wife, and asked her why she was weeping. "'they are not the first tears i have shed,' she replied, 'since i entered this unhappy house.' "'i am aware of it, madam,' i replied; 'yet the house was not an unhappy one before you entered it. honour, and truth, and faithfulness were its characteristics, and towards no man or woman who has received hospitality within these walls has any kind of treachery been practised by me, its master and your husband. tears are a sign of grief, and suffering from it, as i perceive you are, i ask you why have you not sought consolation from the man whose name you bear, and whose life since you and he first met has had but one aim--to render you happy.' "'you cannot comfort me,' she said. "'can he?' i asked, pointing to m. gabriel. "'you insult me,' she said with great dignity. 'i will leave you. we can speak of this in private.' "'you will not leave me,' i said, 'and we will not speak of this in private, until after some kind of explanation is afforded me from your own lips and the lips of your friend. in saying i insult you, there is surely a mistaken idea in your mind as to what is due from you to me. m. gabriel, whom i once called a friend, is here, enjoying my hospitality, of which i trust he has had no reason to complain. i find you in tears by his side, and he, by his attitude, endeavouring to console you. when i ask you, in his presence, why, being in grief, you do not come to me for consolation, you reply that i cannot comfort you. yet you were accepting comfort from him, who is not your husband. it suggests itself to me that if an insult has been passed it has been passed upon me. i do not, however, receive it as such, for if an insult has been offered to me, m. gabriel is partly responsible for it, and it is only between equals that such an indignity can be offered.' "'equals!' cried m. gabriel; he understood my words in the sense in which i intended them. 'i am certainly your equal.' "'it has to be proved,' i retorted. 'i use the term in so far as it affects honour and upright conduct between man and man. you can bring against me no accusation of having failed in those respects in my behaviour towards you. it has to be seen whether i can in truth bring such an accusation against you, and if i can substantiate it by evidence which the commonest mind would not reject, you are not my equal. i see that this plain and honest reasoning disturbs you; it should not without sufficient cause. something more. if in addition i can prove that you have violated my hospitality, you are not only not my equal, but you have descended to a depth of baseness to describe which i can find no fitting terms.' "he grew hot at this. 'i decline to be present any longer,' he said, 'at an interview conducted in such a manner.' and he attempted to leave me, but i stood in his way, and would not permit him to pass. "'from this moment,' i said, 'i discharge myself of all duties towards you as your host. you are no longer my guest, and you will remain at this interview during my pleasure.' "he made another attempt to leave the room, and as he accompanied it by violence, i seized his arms, and threw him to the ground. he rose, and stood trembling before me. "'i make no excuse, madam,' i said to my wife, 'for the turn this scene has taken. it is unseemly for men to brawl in presence of a lady, but there are occasions when of two evils the least must be chosen. should i find myself mistaken, i shall give to m. gabriel the amplest apology he could desire. let me recall to your mind the day on which m. gabriel first entered my gates as my guest. i brought him to you, and presented him to you as a friend whom i esteemed, and whom i wished you also to esteem. you received him as a stranger, and i had no reason to suspect that he and you had been intimate friends, and that you were already well known to each other. you allowed me to remain in ignorance of this fact. was it honest?' "'it was not honest,' she replied. "'it made me happy,' i continued, 'to see, after the lapse of a few days, that you found pleasure in his society, and i regarded him in the light of a brother to you. i trusted him implicitly, and although, madam, you and i have been most unhappy, i had no suspicion that there was any guilt in this, as i believed, newly-formed friendship.' "'there was no guilt in it,' she said very firmly. "'i receive your assurance, and believe it in the sense in which you offer it. but in my estimation the word i use is the proper word. in the concealment from me of a fact with which you or he should have hastened to make me acquainted; in the secret confidences necessarily involved in the carrying out of such an intimacy as yours; there was treachery from wife to husband, from friend to friend, and in that treachery there was guilt. by an accident, within the past month, a knowledge has come to me of a shameful scandal which, had i not nipped it in the bud, would have brought open disgrace upon my name and house--but the secret disgrace remains, and you have brought it into my family.' "'a shameful scandal!' she exclaimed, and her white face grew whiter. 'who has dared----' "'the world has dared, madam, the world over whose tongue we have no control. the nature of the intimacy existing between you and m. gabriel, far exceeding the limits of friendship, has provoked remark and comment from many of your guests, and we who should have been the first to know it, have been the last. from a lady stopping in my house i learnt that you and m. gabriel were lovers before you and i met--that you were affianced. madam, had you informed me of this fact you would have spared yourself the deepest unhappiness under which any human being can suffer. for then you and i would not have been bound to each other by a tie which death alone can sever. i have, at all events, the solace which right doing sometimes sheds upon a wounded heart; that solace cannot unhappily be yours. you have erred consciously, and innocent though you proclaim yourself, you have brought shame upon yourself and me. i pity you, but cannot help you further than by the action i intend to take of preventing the occurrence of a deeper shame and a deeper disgrace falling upon me. for m. gabriel i have no feelings but those of utter abhorrence. i request him to remove himself immediately from my presence and from this house. this evening he will send for his paintings, which shall be delivered to his order. they will be placed in this summer-house. and in your presence madam, i give m. gabriel the warning that if at any time, or under any circumstances, he intrudes himself within these walls, he will do so at his own peril. the protection which my honour--not safe in your keeping, madam--needs i shall while i live be able to supply.' "this, in substance, is all that took place while my wife was with us. when she was gone i gave instructions that m. gabriel's paintings and property should be brought to the summer-house immediately, and i informed him of my intentions regarding them and the room he had used as a study. he replied that i would have to give him a more satisfactory explanation of my conduct. i took no notice of the threat, and i carried out my resolve--which converted the study into a tomb in which my honour was buried. and on the walls of the study i caused to be inscribed the words 'the grave of honour.' "on the evening of that day my wife sent for me, and in the presence of denise, our faithful servant, heard my resolve with reference to our future life, and acquainted me with her own. the gates would never again be opened to friends. our life was to be utterly secluded, and she had determined never to quit her rooms unless for exercise in the grounds at such times as i was absent from them. "'after to-night,' she said, 'i will never open my lips to you, nor, willingly, will i ever again listen to your voice.' "in this interview i learnt the snare, set by my wife's mother, into which we both had fallen. "i left my wife, and our new life commenced--a life with hearts shut to love or forgiveness. but i had done my duty, and would bear with strength and resignation the unmerited misfortunes with which i was visited. not my wife's, i repeat, the fault alone. i should have been wiser, and should have known--apart from any consideration of m. gabriel--that my habits, my character, my tastes, my age, were entirely unsuitable to the fair girl i had married. i come now to the event which has rendered this record necessary." chapter v the thief in the night "the impressions left upon me by the tragic occurrence i am about to narrate have, strangely enough, given me a confused idea as to the exact date upon which it took place, but i am correct in saying that it was within a month of the agreement entered into between my wife and myself that we should live separate lives under the same roof. "i expected to receive a challenge from m. gabriel, a challenge which for the reason i have given--that i would not afford the world an opportunity of discussing my private affairs--i firmly resolved not to accept. to my surprise no such challenge reached me, and i indulged the hope that m. gabriel had removed himself forever from us. it was not so. "the night was wild and dark. the wind was sweeping round the house; the rain was falling. i had resumed my old habits, and was awake in my study, in which i am now writing. i did no intelligent work during those sad days. if i forced myself to write, i invariably tore up the sheets when i read them with a clearer mind. my studies afforded me neither profit nor relief. the occupation which claimed me was that of brooding over the circumstances attendant upon my wooing and my marriage. for ever brooding. walking to and fro, dwelling upon each little detail of my intimacy with my girl-wife, and revolving in my mind whether i could have prevented what had occurred--whether, if i had done this or that, i could have averted the misery in which our lives were wrapt. it was a profitless occupation, but i could not tear myself from it. there was a morbid fascination in it which held me fast. that it harrowed me, tortured me, made me smart and bleed, mattered not. it clung to me, and i to it. thus do we hug our misery to our bosoms, and inflict upon ourselves the most intolerable sufferings. "i strove to escape from it, to fix my mind upon some abstruse subject, upon some difficult study, but, like a demon to whom i had sold my soul, it would not be denied. there intruded always this one picture--the face of a baby-boy, mine, my dear son, lying asleep in his mother's arms. let me say here that i never harboured the thought of depriving my wife of this precious consolation, that never by the slightest effort have i endeavoured to estrange him from her. the love he bore to me--and i thank heaven that he grew to love me--sprang from his own heart, which also must have been sorely perplexed and have endured great pain in the estrangement that existed between his parents. well, this pretty baby-face always intruded itself--this soul which i had brought into life lay ever before me, weighted with myriad mysterious and strange suggestions. it might live to accomplish great and noble deeds--it might live to inspire to worthy deeds--it might become a saviour of men, a patriot, an emancipator. and but for me, it would never have been. even the supreme tribulation of his parents' lives might be productive of some great actions which would bring a blessing upon mankind. in that case it was good to suffer. "after some time--not in those days, but later on--this thought became a consolation to me, although it troubled and perplexed me to think whether the birth of a soul which was destined to shine as a star among men was altogether a matter of chance. "a dark, stormy night. i created voices in the sweeping of the wind. they spoke to me in groans, in whispers, in loud shrieks. was it fancy that inspired the wail, 'to-night, to-night shall be your undoing!' "midnight struck. i paced to and fro, listening to the voices of the wind. presently another sound--a sound not created by my imagination--came to my ears. it was as though something heavy had fallen in the grounds. perhaps a tree had been blown down. or did it proceed from another cause, which warned me of danger? "i hastened immediately into the grounds. the sense of danger exhilarated me. i was in a mood which courted death as a boon. willingly would i have gone out to meet it, as a certain cure for the anguish of my soul. thus i believe it is sometimes with soldiers, and they become heroes by force of desperation. "i could see nothing. i was about to return, when a moving object arrested my purpose. i sprang towards it--threw myself upon it. and in my arms i clasped the body of a man, just recovering consciousness from a physical hurt. "i did not speak a word. i lifted the body in my arms--it had not yet sufficient strength to repel me--and carried it into my study. the moment the light of my lamps shone on the face of the man i recognised him. it was m. gabriel. "i laughed with savage delight as i placed him on a couch. 'you villain--you villain!' i muttered. 'your last hour, or mine, has come. this night, one or both of us shall die!' "i drew my chair before the couch, so that his eyes, when he opened them, should rest upon my face. he was recovering consciousness, but very slowly. 'i could kill you here,' i said aloud, 'and no man would be the wiser. but i will first have speech with you.' his eyelids quivered, opened, and we were gazing at each other face to face. the sight of me confounded him for a while, but presently he realised the position of affairs and he strove to rise. i thrust him back fiercely. "'stay you there,' i said, 'until i learn your purpose. you have entered my house as a thief, and you have given your life into my hands. i told you, if you ever intruded yourself within these walls, that you would do so at your peril. what brought you here? are you a would-be thief or murderer? you foul betrayer and coward! so--you climb walls in the dark in pursuance of your villainous schemes! answer me--do you come here by appointment, and are you devil enough to strive to make me believe that a pure and misguided girl would be weak enough to throw herself into your arms? fill up the measure of your baseness, and declare as much.' "'no,' he replied; 'i alone am culpable. no one knew of my coming--no one suspected it. i could not rest.' "i interrupted him. 'after to-night,' i said gloomily, 'you will rest quietly. men such as you must be removed from the earth. you steal into my house, you thief and coward, with no regard for the fair fame of the woman you profess to love--reckless what infamy you cast upon her and of the life-long shame you would deliberately fling upon one who has been doubly betrayed. you have not the courage to suffer in silence, but you would proclaim to all the world that you are a martyr to love, the very name of which becomes degraded when placed in association with natures like yours. you belong to the class of miserable sentimentalists who bring ruin upon the unhappy women whom they entangle with their maudlin theories. mischief enough have you accomplished--this night will put an end to your power to work further ill.' "'what do you intend to do with me?' he asked. "'i intend to kill you,' i replied; 'not in cold blood--not as a murderer, but as an avenger. stand up.' "he obeyed me. his fall had stunned him for a time; he was not otherwise injured. "'i will take no advantage of you,' i said. 'here is wine to give you a false courage. drink, and prepare yourself for what is to come. as surely as you have delivered yourself into my hands, so surely shall you die!" chapter vi the hidden crime "he drank the wine, not wisely or temperately as a cool-headed man whose life was at stake would have done, but hastily, feverishly, and with an air of desperation. "'you are a good fencer,' i said, 'the best among all the friends who visited me during the days of your treachery. you were proud of showing your skill, as you were of exhibiting every admirable quality with which you are gifted. something of the mountebank in this.' "'at least,' he said, rallying his courage, 'do not insult me.' "'why not? have you not outraged what is most honourable and sacred? here are rapiers ready to our hands.' "'a duel!' he cried. 'here, and now?' "'yes,' i replied, 'a duel, here and now. there is no fear of interruption. the sound of clashing steel will not fall upon other ears than ours.' "'it will not be a fair combat,' he said. 'you are no match for me with the rapier. let me depart. do not compel me to become your murderer.' "'you will nevermore set foot outside these walls,' i said; 'here you will find your grave.' "it was my firm belief. i saw him already lying dead at my feet. "'if i should kill you,' he said, 'how shall i escape?' "'as best you may,' i replied. 'you are an adept at climbing walls. if you kill me, what happens to you thereafter is scarcely likely to interest me. but do not allow that thought to trouble you. what will take place to-night is ordained!' "i began to move the furniture from the centre of the room, so as to afford a clear space for the duel. the tone in which he next spoke convinced me that i had impressed him. indeed, my words were uttered with the certainty of conviction, and a fear stole upon him that he had come to his death. "'i will not fight with you,' he said; 'the duel you propose is barbarous, and i decline to meet you unless witnesses are present.' "'so that we may openly involve the fair name of a lady in our quarrel,' i retorted quietly. 'no; that will not be. before witnesses it is i who would decline to meet you. are you a coward?' "'it matters little what you call me,' he said, 'as no other person is near. you cannot force me to fight you.' "'i think i can,' i said, and i struck him in the face, and proceeded with my work. "my back was towards him; a loaded gun was hanging on the wall; unperceived by me he unslung it, and fired at me. "i did not know whether i was hit or not. maddened by the cowardly act, i turned, and lifting him in the air, dashed him to the ground. his head struck against one of the legs of my writing-table; he groaned but once, and then lay perfectly still. it was the work of a moment, and the end had come. he lay dead before me. "i had no feeling of pity for him, and i was neither startled nor deeply moved. his punishment was a just punishment, and my honour was safe from the babble of idle and malicious tongues. all that devolved upon me now was to keep the events of this night from the knowledge of men. "there was, however, one danger. a gun had been fired. the sound might have aroused my wife or some of the servants, in which case an explanation would have to be given. at any moment they might appear. what lay on the floor must not be seen by other eyes than mine. "i dragged a cloth from a table and threw it over the body, and with as little noise as possible swiftly replaced the furniture in its original position. then i sat on my chair and waited. for a few minutes i was in a state of great agitation, but after i had sat for an hour without being disturbed i knew that my secret was safe. "i removed the cloth from the face of the dead man and gazed at it. strange to say, the features wore an expression of peacefulness. death must have been instantaneous. gradually, as i gazed upon the form of the man i had killed, the selfish contemplation in which i had been engaged during the last hour of suspense--a contemplation devoted solely to a consideration of the consequences of discovery, so far as i was concerned, and in which the fate of the dead man formed no part--became merged in the contemplation of the act itself apart from its earthly consequences. "i had taken a human life. i, whose nature had been proverbially humane, was, in a direct sense of the word, a murderer. that the deed was done in a moment of passion was no excuse; a man is responsible for his acts. the blood i had shed shone in my eyes. "what hopes, what yearnings, what ambitions, were here destroyed by me! for, setting aside the unhappy sentiment which had conducted events to this end, m. gabriel was a man of genius, of whose career high expectations had been formed. i had not only destroyed a human being, i had destroyed art. would it have been better had i allowed myself to be killed? were death preferable to a life weighed down by a crime such as mine? "for a short time these reflections had sway over me, but presently i steadily argued them down. i would not allow them to unman me. this coward and traitor had met a just doom. "what remained for me now to do was to complete the concealment. the body must be hidden. after to-night--unless chance or the hand of providence led to its discovery--the lifeless clay at my feet must never more be seen. "there was a part of my grounds seldom, if ever, intruded upon by the servants--that portion in which, for the gratification of my wife, i had at the time of our marriage commenced improvements which had never been completed. there it was that my wife's mother had met with the accident which resulted in her death. i thought of a pit deep enough for the concealment of the bodies of fifty men. into this pit i would throw the body of m. gabriel, and would cover it with earth and stones. the task accomplished, there would be little fear of discovery. "first satisfying myself that all was quiet and still in the villa, and that i was not being watched, i raised the body of m. gabriel in my arms. as i did so, a horror and loathing of myself took possession of me; i shuddered in disgust; the work i was performing seemed to be the work of a butcher. "however, what i resolved to do was done. in the dead of night, with darkness surrounding me, with the rain beating upon me, and the accusing wind shrieking in my ears, i consigned to its last resting-place the body of the man i had killed. "years have passed since that night. my name has not been dragged into the light for scandal-mongers to make sport of. open shame and derision have been avoided--but at what a price! from the day following that upon which i forbade m. gabriel my house, not a single word was exchanged between my wife and myself. she sent for me before she died, but she knew she would be dead before i arrived. a fearful gloom settled upon our lives, and will cover me to my last hour. this domestic estrangement, this mystery of silence between those whom he grew to love and honour, weighed heavily upon my son christian. his child's soul must have suffered much, and at times i have fancied i see in him the germs of a combination of sweetness and weakness which may lead to suffering. but suffer as he may, if honour be his guide i am content. i shall not live to see him as a man; my days are numbered. "in the time to come--in the light of a purer existence--i may learn whether the deed i have done is or is not a crime. "but one thing is clear to me. had it not been for my folly, shame would not have threatened me, misery would not have attended me, and i should not have taken a human life. the misery and the shame did not affect me alone; they waited upon a young life and blighted its promise. it is i who am culpable, i who am responsible for what has occurred. it is impossible, without courting unhappiness, to divert the currents of being from their natural channels: youth needs youth, is attracted to youth, seeks youth, as flowers seek the sun. roses do not grow in ice. "mine, then, the sin--a sin too late to expiate. "i would have my son marry when he is young, as in the course of nature he will love when he is young. it is the happier fate, because it is in accordance with natural laws. "if he into whose hands these pages may fall can discern a lesson applicable to himself in the events i have recorded, let him profit by them. if the circumstances of his life in any way resemble mine, i warn him to bear with wisdom and patience the penalty he has brought upon himself, and not to add, in the person of another being to whom he is bound and who is bound to him, to an unhappiness--most probably a secret unhappiness--of his own creating. "and i ask him to consider well whether any good purpose will be served by dragging into the open day the particulars of a crime, the publishing of which cannot injure the dead or benefit the living. it cannot afford him any consolation to think, if my son be alive, that needless suffering will be brought to the door of the innocent. let him, then, be merciful and pitiful." chapter vii false wife, false friend thus abruptly the record closed. to the last written page there were several added, as though the writer had more to say, and intended to say it. but the pages were blank. the intention, if intention there were, had never been carried out. the reading of the record occupied the advocate over an hour, and when he had finished, he sat gazing upon the manuscript. for a quarter of an hour he did not move. then he rose--not quickly, as one would rise who was stirred by a sudden impulse, but slowly, with the air of a man who found a difficulty in arranging his thoughts. with uneven steps he paced the study, to and fro, to and fro, pausing occasionally to handle in an aimless way a rare vase, which he turned about in his hands, and gazed at with vacant eyes. occasionally, also, he paused before the manuscript and searched in its pages for words which his memory had not correctly retained. he did this with a consciousness which forced itself upon him, and which he vainly strove to ignore, that what he sought was applicable to himself. it was not compassion, it was not tenderness, it was not horror, that moved him thus strangely, for he was a man who had been but rarely, if ever, moved as he was at the present time. it was the curious and disquieting associations between the dead man who had written and the living man who had read the record. and yet, although he could, if he had chosen, have reasoned this out, and have placed it mentally before him in parallel lines, his only distinct thought was to avoid the comparison. that he was unsuccessful in this did not tend to compose him. upon a bracket lay a bronze, the model of a woman's hand, from the life. a beautiful hand, slender but shapely. it reminded him of his wife. he took it from the bracket and examined it, and after a little while thus passed, the words came involuntarily from his lips: "perfect--but cold." the spoken words annoyed him; they were the evidence of a lack of self-control. he replaced the bronze hastily, and when he passed it again would not look at it. suddenly he left the study, and went towards his wife's rooms. he had not proceeded more than half a dozen yards before his purpose, whatever it might have been, was relinquished as swiftly as it had been formed. he retraced his steps, and lingered irresolutely at the door of the study. with an impatient movement of his head--it was the action of a man who wrestled with thought as he would have done with a palpable being--he once more proceeded in the direction of his wife's apartments. at the commencement of the passage which led to the study was a lobby, opening from the principal entrance. a noble staircase in the centre of the lobby led to the rooms occupied by christian almer and pierre lamont. on the same floor as the study, beyond the staircase, were his wife's boudoir and private rooms. this part of the house was but dimly lighted; one rose-lamp only was alight. on the landing above, where the staircase terminated, three lamps in a cluster were burning, and shed a soft and clear light around. when he reached the lobby and was about to pass the staircase, the advocate's progress was arrested by the sound of voices which fell upon his ears. these voices proceeded from the top of the staircase. he looked up, and saw, standing close together, his wife and christian almer. instinctively he retreated into the deeper shadows, and stood there in silence with his eyes fixed upon the figures above him. his wife's hand was resting on almer's shoulder, and her fingers occasionally touched his hair. she was speaking almost in a whisper, and her face was bright and animated. almer was replying to her in monosyllables, and even in the midst of the torture of this discovery, the advocate observed that the face of his friend wore a troubled expression. the advocate remembered that his wife had wished him good-night before ten o'clock, and that when he made the observation that she was retiring early, she replied that she was so overpowered with fatigue that she could not keep her eyes open one minute longer. and here, nearly two hours after this statement, he found her conversing clandestinely with his friend in undisguised gaiety of spirits! never had he seen her look so happy. there was a tender expression in her eyes as she gazed upon christian almer which she had never bestowed upon him from the first days of their courtship. a grave, dignified courtship, in which each was studiously kind and courteous to the other; a courtship without romance, in which there was no spring. a bitter smile rested upon his lips as this remembrance impressed itself significantly upon him. he watched and waited, motionless as a statue. midnight struck, and still the couple on the staircase lingered. presently, however, and manifestly on almer's urging, adelaide consented to leave him. smilingly she offered him her hand, and held his for a longer time than friendship warranted. they parted; he ascending to his room, she descending to hers. when she was at the foot of the staircase she looked up and threw a kiss to almer, and her face, with the light of the rose-lamp upon it, was inexpressibly beautiful. the next minute the advocate was alone. he listened for the shutting of their chamber-doors. so softly was this done both by his friend and his wife that it was difficult to catch the faint sound. he smiled again--a bitter smile of confirmation. it was in his legal mind a fatal item of evidence against them. slowly he returned to his study, and the first act of which he was conscious was that of standing on a certain spot and saying audibly as he looked down: "it was here m. gabriel fell!" he knelt upon the carpet, and thought that on the boards beneath, even at this distance of time, stains of blood might be discerned, the blood of a treacherous friend. it was impossible for him to control the working of his mind; impossible to dwell upon the train of thought it was necessary he should follow out before he could decide upon a line of action. one o'clock, two o'clock struck, and he was still in this condition. all he could think of was the fate of m. gabriel, and over and over again he muttered: "it was here he fell--it was here he fell!" there was a harmony in the storm which raged without. the peals of thunder, the lightning flashing through the windows, were in consonance with his mood. he knew that he was standing on the brink of a fatal precipice. "which would be best," he asked mentally of himself, "that lightning should destroy three beings in this unhappy house, or that the routine of a nine-days' wonder should be allowed to take its course? all that is wanting to complete the wreck would be some evidence to damn me in connection with gautran and the unhappy girl he foully murdered." as if in answer to his thought, he heard a distinct tapping on one of his study windows. he hailed it with eagerness; anything in the shape of action was welcome to him. he stepped to the window, and drawing up the blind saw darkly the form of a man without. "whom do you seek?" he asked. "you," was the answer. "your mission must be an urgent one," said the advocate, throwing up the window. "is it murder or robbery?" "neither. something of far greater importance." "concerning me?" "most vitally concerning you." "indeed. then i should welcome you." with strange recklessness he held out his hand to assist his visitor into the room. the man accepted the assistance, and climbing over the window-sill sprang into the study. he was bloody, and splashed from head to foot with mud. "have you a name?" inquired the advocate. "naturally." "favour me with it." "john vanbrugh." _book vii.--retribution_ chapter i john vanbrugh and the advocate "a stormy night to seek you out," said john vanbrugh, "and to renew an old friendship----" "stop there," interrupted the advocate. "i admit no idea of a renewal of friendship between us." "you reject my friendship?" asked vanbrugh, wiping the blood and dirt from his face. "distinctly." "so be it. our interview shall be conducted without a thought of friendship, though some reference to the old days cannot be avoided. i make no apology for presenting myself in this condition. man can no more rule the storm than he can the circumstances of his life. i have run some distance through the rain, and i have been attacked and almost killed. you perceive that i am exhausted, yet you do not offer me wine. you have it, i know, in that snug cupboard there. may i help myself? thank you. ah, there's a smack of youth in this liquor. it is life to one who has passed through such dangers as have encompassed me. you received my letter asking for an interview? i gave it myself into your hands on the last evening of the trial." "i received it." "yet you were unwilling to accord me an interview." "i had no desire to meet you again." "it was ungrateful of you, for it is upon your own business--yours and no other man's--that i wished to speak with you. it was cold work out on the hill yonder, watching the lights in your study window, watching for the simple waving of a handkerchief, which would mean infinitely more to you than to me, as you will presently confess. dreary cold work, not likely to put a man like myself in an amiable mood. i am not on good terms with the world, as you may plainly perceive. i have had rough times since the days you deemed it no disgrace to shake hands with me. i have sunk very low by easy descents; you have risen to a giddy height. i wonder whether you have ever feared the fall. men as great as you have met with such a misfortune. things do not last for ever, edward--pardon me. it was a slip of the tongue." "do you come to beg?" "no--for a reason. if i came on such an errand, i might spare myself the trouble." "likely enough," said the advocate, who was too well acquainted with human nature not to be convinced, from vanbrugh's manner, that his was no idle visit. "you were never renowned for your charities. and on the other hand i am poor, but i am not a beggar. i am frank enough to tell you i would prefer to steal. it is more independent, and not half so disgraceful. it may happen that the world would take an interest in a thief, but never in a beggar." "is it to favour me with your philosophies that you pay me this visit?" "i should be the veriest dolt. no, i will air my opinions when i am rich." "you intend, poor as you confess yourself, to become rich?" "with your help, old friend." "not with my help. you will receive none from me." "you are mistaken. forgive me for the contradiction, but i speak on sure ground. ah, how i have heard you spoken of! with what admiration and esteem! almost with awe by some. your talents, of themselves, could not have won this universal eulogy; it is your spotless character that has set the seal upon your fame. there is not a stain upon it; you have no weaknesses, no blemishes; you are absolutely pure. other men have something to conceal--some family difficulty, some domestic disgrace, some slip in the path of virtue, which, were it known, would turn the current against them. but against you there is not a breath; scandal has never soiled you. in this lies the strength of your position--in this lies its danger. let shame, with cause, point its finger at you--old friend, the result is unpleasant to contemplate. for when a man such as you falls, he does not fall gradually. he topples over suddenly, and to-day he is as low in the gutter as yesterday he was high in the clouds." "you have said enough. i do not care to listen to you further. the tone you assume is offensive to me--such as i would brook from no man. you can go the way you came." and with a scornful gesture the advocate pointed to the window. "when i inform you which way i came," said vanbrugh, with easy insolence, "you will not be so ready to tell me to leave you before you learn the errand which brought me." "which way, then, did you come?" asked the advocate, in a tone of contempt. "the way gautran came--somewhat earlier than this, it is true, but not earlier than midnight." the advocate grasped the back of a chair; it was a slight action, but sufficient to show that he was taken off his guard. "you know that?" he said. "aye, i know that, and also that you feasted him, and gave him money." "are you accomplices, you two knaves?" "if so, i have at present the best of the bargain. but your surmise is not made with shrewdness. i never set eyes on gautran until after he was pronounced innocent of the murder of madeline. on that night i--shall we say providentially?--made his acquaintance." "you have met him since then?" "yes--this very night; our interview was one never to be forgotten. come, i have been frank with you; i have used no disguises. i say to you honestly, the world has gone hard with me; i have known want and privation, and i am in a state of destitution. that is a condition of affairs sufficient not only to depress a man's spirits, but to make him disgusted with the world and mankind. i have, however, still some capacity for enjoyment left in me, and i would give the world another trial, not as a penniless rogue, but as a gentleman." "hard to accomplish," observed the advocate, with a cynical smile. "not with a full purse. no music like the jingling of gold, and the world will dance to the tune. well, i present myself to you, and ask you, who are rich and can spare what will be the making of me, to hand me from your full store as much as will convert a poor devil into a respectable member of society." "i appreciate your confidence. i leave you to supply the answer." "you will give me nothing?" "nothing." "mind--i do not ask it of your charity; i ask it of your prudence. it will be worth your while." "that has to be proved." "good. we have made a commencement. your reputation is worth much--in sober truth as much as it has brought you. but i am not greedy. it lies at my mercy, and i shall be content with a share." "that is generous of you," said the advocate, who by this time had regained his composure; "but i warn you--my patience is beginning to be exhausted." "only beginning? that is well. i advise you to keep a tight rein over it, and to ask yourself whether it is likely--considering the difference of our positions--that i should be here talking in this bold tone unless i held a power over you? i put it to you as a lawyer of eminence." "there is reason in what you say." "let me see. what have i to sell? the security of your reputation? the power to prevent your name being uttered with horror? your fame--your honour? yes, i have quite that to dispose of, and as a man of business, which i never was until now, i recognise the importance of being precise. first--i have to sell my knowledge that, after midnight, you received gautran in your study, that you treated him as a friend, and filled his pockets with gold. how much is that worth?" "nothing. my word against his, against yours, against a hundred such as you and he." "you would deny it?" "assuredly--to protect myself." as he made this answer, it seemed to the advocate as if the principle of honour by which his actions had been guided until within the last few days were slipping from him, and as if the vilest wretch that breathed had a right to call him his equal. "we will pass that by," said vanbrugh, helping himself to wine. "really, your wine is exquisite. in some respects you are a man to be envied. it is worth much to a man not only to possess the best of everything the world can give, but to know that he has the means and the power to purchase it. with that consciousness within him, he walks with his head in the air. you used to be fond of discussing these niceties; i had no taste for them. i left the deeper subtleties of life to those of thinner blood than mine. pleasure was more in my way--and will be again." "you are wandering from the point," said the advocate. "there is a meaning in everything i say; i will clip my wings. your word against a hundred men such as i and gautran? i am afraid you are right. we are vagabonds--you are a gentleman. so, then, my knowledge of the fact that you treated gautran as a friend after you had procured his acquittal is worth nothing. admitted. but put that knowledge and that fact in connection with another and a sterner knowledge and fact--that you knew gautran to be guilty of the murder. how then? does it begin to assume a value? your silence gives me hopes that my visit will not be fruitless. between men who once were equals and friends, and who, after a lapse of years, come together as we have come together now, candour is a useful attribute. let us exercise it. i am not here on your account, nor do i hold you in such regard that i would trouble myself to move a finger to save your reputation. the master i am working for is self; the end i am working for is an easy life, a life of pleasure. this accomplished by your aid, i have nothing more to do with you or your affairs. the business is an unpleasant one, and i shall be glad to forget it. refuse what i ask, and you will sink lower than i have ever sunk. there are actions which the world will forgive in the ignorant, but not in men of ripe intellect." he paused and gazed negligently at the advocate, who during the latter part of vanbrugh's speech, was considering the dangers of his position. the secret of gautran's guilt belonged not alone to himself and gautran; this man vanbrugh had been admitted into it, and he was an enemy more to be dreaded than gautran. he saw his peril, and that he unconsciously acknowledged it to be imminent was proved by the thought which intruded itself--against his will, as it seemed--whether it would be wise to buy vanbrugh off, to purchase his silence. "it is easy," he said, "to invent tales. you and a dozen men, in conjunction with the monster gautran----" "as you say," interrupted vanbrugh, gently nodding his head, "the monster gautran. but why should you call him so unless you knew him to be guilty? were you assured of his innocence, you would speak of him pityingly, as one undeservedly oppressed and persecuted. 'the monster gautran!' thank you. it is an admission." "----may invent," continued the advocate, not heeding the interruption, but impressed by its logic, "may invent any horrible tale you please of any man you please. the difficulty will be to get the world to believe it." "exactly. but in this case there is no difficulty, although the murderer be dead." "gautran! dead!" exclaimed the advocate, surprised out of himself. gautran was dead! encompassed as he was by danger and treachery, the news was a relief to him. "yes, dead," replied vanbrugh, purposely assuming a careless tone. "did i not tell you before? singular that it should have escaped me. but i have so much to say, and in my brightest hours i was always losing the sequence of things." "and you," said the advocate, "meeting this man by chance----" "pardon me. i asked you whether i should consider our meeting providential." "it matters not. you, meeting this man, come to me after his death, for the purpose of extracting money from me. you will fail." "i shall succeed." "you killed gautran, and want money to escape." "no. he was killed by a higher agency, and i want no money to escape. you will hear to-morrow how he met his death, for all the towns and villages will be ringing with it. i continue. say that gautran at the point of death made a dying confession, on oath, not only of his guilt, but of your knowledge of it when you defended him;--say that this confession exists in writing, duly signed. would that paper, in conjunction with what i have already offered for sale, be worth your purchase? take time to consider. you are dealing with a man in desperate circumstances, one who, if you drive him to it, will pull you down, high as you are. you will help me, old friend." "it may be. have you possession of the paper you speak of?" "i have. would you like to hear it?" "yes." vanbrugh moved, so that a table was between him and the advocate, and taking gautran's confession from his pocket read in a clear voice: "i, gautran the woodman, lately tried for the murder of madeline the flower-girl, being now at the point of death, and conscious that i have only a few minutes to live, and being also in the full possession of my reason, hereby make oath and swear: "that being thrown into prison, awaiting my trial, i believed there was no escape from the doom i justly merited, for the reason that i was guilty of the murder. "that some days before my trial was to take place, the advocate who defended me voluntarily undertook to prove to my judges that i was innocent of the crime i committed. "that with this full knowledge, he conducted my case with such ability that i was set free and pronounced innocent. "that on the night of my acquittal, after midnight had struck, and when every person but himself in the house of white shadows was asleep, i secretly visited him in his study, and remained with him for some time. "that he gave me food and money, and bade me go my way. "that i am ignorant of the motives which induced him, to whom i was a perfect stranger, to deliberately defeat the ends of justice. "that the proof that he knew me to be guilty lies in the fact that i made a full confession to him. "to which i solemnly swear, being about to appear before a just god to answer for my crime. i pray for forgiveness and mercy. "signed, gautran." without comment, john vanbrugh folded the paper, and replaced it carefully in his pocket. "the confession may be forged," said the advocate. "gautran's signature," said vanbrugh, "will refute such a charge. he could write only his name, and documents can certainly be found bearing his signature, which can be compared with this." "with that document in your possession," said the advocate, speaking very slowly, "are you not afraid to be here with me--alone--knowing, if it state the truth, how much i have at stake?" "excellent!" exclaimed vanbrugh. "what likenesses there are in human nature, and how thin the line that divides the base from the noble! afraid? no--for if you lay a hand upon me, for whom you are no more than a match, i will rouse the house and denounce you. restrain yourself and hear me out. i have that to say which will prove to you the necessity, if you have the slightest regard for your honour, of dealing handsomely with me. it relates to the girl whose murderer you set free--to madeline the flower-girl and to yourself." chapter ii a terrible revelation without requesting permission, john vanbrugh filled his glass with wine, which he drank leisurely with his eyes fixed on the advocate's pale face the while. when he spoke, it did not escape the advocate that he seemed to fling aside the flippancy of manner which had hitherto characterised him, and that his voice was unusually earnest. "i do not ask you to excuse me," he said, "for recalling the memory of a time when you did not despise my companionship. it is necessary for my purpose. we were, indeed, more than companions--we were friends. what it was that made you consort with me is just now a mystery to me. the contrast in our characters may have tempted you. i, a careless, light-hearted fellow who loved to enjoy the hours; you, a serious, cold-hearted student, dreaming perhaps of the position you have attained. it may be that you deliberately made a study of me to see what use you could make of my weakness. however it was, i lived in the present, you in the future. the case is now reversed, and it is i who live in the future. "i have said you were cold-hearted, and i do not suppose you will trouble yourself to deny it. such as you are formed to rise, while we impulsive, reckless devils are pretty sure to tumble in the mud. but i never had such a fall as you are threatened with, and scapegrace, vagabond as i am, i am thankful not to have on my conscience what you have on yours. "now for certain facts. "i contemplated--no, i mistake, i never contemplated--i settled to go on a tour for a few weeks, and scramble through bits of france, switzerland, and italy. you will remember my mentioning it to you. yes, i see in your face that you are following me, and i shall feel obliged by your correcting me if in my statement of facts i should happen to trip. the story i am telling needs no effort of the imagination to embellish it. it is in its bare aspect sufficiently ghastly and cruel. "when i was about to start on my tour, you, of your own accord, offered to accompany me. you had been studying too hard, and a wise doctor recommended you to rest a while, if you did not care to have brain-fever, and also recommended you to seek new scenes in the company of a cheerful friend whose light spirits would be a good medicine for an overworked brain. you took the doctor's advice, and you did me the honour to choose me for a companion. so we started on our little tour of pleasure. "to shorten what i have to say i will not dwell upon the details of our jaunt, but i fix myself, with you, at zermatt, where we stayed for three weeks. the attraction--what was it? the green valleys--the grandeur of the scenery? no. a woman. more correctly speaking, two women. young, lovely, inexperienced, innocent. daughters of a peasant, whose cottage door was always open to us, and who was by no means unwilling to receive small presents of money from liberal gentlemen like ourselves. again i slip details--the story becomes trite. we captivated the hearts of the simple peasant maidens, and amused ourselves with them. in me that was natural; it was my way. but in you this circumstance was something to be astonished at. for just as long as you remained at zermatt you were a transformed being. i don't think, until that time, i had ever heard you laugh heartily. well, suddenly you disappeared; getting up one morning, i found that my friend had deserted me. "it was shabby behaviour, at the best. however, it did not seriously trouble me; every man is his own master, and i think we were beginning to tire a little of each other. it was awkward, though, to be asked by one of our pretty peasant friends where my handsome friend had gone, and when he would return, and not be able to give a sensible answer. "this girl, who had been in your presence always bright and joyous and happy, grew sad and quiet and anxious-looking in your absence, and appeared to have a secret on her mind that was making her wretched. i stayed on at zermatt for another month, and then i bade good-bye to my sweetheart, promising to come again in a year. i kept my promise, but when i asked for her in zermatt i heard that she was dead, and that her sister and father had left the village, and had gone no one knew whither. "it will be as well for me here to remind you that during our stay in zermatt we gave no home address, and that no one knew where we came from or where we lived. so prudent were we that we acted as if we were ashamed of our names. "three years afterwards in another part of switzerland i met the woman to whom you had made love; she had lost her father, but was not without a companion. she had a little daughter--your child!" "a lie!" said the advocate, with difficulty controlling himself; "a monstrous fabrication!" "a solemn truth," replied vanbrugh, "verified by the mother's oath, and the certificate of birth. to dispute it will be a waste of breath and time. hear me to the end. the mother had but one anxiety--to forget you and your treachery, and to be able to live so that her shame should be concealed. to accomplish this it was necessary that she should live among strangers, and it was for this reason she had left her native village. she asked me about you, and i--well, i played your game. i told her you had gone to a distant part of the world, and that i knew nothing of you. we were still friends, you and i, although our friendship was cooling. when i next saw you i had it in my mind to relate the circumstance to you; but you will remember that just at that time you took it into your head to put an end to our intimacy. we had a few words, i think, and you were pleased to tell me that you disapproved of my habits of life, and that you intended we should henceforth be strangers. i was not in an amiable mood when i left you, and i resolved, on the first opportunity, to seek the woman you had brought to shame, and advise her to take such steps against you as would bring disgrace to your door. it would be paying you in your own coin, i thought. however, good fortune stood your friend at that time. my own difficulties or pleasures, or both combined, claimed my attention, and occupied me for many months, and when next i went to the village in which i had last seen your peasant sweetheart and your child, they were not to be found. i made inquiries, but could learn nothing of them, so i gave it up as a bad job, and forgot all about the matter. since then very many years have passed, and i sank and sank, and you rose and rose. we did not meet again; but i confess, when i used to read accounts of your triumphs and your rising fame, that i would not have neglected an opportunity to have done you an ill turn had it been in my power. i was at the lowest ebb, everything was against me, and i was wondering how i should manage to extricate myself from the desperate position into which bad luck had driven me, when, not many weeks since, i met in the streets of geneva two women. they were hawking nosegays, and the moment i set eyes upon the elder of these women i recognised in her your old sweetheart from zermatt. you appear to be faint. shall i pause a while before i continue?" "no," said the advocate, and he drank with feverish eagerness two glasses of wine; "go on to the end." "it was your sweetheart from zermatt, and no other. and the younger of these women, one of the loveliest creatures i ever beheld, was known as madeline the flower-girl." the advocate, with a sudden movement, turned his chair, so that his face was hidden from vanbrugh. "they were poor--and i was poor. if what i suspected, when i gazed at madeline, was correct, i saw not only an opportunity for revenge upon you, but a certainty of being able to obtain money from you. the secret to such a man as you, married to a young and beautiful woman, was worth a fair sum, which i resolved should be divided between pauline--that was the name adopted by the mother of your child--and myself. you cannot accuse me of a want of frankness. i discovered where they lived--i had secret speech with pauline. my suspicion was no longer a suspicion--it was a fact. madeline the flower-girl was your daughter." he paused, but the advocate made no movement, and did not speak. "how," continued vanbrugh, "to turn that fact to advantage? how, and in what way, to make it worth a sum sufficiently large to satisfy me? that was what now occupied my thoughts. madeline and her mother were even poorer than i supposed, and from pauline's lips did i hear how anxious she was to remove her daughter from the temptations by which she was surrounded. in dealing with you, i knew it was necessary to be well prepared. you are a powerful antagonist to cope with, and one must have sure cards in his hand to have even a chance of winning any game he is playing with such a man as yourself. pauline and i spoke frequently together, and gradually i unfolded to her the plan i had resolved upon. without disclosing your name i told her sufficiently to convince her that, by my aid, she might obtain a sum of money from the man who had wronged her which would enable her to place herself and her daughter in a safer position--a position in which a girl as beautiful as madeline would almost certainly meet with a lover of good social position whom she would marry and with whom she would lead a happy life. thus would she escape the snare into which she herself fell when she met you. this was the mother's dream. satisfied that i could guide her to this end, pauline signed an agreement, which is in my possession, by which she bound herself to pay me half the money she obtained from you in compensation for your wrong. only one thing was to remain untouched by her and me--a sum which i resolved to obtain from you as a marriage portion for your daughter. probably, under other circumstances, you would not have given me credit for so much consideration, but viewed in the light of the position in which you are placed, you may believe me. if you doubt it, i can show you the clause in black and white. this being settled between pauline and me, i told her who you were--how rich you were, how famous you had grown, and how that you had lately married a young and beautiful woman. the affairs of a man as eminent as yourself are public property, and the newspapers delight in recording every particular, be it ever so trivial, connected with the lives of men of your rank. it was then necessary to ascertain what proof we held that you were the father of madeline. our visit to zermatt could be proved--her oath and mine, in connection with dates, would suffice. then there would, in all likelihood, be living in zermatt men and women whose testimony would be valuable. the great point was the birth of the child and the date, and to my discomfiture i learnt that pauline had lost the certificate of her daughter's birth. but the record existed elsewhere, and it was to obtain a copy of this record, and to collect other evidence, that pauline left her daughter. her mission was a secret one, necessarily, and thus no person, not even madeline, had any knowledge of its purport. what, now, remains to be told? nothing that you do not know--except that when pauline left her daughter for a few weeks, it was arranged that she and i should meet in geneva on a certain date, to commence our plan of operations, and that i, having business elsewhere, was a couple of hundred miles away when gautran murdered your hapless child. i arrived in geneva on the last day of gautran's trial; and on that evening, as you came out of the court-house, i placed in your hands the letter asking you to give me an interview. i will say nothing of my feelings when i heard that you had successfully defended, and had set free, the murderer of your child. what i had to look after was myself and my own interest. and now you, who at the beginning of this interview rejected a renewal of the old friendship which existed between us, may probably inwardly acknowledge that had you accepted the hand i offered you, it is not i who would have been the gainer." again he paused, and again, neither by word or movement, did the advocate break the silence. "it will be as well," presently said vanbrugh, "to recapitulate what i have to sell. first, the fact that you, a man of spotless character--so believed--deliberately betrayed a simple innocent girl, and then deserted her. inconceivable, the world would say, in such a man, unless the proofs were incontestable. the proofs are incontestable. next, the birth of your child, and your brutal--pardon me, there is no other word to express it, and it is one which would be freely used--negligence to ascertain whether your conduct had brought open shame and ruin upon the girl you betrayed. next, the knowledge of the life of poverty and suffering led by the mother and the child, while you were in the possession of great wealth. next, the murder of your child by a man whose name is uttered with execration. next, your voluntary espousal of his cause, and your successful defence of a monster whom all men knew to be guilty of the foul crime. next, your knowledge, at the time you defended him, that he was guilty of the murder of your own child. next, in corroboration of this knowledge, the dying declaration of gautran, solemnly sworn to and signed by him. a strong hand. no stronger has ever been held by any man's enemy, and until you come to my terms, i am your enemy. if you refuse to purchase of me what i have to sell--the documents in my possession, and my sacred silence to the last day of my life upon the matters which affect you--and for such a sum as will make my future an easy one, i give you my word i will use my power against you, and will drag you down from the height upon which you stand. i cannot speak in more distinct terms. you can rescue me from poverty, i can rescue you from ignominy." the advocate turned his face to vanbrugh, who saw that, in the few minutes during which it had been hidden from his sight, it had assumed a hue of deadly whiteness. all the sternness had departed from it, and the cold, piercing eyes wavered as they looked first at vanbrugh, then at the objects in the study. it was as though the advocate were gazing, for the first time, upon the familiar things by which he was surrounded. strange to say, this change in him seemed to make him more human--seemed to declare, "stern and cold-hearted as i have appeared to the world, i am susceptible to tenderness." the mask had fallen from his face, and he stood now revealed--a man with human passions and human weaknesses, to whom a fatal sin in his younger days had brought a retribution as awful as it was ever the lot of a human being to suffer. there was something pitiable in this new presentment of a strong, earnest, self-confident nature, and even vanbrugh was touched by it. during the last half-hour the full force of the storm had burst over the house of white shadows. the rain poured down with terrific power, and the thunder shook the building to its foundations. the advocate listened with a singular and curious intentness to the terrible sounds, and when vanbrugh remarked, "a fearful night," he smiled in reply. but it was the smile of a man whose heart was tortured to the extreme limits of human endurance. once again he filled a glass with wine, and raised it to his mouth, but as the liquor touched his lips, he shuddered, and holding the glass upright in his hand, he turned it slowly over and poured it on the ground; then, with much gentleness, he replaced the glass upon the table. "what has become of the woman you speak of as pauline?" he asked. his very voice was changed. it was such as would proceed from one who had been prostrated by long and almost mortal sickness. "i do not know," replied vanbrugh. "i have neither seen nor heard from her since the day before she left her daughter." "say that i was disposed," said the advocate, speaking very slowly, and pausing occasionally, as though he was apprehensive that he would lose control of speech, "to purchase your silence, do you think i should be safe in the event of her appearing on the scene? would not her despair urge her to seek revenge upon the man who betrayed and deserted her, and who set her daughter's murderer free?" "it might be so--but at all events she would be ignorant of your knowledge of gautran's guilt. this danger at least would be averted. the secret is ours at present, and ours only." "true. you believe that i knew gautran to be guilty when i defended him?" "i am forced to believe it. explain, otherwise, why you permitted him to visit you secretly in the dead of night, and why you filled his pockets with gold." "it cannot be explained. yet what motive could i have had in setting him free?" "it is not for me to say. what i know, i know. i pretend to nothing further." "do you suppose i care for money?" as the advocate asked the question, he opened a drawer in the escritoire, and produced a roll of notes. "take them; they are yours. but i do not purchase your silence with them. i give the money to you as a gift." "and i thank you for it. but i must have more." "wait--wait. this story of yours has yet to be concluded." "is it my fancy," said vanbrugh, "or is it a real sound i hear? the ringing of a bell--and now, a beating at the gates without, and a man's voice calling loudly?" without hesitation, the advocate went from his study into the grounds. the fury of the storm made it difficult for him to keep his feet, but he succeeded in reaching the gate and opening it. a hand grasped his, and a man clung to him for support. the advocate could not see the face of his visitor, nor, although he heard a voice speaking to him, did the words of the answer fall upon his ears. staggering blindly through the grounds, they arrived at the door of the villa, and stumbled into the passage. there, by the aid of the rose lamp which hung in the hall, he distinguished the features of his visitor. it was father capel. "have you come to see me?" asked the advocate, "or are you seeking shelter from the storm?" "i have come to see you," replied father capel. "i hardly hoped to find you up, but perceived lights in your study windows, and they gave me confidence to make the attempt to speak with you. i have been beating at the gates for fully half an hour." he spoke in his usual gentle tones, and gazed at the advocate's white face with a look of kindly and pitying penetration. "you are wet to the skin," said the advocate. "i must find a change of clothing for you." "no, my son," said the priest; "i need none. it is not the storm without i dread--it is the storm within." as though desirous this remark should sink into the advocate's heart, he paused a few moments before he spoke again. "i fear this storm of nature will do much harm. trees are being uprooted and buildings thrown down. there is danger of a flood which may devastate the village, and bring misery to the poor. but there is a gracious god above us"--he looked up reverently--"and if a man's conscience is clear, all is well." "there is a significance in the words you utter," said the advocate, conducting the priest to his study, "which impresses me. your mission is an important one." "most important; it concerns the soul, not the body." "a friend of mine," said the advocate, pointing to vanbrugh, who was standing when they entered, "who has visited me to-night for the first time for many years, on a mission as grave as yours. it was he who heard your voice at the gates." father capel inclined his head to vanbrugh, who returned the courtesy. "i wish to confer with you privately," said the priest. "it will be best that we should be alone." "nay," said the advocate, "you may speak freely in his presence. i have but one secret from him and all men. i beg you to proceed." chapter iii pauline "i have no choice but to obey you," said father capel, "for time presses, and a life is hanging in the balance. i should have been here before had it not been that my duty called me most awfully and suddenly to a man who has been smitten to death by the hand of god. the man you defended--gautran, charged with the murder of an innocent girl--is dead. of him i may not speak at present. death-bed confessions are sacred, and apart from that, not even in the presence of your dearest friend can i say one further word concerning the sinner whose soul is now before its creator. i came to you from a dying woman, who is known by the name of pauline." both vanbrugh and the advocate started at the mention of the name. "fate is merciful," said the advocate in a low tone; "its blows are sharp and swift." "before i left her i promised to bring you to her tomorrow," continued the priest, "but providence, which directed me to gautran in his dying moments, impels me to break that promise. she may die before to-morrow, and she has that to say which vitally concerns you, and which you must hear, if she has strength enough to speak. i ask you to come with me to her without a moment's delay, through this storm, which has been sent as a visitation for human crime." "i am ready to accompany you," said the advocate. "and i," said vanbrugh. "no," said the priest, "only he and i. who you are i do not seek to know, but you cannot accompany us." "remain here," said the advocate to vanbrugh; "when i return i will hide nothing from you. now, father capel." it was not possible for them to engage in conversation. the roaring of the wind prevented a word from being heard. for mutual safety they clasped hands and proceeded on their way. they encountered many dangers, but escaped them. torrents of water poured down from the ranges--great branches snapped from the trees and fell across their path--the valleys were in places knee-deep in water--and occasionally they fancied they heard cries of human distress in the distance. if the priest had not been perfectly familiar with the locality, they would not have arrived at their destination, but he guided his companion through the storm, and they stood at length before the cottage in which pauline lay. father capel lifted the latch, and pulled the advocate after him into the room. there were but two apartments in the cottage. pauline lay in the room at the back. in a corner of the room in which they found themselves a man lay asleep; his wife was sitting in a chair, watching and waiting. she rose wearily as the priest and the advocate entered. "i am glad you have come, father," she said, "she has been very restless, and once she gave a shriek, like a death-shriek, which curdled my blood. she woke and frightened my child." she pointed to a baby-girl, scarcely eighteen months old, who was lying by her father with her eyes wide open. the child, startled by the entrance of strangers, ran to her mother, who took her on her lap, saying petulantly, "there, there--be quiet. the gentlemen won't hurt you." "is pauline awake now?" asked father capel. the woman went to the inner room and returned. "she is sleeping," she said, "and is very quiet." father capel beckoned to the advocate, who followed him to the bedside of the dying woman. she lay so still that the priest lowered his head to hers to ascertain whether she was breathing. "life appears to be ebbing away," he whispered to the advocate; "she may die in her sleep." quiet as she was, there was no peace in her face; an expression of exquisite suffering rested on it. the sign of suffering, denoting how sorely her heart had been wrung, caused the advocate's lips to quiver. "it is i who have brought her to this," he thought. "but for me she would not be lying in a dying state before me." he was tortured not only by remorse, but by a terror of himself. notwithstanding that so many years had passed since he last gazed upon her, she was not so much changed that he did not recognise in her the blooming peasant girl of zermatt. since then he had won honour and renown and the admiration and esteem of men; the best that life could offer was his, or had been his until the fatal day upon which he resolved to undertake the defence of gautran. and now--how stood the account? he was the accomplice of the murderer of his own child--the mother of his child was dying in suffering--his wife was false to him--his one friend had betrayed him. the monument of greatness he had raised had crumbled away, and in a very little while the world would know him for what he was. his bitterest enemy could not have held him in deeper despisal than he held himself. "you recognise her?" said the priest. "yes." "and her child, madeline, was yours?" "i am fain to believe it," said the advocate; "but the proof is not too clear." "the proof is there," said the priest, pointing to pauline; "she has sworn it. do you think--knowing that death's door is open for her to enter--knowing that her child, the only being she loved on earth, is waiting for her in the eternal land--that she would, by swearing falsely, and with no end in view that could possibly benefit herself, imperil the salvation of her soul? it is opposed to human reason." "it is. i am forced to believe what i would give my life to know was false." "unhappy man! unhappy man!" said the priest, sinking--on his knees. "i will pray for you, and for the woman whose life you blighted." the advocate did not join the priest in prayer. his stern sense of justice restrained him. the punishment he had brought upon himself he would bear as best he might, and he would not inflict upon himself the shameful humiliation of striving to believe that, by prayers and tears, he could suddenly atone for a crime as terrible as that of which he was guilty. "father capel," he said, when the priest rose from his knees, "from what you have said, i gather that the man gautran made confession to you before he died. i do not seek to know what that confession was, but with absolute certainty i can divine its nature. the man you saw in my study brought to me gautran's dying declaration, signed by gautran himself, which charges me with a crime so horrible that, were i guilty of it, laden as i am with the consequences of a sin which i do not repudiate, i should deserve the worst punishment. are you aware of the existence of this document?" "i hear of its existence now for the first time," replied the priest. "when i left the bedside of this unhappy woman, and while i was wending my way home through the storm, i heard cries and screams for help on a hill near the house of white shadows, as though two men were engaged in a deadly struggle. i proceeded in the direction of the conflict, and discovered only gautran, who had been crushed to the earth by the falling of a tree which had been split by the storm. he admitted that he and another man were fighting, and that the design was murder. i made search, both then and afterwards, for the other man, but did not succeed in finding him. i left gautran for the purpose of obtaining assistance to extricate him, for the tree had fallen across his body, and he could not move. when i returned he was dead, and some gold which he had asked me to take from his pocket was gone; an indication that, during my absence, human hands had been busy about him. if gautran's dying declaration be authentic, it must have been obtained while i was away to seek for assistance." "i can piece the circumstances," said the advocate. "the man you saw in my study was the man who was engaged in the struggle with gautran. it was he who obtained the confession, and he who stole the gold. in that confession i am charged with undertaking the defence of gautran with the knowledge that he was guilty. it is not true. when i defended him i believed him to be innocent; and if he made a similar declaration to you, he has gone to his account with a black lie upon his soul. that will not clear me, i know, and i do not mention it to you for the purpose of exciting your pity for me. it is simply because it is just that you should hear my denial of the charge; and it is also just that you should hear something more. up to the hour of gautran's acquittal i believed him, degraded and vile as he was, to be innocent of the murder; but that night, as i was walking to the house of white shadows, i met gautran, who, in the darkness, supposing me to be a stranger, would have robbed me, and probably taken my life. i made myself known to him, and he, overcome with terror at the imaginary shadow of his victim which his remorse and ignorance had conjured up, voluntarily confessed to me that he was guilty. my error--call it by what strange name you will--dated from that moment. knowing that the public voice was against me, i had not the honesty to take the right course. but if i," he added, with a gloomy recollection of his wife and friend, "had not by my own act rendered valueless the fruits of a life of earnest endeavour, it would have been done for me by those in whom i placed a sacred trust." for several hours father capel and the advocate remained by the bedside of pauline, who lay unconscious, as if indeed, as the priest had said, life was ebbing away in her sleep. the storm continued and increased in intensity, and had it not been that the little hut which sheltered them was protected by the position in which it stood, it would have been swept away by the wind. from time to time the peasant gave them particulars of the devastation created by the floods, which were rushing in torrents from every hill, but their duty chained them to the bedside of pauline. an hour before noon she opened her eyes, and they rested upon the face of the advocate. "you have come," she sighed. he knelt by the bed, and addressed her, but it was with difficulty he caught the words she spoke. death was very near. "was madeline my daughter?" he asked. "yes," answered pauline, "as i am about to appear before my god!" the effort exhausted her, and she lay still for many minutes. then her hand feebly sought her pillow, and the advocate, perceiving that she wished to obtain something from under it, searched and found a small packet. he knew immediately, when she motioned that she desired him to retain it, that it contained the certificate of his daughter's birth. the priest prayed audibly for the departing soul. pauline's lips moved; the advocate placed his ear close. she breathed the words: "we shall meet again soon! pray for forgiveness!" then death claimed her, and her earthly sorrows were ended. chapter iv onward--to death late in the afternoon the advocate was stumbling, almost blindly, through the tempest towards the house of white shadows. father capel had striven in vain to dissuade him from making the attempt to reach the villa. "there is safety only in the sheltered heights," said the priest. "by this time the valleys are submerged, and the dwellings therein are being swept away. ah me--ah me! how many of my poor are ruined; how many dead! not in my experience have i seen a storm as terrible as this. it is sent as a warning and a punishment. only the strongest houses in the villages that lie in the valleys will be able to withstand its fury. be persuaded, and remain here until its force is spent." he spoke to one who was deaf to reason. it seemed to the advocate as though the end of his life had come, as though his hold upon the world might at any moment be sapped; but while he yet lived there was before him a task which it was incumbent upon him to perform. it was imperative that he should have speech with his wife and christian almer. "i have work to do," he said to the priest, "and it must be done to-day." an unaccustomed note in his voice caused father capel to regard him with even a more serious attention than he had hitherto bestowed upon him. "there are men," said the priest, "who, when sudden misfortune overtakes them, adopt a desperate expedient to put an end to all worldly trouble, and thus add sin to sin." "have no fear for me," said the advocate. "i am not contemplating suicide. what fate has in store for me i will meet without repining. you caution me against the storm, yet i perceive you yourself are preparing to face it." "i go to my duty," said the priest. "and i to mine," rejoined the advocate. thus they parted, each going his separate way. the advocate had not calculated the difficulties he was to encounter; his progress was slow, and he had to make wide detours on the road, and frequently to retrace his steps for a considerable distance, in order to escape being swept to death by the floods. from the ranges all around the village in which the house of white shadows was situated the water was pouring in torrents, which swirled furiously through the lower heights, carrying almost certain destruction to those who had not already availed themselves of the chances of escape. terrific as was the tempest, he took no heed of it. it was not the storm of nature, but the storm within his soul which absorbed him. he met villagers on the road flying for safety. with terror-struck movements they hurried past, men, women, and children, uttering cries of alarm at the visitation. now and then one and another called upon him to turn back. "if you proceed," they said, "you will be engulfed in the rapids. turn back if you wish to live." he did not answer them, but doggedly pursued his way. "my punishment has come," he thought. "i have no wish to live, nor do i desire to outlast this day." once only, of his own prompting, did he pause. a woman, with little children clinging to her, passed him, sobbing bitterly. his eyes happening to light upon her face, he saw in it some likeness to the peasant girl whom in years gone by he had betrayed. the likeness might or might not have been there, but it existed certainly in his fancy. he stopped and questioned her, and learned that she had been utterly ruined by the storm, her cottage destroyed, her small savings lost, and all her hopes blasted. he emptied his pockets of money, and gave her what valuables he had about him. "sell them," he said; "they will help to purchase you a new home." she called down blessings on his head. "if she knew me for what i am," he muttered as he left her, "she would curse me." on and on he struggled and seemed to make no progress. the afternoon was waning, and the clouds were growing blacker and thicker, when he saw a man staggering towards him. he was about to put a question to him respecting the locality of the house of white shadows--his course had been so devious that he scarcely knew in what direction it lay--when a closer approach to the man showed him to be no other than john vanbrugh. "ah!" cried vanbrugh, seizing the advocate's arm, and thus arresting his steps, "i feared we had lost you. a fine time i have had of it down in your villa yonder! had it not been for the storm, i should have been bundled before a magistrate on a charge of interloping; but everybody had enough to do to look after himself. it was a case of the devil take the hindmost. a scurvy trick, though, of yours, to desert a comrade; still, for my sake, i am glad to see you in the land of the living." "have you come straight from the villa?" asked the advocate. "straight!" cried vanbrugh with a derisive laugh. "i defy the soberest saint to walk straight for fifty yards in such a hurricane. three bottles of wine would not make me so unsteady as this cursed wind--enough to stop one's breath for good or ill. what! you are not going on?" "i am. what should hinder me?" "some small love of life--a trivial but human sentiment. there is no one in your house. it is by this time deserted by all but the rats." "my wife----" "was the last to leave, with a friend of yours, christian almer by name. he and i had some words together. let me tell you. i happened to drop a remark concerning you which he considered disparaging, and had i been guilty of all the cardinal sins he could not have been more angered. a true friend--but probably he does not know what i know. well for you that i did not enlighten him. you will meet them a little lower down on the road, but i advise you not to go too far. the valleys are rivers, carrying everything, headlong, in their course." "there was an old lawyer in the house. do you know what has become of him?" "i saw him perched on the back of a fool, and by their side a girl with the sweetest face, and an old woman i should take to be her grandmother." "farewell," said the advocate, wrenching himself free. "should we meet again i will pay you for your friendly services." "well said," replied vanbrugh. "i am content. no man ever knew you to be false to your word. a woman perhaps--but that lies in the past. ah, what a storm! it is as though the end of the world had come." "to those whose minutes are numbered," said the advocate between his set teeth, "the end of the world has come. farewell once more." "farewell then," cried vanbrugh, proceeding onward. "for my sake be careful of yourself. if this be not the second deluge i will seek you to-morrow." "for me," muttered the advocate, as he left vanbrugh, "there may be no to-morrow." bearing in mind the words of vanbrugh that he would meet his wife and christian almer lower down on the road, he looked out for them. he saw no trace of them, and presently he began to blunder in his course; he searched in vain for a familiar landmark, and he knew not in which direction the house of white shadows was situated. evening was fast approaching when he heard himself hailed by loud shouts. the sounds proceeded from a strongly-built stone hut, protected on three sides from wind and rain, and so placed that the water from the ranges rolled past without injuring it. standing within the doorway was fritz the fool. thinking his wife might have sought shelter there, the advocate made his way to it, and found therein assembled, in addition to fritz, old pierre lamont, mother denise and her husband martin, and their pretty granddaughter dionetta. "welcome, comrade, welcome," cried pierre lamont. "it is pleasant to see a familiar face. we were compelled to fly from the villa, and fritz here conveyed us here to this hospitable hut, where we shall be compelled to stay till the storm ceases. where is 'your fair lady?" "it is a question i would ask of you," said the advocate. "she is not here, then?" "no. she left the villa before we did, in the company of your friend"--the slight involuntary accent he placed upon the word caused the advocate to start as though he had received a blow--"christian almer. they have doubtless found another shelter as secure as this. we wished them to stop for us, but they preferred not to wait. fritz had a hard job of it carrying me to this hut, which he claims as his own, and which is stored with provisions sufficient for a month's siege. i have robbed the old house of its servants--dionetta here, for whom" (he dropped his voice) "the fool has a fancy, and her grandmother, whom i shall pension off, and fritz himself--an invaluable fool. fritz, open a bottle of wine; do the honours of your mansion. the advocate is exhausted." the advocate did not refuse the wine; he felt its need to sustain his strength for the work he had yet to perform. he glanced round the walls. "is there an inner room?" he asked. "yes; there is the door." "may i crave privacy for a few minutes?" pierre lamont waved his hand, and the advocate walked to the inner room, and closed the door upon himself. "what has come over this man?" mused pierre lamont. "there is in his face, since yesterday, such a change as it is rare in life's experience to see. it is not produced by fatigue. has he made discovery of his wife's faithlessness and his friend's treachery. and should i not behave honestly to him, and make him as wise as i am on events within my knowledge? what use? what use? but at least he shall know that the secret of gautran's guilt is not his alone." in the meantime the advocate was taking advantage of the solitude for which he had been yearning since he left the bedside of pauline. it was not until this moment that he could find an opportunity to examine the packet she had given him. it contained what he imagined--the certificate of the birth of his child. he read it and mentally took note of the date and also of certain words written on the back, in confirmation of the story related to him by john vanbrugh. no room was there for doubt. madeline was his child, and by his means her murderer had escaped from justice. "a just heaven smote him down," he thought; "so should retribution fall upon me. i am partner in his crime. upon my soul lies guilt heavier than his." within the certificate of birth was a smaller packet, which he had laid aside. he took it up now, and removed the paper covering. it was the portrait of his daughter, madeline the flower-girl. the picture was that of a young girl just budding into womanhood--a girl whose laughing mouth and sparkling eyes conveyed to his heart so keen a torture that he gave utterance to a groan, and covered his eyes with his hand to shut out the reproach. but in the darkness he saw a vision which sent violent shudders through him--such a vision as had pursued gautran in the lonely woods, as he had seen in the waving of branch and leaf, as had hovered over him in his prison cell, as he stood by his side in the courthouse during the trial from which he emerged a free man. bitterly was this man, who had reached a height so lofty that it seemed as if calumny could not touch him, bitterly was he expiating the error of his youth. he folded the portrait of his child within the certificate of birth, and replaced them in his pocket. then, with an effort, he succeeded in summoning some kind of composure to his features, and the next minute he rejoined pierre lamont. "you will remain with me," said the old lawyer; "it will be best." "nay," responded the advocate, "a plain duty lies before me. i must seek my wife." "she herself is doubtless in a place of shelter," said pierre lamont, "and while this tempest is raging, devastating the land in every direction, you can scarcely hope to find her." "i shall find her," said the advocate in a tone of conviction. "stern fate, which has dogged my steps since i arrived in geneva, and brought me to a pass which, were you acquainted with the details, would appear incredible to you, will conduct me to her side. were i otherwise convinced i must not shrink from my duty." "outside these walls," urged pierre lamont, "death stares you in the face." "there are worse things than death," said the advocate, with an air of gloomy and invincible resolution. "useless to argue with such a man as yourself," said pierre lamont. he turned to fritz. "go, you and your friends, into the inner room for a while. i wish to speak in private with my friend." "one moment," said the advocate to the fool as he was preparing to obey pierre lamont. "you were the last to leave the house of white shadows." "we were the last humans," replied fritz. "in what condition was it at the time?" "in a most perilous condition. the waters were rising around the walls. it had, i should say, not twelve hours to live." "to live!" echoed pierre lamont, striving to impart lightness to his voice, and signally failing. "how do you apply that, fritz?" "trees live!" replied fritz, "and their life goes with the houses they help to build. if the walls of the old house we have run from could talk, mysteries would be brought to light." "you have been my wife's maid," said the advocate to dionetta, as she was about to pass him. dionetta curtsied. "has she discharged you?" dionetta cast a nervous glance at pierre lamont, and another at mother denise. the old grandmother answered for her. "i thought it as well," said mother denise, "in all respect and humility, that so simple a child as dionetta should be kept to her simple life. my lady was good enough to give dionetta a pair of diamond earrings and a diamond finger-ring, which we have left behind us." fritz made a grimace. "these things are not fit for poor peasants, and the pleasure they convey is a dangerous pleasure." "you are not favourably disposed towards my wife," said the advocate. mother denise was silent. "but you are right in what you say. diamonds are not fit gifts for simple maids. i wish you well, you and your grandchild. it might have been----" the thought of his own child, of the same age as dionetta, and as beautiful, crossed his mind. he brushed his hand across his eyes, and when he looked round the room again, he and pierre lamont were alone. "a fool of fools," said pierre lamont, looking after fritz. "if he and the pretty dionetta wed--it will be a suitable match for beauty to mate with folly--he will be father to a family of fools who may, in their way, be wiser in their generation than you and i. your decision is irrevocable?" "it is irrevocable." "if you do not find your wife you will endeavour to return to us?" "i shall find her." "and then?" asked pierre lamont with a singular puckering of his brows. "and then?" echoed the advocate absently, and added: "who can tell what may happen from one hour to another?" "how much does he know?" thought pierre lamont; "or are his suspicions but just aroused? there is a weight upon his soul which taxes all his strength. it is grand to see a strong man suffer as he is suffering. is there a mystery in his trouble with which i am not acquainted? his wife--i know about her. gautran--i know about him. but the stranger he left in his study in the middle of the night--a broken-down gentleman--vagabond, with a spice of wickedness in him--who is he, and what was his mission? of one thing i must satisfy myself before i am assured that he is worthy of my compassion." then he spoke aloud. "you said just now there are worse things than death." "aye." "disgrace?" "in a certain form that may be borne, and life yet be worth the having." "good. dishonour?" "it matters little," said the advocate; "but were the time not precious, i should be curious to learn why you desire to get at the heart of my secrets." "the argument would be too long," said pierre lamont with earnestness, "but i can justify myself. there are worse things than death. pardon me--an older man than yourself, and one who is well disposed towards you--for asking you bluntly whether such things have come to you?" "they have. you can read the signs in my face." "but if you have a secret, the revealing of which would be hurtful to you, cannot the mischief be averted? as far as i can expect you have been frank with me. frankness for frankness. say that the secret refers to gautran and to your defence of him?" "i have been living in a fool's paradise," said the advocate with a scornful smile. "to whom is this known?" "to fritz the fool, and to me, through him. he saw gautran in your study after the trial----" "have i been watched?" "the discovery was accidental. he was moved by some love-verses i read to him, and becoming sentimental, he dallied outside dionetta's window, after the manner of foolish lovers. then the lights of your study window attracted him, and he peeped through. when gautran left the villa, fritz followed him, and heard him in his terrified soliloquies proclaim his guilt. were this to go out to the world, it would, according to its fashion, construe it in a manner which might be fatal to you. but gautran is dead, and i can be silent, and can put a lock on fritz's tongue--for in my soul i believe you were not aware the wretch was guilty when you defended him." "i thank you. i believed him to be innocent." "why, then, my mind is easy. friend, shake hands." he held the advocate's hand in his thin fingers, and with something of wistfulness, said: "i would give a year of my life if i could prevail upon you to remain with us." "you cannot prevail upon me. so much being said between us, more is necessary. the avowal of my ignorance of gautran's guilt at the time i defended him--i learnt it after the trial, mind you--will not avail me. a written confession,--sworn upon his dying oath, exists, which accuses me of that which the world will be ready to believe. strange to say, this is my lightest trouble. there are others of graver moment which more vitally concern me--unknown to you, unless, indeed, you possess a wizard's art of divination." "comrade," said pierre lamont, slowly and with emphasis, "there breathes not in the world a woman worth the breaking of a man's heart." "stop!" cried the advocate in a voice of agony. in silence he and pierre lamont gazed upon each other, and in the old lawyer's face the advocate saw that his wife's faithlessness and his friend's treachery were known. "enough," he said; "there is for me no deeper shame, no deeper dishonour." and he turned abruptly from pierre lamont, and left the hut staggering like a drunken man. "fritz, fritz!" cried pierre lamont. "come quickly!" fritz instantly made his appearance from the inner room. "look you, fritz," said the old lawyer, in hurried, excited tones, "the advocate has gone upon his mad errand--has gone alone. after him at once, and if you can save him from the consequences of his desperate resolve--if you can advise, assist him, do so for my sake. quick, fritz, quick!" "master lamont," said fritz, "are you asking me to do a man's work?' "yes, fritz--you can do no more." "well and good. as far as a man dare go, i will go; but if a madman persists in rushing upon certain death, it will not help him for a fool to follow his example. i am fond of life, master lamont, doubly fond of it just now, for reasons." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the room which contained dionetta. "but i will do what can be done. you may depend upon me." he was gone at least two hours, and when he returned he was exhausted and panting for breath. "i was never born to be drowned," he said, and he threw himself into a chair, and sat there, gasping. "well, fritz, well?" cried pierre lamont. "wait till i get my breath. i followed this great advocate as you desired, and for some time, so deep was he in his dreams, he did not know i was with him. but once, when he was waist high in water--not that he cared, it was as though he was inviting death--and i, who was acquainted with the road through which he was wading, pulled him suddenly back and so saved his life, he turned upon me savagely, and demanded who i was. he recognised me the moment he spoke the words--i will say this of him, that in the presence of another man he never loses his self-possession, and that, in my belief he would be a match for death, if it presented itself to him in a visible, palpable shape. 'ah,' said he, 'you are fritz the fool; why do you dog me?' 'i do not dog you,' i replied; 'master lamont bade me guide and assist you, if you needed guidance and assistance. he is the only man for whom i would risk my life.' 'honesty is a rare virtue,' he said; 'keep with me, then, for just as long as you think yourself to be safe. you saw my wife and mr. almer leave the house of white shadows. is it likely they took this road?' 'they could take no other, and live,' i said, 'but there is no trace of them. they must have turned back to the villa.' 'could they reach it, do you think?' he asked. 'a brave man can do wonders,' i replied; 'some hours ago they may have reached it; but they could not stop in the lower rooms, which even at that time must have been below water-mark. i will not answer for the upper part of the house at this moment, and before morning it will be swept away.' 'guide me as far on the road as you care to accompany me,' said he, 'and when you leave me point me out the way i should go.' i did so, and we encountered dangers, and but for me he would not have been alive when i left him. we came to the bridge which spans the ravine of pines, two miles this side of the house of white shadows. a great part of it had been torn away, and down below a torrent was rushing fierce enough to beat the life out of any living being, human or animal. 'there is no other way but this,' i said, 'to the house of white shadows. i shall not cross the bridge.' he said no word, but struggled on to the bridge, which--all that was left of it--consisted of three slender trunks half hanging over the ravine. it was nothing short of a miracle that he got across; no sooner was he upon the other side than the remaining portion of the bridge fell into the ravine. he waved his hand to me, and i soon lost sight of him in the darkness. i stumbled here as well as i could. master lamont, i never want another journey such as that; had not the saints watched over me i should not be here to tell the tale. this is the blackest night in my remembrance." "do you think he can escape, fritz?" asked pierre lamont. "his life is not worth a straw," replied fritz. "look you here, master lamont. if i were to see him tomorrow, or any other day, alive, i should know that he is in league with the evil one. no human power can save him." "peace be with him," said pierre lamont. "a great man is lost to us--a noble mind has gone." "master lamont," said fritz sententiously, "there is such a thing as being too clever. better to be a simpleton than to be over-wise or over-confident. i intend to remain a fool to the end of my days. i have no pity for such a man. who climbs must risk the fall. not rocky peaks, but level ground, with bits of soft moss, for fritz the fool." he slept well and soundly, but pierre lamont tossed about the whole of the night, thinking with sadness and regret upon the downfall of the advocate. chapter v the doom of the house of white shadows an unerring instinct guided him; a superhuman power possessed him; and at midnight--though he could keep no count of time--he found himself within the gates of the house of white shadows. upon his lips, contracted and spasmodic with pain and suffering, appeared a pitiable smile as he gazed at a window on the upper floor, and saw a light. it was reflected from the window of christian almer's room. "there they are," he muttered; "i shall not die unavenged." the water was breast high. he battled through it, and reached the open door of the villa. slowly he ascended the stairs until he arrived at the landing above. he listened at christian almer's door, but heard no sound. enraged at the thought that they might, after all, have escaped him, he dashed into the room, and called out the names of his wife and friend. silence answered him. he staggered towards the lamp, which stood on a table covered with a shade which threw the light downward. before the lamp was a sheet of paper, with writing upon it, and bending over it the advocate saw that it was addressed to him, and was intended for his perusal. a steadier survey of the room brought its revelations. at the extreme end of the apartment lay a woman, still and motionless. he crept towards her, knelt by her, and lowered his face to hers. it was his wife, cold and dead! a rosy tint was in her cheeks; a smile was on her lips; her death had brought no suffering with it. "fair and false," he said. "beauty is a sinful possession." her clothes were wet, and he knew that she had been drowned. then, turning, he saw what had before escaped his notice--the body of christian almer, lying near the table. he put his ear to almer's heart and felt a slight beating. "he can wait," muttered the advocate. "i will first read what he has written." he was about to sit at the table when he heard a surging sound without. he stepped into the passage, and saw the waters swaying beneath him. "it is well," he thought. "in a little while all will be over for those who have sinned." this reflection softened him somewhat toward those who lay within the room, and by whom he believed himself to have been wronged. was he not himself the greatest sinner in that fatal house? he returned to the table and read what christian almer had written. "edward: "i pray that these words may reach your eyes. above all things on earth have i valued your friendship, and my heart is wrung with anguish by the reproach that i have not been worthy of it. last night, when your wife and i parted, i knew that you had discovered the weak and treacherous part i have played towards you, for as i turned towards my room--at that very moment, looking downward, i saw you below. i did not dare to come to you--i did not dare to show my face to the man i had wronged. it was my intention to fly this morning from your presence and hers, and never to see you more; and also to write to you the words to which, by the memory of all that i hold sacred, i now solemnly swear--that the wrong i have done you is compassed by sentiment. i do not seek to excuse myself; i know that treachery in thought is as base between you and me, as treachery in act. yet in all humbleness i implore you to endeavour to find some palliation, though but the slightest, of my conduct in the reflection that sometimes in the strongest men--even in such a man as yourself, whose mind and life are most pure and noble--error cannot be avoided. we are hurried into wrong by subtle forces which wither one's earnest endeavours to step in the right path. thus it has been with me. if you will recall certain words which were spoken in our conversation at midnight in the room in which this is written, you will understand what was meant when i said that i flew to the mountains to rid myself, by a happy chance, of a terror which possessed me. you who have never erred, you who have never sinned, may not be able to find it in your heart to forgive me. if it be so, i bow my head to your judgment--which is just, as in all your actions you are known to be. but if you cannot forgive me, i entreat you to pity me. "you were not in the house to-day when we endeavoured to escape to a place of shelter in which we should be protected from this terrible inundation. we did not succeed--we were beaten back; and being engulfed in a sudden rush of waters, i could not save your wife. the utmost i could do was to bear her lifeless body back to this fatal house. it was i who should have died, not she; but my last moments are approaching. think kindly of her if you can. "christian almer." had he not been absorbed, not only in the last words written by christian almer, but by the reflections which they engendered, the advocate would have known that the floods were increasing in volume, and that, in the short time he had been in the house, the waters had risen several feet. but he was living an inner life--a life in which the spiritual part of himself was dominant. he stepped to the body of his wife and said: "poor child! mine the error." then he knelt by the side of christian almer, and raised him in his arms. aroused to consciousness by the action, almer opened his eyes. they rested upon the advocate's face vacantly, but presently they dilated in terror. "be not afraid," said the advocate, "i have read what you have written. i know all." "i am very weak," murmured christian almer. "do not torture me; say that you pity me." "i pity and forgive you, christian," replied the advocate in a very gentle voice. "thank god! thank god!" said almer, and closed his eyes, from which the warm tears gushed. "god be merciful to sinners!" murmured the advocate. when daylight broke, the house of white shadows, and all that it contained, had been swept from the face of the earth. a bare waste was all that remained to mark the record of human love and human ambition. the useless bugbreeders by james stamers to the space council, asteroid was just another roadblock in the way of interplanetary traffic. but to the useless bugbreeders it was home! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the previous case was a weeper, and he lost. so the space zoning commissioners were damp and irritable before i opened pleadings for my client. i tried not to squelch as i approached the bench. "not the flammables again, mr. jones?" the fat commissioner asked nastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief. "this was last week, your honor." the thin dark commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of the bench nearest the witness seat. "indeed it was, mr. jones." the middle commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the court ceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head. "now let me see," he intoned. "correct me if i err, mr. jones, but i seem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacular aliens. including, in the past six months alone, the drillers, whirling tombs, fragile glasses, erupters, vibrational men, transparent women--and of course let us not forget the flammables." "i assure your honor, my present clients will be found to be sober, hardworking, desirable members of the galactic community, seeking only to live on their own asteroid in peace under a democratic system, which...." "thank you, mr. jones. shall we proceed?" "and perhaps," added the fat commissioner, "you may be good enough to leave us with most of our courtroom intact on this occasion." the thin commissioner sighed and shuffled his papers. "you appear, mr. jones, to contest a space council ruling for the elimination of asteroid four thousand seven hundred and twenty-two on the grounds, which you allege, that it is a peaceful dwelling of an adult and responsible alien race." "yes, your honor." "then let us see your adult, um, bugbreeder." i shuffled uncomfortably and splashed the court stenographer who gave me a dirty look. "a space tramp's name given in the early days of space, your honor. more properly, my clients are the selective culturists of bacteria and lesser life." the fat commissioner sniffed. "bugbreeders will do," he said. "produce one." my client hopped off the table and ran nimbly up to the witness seat. he sat there like a small green snowball with large and pointed ears. "happy, happy to be here, i'm sure," he said. fortunately he had a hand to raise and looked reasonably humanoid as he was sworn in. the caterpillar and semi-jelly cultures make a less favorable first impression, and at this point the driller had gone excitedly through the floor. "you are a representative member of your race?" i asked formally. "oh, yus. much." "and you reside on asteroid four thousand seven hundred and twenty-two, the permanent dwelling of your race?" "oh, yus. home." "and although your home presents certain technical difficulties for interplanetary vehicles on the spacerun to the greater planets, you maintain it should be preserved because of your contribution to the culture of the galactic community?" i asked. "oh, yus." "does he understand a word you're saying, mr. jones?" asked the bald commissioner. "oh, yus. not much," said my client cheerfully. "hurrmph," i said, and coughed. "perhaps i may assist," suggested the thin commissioner, with a nasty look at me. "what exactly does your race do?" "breed bugs, i'm sure. am head bacteriophysicist name of lood. am good scientist." "and what exactly do you do with these bugs you raise?" "most everything." * * * * * "your honors," i interrupted. "at this point i propose a few simple demonstrations of what mr. lood and his people can do." "may i inquire if either of my learned brethren know any way in which we can charge mr. jones with rebuilding costs, if necessary?" asked the bald commissioner. "your honors, i assure you...." "proceed at your peril, mr. jones." i walked over to the exhibit table and pointed to a row of jars. "exhibits a through g, your honors. samples of food and beverages produced by my clients without raw materials and from the expert culture of bacteria." i held up a jar full of mauve fungus. it was the most attractive example. "i would hardly call feeding on funguses a sign of a responsible humanoid race, mr. jones." "perhaps your honor will recall the part played by bacteria in making milk, cheese, wine, beer, bread." the commissioners looked at each other and nodded reluctantly. so i passed the jars up to them, secure in the knowledge they had been tested by the alien foods bureau. i watched the commissioners unscrew the lids and taste the contents somewhat hesitantly. "not bad," confessed the fat commissioner eventually. "quite palatable." "of course we already have honey and similar foodstuffs, mr. jones." "naturally, your honor. but mr. lood's race can survive without extraplanetary aid. provided they have sunshine and water, they can breed their spores and bacteria with no other resources." "you mean," said the thin commissioner with a dark leer, "that almost any sunny planet would do for them?" somewhere along the line my point seemed to have been swept away, so i added hurriedly: "i offer this evidence purely to show the high degree of civilization of my clients' culture, as cause why they should not be deprived of their native land." "oh, yus," my client agreed. "mr. lood," intoned the bald commissioner, "to stay on your present asteroid you will have to prove that your race offers something that cannot be found elsewhere in the galactic community. now have these funguses of yours any special medicinal values, for example?" "please?" "can you cure diseases with them?" "oh, no." "ah," said the thin and fat commissioners together. "proceed, mr. jones." * * * * * that put lood somewhere back behind the twentieth-century discoverers of penicillin and the myecins, and even back behind the pioneer pasteur. five hundred years back, in fact. "yes. well. let's see how my clients handle housing, your honors. i think you'll find this quite revolutionary. mr. lood?" lood hopped off the witness seat and trotted up to the long table normally reserved for attorneys. lately, i have found my professional colleagues strangely reluctant to stay in court when i have a case, so lood had the entire table to himself. he pulled a small jar out from under the table and spread a pile of dust on the tabletop. then he unscrewed the jar and gently poured nothing out of it onto the dust. nothing visible, that is. but i assumed it was teeming with viruses and such. "while mr. lood gets this started, your honors," i said, hoping the viruses or whatever were not fatal to humans, "may i submit the usefulness of fungus foods for space-travel and for pioneers on inhospitable planets?" "are we having difficulties with general food-concentrates, the travelers capsule combine and the other ten thousand concerns in this line, mr. jones?" the bald commissioner asked quietly. you can't say i didn't try. i shut up and watched lood fuss with the dust on the table. it started moving as if it were bubbling and lood stood back. slowly, the dust on the table formed itself into a brick, a long eight by six by three inch brick. lood smiled happily. "and here, your honors," i said triumphantly, "here is automatic housing." "one brick does not make a house, mr. jones." "if your honors will just watch...." the brick slowly elongated and split into two perfect bricks, lying on the table end to end. "mass colony action of bacteria," said lood wisely. "oh, yus." the two bricks each split into two further bricks. these divided and multiplied themselves while we watched, out to the end of the table. "i would like your honors to observe the way these bricks overcome natural hazards," i said, getting into my stride. i pointed to the bricks drooping over the end of the table. a brick fell onto the floor at each end, then built itself up until it joined the line of bricks on the table, forming a perfect arch at each angle. the line on the table was now three bricks high, so i walked round and stood behind the wall. "you see, your honors, suppose i need a house. i merely combine these suitable microbes and dust. and there we are, a house." i had to stand on tiptoe to finish the sentence because of the mathematics involved. every brick was doubling and redoubling itself in just under a minute. and the wall was getting quite impressively high. "mr. jones," called one of the commissioners. it was not until i tried to walk round the end of the wall that i found i had been out-flanked. i ran to the nearest wall of the courtroom but the bricks got there first. i heard a rending noise that suggested the other end had gone clean through the opposite wall. as a matter of fact, i saw the astonished face of an attorney entering the main door of the justice building as the wall advanced towards him. then he saw me. he grinned and waved. i was in no mood to wave back. "mr. lood, mr. lood," i yelled. "can you hear me?" "wall too thick, yus," came a muffled answer. and indeed it was. i had not noticed it, but the wall was expanding sideways as well. i was calculating the approximate thickness when it went up and through the roof of the courtroom. fortunately it was a nice sunny day. * * * * * however, this was no time to sunbathe and i dashed towards the hole in the courtroom wall, where lood's wall had gone through. i just got out before a buttress, coming out the wall at right angles, blocked the gap. i remembered something lood had said about the automatic creation of full-scale houses on a simple standard plan: two rooms, a toilet and a patio. outside, the wall was well on the way towards completing its second simple house. this side of the wall was, that is. i could only assume it was doing something similar on the other side. there was no way of getting round and seeing, except by outstripping the wall in a sprint. i gathered my breath and dignity and ran very rapidly down the length of the wall, round the far mounting tiers of brick, advancing now on the state library, and back to where i had left the commissioners and mr. lood. i was faced by a thicket of patios and arched doorways and low-roofed houses. "your honors, your honors," i called hopefully, walking into the maze, in the general direction of what appeared to be an old and ruined war monument. it then occurred to me that this was the outer wall of the courthouse. it stood far off, pointing a stone finger to the sky, as if going down in a sea of brick for the third time. "your honors, your honors...." i met them turning a corner. unfortunately, they seemed to have found it necessary to crawl through a broken gap of some sort. they were very dusty and had a slightly shredded appearance. "ah, mr. jones," they said grimly, dusting each other off. a tremendous crash announced the falling in of the roof of the state library. "well," said the thin commissioner, "he did say it was revolutionary." i smiled politely. "don't giggle, mr. jones, or we'll hold you in contempt." we wound out of the maze in single file. a pattering behind us announced lood bringing up the rear. once we were out, and about two hundred yards ahead of the advancing walls, patios and houses, the three commissioners turned on me. "mr. jones," they said with restraint. "you will now stop this reckless building project." i turned to lood. "you must stop it," i said. "oh, yus," he agreed, nodding happily. "most marvelous, no. ample housing for all and sundry. homes for peoples. immediate occupancy. you like basic plan house, yus?" "mr. lood," snarled the fat commissioner. "the problem on every habitable planet so far has been to find room to build. earth is congested...." distant crashing informed me that an unprecedented houseclearing was still going on. "... and so are all authorized planets yet discovered. i speak for my learned brethren in saying that this ... this anthill of yours is one thing the galactic community can do without." "and do without right now," added his bald colleague. "you wish to stop?" asked lood. small tears filled the periphery of his round eyes. "yes," i confirmed brutally. "can you stop it?" "oh, yus. must have antiseptics." * * * * * it took the fire department four hours of spraying from their copters to reduce the entire housing estate to dust. and then an even blanket of brown feathery residue lay unbroken for several acres, save here and there where the shells of previous buildings stood up gauntly and accusingly. "all bugs gone," said lood sadly. "but what about this mess?" demanded the bald commissioner. "comes out of air. floating particles. process cleans air, too." a fresh wind from across the blanket of dust came inopportunely to punctuate mr. lood's remark. as soon as they could talk again, the commissioners suggested resuming in another city. "assuming, mr. jones, you wish to produce further aspects of your, hum, case." six red and bleary eyes stared at me from a coating of brown dust of only vaguely judicial appearance. "i think, your honors, the next evidence had better be delivered in the open," i said, and pointed to a nearby park. much, if not all, of the dust fell off us as we walked over to the small green hill in the center of the park. the birds twittered, the sun shone, the breeze was fresh; and after the commissioners had settled on convenient tree stumps, i felt quite hopeful about the third line of evidence. lood stood optimistically by. "your honors," i said, "you are aware that earth suffers a grave shortage of metals. almost all economical quantities have been mined out. yet, your honors--" i paused dramatically--"in the haematin of human blood alone, whose main function is to carry oxygen to the system, there is nearly twice as much iron by weight as oxygen." "precisely which of us, mr. jones, do you propose to mine first?" i cleared my throat and let the thin commissioner's remark pass. "merely making the point, your honor, that the metal-carrying properties of bacteria have been hardly considered." this was stretching it a bit because selective breeding of microbes for the recovery of metals in tailings have been developed back in the nineteen-fifties. but so far as i knew, no one had carried it as far as my client race. "mr. lood," i commanded. "just one moment, mr. jones," said the bald commissioner drily. "let us have an outline of this _before_ we start." "certainly, your honor. mr. lood will now extract gold from a sample of ocean water we have obtained." i signalled to the waiting carrier and it came trundling softly over the grass and deposited a large tank on the grass. "genuine untouched ocean water, your honors," i said, slapping the tank. "go ahead, mr. lood." the little fellow hopped up to the side of the tank and emptied another invisible horde from a test tube into the water. we waited. "oh, yus," he said. and there on the bottom of the tank was an unmistakable sludge of metallic gold, shining speckled in the rays of sunlight bending through the water. i scooped out a sample and handed it round for the commissioners to inspect. "subject to analysis," grunted the fat one, "this certainly seems to be gold." "of course, there is no reason why this should not be done on earth, as a starting point." the thin commissioner paused and looked at my client. "does this process affect fish?" "oh, yus," said lood. "kills all parasites. fish, reptiles, and such." "thank you," said the commissioner drily. * * * * * mr. lood looked at me apologetically. "my people too small to tolerate fish," he explained. "fish most dangerous wild beasts. oh, yus." "never mind," i reassured him. "your honors, i feel the court will take a more favorable view of the dry-land operation, then. taking place as it does in the bowels of the earth, there is no danger to valuable livestock. and here we can demonstrate, for example, simple aluminum extraction, by the progressive reduction and oxidation and reduction of bacteria on a molecular scale. "i hope," i added, "this experiment will produce visible evidence of this great boon to mankind, though i must ask your honors to watch closely." lood produced another test-tube, pressed a small hole in the grass with his finger and emptied the tube. the hole darkened. we all bent over to watch. nothing happened. "perhaps a dud batch?" i asked eventually. "oh, no," said lood. we peered intently into the small hole without seeing anything. then a faint wisp of steam came out of the hole. i walked over the grass, picked up a long twig, walked back and thrust it into the hole. i could not touch bottom, so something was going on down there. the edges of the hole began to gleam with white metal. i was about to explain the alumina content of common clay, when the thin commissioner and the tree stump he was sitting on went down with a whistling sound into a sudden pit that opened beneath him. i only just caught the third and last commissioner in time. we watched his tree stump sinking out of sight together. the ground began to quiver uneasily. "let us get out of here with all haste." i followed the direction of the court with proper professional zeal. and we just made it to the safe stressed-concrete surface of the old freeway when the park melted completely into a stark framework of aluminum. seated in the middle and peering at us through the aluminum cage were the other two commissioners. they did not seem particularly happy. around them in a widening belt there opened up a pit of gleaming aluminum, melting, so to speak, towards the horizon on all sides. "you realize, i suppose, mr. jones," said the bald commissioner beside me, "that your client is in the process of eating up the earth." he breathed heavily. lood was beaming and hopping up and down at the success of his experiment. i touched him in the general area of a shoulder. he looked at me. "no," i said firmly, shaking my head. "no?" "no!" his round eyes became tearful and his little green body shook. "oh, dear. oh, dear. oh, dear." "antiseptics?" i asked. "oh, yus," he confirmed sadly. * * * * * very fortunately, the fire department was still observing my client--and me, i suspected afterwards, ridiculous as that may seem. this time it took them several hours of deep spraying and drilling to confine the area. a vast saucer of aluminum remained. "useful for signalling to stars, oh, yus?" asked lood, hopefully. "oh, no," i said. a threatening cough made me turn round to see the three commissioners staring at me. "mr. jones...." "... you have now destroyed the courthouse, the public library and five city blocks...." "... and buried them under a filthy layer of dust...." "and reduced a park into a great garbage pit...." "... we therefore refuse your claim and give you and your client six hours to get off earth...." "... and kindly do not trouble to advise us where the space council moves you. we will sleep more soundly for believing that it will be many, many light-years away." and they turned and walked away, leaving me with my client--and, apparently, my traveling companion. a quiet and suppressed sobbing made me turn and look at lood. he wept dolefully. "we have nothing," he said. "oh, no. we have nothing to offer. nothing that you humans want." "well," i said, "that's the way it goes sometimes." and what, i wondered, was i going to do for a living now? "free food," gulped lood. "free housing. free gold and metals. we had all hoped so much from this. oh, yus." there did not seem any point in telling him his people were several hundred years too late. once upon a time he would have been hailed as a savior of a starving and poor human race, a great benefactor of mankind. now he was just a nuisance. and i was another for letting him loose. "well," i assured him, "you have got one guest until they shift you off your asteroid. me. free food and housing will suit me fine. and maybe we'll find some very backward part of the galaxy where they need gold and such. "it's a pity," i added, as we started to walk towards the spaceport, "that you can't control these bacteria of yours." "can control." "it didn't look like it, my friend." "oh, yus. can control bodily leucocytes, corpuscles and such. perfect cell replacement easy." i looked down at him. "if it's all that easy," i said. "i suppose your old men can run faster than your houses." "no old men," said lood. "well, old whatever-you-are's." "no old. not die. oh, yus. perfect cell replacement." i stood very still. "do you mean you never die?" i asked. "oh, yus. never die." "can teach?" i asked. "oh, yus. most simple," smiled lood. "can teach all men not die. not ever." but i was off running after the three commissioners, yelling until they stopped and stood waiting for me.... a question of identity by frank riley _what is a man?... a paradox indeed--the world's finest minds gathered to defend a punk killer...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] every pair of eyes in the hushed courtroom watched jake emspak walk slowly toward the prospective juror. around the earth, and above it, too, from south africa and franz joseph land to the satellite stations adrift through the black morning, two hundred million pairs of eyes focussed on the gaunt figure that moved so deliberately across the television screen. in the glass-fronted tv booth, where the -year-old edward r. murrow had created something of a stir by his unexpected appearance a few moments earlier, newsmen stopped talking to let the viewers see and hear for themselves what was happening. jake halted in front of the witness stand, both hands cupped over the gold head of the cane that had been his trademark, in and out of court, for most of a half century. the shaggy mane of white hair, once as black as the coal in the west virginia mining country of his birth, stood out like an incongruous halo above the bone ridges of his face. the jutting nose, the forward hunch of his body accentuated the impression he always gave of being about to leap on a nervous witness. the magnificent voice, which could thunder, rasp, weep and persuade in all the registers of eloquence, now phrased his first question with disconcerting softness: "what is a man?" the prospective juror, a bronx appliance distributor with sagging jowls and perpetual tension lines around his mouth, started visibly. "i--i beg your pardon?" again jake emspak gently phrased his question: "what is a man?" the distributor, who could wake up out of a sound sleep and address a sales meeting of unhappy dealers, opened his mouth and closed it again. jake waited patiently, rocking a little on the point of his cane. finally, the distributor said: "i can't answer that--right off...." "thank you," jake said mildly. he turned to judge hayward and nodded his acceptance of the juror. up in the tv booth, murrow smiled to himself and listened to his colleagues chew over the familiar questions: why had jake emspak, the "million dollar mouthpiece", taken a cheap case like this away from the public defender? who would possibly pay him enough to defend a punk like tony corfino--a bungling hoodlum who had killed two bystanders in a miserable attempt to rob a bank? the judge noted acceptance of the juror, then brusquely recessed court until a.m. monday. the timing was excellent. jake smiled with satisfaction, and his smile was like the slash of a paring knife across the skin of a dried apple. he walked with tony corfino and the bailiff as far as the prisoner's gate. "don't worry," jake said. tony's eyes were wide and bewildered, like the eyes of a confused child--or of an old man not quite certain whether he is awake or dreaming. "i ain't worried," tony replied. as he walked, there was the crackling sound of a bone twisting in a stiff joint. from under his shaggy brows, jake studied him carefully, and was content with what he saw. tony could have been very young, or very old. undoubtedly he was both, with a lot of in-between, jake thought suddenly. the tangle of black, curly hair was the hair of youth. the cameo-smooth skin had the waxed perfection of an expensive doll. but the mouth and lips were still puffy, sensuous. and the eyes--jake emspak, for all his knowing, couldn't be sure about the eyes. silently, he addressed a memo to himself: check on the eyes. at the prisoners' gate, tony faced him. "i ain't worried," he repeated. "it's just--well, i don't see why you're takin' my case--i can't pay anythin'...." the thin smile slashed again across the wrinkled harshness of jake's face. "i'll be paid," he chuckled drily. the district attorney brought up the same question when jake sat in his office two hours later. they had been studying each other across the desk, thinking of all the years that were gone, the good years dying with the new quarter of the century. how many times had he sat here just like this, jake wondered. how often had he come into this office to bargain and to deal, to cajole and plead--and always hovering like a hawk to pounce on any bit of information that could fit his case. now the d.a. was old, too. older than jake, if you measured a man's life by the inverse proportion of his distance from the grave. even the limitless possibilities of medical science had about reached their limit with the d.a. he was heavier than jake, and his skin was smoother, yet somehow it looked much older. "i don't get it," he wheezed, with the shortness of breath that the latest bronchial replacement had not substantially relieved. "i just can't see jake emspak taking a case without a fee! why, in the old days, you wouldn't defend your mother without a cashier's check in advance!" jake accepted the taunt without blinking. "i'm touched by this solicitude for my fees," he retorted. "tony corfino's guilty," said the d.a., moving up another pawn in the never-ending chess game between them. "he's a punk, and he's guilty. you know that, don't you, jake?" "do i?" "you know it--and damn well! i've got six witnesses who saw tony walk into the bank with that sawed-off shotgun! i've got four more who saw him get panicky and start spraying lead! and there are a dozen others who helped load him on a stretcher after his getaway car went over the curve on the parkway!... hell, jake, this is a two-bit case. why are you taking it away from the public defender?" "now, emmett," jake mocked, "you know it's not ethical for me to discuss my client's case." "to hell with your client!" the d.a. breathed deeply for a moment, then pressed ahead: "i don't care about that punk--i'm talking about you, jake. what's this case mean to you?" the chuckle started again, then died in jake's throat. "it means a lot, emmett," he answered soberly. "for one thing, it's my last case...." "what?" the d.a. looked stunned. jake nodded. "i've been around the circle enough times for any man, emmett." both of them absorbed this thought in silence, and the long years walked between them. the d.a.'s lips set, and the steel of his jaw showed beneath the soft folds of his skin. "i guess it'll have to be my last case, too, jake," he said quietly. then he banged his fist on the desk. "but what a helluva case! what a helluva two-bit case! we've had some good ones, jake--i've got the scars of them all over me! but why do we have to go out on something as cheap as this?" jake emspak stood up, all six feet of him, and he brushed back his long white hair with a gesture that was fierce and strong. "it's not a cheap case, emmett! it's big--bigger than any case we've ever fought out!" * * * * * the reporters were waiting for jake outside the d.a.'s office. "is it true you're retiring, jake?" "this is my last case." "why are you representing tony corfino?" "you couldn't keep me out of a case as big as this." "can you tell us why it's so big?" "i can, but i won't. not until i get before the jury." "is robbing a bank and shooting two people so important?" "not particularly." "what else did he do, then?" "nothing that i know of." "jake, this isn't some kind of a joke, is it?" "it's the most serious case i've ever handled." "mr. emspak, it was reported that you received $ , from your last client. are you being paid for defending tony corfino?" "i never discuss my fees." "would you object to a televised interview with tony?" "certainly not. how about tomorrow morning?" the reporters left, baffled and intrigued. that night, jake emspak sat alone in his apartment high over central park west, chuckling with satisfaction as he read the headlines in the first editions: famed criminal lawyer in mystery case the other headlines were substantially the same. jake grinned. things were working out fine, just fine. publicity was a wonderful tool, if a lawyer knew when to use it, and how. he showed one of the headlines to his wife, whose picture was in a mellow gold frame on the stand beside his window chair. marge had been dead since ' , but he still found it a quiet comfort to share things with her. she didn't have to answer, because words weren't necessary after you'd lived and loved with a woman for forty-three years. his thin smile became warmer as he turned toward her. "mystery case!" he chortled. "mystery! the only mystery is why someone hasn't tried a case like this before!" he paused, looked across the park at the spangle of lights, and added softly: "but i'm glad no one did." ed murrow called just before jake went to bed. "sorry you got into this?" murrow asked. "you know better than that, ed. i'm deeply grateful to you for tipping me off on this case." "well, don't forget to tip me off, too, jake! i'm not too old to appreciate a scoop now and then!" "don't worry, ed...." next morning, jake was rested and ready to meet the challenge of tony corfino's tv interview. he knew there was a danger tony might say too much, but it was a calculated risk that had to be taken. the case needed build-up, plenty of build-up. the interview took place in the open square between the towering cell-blocks of manhattan's new jail. when jake and tony came out, the tv cameramen and reporters had already taken their places. the city's crack newspapermen were seated on folding chairs in front of the cameras, along with two men from the district attorney's office who self-consciously tried to look like members of the working press. jake sat down beside tony and hunched forward watchfully over the gold head of his cane. bert brown of the _tribune_, whose pipelines into the d.a.'s office had brought him many an exclusive, shot out the first question. it came with a whiplash crack: "tony, are you paying mr. emspak to represent you?" tony looked uncertainly toward jake, and when the old lawyer didn't answer, tony said quietly: "no--i'm not." "is the syndicate paying mr. emspak?" "i don't know why they should--i never got into the syndicate." tony's answer was expressionless, yet his voice had a strangely subdued quality for a tenth avenue kid who had grown up fighting for crumbs from the tables of underworld kingpins. cassidy of the times interjected: "do you know who is paying mr. emspak to represent you?" "nope." now the sun broke through the morning overcast and gleamed on the polished perfection of tony's waxlike skin. a woman reporter from the mirror asked in an abrupt, mannish voice: "tony--what happened to your face?" "the doc says it's some new kind of plastic surgery. i got burned in that accident...." "when you were driving away from the bank?" bert brown snapped out. "yeah." brown grinned in triumph. it had been a neat double play. the two investigators from the d.a.'s office scribbled furiously. jake emspak continued to stare into the tv cameras without blinking. from the back row, a _daily news_ man boomed out: "then you admit the shootings, tony?" jake lifted one finger from the gold head of his cane. it was a small gesture, but it silenced tony's answer and immediately commanded the attention of everyone present. "my client," rasped jake, "neither denies nor admits any connection with the crimes for which he is being tried." bert brown grinned sardonically at him. "do you expect to win this case, mr. emspak?" "we'll win it," jake answered, in a voice so cold and certain and hard that the reporters involuntarily joined the tv audience in a collective gasp. jake stood up and motioned to the deputies. it was time to end the interview. precisely the right time. the reporters left without further questions. they knew from long experience when jake emspak would and would not talk. by that evening, speculation--without the ballast of facts--was soaring to dizzy heights. even the communist angle came in for its share of limelight. was tony corfino somehow of value to the resurgent red underground? could jake emspak's fee be traced back to peiping, new headquarters for the comintern? but not even the most skilled commentator could adequately sustain innuendo on innuendo alone. not by the grossest distortion of facts could any communist connection be twisted out of tony's record of juvenile delinquency, pimping, pick-pocketing, petty thievery, dope peddling, armed robbery, and--since the grain and sugar restrictions of ' --bootlegging. but one of the more perceptive reporters had noted tony's strangely quiet manner of speaking. inquiries at the jail disclosed that tony had apparently developed an interest in reading. here, indeed, was a fresh angle! by mid-afternoon, "gentleman tony" had been conceived and given birth. his sordid record was reinterpreted in a picaresque light, and he became something of a tenth avenue robin hood. a nation squeezed between the twin problems of mounting population and tighter food rationing took "gentleman tony" to its fancy. it was like a case of -hour flu. in the midst of all this, as jake emspak sat in his office sunday morning, behind a mound of microfilmed court records dating back to the mid-fifties, he received a more serious-minded interviewer. the visitor was john o. callihan, well-publicized sportsman, art connoisseur, world traveler and no. man in the syndicate. his mistresses, and a few old friends like jake emspak, called him johnno. "greetings, jake," he said, easing his athletic, tastefully dressed frame into the chair in front of jake's desk. "hello, johnno," jake rasped. "i'm busy." "i know. that's why i came." "i can't talk about this case, johnno." "i'm not asking you to." johnno lit a long, pencil-thin cigarette, and continued reflectively: "jake, i've given you some big cases, paid you well--and always let you handle them clean, in your own way. right?" "right enough." "this is the first time i've ever come for a favor, jake." "yeah?" "who's paying for tony corfino?" "nobody you have to worry about, johnno." "no other syndicate--or anything like that?" jake shook his head, and his caller stood up. "thanks, jake." "now, will you get the hell out of here!" "sure, jake--give my love to marge." jake lowered his head to hide the mist in his eyes. johnno had sent a simple corsage of blue violets to marge's funeral. and he sent one every year, on the anniversary of her death. jake went back to gould v. gould, app. div. , and stayed with it until nearly six o'clock, when he turned wearily to people v. gibbs. this looked like an interminable case, even on microfilm. his eyes were strained from staring at the viewer screen, and his big hand was stiff from spinning the reel crank. he opened his fingers, and the knuckles cracked. jake stared disgustedly at them. you could take a boy out of the coal mines, but not the coal mines out of the boy. his hand was too big for such a small crank. someday, he'd have to buy an automatic viewer, or even one of those electronic brains they demonstrated at the last bar association meeting. but then, he wouldn't need anything after this case. and besides, he didn't trust such impersonal help. leibowitz had taught him a good lawyer should do his own preparation. leibowitz! the vera stretz case.... that was forty years ago! jake shook his head to chase away the memories, and started people v. gibbs, patiently searching for points of law to help him prove that a punk named tony corfino.... * * * * * when court reconvened on monday morning, the weekend's publicity showed its results. a bailiff whispered to jake that people had been waiting for the doors to open since five a.m. thousands had gone home disappointed. the fortunate who did get seats filled the courtroom with babble and shrillness as they waited impatiently for something to happen. a new note of excitement sounded when tony corfino walked in beside a sheriff's deputy. jake had insisted that tony be carefully groomed and dressed each morning before coming into court, and the women among the spectators buzzed with appreciation. promptly at ten, judge hayward stepped out of his chambers and looked, gimlet-eyed, over the courtroom. the hubub quieted, then faded to stillness. jake was glad to have judge hayward on this case. at forty-seven, he was the youngest superior court judge and least wedded to precedent. he was impatient with legal sleight-of-hand, painstakingly insistent on a structure of evidence. "any mule can kick a barn down; it takes a good carpenter to build one," he had once told jake. selection of the jury proceeded at a creeping pace, which court reporters had come to expect with both the d.a. and jake emspak in the same courtroom. in their last clash, they had meticulously examined one hundred and fifty jurors before accepting twelve. but this time, the district attorney was responsible for most of the delay. not knowing why jake had taken the case, the d.a. proceeded nervously and cautiously in questioning each juror: what is your feeling about capital punishment? would you credit the testimony of an eye witness? do you believe that a criminal must be punished as decreed by law? jake's questions were fewer, and less orthodox. sometimes he asked: "what is your attitude toward science?" or, again: "are you a religious man?" but most frequently he came without preamble to what seemed to be the key to his case: "what is a man?" and while this went on in the courtroom, jake continued his tireless preparations. research, subpoenas, talking to witnesses, taking depositions, then more research and more subpoenas. bound the case on the east, the north, the south and the west. lincoln had said that. jake's stomach rebelled, and he took to eating a bowl of baby cereal before going to bed in an effort to still its growling and grumbling. those who knew how hard he worked continued to ask: where's the money coming from? why is this important anyway? whenever speculation started to sag, jake shrewdly needled it by leaking a fact here, a rumor there. from los angeles, the ebullient old television commentator, george putnam, still indefatigable in his late sixties, reported that a noted brain surgeon had been subpoenaed to testify at the corfino trial. in new york, ed murrow asked the probing, provocative question: why has jake emspak personally invited one of our great religious philosophers to appear as a defense witness? "i suggest," hinted murrow, "that you won't find the gold in this case by panning the mainstream. or, as plato said...." the d.a. and his deputies sat up half the night studying an air-check of the murrow broadcast. by the close of the fourth day, selection of the jury had been completed and the trial was ready to begin. that evening, jake worked on his notes until ten o'clock, and then went out for his customary walk through the memories and quiet of central park. as he paused at a crosswalk to watch a satellite platform sweep like a new planet across the sky, a long, black car drifted silently to a stop beside him. the door swung open, and the district attorney's tired voice said, "get in, jake." jake got in, and neither of them spoke for awhile. "couldn't sleep," the d.a. said finally. "can't even sleep with them damn pills anymore." jake didn't say anything. he stared at the back of the chauffeur in front of them. what could you say when an old friend was wearing out? "look, jake," the d.a. continued, "do you really mean this is your last case?" "you know i do." "then, how about a deal--you cop a plea, and tony gets off with life...." "why, emmett?" "i don't want to see you wind up this way, jake--losing a penny-ante case like this!" "you know how i feel about this case." "no deal, then?" "no deal." the d.a. wheezed angrily: "then i'm going to whip you, jake--and that punk's going to burn!" jake didn't answer, and they drove slowly along the endless, winding roads of central park. the tires of the great car murmured over the pavement like a boat in the ripples of a lake, and the silent motor gave them a sensation of floating through the night. * * * * * anger still fired the d.a.'s voice when he made his opening address to the jury. his final words were brutally to the point: "we've all heard rumors about what the defense may or may not attempt to prove in this trial, but let us not forget that in the law of our land there is no place for medical quacks, parole panderers or all the bleeding hearts who drip sympathy for a killer like tony corfino! the chair is the only thing he and others like him will ever understand!" the courtroom stilled to breathlessness as jake emspak stepped forward to deliver his own opening remarks. he moved, then paused, with a great dramatist's sense of timing. ghosts of a thousand courtrooms and fifty years of practice moved and paused with him. impeccably dressed, his long silver hair artfully disheveled, he folded his blue-veined hands over the gold head of his cane and swayed for a moment in silence, thoughtfully contemplating the jurors. when he spoke, his voice had a quality of remoteness that was peculiarly compelling: "i would like," he began, "to quote from a supreme court justice who died before some of you were born. it was benjamin cardoza who said--'law in its deepest aspects is one with the humanities and with all the things by which humanity is uplifted and inspired. law is not a cadaver, but a spirit; not a finality, but a process of becoming; not a clog in the fullness of life, but an outlet and a means thereto; not a game but a sacrament'...." he waited fully a half-minute before continuing, and not a person in the courtroom stirred. "the defense," jake went on quietly, "will rest its case on two major points: "first, we will prove that the law has not kept pace with the progress of science and the forward march of human thought. "second ..." here jake paused again, while he looked slowly from the jurors, to the judge and finally to the district attorney. "second," he continued, with a ghost of a smile on his thin lips, "we will prove that _tony corfino is not tony corfino_!" jake stood for a moment in silence. then, with a slight, almost curt nod of his head, he turned away and walked back to his seat beside tony corfino. tony stared at him wordlessly, with a look in his eyes that jake had not yet fathomed. the courtroom exploded into bedlam. judge hayward gaveled peremptorily for silence, and motioned to the district attorney to begin presentation of the people's case. if the d.a. was puzzled by jake's opening remarks, he gave no sign of it. his marshalling of the evidence was grimly efficient. there was a quality of the inexorable about the way he moved up his witnesses one by one. it was like the maneuvering of a skilled boxer who seeks to take his opponent out, not with one punch, but with a carefully executed combination of punches. tony corfino was not tony corfino? the d.a. smiled sardonically as he pointed to the pale defendant and asked the witness to identify him. "and is this the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october ?" "yes, it is," replied the nervous, overly plump young woman. "were you in a position to observe him closely at all times?" "yes." "where were you?" "in--in the note window ... right next to where he--he came up and pointed his gun." "thank you." with elaborate courtesy, the d.a. turned to jake: "does the distinguished defense counsel desire to cross-examine this witness?" jake nodded gravely, and advanced toward the witness stand. the young woman watched him apprehensively. in the tv booth, the regular court reporters leaned forward with anticipation. many a time had they seen jake emspak take the most positive witness and reduce him to a quivering, stuttering symbol of uncertainty. "show me an eye witness," jake had once observed, "and i'll show you a liar." now, as jake began, there was a note of friendliness in his voice: "you say this is the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october ?" "yes--yes, sir.... it is!" jake nodded understandingly. "suppose," he continued, "we look at it another way for a moment: is the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october the same man who now appears as defendant in this trial?" the young woman bit her lip, smearing some of the lipstick on her large front teeth. she hesitated, thinking through the question, then nodded firmly. "yes--of course!" "how do you know?" "why--he--he _looks_ the same!" "_exactly_ the same? i suggest you look him over carefully before you answer." the young woman stared at tony, then dropped her eyes in confusion. "_exactly_ the same?" jake pressed. "well ... i'm ... i'm not sure...." jake teetered on the point of his cane, thoughtfully contemplating the now flustered witness. then, unexpectedly, he turned to judge hayward and said, "no further questions, your honor." the d.a. blinked in surprise. it was not like jake to stop once he had a witness in full retreat. the court reporters looked at each other disappointedly. maybe the old man should retire! jake continued to treat prosecution witnesses with similar restraint. he would lead them up to the brink of uncertainty, then leave them there. as a result, the district attorney was able to complete presentation of his case by the middle of the second morning. "the people rest," he announced, with grim satisfaction. * * * * * jake emspak's first defense witness was a youthful looking man of about forty who quickly identified himself as a well-known authority on fingerprints, an expert who had many times been called to assist the police in major criminal cases. "is it not true," jake began, "that in the tradition of modern law, fingerprints are regarded as the most positive method of identification?" "that is correct." from a mass of data on his desk, jake extracted a single sheet of photostatic copy and handed it to judge hayward. "i have here," he said, "a certified copy of one tony corfino's fingerprints--taken at the time of his arrest and conviction five years ago on a charge of grand theft, auto...." the judge accepted the photostat and handed it to the clerk for entry into the record. jake then retrieved it, and gave it to his witness. "now, sir," he went on, "will you please take the defendant's fingerprints and compare them to this photostatic copy." the jurors craned forward curiously as the fingerprint expert opened his kit and went methodically about the business of fingerprinting tony corfino. when he had finished, and returned to the witness stand with the new prints, jake emspak demanded: "is there any similarity between those fingerprints and the fingerprints of one tony corfino?" the expert looked from one set of prints to the other, and quickly replied: "there can be absolutely no doubt about it--these are _not_ the same prints." red-faced with anger, the district attorney heaved himself to his feet and strode toward the bench. "objection, your honor!" he stormed. "this is the most outrageous deception i have ever witnessed in a courtroom. frankly, i am astounded that opposing counsel would stoop to such tactics!" judge hayward's voice had the bite of steel drill as he directed: "will you please explain to the court exactly what you mean?" "it's a matter of record," the d.a. snapped, "that the defendant was seriously injured in the accident that resulted in his capture. massive burns were part of his injuries.... bone and skin grafts were necessary to repair the damage to his hands--as well as to other parts of his body. naturally, his fingerprints would be different! the defense counsel knows that!" jake smiled, and replied mildly: "of course the defense counsel knows that, and will certainly make the full extent of the defendant's injuries a part of the trial record. however, i have called this particular witness to show that tony corfino cannot be identified as tony corfino by what is still regarded as the most infallible method of criminal identification." "your honor," retorted the d.a., "this so-called testimony is totally irrelevant and immaterial. i request that it be stricken from the record!" "it is most relevant to our case," jake shot back. "furthermore, the defense will prove that tony corfino cannot be identified as tony corfino by any known method of criminal identification!" judge hayward's eyes narrowed speculatively. he thought the matter over for a moment before stating, with unconcealed interest: "this may well be a legal situation without precedent. the court will withhold ruling on the objection for the time being." the next defense witness was a specialist on agglutination of the blood. "agglutination," he explained, adjusting his glasses pedantically, "is a biological reaction consisting of the mutual adhesion of the red corpuscles. it is also a method of establishing individualization of blood." "i see," said jake. "now, tell us--how has this method been used to establish identification in a criminal case?" "it is sometimes used where the victim's blood leaves stains on the murderer's clothing--as well as the victim's own clothing. if both blood stains produce the same biological reaction, the murderer is either guilty--or has a great deal of explaining to do!" jake meticulously selected another exhibit from the material on his desk. "will you identify this, please?" "it is a piece of cotton stained with the blood of this--this defendant." "when was it stained?" "in the test i made last week." "did you compare it with the stains on garments worn by a certain tony corfino at the time of his accident?" "i did." "what did you find?" "the two samples were entirely different?" "could we assume, then, that the blood of a man known as tony corfino does not flow through the veins of this defendant, who also bears the name of tony corfino?" the witness rubbed his hand thoughtfully over the high, polished dome of his forehead. "you _could_ put it that way," he conceded. with the skill of a symphony conductor calling upon the diverse instruments under his baton, jake emspak continued to bring forward a bewildering variety of witnesses to prove that in the identifiable details of his physiology, tony corfino indeed was not tony corfino. the d.a. watched in furious silence. once, when jake passed near him, he muttered: "this is contemptible!" imperturbably, jake turned back to the witness stand, where a radiographer from scripps institute was taking the oath. patiently, he led the witness through a description of how the radiographies of the nasal accessory sinuses and mastoid processes could be used to establish the identity of an individual. jake then produced medical records from a juvenile correctional institution in eastern pennsylvania, where tony corfino had sojourned during his seventeenth year. comparison with recent hospital records showed a striking difference between the two radiographies. the opthalmologic method of capdevielle was next explored by jake to show that the eyes of tony corfino were not the eyes of tony corfino. the technique of tamassia and ameuille was employed to prove the same point about tony's veins. the umbilicial method of bert and vianny intrigued the courtroom and tv audience with structural dissimilarities of tony's navel. by means of projection on a large screen, jake demonstrated to the jurors and judge hayward that tony corfino, defendant, had an entirely different electrocardiagram from the tony corfino whose crushed body had been pulled, more dead than alive, from the wreckage of a burning automobile. late that afternoon, ed murrow commented to his news audience in the cadence that had been his trademark for more than forty years: "we know not yet where this trial is taking us, though jake emspak is beginning to show the direction. perhaps, we, too, could ask ourselves the question: _what is a man?_" less philosophically, a space-weary young captain, sending in his nightly report from the satellite station, vanguard vi, queried: "if this tony corfino isn't tony corfino, who or what in the hell is he?" * * * * * part of the answer to this question was on display the next morning when the jury filed into judge hayward's courtroom. before them, and angled toward the tv cameras, was a chart nearly eight feet tall. it showed, in outline, the figure of a man. the figure was covered with small black dots, each bearing a white number. in all, there was seventy-two dots. as soon as court was in session, jake called a short, squarely-built man of about fifty to the stand. there was a bulldog set to his jaw and mouth. he identified himself as dr. theodore clendenning, chief of staff at city hospital. "dr. clendenning," said jake, "i assume you are familiar with the medical and surgical care received by the defendant at your hospital?" "quite familiar," the doctor retorted, impatiently. "then, may i direct your attention to this chart. it indicates areas in which artificial parts were used to replace the damaged or destroyed natural parts of a certain tony corfino's body. will you name them, please, as i point them out with my cane." tapping the chart like a school-teacher signalling for the attention of his pupils, jake emspak started at the outline of the head. "vitallium skull plate," snapped dr. clendenning. jake's cane touched the nose. "vitallium nose plate." swiftly, the tip of the cane moved around the outline of the body, pausing only long enough for the doctor to name each part: "plastic tear duct ... vitallium jaw bone and implanted dentures ... paraffin and plastic sponge to fill chest after removal of lung ... plastic esophagus ... tantalum breast plate ... tantalum mesh to patch chest wall ... vitallium shoulder socket rim and shoulder joint bone ... vitallium elbow joint, radius bone, ulna bone, wrist bone, finger joint ... spinal fusion plate ... vitallium blood vessel tubes." jake put down his cane, and turned conversationally toward the doctor. "dr. clendenning, is it true that this tony corfino's reproductive organs were destroyed in the accident?" "virtually so." "and is it not also true that the defendant in this case is now capable of becoming a parent?" dr. clendenning glanced at his watch and sighed. "what you are referring to," he answered, "has been rather elementary surgery for the past ten years." "but the children of tony corfino would not then be the children of tony corfino?" dr. clendenning looked toward judge hayward with a pained expression. receiving no sign of any kind from the judge, he turned back to jake emspak. "i have given you the medical data," he said angrily. "you can draw your own conclusions." jake nodded, and replied with emphasis: "i am sure this court and the jury will do just that." he studied the chart for a moment, then tapped the outline figure in the area of the eyes. "tell us, dr. clendenning, what did your staff do about tony corfino's eyes? i understand the flames had reached them." "cornea transplants were necessary." "and where did you obtain the corneas?" "mr. emspak--i'm sure you know that most people nowadays will their eyes to the cornea bank!" "can you tell us anything about the corneas that were transplanted in tony corfino's eyes? from what type a person did they come?" "i'd rather not answer that?" jake turned to the judge. "your honor, unless there is a legal reason why the good doctor should not answer, i ask the court to direct that he do so." judge hayward hesitated, then directed the witness to answer. "they came from the eyes of a priest," growled the doctor. jake emspak raised his cane to the chart once again, then apparently changed his mind and lowered it. "dr. clendenning," he asked quietly, "am i correct in believing that the construction of parts for the human body is now an important industry?" "that's right," the doctor said grudgingly. "it's grown tremendously in the past twenty years--from a $ -million-a-year business in to nearly a billion today...." "one further question, if you please, doctor," said jake. "what is _your_ definition of a man?" the doctor thought for a moment, and smiled coldly. "i'm afraid it would not assist your case," he replied. "we are only looking for some basic truths." dr. clendenning bunched his square shoulders and leaned forward aggressively. "i can think of no better definition," he snapped, "than one given by a distinguished physician in the earlier years of this century. he defined the human body as an animal organism, differing in only a few respects from other animal organisms, and fitted for the performance of two main functions: the conversion of food and air into energy and tissue; and the reproduction of other individuals of its species!" so coldly, with such an air of finality did he speak, that his words brought an audible gasp from two women in the jury box. jake emspak remained impassive. "and this is all you see in a man?" he prodded gently. the doctor's jaw set stubbornly. "as a philosopher," he retorted, "i may engage in some speculation in the company of plato, schopenhauer or the archbishop of canterbury, but my speculations would themselves be based upon speculations and not upon any scientific data resembling observed facts!" "then, from your point of view, the defendant in this courtroom is not _the_ tony corfino--the same man--whose broken body was brought into your hospital eight months ago?" "obviously not." "thank you, doctor." jake walked slowly from the witness stand to the jury box, and then back to the bench. "perhaps," he said softly, "a ten-minute recess would be in order...." judge hayward drew a long breath, exhaled and nodded. with the sound of his gavel, tension ran out of the courtroom like water from a punctured barrel. * * * * * when court reconvened, jake began bringing to the witness stand a parade of educators, religious leaders and philosophers who kept the courtroom alternately fascinated and bewildered for the next two days. they came from london, rome, johannesburg, philadelphia, tokyo and chicago. they came from every oasis of learning where men could still find profit in thought, without relating the profit to the cash register or the thought of technology. they spoke in words and symbols that sometimes soared beyond space itself, and left the world's tv audience groping for stability in earthbound cliches. the paradox was incredible: all this thinking, all this culture--all of everything brought into a courtroom to defend a bush-league hoodlum. reporters ceased to ask who was paying for this display; they simply marveled at the pyrotechnics. through it all, jake emspak moved deftly, surely, extracting from each witness the pure essence of relevant thought: man is a creature destined to live in two worlds. he is surrounded first by the realities of this world--and he is called to live with eternal realities that transcend this world.... the human person is a body, and therefore subject to the laws of matter, to spatiality, temporality and opacity. as such, he is a meeting place for passing forces, a crossroads of contacts and reactions. but the human person is also a spirit, that is to say a reality that transcends apparent reality. there is within him the wakened or nascent ability to comprehend space and surpass time.... the human self is an object, of a sort--and, as such, can be described as the empiricists have described us. but the human self is also, and more essentially, a subject, which never appears to the view of others or even to the most determined introspection. the self as object is finite, but the self as subject touches the infinite; it is the meeting place of time and eternity, of man and god.... for all its advances, the th century is still a child of the th, when the impact of the developing sciences of physics and biology produced a change in the concept of nature and man's place in it. from malthus and darwin, spencer and feuerbach, vogt, buchner, czolbe and haeckel evolved a reductive naturalism in which the spiritual quality of man is ruled out and he becomes a unique emergent of a blind natural process--a creature who must make of nature what he can.... the next five million years of evolution will be in the human brain, where man must ultimately be defined. until man appeared, evolution strove only to produce an organ, the brain, in a body capable of protecting it, and carrying out its will. the ancestors of man were irresponsible actors playing parts in a play they did not understand. man continues to play his part but wants to understand the play.... man is a blending of the rational and intuitive processes. ethical conclusions reached by logical thinking were attained several thousand years ago by the religions, which proves that man's rational processes are strangely slower than his intuitive processes.... jurors shifted impatiently in their seats, yet their attention would inexorably be drawn back to the witness stand. courtroom spectators, who had come to be titillated by the sensational, stayed to grope with concepts they could not understand. the tv audience, spoon-fed for so many decades, tried doggedly to chew and digest adult foodstuffs. sets were turned off in anger or despair--and then turned back on again. "what is a man?" the pivotal nature of this question became steadily more evident. if tony corfino was not tony corfino, was he then not more of the real personality, the human entity, than the original tony had ever been. "in restoring the damaged areas of the brain," a surgeon testified under jake's skillful prodding, "we thought it wise to perform a lobotomy at the same time, thereby relieving anti-social tensions and pressures." (the body is at once a means of expression for the soul, and a veil; it reveals and it hides....) "during the convalescent period," a consulting specialist informed the courtroom, "we recommended treatment with sodium dilantin and electroshock therapy, thereby producing a change in this patient's electroencephalograph." (the body presents all the problems of matter: it is a limitation, a weight, a force. it seems almost a miracle when it is overcome, penetrated and ordered by thought and spirit....) "subsequently," the psychiatrist stated, "this patient underwent extensive therapy, aided frequently by hypnosis and sodium pentathol. his respiratory, vascular and circulatory systems began to show increasing stability." (released from its warped framework, brought into balance with instincts inherited from our animal ancestors, the body becomes, in a way, an image of the soul, a sign conveying something of our personal mystery....) and then jake called the hospital administrator to the stand. speaking with great deliberation, so that each word registered, jake asked: "is this type of medical care ordinarily given to a prisoner-patient?" "the type of care depends upon the case, mr. emspak. in a case such as this, i would regard the treatment as routine. you see, in the past decade our approach to any patient has become one of total therapy...." "and in the case of a prisoner, what do you do when the therapy is completed?" the administrator looked surprised. "why, we return him to jail--in accordance with the law." jake emspak stood in silence, contemplatively staring down at the blue veins on the back of his hands. at length, he announced: "your honor, the defense will conclude tomorrow morning, after one more witness--a man who goes by the name of tony corfino...." * * * * * the sweat on the pale, polished skin of tony's forehead stood out like drops of summer rain; they seemed to have fallen there rather than seeped out through the pores. a polygraph lie detector had been set up under jake's direction and wheeled close to the witness stand. a technician opened the front of tony's shirt and made fast the pneumograph tube with the aid of a beaded chain. next, a blood-pressure cuff, of the type used by physicians, was fasted around tony's right arm. a set of electrodes was attached to the palmar and dorsal surfaces of the hand of the other arm. the recorder showing the graph lines had been specially constructed so as to be visible throughout the courtroom, and to the television cameras. the technician had already been on the stand to explain the simplified and easily read graph lines of the modern polygraph: a shallow breathing line denoting suppression; a heavy breath line denoting relief; the respiratory block, fast pulse and slow pulse lines; the rise in blood pressure tracing.... it was all there on the screen--the emotional picture of a man testifying at his own trial for murder. "objection, your honor!" shouted the d.a. for the tenth time that morning. "this procedure is definitely irregular and immaterial! defense counsel has been making a mockery of the court for days, but now he has stepped completely out of line!" jake clucked soothingly. "what," he inquired, "is irregular or immaterial about a defendant voluntarily taking a lie detector test? i believe that i have heard the district attorney challenge clients of mine to do so on several occasions! now, we are merely permitting the court and the jury to view the test in progress...." once again, the judge withheld his ruling, and the d.a. sagged dejectedly in his chair. the strain of the last few days--sitting in the courtroom and listening to witnesses he knew not how or why to cross-examine--had taken its toll. his eyes were bloodshot, and fits of wheezing seized him spasmodically, but the set of his jaw was still unyielding. jake grieved for him. tony corfino's reactions, as he sat in the witness chair watching the final preparations, would be difficult to catalogue. he looked both aloof and nervously concerned. his curly black hair was damp from the way he constantly brushed the sweat back off his forehead; his puffy lips seemed in constant need of moistening. but his hands were folded quietly in his lap. he seemed to jake like a man lost to the past, adrift in the present and unrelated to the future. "will you give us your name, please?" jake asked casually. "tony corfino." "where were you born?" "i ain't--i'm not sure.... on the west side, i suppose...." on the recorder over tony's head, the graph lines rippled in smooth patterns. suddenly changing his manner, jake rasped: "have you ever committed a crime?" tony frowned in bewilderment. "i _know_ that i have, but sometimes.... well, i kinda wonder...." "do you remember what happened last october ?" "you mean the bank ... the shootin'?" "that's right." "i've read so much--heard so much talk--that i ain't sure just what i remember...." tony's eyes--or the eyes of the dead priest through which tony had vision--reflected his torment. jake moved around so that tony would be facing the jury when he answered the next question. "tony," directed jake, "think about this question before you answer it: are _you_ the man who tried to rob that bank--then got excited and killed two people?" jake knew this question was the one element of gamble in his entire case. the way it was answered could be a summation or refutation of all the evidence and testimony he had so painstakingly assembled. the jury sensed this, too. so did judge hayward. his keen eyes flickered alertly from the defendant's face to the lines on the polygraph recorder. now tony's hands were no longer folded quietly in his lap. they were locked together, and the new veins in his wrists stood out under the new skin. his lips worked silently as he groped for words. and then the words burst into an anguished outcry: "no! i couldn't!..." the polygraph lines leaped into jagged peaks. blood pressure, respiratory block, pulse and breathing--all climbed and dropped wildly, recording their damning message for the world to see. the d.a.'s lips twisted in a mirthless smile of triumph. up in the tv booth, reporters sputtered, split infinitives and shattered syntax in frantic efforts to describe and interpret what had happened. jake emspak stood and waited, a sear and wrinkled leaf hanging motionless in the wind. (if the self is merely a node in a complex casual series, if self is solely energized and motivated by the sovereign need of survival and security, then the idea of a bridge between man and the infinite is a pious illusion....) tony corfino stared down at his twisted hands, and slowly they unlocked. he looked up at jake, and the doubt and fear and bewilderment were gone at last from his eyes. "that ain't so," he said quietly. "i did it ... i know i did it ... an' i know it was wrong ... i deserve the chair!" (thus man escapes himself in freedom, and is therefore never a fully predictable or manipulatable object--only a window through which we peer with blind eyes into the reaches of the universe....) * * * * * the district attorney's summary to the jury was a model of legal craftsmanship. boldly disregarding the broader issues raised by jake, he hewed firmly to the line of criminal responsibility and punishment. point by point he reviewed the facts of the crime. witness by witness he retraced the eye-witness testimony. he produced photographs of tony's body being loaded from the wreckage of the car into the ambulance, and from the ambulance into the prison ward of city hospital. he proved beyond any reasonable doubt that tony had never been out of custody from the moment of his apprehension. "even the defendant admits to his responsibility for the crime," the d.a. continued coldly. only in his concluding remarks did the district attorney make reference to the defense presented by jake emspak. "i wonder," he asked, smiling for the first time, "if any of you tried--as i did--to carry through to its ultimate conclusion the line of reasoning presented with such detail and admitted virtuosity by the defendant's counsel? if the fabricating of replacement parts for the human body has already become a billion dollar industry, if psychiatry continues to achieve new miracles, how many people in this world could now--or in the near future--seek to escape their responsibilities by taking refuge in the argument that they were no longer themselves? at what point would we draw the line? if fifty-percent of a man's body has been replaced is he neither himself nor a new person? if fifty-one has been replaced, is he no longer the husband of his wife or the father of his children? can he then walk blithely away from his responsibilities, proclaiming 'i am a new man'?" a titter went through the courtroom. judge hayward gavelled immediately for silence, but the d.a. winked at the tv cameras. his point had been well made. when jake emspak stepped up to the jury box to deliver his own final plea, he promptly picked up the challenge. "i have known the district attorney too well, for too many years," he said, "to believe that he has considered only the superficial aspects of this case. if you should find the defendant guilty, i am sure he would be the last to oppose consideration of all the matters i have raised in the determination of a just sentence. "and i grant you that if a verdict of guilty is reached, the letter of the law will be fulfilled, and an eye for an eye can be paid. "likewise, if the verdict is not guilty, the letter of the law most unquestionably will be violated--but its spirit will be vindicated! "i am asking you to take a bold step, across a new frontier.... yes, down through the ages, law has become a living, meaningful instrument of human dignity because--at each crossroad of decision--men and women were not afraid to depart from precedent!" oldtimers in the court had never before heard jake emspak summarize a case in such dispassionate, objective tones. usually, his voice and argument ranged the gamut of emotional and semantic appeals, plucking at each member of the jury like the strings of a harp. today, he seemed to be making an effort to hold himself in check. "this is the trial of a living man for the crime of a man who no longer exists," jake continued quietly. "science destroyed that man--completely and with absolute finality! in his place is a man with a new body, new thoughts, new blood and new reproductive capacity. the fact that this new man can be brought to trial violates justice in its deepest and truest meaning! it points inescapably to the fact that the law must be revised to bring it up to date with present reality...." jake paused and was silent for so long that he appeared to have forgotten his surroundings. when he finally continued, his voice was so soft that the jurors unconsciously leaned forward to catch his words: "there is still another dimension to this case--one that transcends science ... and the law. it is one i approached with great uncertainty, because it leads down a path i am walking for the first time.... "some of the testimony brought out in this trial may not have been new to all of you, though it was new to me. perhaps you have all formed your own conclusions with regard to the relationship between the spirit or soul of man, and his outer shell ... the house in which man lives. but if this house becomes a prison for the real man, and science releases him to live in a new dwelling, then did the man ever actually exist until his release? and if the man who lives now did not exist at the time of the crime for which he is tried, can he then be judged guilty? "ladies and gentlemen of the jury--we await your answer." * * * * * twilight faded, and across central park the skyline of the city changed from steel and concrete to a gossamer web of light and shadow. jake emspak sat in peace by his window, the fingers of his right hand resting gently on the gold frame of his wife's picture. he touched a button on the arm of his chair, and in a moment ed murrow's features came into focus on the wall-screen. "the jury in the corfino case is now locked up for the night," murrow began, his -year-old voice more vibrantly alive than ever. "tomorrow we may--and very likely will--have a verdict. "but whatever the verdict, this case has served an epochal purpose--to our time as well as to the law. we have paused for an instant in our frantic drive for technological advancement to ponder the essential meaning of man--and the worth of the human entity. "it may take years to evaluate and appreciate all of the complex testimony jake emspak put into the trial record, for each of us will see in it only what we want to see or are capable of seeing.... "but we may be assured that in the generations to come this case will be footnoted throughout the opening worlds of space by serious students of the law, the sciences and the humanities. "for tonight, it should suffice to say: thank you, jake emspak--well done!" jake touched the button again, and the screen went dark. between old friends, there was much that words left unsaid. https://archive.org/details/servantofpublic hope a servant of the public * * * * * * by the same author a man of mark mr. witt's widow father stafford a change of air half a hero the prisoner of zenda the god in the car the dolly dialogues comedies of courtship the chronicles of count antonio the heart of princess osra phroso simon dale rupert of hentzau the king's mirror quisantÉ * * * * * * [illustration: "i should be rather afraid never to change to a person. it would make him mean so terribly much to one, wouldn't it?" page ] a servant of the public by anthony hope with four illustrations by harold percival, a.r.e. methuen & co. essex street w.c. london first published in contents chapter page i. muddock and mead ii. first impressions iii. an arrangement for sunday iv. by way of precaution v. a day in the country vi. away with the ribbons! vii. under the nosegay viii. the legitimate claimant ix. renunciation: a drama x. the licence of virtue xi. what is truth? xii. at close quarters xiii. the heroine fails xiv. as mr. flint said xv. the man upstairs xvi. morality smiles xvii. at sea and in port xviii. the play and the part xix. collateral effects xx. the ways divide xxi. what does it mean? xxii. other worlds xxiii. the most natural thing xxiv. "a good sight" list of illustrations page "i should be rather afraid never to change to a person. it would make him mean so terribly much to me, wouldn't it?" _frontispiece_ "somebody'll be glad to see me, anyhow," he ended, with a laugh the contract punctiliously signed by all the parties and witnessed by janet the maid ... they had opened a bottle of champagne walked in silence side by side a servant of the public chapter i muddock and mead the social birth of a family, united by a chain of parallel events with the commercial development of a business, is a spectacle strange to no country but most common among the nation of shopkeepers; it presents, however, interesting points and is likely to produce a group of persons rather diverse in character. some of the family breathe the new air readily enough; with some the straw of the omnibus (there was straw in omnibuses during the formative period) follows on silken skirts into the landau. it takes, they say, three generations to make a gentleman; the schools ticket them--national or board, commercial or grammar, eton or harrow. three generations, not perhaps of human flesh, but of mercantile growth, it takes to make a great concern. the humble parent-tree in the commercial road puts forth branches in brixton, camberwell, stoke newington, wherever buyers are many and "turnover" quick: here is the second period, when the business is already large and lucrative, but not yet imposing. then a new ambition stirs and works in the creator's mind; there is still a world to conquer. appearance is added to reality, show to substance. a splendid block rises somewhere within the ken of fashion; it is red, with white facings, a tower or two, perhaps a clock. first and last, a good deal is said about it in talk and in print. possibly a luncheon is given. now there are points of policy to be practised, not directly productive of hard money, but powerful in the long run. for example, the young ladies and gentlemen who serve the counters should be well treated, and carefully looked after in regard to their morals. and if this be done, there is no reason against having the fact stated with the utmost available publicity. for this service, sections of an all-embracing press are ready and willing. in the eye of the polite world this big block is now the business: the branches are still profitable, but the ledgers alone sing their virtues; men cease to judge the position or the purse of the family by their humble fronts. for the family too has been on the move; it has passed, in orderly progression, in an ascent of gentility, from putney to maida vale, from maida vale to paddington, from paddington to kensington palace gardens. at each stopping-place it may acquire members, at some it will lose them; the graves where those lie who have dropped from the ranks are themselves milestones on the march. the survivors have each some scent, some trace, of their place of origin. to the architect of fortune the commercial road is native and familiar; he lost his first love there and buried her down east. his second wife dates from the latter end of the maida vale time and is in all essentials of the middle, or paddington, period. the children recollect paddington as childhood's home, have extorted information about maida vale, talk of putney with a laugh, and seem almost of true kensington palace gardens' blood. yet even in them there is an element which they are hardly conscious of, an element not to be refined away till the third generation of human flesh has run. then comes the perfect product; a baronetcy is often supposed to mark, but sometimes may be considered to precede, its appearance. indeed--for it is time to descend to the particular--sir james muddock was hardly the perfect product; nay, he still strove valiantly to plume himself on not being such. but with a wife and children it is hard to go on exulting in a lowly origin. it is also rather selfish, and was certainly so in sir james' case, since lady muddock was very sensitive on the subject. it would seem that being of the middle period is apt to produce a sensitiveness of this sort; the pride of achievement is not there, the pride of position is still new and uneasy. somewhat in this vein, but with a more malicious and humorous turn of speech, ashley mead ran through the history of the firm of muddock and mead for lady kilnorton's pleasure and information. she was interested in them as phenomena and as neighbours; they were hardly more than across the road from her house in queen's gate. ashley spoke with full knowledge; both business and family were familiar to him; he himself represented an episode in the career of the concern which survived only in its name. he used to say that he had just missed being a fit figure for romance; his father had not been a scatter-brained genius bought out of a splendid certainty of wealth for fifty pounds, but a lazy man who very contentedly and with open eyes accepted fifteen thousand pounds and leisure in preference to hard work and an off-chance of riches. this elder mead had come into the business with three thousand pounds when capital was wanted for the stoke newington branch, and had gone out when ambition began to whisper the name of buckingham palace road. he had not felt aggrieved at losing opulence, but had lived on his spoil--after all, a good return for his investment--and died with it in cheerfulness. but then he had not been born a trader. he came of the professions; money-making was not in his blood nor bone of his bone, as it must be in the frame of one who is to grow gradually by his own labour to the status of a millionaire. the instinct of gain was not in his son either; ashley laughed with unreserved good-nature as he said: "if my father hadn't gone out, i should have had half the business, i suppose, instead of starving along on four hundred a year." "you've your profession," observed lady kilnorton, hardly seriously. "the bar, you know." "my profession?" he laughed, as he leant against the mantel-piece and looked down at her. "i'm one of five thousand names on five hundred doors, if that's a profession!" "you might make it one," she suggested, but not as though the subject interested her or were likely to interest him. the little rebuke had all the perfunctoriness of duty and convention. "the funny thing is," he went on, "that old sir james would like to get me back now; he's always hinting about it. shall i go and sell the ribbons?" "why can't mr. robert sell the ribbons?" "well, in the family we don't think bob very bright, you see." "oh! alice is bright, though; at least she's very clear-headed." "more brains than any of them. and what did you think of my lady?" "of my lady?" irene kilnorton laughed a little, raised her brows a little, and paused before she said: "well, her hair's too fluffy, isn't it? they don't beat her, do they? she looks rather like it." "no, they don't beat her; but she's not quite sure that she's got the grand manner." "isn't she?" said lady kilnorton, laughing again. "and then sir james insists on referring to putney, especially by way of acknowledging the goodness of god in family prayers. the servants are there, of course, and--you understand?" "perfectly, mr. mead. in such a case i shouldn't like it myself." "lady muddock has no objection to being thankful privately, but she doesn't like it talked about." "you go there a great deal?" she asked, with a glance at him. "yes, a good deal." "and the girl--alice--is very fond of you?" "not the least, i believe." "oh, you're bound to say that! would she go with--with selling the ribbons?" but she went on without waiting for an answer, perhaps because she had risked a snub. "i was received with immense _empressement_." "you're a bit of a swell, aren't you?" "a poverty-stricken irish widow! no, but i took some swells with me." "lord bowdon, for instance?" "yes, lord bowdon. and a greater swell still--miss ora pinsent." a pause followed. ashley looked over his hostess' head out of the window. then lady kilnorton added, "lord bowdon drove miss pinsent to her house afterwards." another pause followed; each was wondering what the other's point of view might be. "fancy ora pinsent at the muddocks'!" reflected ashley presently. "she went to please you?" "how do i know why she went? i don't suppose she knew herself." "you're great friends, though?" "i admire and despise, love and most bitterly hate, ora pinsent," said lady kilnorton. "all at once?" asked ashley with a smile, and brows raised in protest. "yes, all at once, and successively, and alternately, and in all sorts of various combinations." "and lord bowdon drove her home?" his tone begged for a comment from his companion. "i told you so," she answered with a touch of irritation, which was as significant as any comment. the servant came in, bringing tea; they were silent while the preparations were made. ashley, however, covertly regarded his friend's trim figure and pretty, small features. he often felt rather surprised that he had no inclination to fall in love with, or even to make love to, irene kilnorton. many men had such an inclination, he knew; among them he ranked this same lord bowdon who had driven miss pinsent to her house. lady kilnorton was young, she was pretty, she had, if not wit, at least the readiness of reply which is the common substitute provided by the habit of conversing with wideawake people. it was, though, very pleasant to have so charming a friend and to be in no danger of transforming her into the doubtful and dangerous character of a woman he loved; so he told himself, having no disposition to love her. "she's got a husband, hasn't she?" he asked, as the door closed behind the footman. "ora? oh, yes, somewhere. he's a scamp, i think. he's called--oh, i forget! but his name doesn't matter." "they've always got a husband, he's always a scamp, and his name never matters," remarked ashley between mouthfuls of toast. "fenning! that's it! fenning." "just as you like, lady kilnorton. it's the fact, not what you call it, that's the thing, you know." as he spoke the door was opened again and lord bowdon was announced. he came in almost eagerly, like a man who has something to say, shook hands hastily, and, the instant that he dropped into a chair, exclaimed, "what a glorious creature!" "i knew exactly what you were going to say before you opened your lips," remarked lady kilnorton. "you haven't been long, though." there was a touch of malice in her tone. "it wasn't left to me to fix the length of the interview. and she said she liked driving fast. well, ashley, my boy, how are you?" "i'm all right, lord bowdon." "i've got a job for you. i'll write to you about it presently. it's a commission they've put me on, and i thought you might like to be secretary." "anything with a stipend," agreed ashley cheerfully. "what a lot men think of money!" said lady kilnorton. "i don't think i ever met a more fascinating creature," lord bowdon mused. "it's awfully good of you," continued ashley. "i'm uncommonly hard-up just now." "do you know her?" asked bowdon. "met her once or twice," ashley answered very carelessly. bowdon seemed to fall into a reverie, as he gently stirred his tea round and round. lady kilnorton leant back and looked at the mantel-piece. but presently he glanced at her, smiled pleasantly, and began to discuss the muddocks. ashley left them thus engaged when he took his leave ten minutes later. lord bowdon had lived a full and active life which now stretched over forty-three years. in spite of much sport and amusement he had found time for some soldiering, for the duties of his station, and for proving himself an unexpectedly useful and sensible member of parliament. but he had not found time to be married; that event he used to think of in his earlier days as somehow connected with his father's death; when he became earl of daresbury, he would marry. however, about a year back, he had made lady kilnorton's acquaintance, had liked her, and had begun to draw lazy and leisurely plans about her. he had not fallen in love with her, any more than ashley mead had, but he had drifted into a considerable affection for her. his father had lived to be old; he himself had already grown more middle-aged than was desirable in a bridegroom. during the last few weeks he had considered the project seriously; and that he had assumed this attitude of mind could hardly have escaped the lady's notice. he had detected, with some pleasure, her hidden consciousness of his purpose and commended her for a gracefully easy treatment of the position. she did not make at him, nor yet run away from him, she neither hurried nor repulsed him. thus by degrees the thing had become very pleasant and satisfactory in imagination. it was not quite what in by-gone years he had meant by being in love--he thanked heaven for that, after reflection--but it was pleasant and satisfactory. "let it go on to the end," he would have said, with a contentment hardly conscious of an element of resignation. to-day there was a check, a set-back in his thoughts, and he was uncomfortable lest it might shew in his manner. he talked too long about the muddocks, then too long about ashley mead, then about something quite uninteresting. there was an unexplained check; it vexed and puzzled him. lady kilnorton, with her usual directness, told him what it was before they parted. "you've been thinking about ora pinsent all the time," she said. "it would have been better to have the courage of your ingratitude and go on talking about her." the gay, good-humoured words were accompanied by a rather nervous little smile. "who is she?" asked bowdon bluntly and with undisguised curiosity. "she's mrs. jack fenning. i don't know and i don't care who jack fenning is, only--" "only what?" "only he's not dead. i know you think that's the one thing he ought to be." "i'm not sure about that," he answered, looking in her face. the face had suddenly become charming to him in its now apparent mixture of annoyance and merriment. "well, i must be going," he added with a sigh. then he laughed; lady kilnorton, after an instant's hesitation, joined in his laugh. "she liked me to drive as fast as i could, and straight home!" said he. "good-bye, lady kilnorton." "good-bye. i wonder you aren't a little more sensible at your age." "she carries you off your feet, somehow," he murmured apologetically, as he made for the door. he was feeling both rude and foolish, confessing thereby the special relation towards his hostess which he had come to occupy. left alone, irene kilnorton sat down and attempted a dispassionate appraisement of herself. she was twenty-nine, a widow of four years' standing. the world, which had seemed ended when her young husband died, had revived for her; such is the world's persistent way. she was pretty, not beautiful, bright, not brilliant, pleasant, but hardly fascinating. she was pleased with the impartiality which conducted her so far. but at this point the judgment of herself began to drift into a judgment of ora pinsent, who seemed to be all that she herself had just missed being; in assessing ora the negatives fell out and the limitations had to be discarded. yet her mood was not one of envy for ora pinsent. she would not be ora pinsent. among those various feelings which she had for ora, there was one which she had described by saying "i despise her." the mood, in truth, hung doubtful between pity and contempt; but it was enough to save her from wishing to be ora pinsent. she would sooner put up with the negatives and the limitations. but she might wish, and did wish, that other people could take her own discerning view of her friend. she did not call herself a jealous woman; but after all lord bowdon had become in a rather special sense her property; now he was, as he put it graphically enough, carried off his feet. that condition would not last; he would find his feet and his feet would find the ground again soon. meanwhile, however, she could hardly be expected exactly to like it. men did such strange things--or so she had been told--just in those brief spaces of time when the feet were off the ground; perhaps women too did things rather strange in a similar case. "and poor ora's feet," she said to herself, "are never really on the ground." she was vaguely conscious that her mingled admiration and contempt reflected in a rather commonplace fashion the habitual attitude of good-sense towards genius. not being in love with commonplace good-sense as an intellectual ideal, she grew impatient with her thoughts, flung the window open, and sought distraction in the sight of the people who passed up and down the hill through the cool kindliness of the june evening. the wayfarers caught her idle interest, and she had almost lost herself in wondering whether the boy and girl at the corner would kiss before they parted when she was recalled to her own sphere by seeing two people whom she knew breasting the slope on bicycles. a dark young man inclining to stoutness, very elaborately arrayed for the exercise on which he was engaged, rode side by side with a dark young woman inclining to leanness, plainly clad, with a face that a man might learn to think attractive by much looking, but would not give a second thought to in a london drawing-room. "the young muddocks," said irene, drawing back and peering at them from behind her curtains. "recovering themselves after the party, i suppose." she watched them till they were out of sight; why, she did not ask herself. of course there was the interest of wealth, perhaps a vulgar, but seemingly an unavoidable, sensation which pounds much multiplied enable their possessors to create. there was more; the muddocks had come somehow into her orbit. they were in the orbit of her friend ashley mead; the girl might become the most important satellite there. irene's own act had perhaps brought them into ora pinsent's orbit--where storms were apt to rage. curiosity mingled with an absurd sense of responsibility in her. "it's such a risk introducing ora to anybody," she murmured, and with this her thoughts flew back to bowdon and the condition of men who are carried off their feet. "it's simply that i'm jealous," she declared petulantly, as she shut the window. but she was not yet to escape from ora pinsent. there on the mantel-piece was a full-length photograph, representing ora in her latest part and signed with her autograph, a big o followed by a short sprawl of letters, and a big p followed by a longer sprawl. though not a professed believer in the revelation of character by handwriting, irene found something significant in this signature, in the impulse which seemed to die away to a fatigued perfunctory ending, in the bold beginning that lagged on to a conclusion already wearisome. her eyes rose to the face of the portrait. it shewed a woman in a mood of audacity, still merry and triumphant, but distantly apprehensive of some new and yet unrealised danger. exultation, barely yet most surely touched with fear, filled the eyes and shaped the smile. it seemed to irene kilnorton that, if ora knew herself and her own temper, such reasonably might be her disposition towards the world and her own life as well as her pose in the play to which she now drew all the town; for her power of enjoying greatly in all likelihood carried with it its old companion, the power greatly to suffer. yet to irene a sort of triviality affected both capacities, as though neither could be exactly taken seriously, as though the enjoyment would always be childish, the suffering none too genuine. good-sense judged genius again; and again the possessor of good-sense turned impatiently away, not knowing whether her contempt should be for herself or for her friend. then she began to laugh, suddenly but heartily, at the recollection of lady muddock. when ora had passed on after the introduction, and irene was lingering in talk with her hostess, lady muddock had raised her timid pale-blue eyes, nervously fingered that growth of hair which was too fluffy for her years, and asked whether miss pinsent were "nice." this adjective, maid-of-all-work on women's lips, had come with such ludicrous inadequacy and pitiful inappropriateness that even at the moment irene had smiled. now she laughed. yet she was aware that lady muddock had no more than this one epithet with which to achieve a classification of humanity. you were nice or you were not nice; it was simple dichotomy; there was the beginning, there the end of the matter. so viewed, the question lost its artlessness and became a singularly difficult and searching interrogation. for if the little adjective were given its rich fulness of meaning, its widely representative character (it had to sum up half a world!), if it were asked whether, on the whole, ora pinsent were likely to be a good element in the world, or (if it might be so put) a profitable speculation on the part of nature, irene kilnorton would have been quite at a loss to answer. in fact--she asked, with a laugh still but now a puzzled laugh--was she nice or wasn't she? the mixture of feelings which she had described to ashley mead forbade any clear and definite response on her own behalf. on lady muddock's, however, she owned that the verdict must be in the negative. by the muddock standards, nice ora was not. and what was this absent jack fenning like? there seemed no materials for a judgment, except that he had married ora pinsent and was no longer with ora pinsent. here was a combination of facts about him remarkable enough to invest him with a certain interest. the rest was blank ignorance. "and," said irene with another slight laugh, "i suppose i'm the only person who ever took the trouble to think about him. i'm sure ora never does!" chapter ii first impressions it was an indication of the changed character of the business that the big block in buckingham palace road closed early on saturdays, surrendering the hours in which the branches continued to do their most roaring trade. the day after the party was a saturday; sir james and his son were making their way back through the park, timed to arrive at home for a two o'clock luncheon. the custom was that lady muddock and alice should meet them at or about the entrance of kensington gardens, and the four walk together to the house. there existed in the family close union, modified by special adorations. sir james walked with his daughter, bob with his stepmother; this order never varied, being the natural outcome of the old man's clinging to alice, and of lady muddock's pathetic fidelity to bob. she had no child of her own; she looked up to alice, but was conscious of an almost cruel clear-sightedness in her which made demonstrations of affection seem like the proffer of excuses. there are people so sensible that one caresses them with an apology. bob, on the other hand, was easy to please; you had to look after his tastes, admire his wardrobe, and not bother about the business out of hours; he asked no more, his stepmother did no less. thus while they crossed the gardens lady muddock talked of yesterday's party, while sir james consulted his daughter as to the affairs of the firm. alice detected here and there in what he said an undercurrent of discontent with bob, on the score of a lack not of diligence but of power, not of the willingness to buckle to, but of that instinct for the true game--the right move, the best purchase, the moment to stand for your price, the moment to throw all on the market--whence spring riches. sir james expressed his meaning clumsily, but he ended clearly enough by wishing that there were another head in the business; for he grew old, and, although he was now relieved from parliament, found the work heavy on him. nothing of all this was new to the listener; the tale was an old one and led always to the same climax, the desire to get ashley mead back into the business. if alice objected that he was ignorant and untrained in commercial pursuits, sir james pushed the difficulty aside. "he's got the stuff in him," he would persist, and then look at his daughter in a questioning way. with this look also she was familiar; the question which the glance put was whether she would be willing to do what lady kilnorton called "going with selling the ribbons." such was the suggestion; alice's mood (she treated herself with the candour which she bestowed on others) towards it was that she would be willing to go--to go to ashley mead, but not to go with selling the ribbons. the point was not one of pride; it was partly that she seemed to herself to be weary of the ribbons, not ashamed (she was free from that little weakness, which beset bob and made him sensitive to jokes about his waistcoats being acquired at cost price), but secretly and rather urgently desirous of a new setting and background for her life, and of an escape from surroundings grown too habitual. but it was more perhaps that she did not wish ashley to sell ribbons or to make money. she was touched with a culture of which sir james did not dream; the culture was in danger of producing fastidiousness. ashley was precious in her life because he did not sell ribbons, because he thought nothing or too little of money, because he was poor. the children of the amassers are often squanderers. alice was no squanderer, but she felt that enough money had been made, enough ribbons sold. with a new aim and a new outlook life would turn sweet again. and she hated the thought that to ashley she meant ribbons. she did not fear that he would make love to her merely for her money's sake; but the money would chink in her pocket and the ribbons festoon about her gown; if she went to him, she would like to leave all that behind and start a new existence. yet the instinct in her made the business sacred; a reverence of habit hung about it, causing these dreams to seem unholy rebels which must not shew their heads, and certainly could not be mentioned in answer to her father's look. moreover she wished ashley to shew himself a man who, if he took to ribbon-selling, would sell ribbons well; the qualities remained great in her eyes though the pursuit had lost its charms. at lunch they talked of their guests. lady kilnorton had pleased them all; lord bowdon's presence was flattering to lady muddock and seemed very friendly to her husband. minna soames, who had come to sing to the party, was declared charming: hard if she had not been, since she spent her life trying after that verdict! lady muddock added that she was very nice, and sang only at concerts because of the atmosphere of the stage. ora pinsent excited more discussion and difference of opinion, but here also there was a solid foundation of agreement. they had all felt the gulf between them and her; she might not be bad--bob pretended that he would have heard all about any scandal had there been one--but she was hopelessly alien from them. they were not sorry that lady kilnorton had brought her, for she had added to the _éclat_, but they could not feel sure (nor perhaps eager to be sure) that they had secured a permanent acquaintance, much less a possible friend. and then she had told her hostess, quite casually, that lord bowdon (whom she had never met before) was going to drive her home. lord bowdon was not an old man, miss pinsent was quite a young woman; he was a lord and she was an actress; of suspected classes, both of them. every tenet and preconception of the middle period combined to raise grave apprehension in lady muddock's mind. sir james nodded assent over his rice pudding. the son and daughter shared the feeling, but with self-questioning; was it not narrow, asked alice, was it not unbecoming to a man of the world, asked bob. but there it was--in brother and sister both. "ashley knows her, i think," alice remarked. "that doesn't prove anything," said bob with a laugh. lady muddock looked a little frightened. "i mean, ashley knows everybody," he added rather enviously. "ashley can take care of himself," the old man decided, as he pushed his plate away. "anyhow i don't suppose we shall see much of her," said alice. her tone had some regret in it; ora pinsent was at least far removed from the making of money and the selling of ribbons; she was of another world. with this the subject passed; nobody made mention of mr. jack fenning because nobody (not even well-informed bob) had heard of him, and gloves had hidden the unobtrusive wedding ring on miss pinsent's finger. indeed at all times it lay in the shadow of a very fine sapphire; the fanciful might be pardoned for finding an allegory here. the still recent fatigues of entertaining made lady muddock disinclined to drive, and alice went alone to the park in the afternoon. the place was very full, and motion slow and interrupted. getting fast-set in a block, she leant back resignedly, wondering why in the world she had chosen this mode of spending a summer afternoon. suddenly she heard her name called and, turning round, found a small and unpretentious victoria wedged close to the carriage. a lady sat in the victoria; alice was conscious of little more than a large hat, eyes, and a smile; when she thought of the meeting later on, she was surprised to find herself ignorant of what ora pinsent was wearing. but the smile she remembered; it was so cordial and radiant, a smile quite without reserve, seeming to express what was, for the instant at least, the whole and unclouded happiness of a human being. thus to smile is in itself a talent. "miss pinsent!" she exclaimed in a flutter for which she had not time to rebuke herself. "i wasn't quite sure it was you," ora explained. "but i thought i'd risk it. isn't it dull?" her eloquent hands accused the whole surroundings. "this block's so tiresome," observed alice; she felt the obviousness of the remark. "oh, i don't mind whether we move or not. i mean driving alone. but perhaps you do it from choice. i don't. but he didn't come." alice looked at her and laughed. "i should have thought he would," she said. she began to be amused. "yes, wouldn't you?" asked ora. "but he didn't." "i'm very sorry." "oh, i've stopped wanting him now. it's quite unsafe not to keep appointments with me. you miss the time when you're wanted! have you seen irene kilnorton anywhere?" "not since yesterday." there was a pause. some way ahead a carriage crawled a few paces on; the pack was going to break up. ora's victoria got a start first; as it moved she turned her head over her shoulder, saying: "i suppose you wouldn't like to come and see me some day?" alice said that she would be delighted, but she felt that her expression of pleasure in the prospect sounded purely conventional. in reality she was amazed, inclined to be apprehensively gratified, and certainly interested. "then do," smiled miss pinsent as she was borne away. "i wonder who didn't come!" said alice to herself, smiling; but the next moment criticism revived. "how curious she should tell me about it!" she reflected. "she doesn't know me a bit." frown and smile stood on her face together. the way was cleared. alice accomplished another round at a fairly quick trot. then she saw miss pinsent's victoria again. this time miss pinsent was not alone; the victoria stood by the path and lord bowdon's foot was on the step. he was talking to ora; ora leant back, looking past him with an expression of utter inattention. was he the man who didn't come? or was she inattentive because he was not? alice gave up the riddle; she had a sudden consciousness that generalisations which had hitherto seemed tolerably trustworthy might prove most fallacious if applied to ora pinsent. but there was a distinct regret in her mind when she lost sight of the little victoria with the big man by its step. she had her invitation; but in retrospect her invitation seemed woefully vague. ashley dropped in to dinner that evening, pleasant and talkative as usual, but rather less alert and a trifle absent in manner. however he had good news; he was to be secretary to lord bowdon's commission; it would last a long while, was probably meant to last as long as the government did (the grounds for this impression would be tedious to relate, and open to controversy), and would enable him to pay bills. "i suppose," he said to alice, "you don't know what it is not to be able to pay a bill?" "i hardly ever have one," she said; "they're just sent in to father." "it must be rather slow never to be hard-up," he remarked; he hardly meant what he said, and was quite unaware how true his remark seemed to alice muddock. "then you never write cheques?" he went on. "for charity i do." "good heavens, what a base use of a cheque book!" lady muddock happened to hear this observation. she had failed to accustom herself to remarks not meant for literal acceptance; the middle period treats language seriously. "we all ought to give a certain proportion," she remarked. "oughtn't we, james?" but sir james had gone to sleep. as ashley sat and talked lightly about the secretaryship, his shifts to live comfortably beyond his means, and the welcome help lord bowdon had afforded, alice felt a surprise at him growing in her. had she been placed as he was, she might not have married for money, but she would inevitably have thought of such a step, probably have had a severe struggle about it, and certainly have enjoyed a sense of victory in putting it on one side. the money-taint had bitten so far into her; she could disregard wealth but could not forget it. she hardly understood ashley; she felt curious to know what he would say if she stood before him and offered herself and her thousands freely, unconditionally, the money without the ribbons. did he know that she was ready to do it? did he want her? there was an only half-occupied look in his eyes. she never expected to see admiration gleam in the eyes of men, but she often, indeed generally, excited interest and chained attention. to-night there was hardly attention, certainly not whole-hearted engrossed interest. all at once, for the first time in her simple sincere life, there came over her a bitter regret that she was not pretty. it was a small thing to be; small in itself, very small in the little changes of shape and colour that made it. but how rich in consequences! yes, she meditated, how unfairly rich! pressed by thought, she found herself lapsing into long silences. she started another line of talk, but the new topic sprang from the previous meditation. "i met miss pinsent in the park to-day," she said. "she was looking so beautiful. and what do you think, she asked me to go and see her! i was very flattered." ashley smiled as he observed: "she's asked me to go and see her too." "shall you go?" asked alice, with a grave interest. she was puzzled at the heartiness of his laugh over her question. "great heavens, of course i shall go," he said, laughing still. "what are you laughing at?" "why, my dear alice, there isn't a man in london who wouldn't go." "oh, i see," she said in a disappointed, almost irritable tone. she had somehow expected a better explanation than lay in that, something that might apply to herself, to a girl. she was even sure that there ought to be something more about miss pinsent, that it was a man's fault if he saw only what all men must see. her tone did not escape the quick wit of her companion. "you must see that she's tremendously interesting?" he said. "lady kilnorton says that ora pinsent's the most interesting person in the world--except one." "except who?" "her husband," he answered, laughing again. "you look surprised. oh, yes, he exists. his name's fenning." "she--she's married?" alice was leaning forward now; here was another problem. "incredible, but true. you may let bob meet her without the least danger of spoiling that great match he's going to make." "i'd no idea she was married." ashley was obviously amused at her wonder, perhaps at the importance she attached to the circumstance which he had brought to her knowledge. "lady kilnorton will have it that he must be a remarkable man," he went on. "but it doesn't follow in the least, you know, rather the contrary. some women have unimpeachable taste in everything except marriage; or perhaps we must all have our share of the ordinary, and they take theirs out in their husbands. anyhow, he's at the other end of the world somewhere." they talked a little while longer about ora, alice incidentally mentioning bowdon's appearance by the step of the victoria. then ashley said good-night, and started to walk home to his rooms in one of the streets which run down from the strand to the thames embankment. here he dwelt humbly, commanding modest comforts and, if he craned his neck, a sidelong view of a bit of the river by charing cross bridge. as he walked, he was pleasantly and discursively thoughtful. his evening had disposed him to reflexion on the very various types of people who inhabited the world and flocked, one and all, to london. he knew many sorts; yet within the limits of his acquaintance the muddocks were peculiar. and now, right at the other end of the scale, came this miss pinsent. he thought about miss pinsent for a little while, and then drifted idly into a trivial classification of women according to their external advantages. perhaps he had dimly discerned and caught something of alice muddock's train of ideas. there were those beautiful to all, those pretty to some, those plain to most. miss pinsent, lady kilnorton, alice muddock, were the instances on which his generalities depended. superficial as the dividing principle was, he gained a hint of what had come home to alice while he talked to her, of the immense difference it made to the persons divided. (that it made an immense difference to him was in no way such a discovery as needed midnight meditation.) to them the difference would surely become more than a source of greater or less homage, attention, pleasure, or excitement. these immediate results must so influence and affect life as to make the woman in the end really a different being, a different inner as well as a different outer creature, from what she would have been had she occupied a place in another class than her own. it would be curious to take twin souls (he allowed himself the hypothesis of souls), put them into diverse kinds of bodies, leave them there ten years, from eighteen to twenty-eight, say, then take them out and record the observed variations. but that was hopeless; the experimental method, admirable for all sorts of dull subjects, broke down just where it would become of absorbing interest. in pall mall he met lord bowdon coming out of the reform club. bowdon's family had always been whigs; people might argue that historical parties had changed their policies and their principles; bowdon was not to be caught by any such specious reasoning. the liberals were heirs to the whigs; he was heir to his fathers; his conservative temperament preserved his liberal principles. but he did not seem to be occupied by such matters to-night. he caught ashley by the arm, turned him round the athenæum corner, and began to stroll gently along towards the steps. ashley thanked him again for procuring him the secretaryship; bowdon's only answer was to nod absently. what alice muddock had told him recurred to ashley's mind. "i hear you had an audience in the park to-day," he said, laughing. "her majesty distinguished you?" "i did a most curious thing," said bowdon slowly. "i had an appointment to drive with her. i didn't go. half-an-hour later i walked up to the park and looked for her till i found her. doesn't that strike you as a very silly proceeding?" "very," said ashley with a laugh. "in a man of forty-three?" pursued bowdon with a whimsical gravity. "worse and worse. but where do you put the folly, in missing the appointment or--?" "oh, in the combination! the combination makes it hopeless. you said you knew her, didn't you?" "yes. i shouldn't miss the appointment." ashley had long been aware of his companion's kindness for him, one of those partialities that arise without much apparent reason but are of unquestionable genuineness. but bowdon was considered reserved, and this little outbreak of self-exposure was a surprise. it shewed that the man was at least playing with a new emotion; if the emotion grew strong the play might turn to earnest. moreover bowdon must know that his confidant was a frequent visitor at lady kilnorton's. bowdon stopped suddenly, standing still on the pavement, and looking full in ashley's face. "don't think i'm going to make a fool of myself, my boy," he said with remarkable emphasis and energy. "good-night;" and, hailing a cab, he was off in an instant. ashley properly considered his friend's last remark an indication that he was feeling rather inclined to, and just possibly might, make or try to make (for often failure is salvation) a fool of himself. the man of unshaken sobriety of purpose needs no such protests. ashley strolled on to his rooms, decidedly amused, somehow also a little vexed. nothing had happened except a further and needless proof that he had been right in putting ora in the first division of his classification. the vexation, then, remained unaccounted for, and it was not until he had reached home, lit his pipe, mixed his whiskey and water, and settled in his arm-chair, that he discovered that he was a little annoyed just because lord bowdon was apparently afraid of making a fool of himself. it was a thing that bowdon or any other man had a perfect right to do, so far as the rest of the world was concerned. this sounded like a platitude; ashley was surprised to find in his own soul an indefinite but not weak opposition to it. the instinct of exclusive possession was stirring in him, that resentment of intrusion which is the forerunner of a claim to property. well, he was not forty-three but just thirty. his theory of life did not forbid a certain amount of making a fool of himself; his practice had included a rather larger quantity. perturbation had been the ruling factor in bowdon, in ashley a pleasurable anticipation was predominant. in his case there were no very obvious reasons why he should not make a fool of himself again, if he were so disposed; for, dealing dispassionately with the situation and with his own standards, he could not treat this jack fenning as a very obvious reason. he went to bed with a vague sense of satisfaction; the last few days had brought to birth a new element in life, or at least a new feature of this season. it was altogether too soon to set about measuring the dimensions of the fresh arrival or settling to what it might or might not grow. his anticipation would have been much heightened and the development of his interest quickened had he been able to see what was at this time happening to the lady who had made so abrupt and resolute an entry into his thoughts as well as into lord bowdon's. her distress would have been sun and water to the growth of his feelings. for mr. sidney hazlewood, an accomplished comedian and ora pinsent's manager, had urged that she should try, and indeed must force herself, to regard a certain business arrangement from a purely business point of view. to ora, still charged with the emotions of her performance in addition to her own natural and large stock of emotions, this suggestion seemed mere brutality, oblivious of humanity, and dictated solely by a ruthless and unhallowed pursuit of gain. so she burst into tears, and a weary wrinkle knitted itself on mr. hazlewood's brow. lady kilnorton had been blaming herself for judging genius from the stand of common-sense; mr. hazlewood did not theorise about the matter; that eloquent wrinkle was his sole protest against the existence and the ways of genius. the wrinkle having failed of effect, he observed that an agreement was an agreement and spoke, as a man who contemplates regrettable necessities, of his solicitor. ora defied mr. hazlewood, the law, and the world, and went home still in tears. she was not really happy again until she had got into her dressing-gown, when quite suddenly she chanced on the idea that mr. hazlewood had a good deal to say for himself. then she began to laugh merrily at the scene which had passed between them. "he's very stupid, but he likes me and he's a good old creature," she ended in a charitable way. chapter iii an arrangement for sunday "elizabeth aurora pinsent; that's it. but elizabeth was too solemn, and betty was too familiar, and aurora too absurd. so i'm just ora." lord bowdon nodded gravely. "and i think," she went on, lying back on the sofa, "that the world's rather dull, and that you're rather like the world this afternoon." he did not dispute the point. a man who wants to make love, but is withheld by the sense that he ought not, is at his dullest. bowdon's state was this or even worse. ora was a friend of irene kilnorton's; how much had she guessed, observed, or been told? would she think loyalty a duty in herself and disloyalty in him a reproach? that would almost certainly be her mood unless she liked him very much; and she gave no sign of such a liking. on all grounds he was clear that he had better go away at once and not come back again. he thought first of irene kilnorton, then of his own peace and interest, lastly of mr. jack fenning; but it must be stated to his credit that he did think quite perceptibly of jack fenning. yet he did not go away immediately. "you live all alone here?" he asked, looking round the bright little room. "yes, i can, you see. that's the advantage of being married." "i never looked at marriage in that light before." "no," she laughed. "you've not looked at it in any light, you know; only from the outer darkness." as his eyes rested on her lying there in graceful repose, he felt a grudge against the way fate was treating him. he wished he were ten or fifteen years younger; he wished he had nothing to lose; he wished he had no conscience. given these desirable things, he believed that he could break down this indifference and banish this repose. ora had done nothing to create such a belief; it grew out of his own sturdy and usually justifiable self-confidence. "have you a conscience?" he asked her suddenly. "oh, yes," she answered, "afterwards." "that's a harmless variety," he said wistfully. "tiresome, though," she murmured with her eyes upturned to the ceiling as though she had forgotten his presence. "only, you see, something else happens soon and then you don't think any more about it." ora seemed glad that the cold wind of morality was thus tempered. such a remedy was not for the solid-minded man: he did think more about it, notwithstanding that many things happened; and his was not merely the harmless variety of conscience. ora nestled lower on her cushions, sighed and closed her eyes; she did not treat him with ceremony, if any comfort lay in that. he rose, walked to the window, and looked out. he felt intolerably absurd, but the perception of his absurdity did not help him much. again he complained of fate. this thing had come just when such things should cease to come, just also when another thing had begun to seem so pleasant, so satisfactory, so almost settled. he was ashamed of himself; as he stood there he regretted his midnight confidence to ashley mead a fortnight before. since then he had made no confidences to ashley; he had not told him how often he came to this house, nor how often he wished to come. ora pinsent's name had not been mentioned between them, although they had met several times over the initial business of launching their commission. he turned round and found her eyes on him. she began to laugh, sprang up, ran across the room, laid a hand lightly on his sleeve, and looked in his face, shaking her head with an air of determination. "you must either go, or be a little more amusing," she said. "what's the matter? oh, i know! you're in love!" "i suppose so," he admitted with a grim smile. "not with me, though!" "you're sure of that? nothing would make you doubt it?" "well, i thought it was irene kilnorton," she answered; her eyes expressed interest and a little surprise. "so it was; at least i thought so too," said bowdon. "well, if you think so enough, it's all right," said ora with a laugh. "but i'm inclined to think differently now." "oh, i shouldn't think differently, if i were you," she murmured. "irene's so charming and clever. she'd just suit you." "you're absolutely right," said bowdon. "then why don't you?" she looked at him for a moment and he met her gaze; a slight tint of colour came on her cheeks, and her lips curved in amusement. "oh, what nonsense!" she cried a moment later and drew back from him till she leant against the opposite shutter and stood there, smiling at him. the next moment she went on: "it is quite nonsense, you know." lord bowdon thought for a moment before he answered her. "nonsense is not the same as nothing," he said at last. "you're not serious about it?" she asked with a passing appearance of alarm. "but of course you aren't." she began to laugh again. he was relieved to find that he had betrayed nothing more decisive than an inclination to flirt. it would be an excellent thing to sail off under cover of that; she would not be offended, he would be safe. "tragically serious," he answered, smiling. "oh, yes, i know!" she said. then she grew grave, frowned a little and looked down into the street. "you talk rather like jack used to. you reminded me of him for an instant," she remarked. "though you're not like him really, of course." "your husband?" his tone had surprise in it; she had never mentioned jack before; both the moment and the manner of her present reference to him seemed strange. "yes. you never met him, did you? he used to be about london five or six years ago." "no, i never saw him. where is he now?" a shrug of her shoulders and a slight smile gave her answer. "why did he go away?" "oh, a thousand reasons! it doesn't matter. i liked him, though, once." "do you like him now?" a moment more of gravity was followed by a sudden smile; her eyes sparkled again and she laughed, as she answered, "no, not just now, thank you, lord bowdon. what queer questions you ask, don't you?" "the answers interest me." "i don't see why they should." "don't you?" "i mean i don't see how they ought." "quite so." "you're really getting a little bit more amusing," said ora with a grateful look. he felt an impulse to be brutal with her, to do, in another sphere of action, very much what mr. hazlewood had done when he insisted that a business arrangement must be regarded in a business-like way. suppose he told her that questions of morals, with their cognate problems, ought to be regarded in a moral way? he would perhaps be a strange preacher, but surely she would forget that in amazement at the novelty of his doctrine! "how old are you?" he asked her, aghast this time at his question but quite unable to resist it. she glanced at him for a moment, smiled, and answered simply, "twenty-seven last december." he was remorseful at having extracted an answer, but he bowed to her as he said, "you've paid me a high compliment. you're right, though; it wasn't impertinence." "oh, no, you're all right in that way," she murmured with a careless cordiality. "but why did you want to know?" "i want to know all about you," he said in a low voice. again she looked at him for a moment, growing grave as she looked. then she laid her hand on his arm again and looked up in his face with a pleading coaxing smile. "don't," she said. there was silence for a moment. then lord bowdon took her hand, kissed it, smiled at her, and asked a prosaic question. "where's my hat?" said he. but that prosaic question made it impossible to sail off under cover of an inclination to flirt; it was not at all in that manner; it lacked the colour, the flourish and the show. as he walked away, bowdon was conscious that whatever happened to the affair, good or evil, whether it went on or stopped, it must be stamped with a certain genuineness. it could not pass at once from his thoughts; he could not suppose that it would be dismissed immediately from hers. that he occupied her attention for a little while after he went away happened to be the case, although it was by no means the certain result he imagined. a mind for the moment vacant of new impressions allowed her to wonder, rather idly, why she had said "don't" so soon; he had done nothing to elicit so direct a prohibition; it had put a stop to a conversation only just becoming interesting, still far from threatening inconvenience. perhaps she was surprised to find her injunction so effective. she had said the word, she supposed, because she was not much taken with him; or rather because she liked him very definitely in one way, and very definitely not in another, and so had been impelled to deal fairly with him. besides he had for a moment reminded her of jack fenning; that also might have something to do with it. the remembrance of her husband's love-making was not pleasant to her. it recalled the greatest of all the blunders into which her trick of sudden likings had led her, the one apparently irrevocable blunder. it brought back also the memory of old delusions which had made the blunder seem something so very different at the time it was committed. she walked about the room for a few minutes with a doleful look, her lips dragged down and her eyes woeful. it was only five; she did not dine till six. she was supposed to rest this hour; if resting meant thinking of jack fenning and lord bowdon and of the general harshness of the world, she would have none of it. it occurred to her, almost as an insult, that here was an hour in which she was at leisure and yet nobody seemed to desire her society; such treatment was strange and uncomplimentary. a ring at the bell scattered her gloom. "that must be somebody amusing!" she cried, clasping her hands in the joyful confidence that fate had taken a turn. "i wonder who it is!" the visitor thus favoured by a prejudice of approbation proved to be ashley mead. he had come once before, a week ago; three days back ora had in her own mind accused him of neglect and then charitably congratulated him on indifference. now she ran to him as though he were the one person in the world she wished to see. "how charming of you!" she cried. "i was bored to death. i do like people who come at the right time!" ashley held her hand for a moment in sheer pleasure at the feel of it; they sat down, she again on her sofa, he in a low chair close by. "tea?" she said. "goodness, no. don't move from where you are, miss pinsent. i met lord bowdon walking away." "i sent him away." "what delightful presentiments you have!" "indeed i'd no idea that you'd come. i don't think he wanted to stay, though." she smiled meditatively. lord bowdon's prompt acceptance of her "don't" seemed now to take on a humorous air; his hesitation contrasted so sharply with the confident readiness of her new visitor. "i've come on business," said ashley. "business?" she echoed, with an unpleasant reminiscence of mr. sidney hazlewood and his views as to the nature of an agreement. "i want you to help me to organise something." "oh, i couldn't. i hate all that sort of thing. it's not a bazaar, is it?" "no. perhaps we might call it a _fête_. it's a day in the country, miss pinsent." "oh, i know! children! you mean those children?" he leant back in his chair and looked at her before he replied. she seemed a little hurt and regretful, as though his visit were not proving so pleasant as she had expected; a visit should be paid, as virtue should be practised, for its own sake. "no," he said. "not those children. these children." she took an instant to grasp the proposal; then her eyes signified her understanding of it; but she did not answer it. "why not?" he urged, leaning forward. she broke into a light laugh. "there's no reason why not--" "ah, that's right!" "except that i'm not sure i want to," continued ora. she put her head a little on one side, with a critical air. "i wonder if you'd amuse me for a whole day," she said. "you quite mistake my point of view," he replied, smiling. "i never expected to amuse you. i want you to amuse me. i'm quite selfish about it." "that's just making use of me," she objected. "i don't think i was created only to amuse you, you know." "perhaps not; but let me have the amusement first. the trouble'll come soon enough." "will it? then why--" "oh, you understand that well enough really, miss pinsent." "what would that nice serious girl you're going to marry say if she heard of our outing?" "i haven't received the news of my engagement yet." "irene says you're certain to marry her." "well, at any rate she doesn't say i've done it yet, does she?" "no," admitted ora, smiling. "and that's the point, isn't it? will you come on sunday?" sunday had looked rather grey; there was nothing but a lunch party, to meet a dean who thought that the stage might be made an engine for good, and therefore wished to be introduced to miss pinsent. oh, and there was a dinner to celebrate somebody's birthday--she had forgotten whose. yes, sunday was quite a free day. the sun shone here; it would shine merrily in the country. in short she wanted to go. "oh, well, i don't mind trying to prevent you being bored for just one day," she said, with her eyes merry and mocking. "that's very kind of you," observed ashley in a composed tone. "i'll call for you at eleven and carry you off." "where to?" "i shall settle that. it's entirely for my sake we're going, you know, so i shall have my choice." "it sounds as if you might enjoy yourself, mr. mead." "yes, quite, doesn't it?" he answered, laughing. ora joined in his laugh; the world was no longer harsh; lord bowdon was nothing; there were no more reminiscences of the way jack fenning used to talk. there was frolic, there was a touch of adventure, a savour of mischief. "it'll be rather fun," she mused softly, clasping her hands on her knee. behind the man's restrained bearing lay a sense of triumph. he had carried out his little campaign well. he did not look ahead, the success of the hour served. no doubt after that sunday other things would happen again, and might even be of importance; meanwhile except that sunday there was nothing. merely that she came was not all--with her was not even very much. but he knew that her heart was eager to come, and that the sunday was a joy to her also. "it's dinner-time," she said, springing up. "go away, mr. mead." he was as obedient as bowdon had been; enough had been done for to-day. but a farewell may be said in many ways. "sunday, then," he said, taking both her hands which she had held out to him in her cordial fashion. lady kilnorton said that ora always seemed to expect to be kissed. "just manner, of course," she would add, since ora was her friend. "yes, sunday--unless i change my mind. i often do." "you won't this time." the assertion had not a shred of question about it; it was positive and confident. she looked up in his face, laughing. "good-bye," she said. bowdon had kissed her hand, but ashley did not follow that example. they enjoyed another laugh together, and he was laughing still as he left her and took his way downstairs. "oh, dear!" she said, passing her hand over her eyes, as she went to get ready for dinner. she felt a reaction from some kind of excitement; yet what reason for excitement had there been? with regard to the theatre the muddock family displayed a variety of practice. sir james never went; bob frequented with assiduity those houses where the lighter forms of the drama were presented; lady muddock and alice were occasional visitors at the highest class of entertainment. neither cared much about evenings so spent as a rule; but lady muddock, having entertained miss pinsent, was eager to see her act. ora was the only member of her profession whom lady muddock had met; to be acquainted with one of the performers added a new flavour. lady muddock felt an increased importance in herself as she looked round the house; there must be a great many people there who knew nobody on the stage; she knew miss pinsent; she would have liked the fact mentioned, or at any rate to have it get about in some unobtrusive way. before the first act was over she had fully persuaded herself that ora had noticed her presence; she had looked twice quite directly at the box! the little woman, flattered by this wholly fictitious recognition, decided audaciously that sir james' attitude towards the stage was old-fashioned and rather uncharitable; everybody was not bad on the stage; she felt sure that there were exceptions. anyhow it was nice to know somebody; it gave one a feeling of what bob called--she smiled shyly to herself--"being in it." she was very careful never to talk slang herself, but sometimes it expressed just what she wanted to say. she pulled out her pink silk sleeves to their fullest volume (sleeves were large then) and leant forward in the box. between the acts babba flint came in. he was a club acquaintance of bob's, and had met the ladies of the family at a charity bazaar. it was a slender basis for friendship, but babba was not ceremonious. nobody knew why he was called babba (which was not his name), but he always was. he was a small fair man, very smartly dressed; he seldom stopped talking and was generally considered agreeable. he talked now, and, seeing the bent of lady muddock's interest, he made ora his theme. lady muddock was a little vexed to find that babba also knew ora, and most of her colleagues besides; but there was recompense in his string of anecdotes. alice was silent, looking and wondering at babba--strange to be such a person!--and yet listening to what he was saying. babba lisped a little; at least when he said "miss pinsent," the s's were blurred and indistinct. he had met her husband once a long while ago; "a fellow named denning, no, fenning; a good-looking fellow." "a gentleman?" babba supposed so, but deuced hard-up and not very fond of work. she led him no end of a life, babba had heard; so at last he bolted to america or somewhere. babba expressed some surprise that mr. fenning did not now return--he knew the amount of ora's salary and mentioned it by way of enforcing this point--and declared that he himself would put up with a good deal at the hands of a lady so prepossessing as miss pinsent. then lady muddock asked whether miss pinsent were really nice, and babba said that she wasn't a bad sort to meet about the place but (here he broke into a quotation from a song popular in its day), "you never know what happens downstairs." lady muddock tried to look as though she had received information, and babba withdrew, in order to refresh himself before the rise of the curtain. ora played well that night, indeed played mr. hazlewood off the stage, according to his own confession and phraseology. there was a ring in her laugh, a rush in her passion, a triumph in her very walk. alice found herself wondering whether what happened to the woman herself had much effect on her acting, how complete or incomplete the duality of person was, how much was put on and put off with the stage dresses and the stage paint. but, after all, the woman herself must be there before them, the real creature, full of life and yet straining her great gift of it to the full. alice had heard men described as "living hard." that phrase generally meant something foolish or disreputable; but you could live hard without dissipation or folly, at least in the ordinary sense of those words. you could take all there was in every hour out of it, put all there was of you into every hour, taste everything, try everything, feel everything, always be doing or suffering, blot out the uneventful stretches of flat country so wide in most lives, for ever be going up or down, breasting hills or rattling over the slopes. it must be strange to be like that and to live like that. was it also sweet? or very sweet when not too bitter? and when it was very bitter, what came of it? surely the mightiest temptation to lay it all aside and go to sleep? alice drew back with a sudden sense of repulsion, as though there were no health or sanity in such lives and such people. then she looked again at the beautiful face, now strained in sorrow, with hands stretched out in such marvellous appeal, the whole body a prayer. her heart went out in pity, and, with a sudden impulse, cried to go out in love. but she could come to no final conclusion about ora pinsent, and, vexed at her failure, was thinking when the curtain fell, "what does it matter to me?" the arrangement for a sunday in the country, had she known of it, might have made the question seem less simple to answer. chapter iv by way of precaution for some days back irene kilnorton had been finding it difficult to have amiable thoughts about ora. that they are attractive, that they make a change where they come, that they are apt to upset what seemed to be settling itself very comfortably before their arrival, are not things which can reasonably be imputed as faults to the persons to whom they are attached as incidents; but neither do they at all times commend them. it could not be denied--at this moment irene at least could not deny--that there was a wantonness about ora's intrusions; she went where she might have known it was better that she should stay away, and pursued acquaintances which were clearly safer left in an undeveloped state. she was irresponsible, lady kilnorton complained; the grievance was not unnatural in her since she felt that she was paying part of the bill; it was ora's debt really, but ora was morally insolvent, and made her friends unwilling guarantors. the pleasant confidence with which she had awaited bowdon's approaches and received his attentions was shaken; she found that she had wanted him more than she had thought, that she was less sure of getting him than she had supposed. he had been to see her two or three times; there was no falling off in his courtesies, no abrupt break in his assiduity. but a cloud hung about him. being there, he seemed half somewhere else; she suspected where the absent half of his thoughts might be found. he wore an air almost remorseful and certainly rather apologetic; lady kilnorton did not wish to be courted by way of apology. she knew it was all ora pinsent, and, although she was quite aware that there was a good deal to be pleaded on ora's side of the question, she itched to say something--no matter what, provided it were pointed and unpleasant--about jack fenning. babba flint, with whom she was acquainted, had once described some young lady to her as his "second-best girl." babba was deplorable, most deplorable; yet her anger borrowed from his strange vocabulary. she did not want to be anybody's "second-best girl." "not," she added, "that i'm a girl at all. no more is ora, for that matter." the pleasure of the hit at ora outweighed the regret in her admission about herself. with regard to ashley mead her mood was much lighter, and, as a consequence, much less repressed. since she did not care greatly whether he came or not, she reproached him bitterly for not coming; being tolerably indifferent as to how he managed his life, she exhorted him not to be silly; having no concern in the disposal of his affections, she gave him the best possible advice as to where he should bestow them. this conversation happened at mrs. pocklington's, where everybody was, and it seemed to amuse ashley mead very much. but it was friday night and sunday was near, so that everything seemed to amuse and please him. she told him that alice muddock was somewhere in the rooms; he said that he had already paid his respects to alice. irene's glance charged him with the blindest folly. "how women are always trying to give one another away!" he exclaimed. "oh, if you won't see, you won't," she answered huffishly and leant back in her chair. the baffled mentor harboured a grievance! he looked at her for a moment, smiled, and passed on. presently minna soames came and sat down by her. minna was one of those girls to whom it is impossible to deny prettiness and impossible to ascribe beauty; she sang very well and lived very comfortably by her concerts; she might, of course (or so she said), have made more on the stage, but then there was the atmosphere. irene did not like her much and was inclined to think her silly. what matter? she began to exercise a circumscribed power of sarcasm on ora pinsent; in spite of a secret sense of shame, irene became more and more gracious. praise be to those who abuse whom we would abuse but cannot with propriety! "i was quite surprised to see her at lady muddock's," observed miss soames with prim maliciousness. irene cast a glance at her companion; the remark was evidently innocent, so far as she was concerned; the malice was purely for ora, not for her. miss soames was not aware how ora had come to be at the muddocks'! irene reached the depths of self-contempt when, after ten minutes, minna soames went away still in ignorance of this simple fact. "i'm a mean wretch," irene kilnorton thought; and so at the moment she was--as the best of us at certain moments are. these same moments, in which we see ourselves as we are most careful that others shall not see us, are not so pleasant that we seek to prolong them. irene plunged into the moving throng with the idea of finding somebody to talk to her and take her to supper. with some surprise, some pleasure, and more excitement than she was willing to admit, she chanced to meet bowdon almost immediately. her temper rose to the encounter as though to a challenge. she suggested supper. she began to find herself in high spirits. the idea was in her that she would not surrender, would not give up the game, would not make ora irresistible by shirking a fight with her. when they had secured a little table and sat down she began to talk her best; in this she was helped by the consciousness of looking her best; she did not fear to pin his eyes to her with keenest attention. but the expression of the watching eyes puzzled and annoyed her; they were eager and yet doubtful, appreciative but wistful. was he trying to think her all he had been on the point of thinking her, still to see in her all that he wanted? was he unhappy because he could not so think and so see? he almost gave her that impression. she was very gay and felt herself now almost brilliant; her contest was with that most gay and brilliant shape which came between his eyes and what she offered for their allurement. people passing by, in the usual ignorance and the usual confidence of passers-by, summed up the situation in a moment; bowdon was only waiting for her leave to speak, she was absolutely confident of him. they envied her and said that she should not parade her captive quite so openly. she guessed what they thought; she was glad and was fired to new efforts. she alone would know how incomplete was the victory; for all the world she would be triumphant. even ora might think herself defeated! but why was he changed, why was she less charming to him, why must she strive and toil and force? in the midst of her raillery and gaiety she could have put her hands before her face, and hidden tears. he was almost persuaded, he was eager to be persuaded. at this moment she seemed all he wanted; he told himself angrily and persistently that she was all that any man could or ought to want, that she stood for the best and most reasonable thing, for sure happiness and stable content. if he left her, for what would he leave her? for utter folly and worse. she would be a wife to be proud of; there would be no need to apologise for her. even had there been no jack fenning, he knew that a marriage with ora pinsent would seem even to himself to need some apology, that he would fear to see smiles mingled with the congratulations, and to hear a sunken murmur of sneers and laughter among the polite applause. he cursed himself for a fool because he did not on that very instant claim her for his. why, the other woman would not even let him make love to her! he smiled bitterly as he recollected that it was not open to him to make a fool of himself, even if he would. he wanted the bad and could not have it, but because he wanted it vainly, now he was refusing the good. no raw boy could have sailed further in folly. coming to that conclusion he declared he would take a firm hold on himself. failing that, his danger was imminent. they went up together from the supper-room. now she was set to win or for ever to lose; she could not play such a game twice. "don't leave me," she said, boldly and directly. "everybody here is so tiresome. let's go to the little room at the end, it's generally empty." he appeared to obey her readily, even eagerly, indeed to be grateful for her invitation; it shewed that he had not betrayed himself. the little room was empty and they sat down together. now he was inclined to silence and seemed thoughtful. irene, in inward tumult, was outwardly no more than excited to an unusual brightness. after one swift searching glance at him, she faced the guns and hazarded her assault against the full force of the enemy. she began to speak of ora, dragging her name into the conversation and keeping it there, in spite of his evident desire to avoid the topic. of ora her friend she said nothing untrue, nothing scandalous, nothing malicious; she watched her tongue with a jealous care; conscience was awake in her; she would have no backbiting to charge herself with. but she did not see why she should not speak the truth; so she told herself; both the general truths that everybody knew and the special truths which intimacy with ora pinsent had revealed to her. ora spoke plainly, even recklessly, of others; why should she not be spoken about plainly, not recklessly, in her turn? and, no, she said nothing untrue, nothing that she would not have said to ora's face, in the very, or almost the very, same words. "yes, she's a strange creature," assented bowdon. "now ashley mead's mad about her! but of course he's only one of a dozen." here was dangerous ground; she might have stirred a jealousy which would have undone all that was begun; with many men this result would have been almost certain. but with bowdon there was wisdom in her line of attack; she roused pride in him, the haughtiness which was in his heart though never in his bearing, the instinct of exclusiveness, the quiet feeling of born superiority to the crowd, the innate dislike of being one of a dozen, of scrambling for a prize instead of reaching out to accept a proffered gift. ashley mead, the secretary of his commission, his _protégé_--and a dozen more! the memory of his confidence to ashley became very bitter; if ashley were favoured, he would laugh over the recollection of that talk! he felt eager to shew ashley that it was all no more than a whim, hardly more than a joke. well, there was a ready way to shew ashley that--and, he told himself, to shew it to himself too, to convince himself of it, at least to put it out of his own power henceforth to question it by word or deed. the great and the little, the conviction of his mind and the prick of his vanity, worked together in him. he was persuaded now that to go forward on this path would be wise, would make for the worthiness and dignity of his life, save him from unbecoming follies, and intrench him from dangers. if only he could again come to feel the thing sweet as well as wise! there was much to help him--his old impulses which now revived, her unusual brilliancy, the way in which she seemed to draw to him, to delight in talking to him, to make of him a friend more intimate than she had allowed him to consider himself before. he had meant the thing so definitely a few weeks ago; it seemed absurd not to mean it now, not to suppose it would be as pleasant and satisfactory now as it had seemed then. he had been in a delusion of feeling; here was sanity coming back again. he caught at it with an eager, detaining hand. suddenly irene felt that the battle was won; she knew it clearly in an instant. there was a change in his manner, his tones, his eyes, his smile. now he was making love to her and no longer thinking whether he should make love to her; and to her he could make love thus plainly with one purpose only, and only to one end. she had what she had striven for, in a very little while now it would be offered to her explicitly. for an instant she shrank back from plucking the fruit, now that she had bent the bough down within her reach. there was a revulsion to shame because she had tried, had fought, had set her teeth and struggled till she won. what she had said of ora pinsent rose up against her, declaring that its truth was no honest truth since it was not spoken honestly. babba flint and his horrible phrase wormed their way back into her mind. but she rose above these falterings; she would not go back now that she had won--had won that triumph which all the world would suppose to be so complete, and had avoided that defeat the thought of whose bitterness had armed her for battle and sustained her in the conflict. in view of bowdon's former readiness it would be grossly unfair, surely, to speak of hers as the common case of a woman leading a man on; his implied offer had never been withdrawn; she chose now to accept it; that was the whole truth about the matter. he asked her to be his wife with the fire and spirit of a passion seemingly sincere; she turned to him in a temporary fit of joy, which made her forget the road by which she had travelled to her end. her low-voiced confession of love made him very glad that he had spoken, very glad for her sake as well as for his own; it was a great thing to make her so happy. if he had refrained, and then found out the anticipations he had raised in her and how he had taught her to build on him, he must have acknowledged a grave infraction of his code. she was, after the first outburst of fearful delight, very gentle and seemed to plead with him; he answered the pleading, half unconsciously, by telling her that he had been so long in finding words because she had encouraged him so little and kept him in such uncertainty. when she heard this she turned her face up to his again with a curiously timid deprecatory affection. he was for announcing the engagement then and there, as publicly as possible. his avowed motive was his pride; a desire to commit himself beyond recall, to establish the fact and make it impregnable, was the secret spring. irene would not face the whole assembly, but agreed that the news should be whispered to chosen friends. "it'll come to the same thing in a very little while," he said with a relieved laugh. before the evening ended, the tidings thus disseminated reached ashley mead, and he hastened to irene. bowdon had left her for the moment, and he detached her easily from the grasp of a casual bore. his felicitations lacked nothing in heartiness. "but it's no surprise," he laughed. "i was only wondering how long you'd put it off. i mean 'you' in the singular number." that was pleasant to hear, just what she wanted to hear, just what she wished all the world to say. but she burned to ask him whether he had continued in the same state of anticipation during the last week or two. suddenly he smiled in a meditative way. "what's amusing you?" she demanded rather sharply. "nothing," he answered. he had been thinking of bowdon's midnight confidence. he reflected how very different men were. some day, no doubt, he himself would make a proper and reasonable choice; but he could not have gone so straight from the idea (however foolish the idea) of ora pinsent to the fact of irene kilnorton. it was to lay aside a rapturous lyric and take up a pleasantly written tale. he found several other such similes for it, the shadow of sunday being over his mind. he was in great spirits and began to talk merrily and volubly, making fun of his companion, of love, of engaged folk, and so on. she listened very contentedly for awhile, but then began to wonder why bowdon did not come back to her; she would have risked absurdity to be sure that he could not keep away. she knew men hated that risk above all; but surely he could come back now and talk to her again? she looked round and saw him standing alone; then he wanted to come. with her eyes she gave him a glad invitation; but as he approached there was a sort of embarrassment in his manner, a shamefacedness; he was too much a man of the world to wear that look simply because he had become a declared lover. and although ashley was both cordial and sufficiently respectful there was a distant twinkle in his eye, as if he were enjoying some joke. her apprehensions and her knowledge of the nature of her triumph made her almost unnaturally acute to detect the slightest shade of manner in either of the men. men knew things about one another which were kept from women; had ashley a knowledge which she lacked? did it make her triumph seem to him not incomplete perhaps, but very strange? the glow of victory even so soon began to give place to discomfort and restlessness. ashley looked at his watch. "i shall go," he announced. "i've been betrayed." he spoke with a burlesque despair. "a certain lady--you can't monopolise the tender affections, lady kilnorton--told me she would be here--late. it's late, in fact very late, and she's not here." "who was she?" asked irene. "can you doubt? but i suppose she felt lazy after the theatre." "oh, ora?" "of course," said ashley. "how silly you are! isn't he?" she turned to bowdon. "he's very young," said bowdon, with a smile. "when he comes to my age--" "you can't say much to-night anyhow, can you?" laughed ashley. "ora never comes when she says she will." "oh, yes, she does sometimes," ashley insisted, thinking of his sunday. "you have to go and drag her!" "that's just what i should do." no doubt bowdon took as small a part in the conversation as he decently could. still it seemed possible to talk about ora; that to irene's present mood was something gained. nobody turned round on her and said, "he'd rather have had ora, really," a fantastic occurrence which had become conceivable to her. "your muddocks have gone, haven't they?" she asked ashley. "yes, my muddocks have gone," said ashley, laughing. "but why 'my' muddocks? am i responsible for them?" "they ought to be your muddocks. i try to get him to be sensible." the last sentence she addressed to bowdon with a smile. "but men won't be." "none of them?" asked bowdon, returning her smile. "oh, don't say you're being sensible," she cried, half-laughing, half-petulantly. "i don't want you to be; but i think mr. mead might." "marriage as a precautionary method doesn't recommend itself to me," said ashley lightly, as he held out his hand in farewell. they both laughed and watched him as he went. "silly young man!" she said. "you'll take me to my carriage, won't you?" ashley might be silly; they were wise. but wisdom often goes home troubled, folly with a light heart. the hand of the future is needed to vindicate the one and to confound the other. no doubt it does. the future, however, is a vague and indefinite period of time. chapter v a day in the country when ashley mead called for her at eleven o'clock on sunday morning miss pinsent was not dressed. when she made her appearance at a quarter to twelve she was rather peevish; her repertory embraced some moods quite unamiable in a light way. she did not want to go, she said, and she would not go; she wondered how she had come to say she would go; was he sure she had said so? "oh, you must go now," said ashley cheerfully and decisively. "why must i, if i don't want to?" "honour, justice, kindness, pity; take your choice of motives. besides--" he paused, smiling at her. "well, what besides?" "you mean to go." the stroke was bold, bold as that of lady kilnorton's about ashley being one of a dozen. "are you a thought-reader, mr. mead?" "a gown-reader on this occasion. if that frock means anything it means the country." ora smiled reluctantly, with a glance down the front of her gown. "it's quite true i didn't mean to go," she said. "besides i didn't think you'd come." "a very doubtful truth, and a quite unnecessary fiction," said he. "come along." she came, obedient but still not gay; he did not force the talk. they went to waterloo and took tickets for a quiet village. he gave her all the sunday papers and for a time she read them, while he leant back, steadily and curiously regarding the white smooth brow which shewed itself over the top of the sheet. he was wondering how she kept the traces of her various emotions (she was credited with so many) off her face. for lines she might have been a child; for eyes too, it seemed to him sometimes, while at other moments all possibilities of feeling, if not of knowledge, spoke in her glance. after this, it seemed a poor conclusion to repeat that she was interesting. presently she threw away her paper and looked out of the window with a grave, almost bored, expression. still ashley bided his time; he took up the discarded journal and read; its pleasant, discursive, unimportant talk was content with half his mind. "i suppose," she said absently, "that irene and lord bowdon are spending the day together somewhere." "i suppose so; they ought to be, anyhow." a long pause followed, ashley still reading his column of gossip with an appearance of sufficient attention. ora glanced at him, her brows raised a little in protest. at last she seemed to understand the position. "i'm ready to be agreeable as soon as you are," she announced. "why, then, it's most delightful of you to come," was his answer, as he leant forward to her; the paper fell on the floor and he pushed it away with his foot. "will they enjoy themselves, that couple?" "she wrote to me about it yesterday, quite a long letter." "giving reasons?" "yes; reasons of a sort, you know." "i thought so," he nodded. "somehow both of them seemed anxious to have reasons, good sound reasons." "oh, well, but she's in love with him," said ora. "i suppose that's a reason." "and he with her?" "of course." it had been ora's firm intention not to refer in the most distant manner to what had passed between bowdon and herself. but our lips and eyes are traitors to our careful tongues; and there are people who draw out a joke from any hiding-place. "he's done a very wise thing," said ashley, looking straight into her eyes. she blushed and laughed. "i admire wise things," he added, laughing in his turn. "but don't do them?" "oh, sometimes. to-day for example! what can be wiser than to refresh myself with a day in the country, to spend a few hours in fresh air and--and pleasant surroundings?" she looked at him for a moment, then settled herself more luxuriously on the seat as she murmured, "i like being wise too." the one porter at the little station eyed ora with grave appreciation; the landlady of the little inn where they procured a plain lunch seemed divided between distrust of the lady and admiration of her garments. ashley ordered an early dinner and then invited his friend to come out of doors. he had brought her to no show view, no famous prospect. there was only a low slow stream dawdling along through the meadows, a belt of trees a quarter of a mile away behind them, in front a stretch of flat land beyond the river, and on the water's edge, here and there, a few willows. she found a convenient slope in the bank and sat down, he lying beside her, smoking a cigar. the sun shone, but the breeze was fresh. ora had been merry at lunch but now she became silent again. when ashley mead threw the stump of his cigar into the stream, she seemed to rouse herself from a reverie and watched it bob lazily away. "sleepy after lunch?" he asked. "no, i'm not sleepy," she answered. "i was letting things pass through my head." she turned to him rather abruptly. "why did you bring me here to-day?" she asked, with a touch of protest in her voice. "purely a desire for pleasure; i wanted to enjoy myself." "are you like that too? because i am." she seemed to search his face. "but there's something else in you." "yes, at other times," he admitted. "but just then there wasn't, so i brought you. and just now there isn't." she laughed, rather nervously as it seemed to him. "and what do the other things, when they're there, say to it?" she asked. "oh, they're sure of their innings in the end!" his tone was careless, but his eyes did not leave her face. he had meant not to make love to her; he would not have admitted that he was making love to her. but to have her face there and not look at it had become impossible; it chained him with its power of exciting that curiosity mingled with attraction which is roughly dubbed fascination. he felt that he must not only see more of her but know more of her; there was a demand of the brain as well as a craving of the emotions. she seemed moved to tell him nothing; she made no disclosures of her past life, where she had been born or bred, how she had fared, how come where she was, how become mrs. jack fenning, or how now again turned to ora pinsent. she left him to find out anything he wanted to know. her assumption that there was nothing to tell, or no reason to tell anything, spurred him to further study of her. that he studied at his peril he knew well and had known from the first; it was but another prick of the spur to him. she had been gazing across the stream, at the meadows and the cattle. now her eyes returned to him and, meeting his glance, she laughed again in that half-amused, half-embarrassed way. "shall i make up a life for you?" he asked. "listen now. you weren't pretty as a young girl; you were considered very naughty, rather good-for-nothing; i think they were a bit down on you, tried to drill you into being like other people, to--what's the word?--eradicate your faults, to give you the virtues. all that made you rather unhappy; you'd a good deal rather have been petted. but you weren't drilled, your faults weren't eradicated, you never got the virtues." she was listening with a smile and amused eyes. "the training broke down because you began to grow beautiful and coaxing; they couldn't drill you any more; it wasn't in their hearts. they began to see that they'd got something uncommon; or perhaps they just despaired. they said it was ora's way.--" "lizzie's way," she corrected with a merry nod. "oh, no. hang lizzie! they said it was ora's way, and that it was no use bullying the girl. your father said it first and had some trouble in convincing your mother. but he did at last. then you grew up, and everybody made love to you. and i expect somebody died and home wasn't so comfortable. so some time or other you took a flight away, and the stage became a reality. i suppose it had been a dream. and at some time or other you took a certain step. then i don't know anything more except what's written in the chronicles of queen ora pinsent." he ended the story, which had been punctuated by pauses in which he gathered fresh information from her face. "you've done well to find out so much. it wasn't very unlike that. now tell me the future. what's going to happen to me?" "you're going to be young and beautiful for ever and ever." she laughed joyfully. "oh, yes!" she cried. "let me see. i shall be young--young enough--for ten years more, and with the proper appliances beautiful for twenty." his laugh was reluctant; the mention of the proper appliances jarred on him a little. she saw it in an instant and answered with a defiance: "i rouge now when i want it." "are you rouged to-day?" "you can look and see." "i can look, but perhaps i can't see." she rubbed her cheek hard with her hand and then showed him the palm. "i hope that's proof," he said, "but these contrivances are so cunning now-a-days." "men think them even more cunning than they are," laughed ora. "and what have you done?" she went on. "what's your life been?" "the deplorably usual--preparatory school, public school, oxford, bar. i'm a full-blown specimen of the ordinary englishman of the professional classes." "and what are you going to do?" "oh, i'm sure i don't know. as little work as i must and as little harm as i can, i suppose." she laughed as she said: "at any rate you aren't doing much work to-day, are you? and no harm at all! but you've left out what you put in for me--a certain step." "well, you've taken it, and i haven't." "you will. oh, irene kilnorton has told me all about it. it seems you can't help it, mr. mead. i liked her; i asked her to come and see me, but she's never been." he made a little grimace, wrinkling brow and nose. ora laughed again. "you won't be able to help it," she declared, nodding her head. "and then no more sundays out with actresses!" "even as matters stand, it's not a habit of mine," he protested. she smoked a cigarette of his, investing the act of luxury with a grace which made it meritorious; as she blew out the last of the smoke, she sighed, saying, "i wish to-day would last for ever." "do you?" he asked in a low voice. the tone startled her to a sudden quick glance at his face. her words had given expression to his longing that this simple perfection of existence should never pass. "just the meadows, and the river, and the sunshine." "you leave me out?" "no," she said, "you may be somewhere in it, if you like. because if nothing was going to change, i shouldn't change either; and i like you being here now, so i should like you being here always." "do you always expect to change to people?" "it's not altogether me. they change to me, i think." "if i don't change to you, will you promise not to change to me?" he laughed as he spoke, but he looked at her intently. she turned away, saying, "i should be rather afraid never to change to a person. it would make him mean so terribly much to one, wouldn't it?" "but you married?" he whispered, whether in seriousness or in mockery he himself could hardly tell. "yes," she said. she seemed to agree that there was a puzzle, but to be unable to give any explanation of it. the fact was there, not to be mended by theorising about it. in long intimate talk the hours were wearing away. his impulse was delicately to press her to reveal herself, to shew her mind, her way of thought, her disposition towards him. but side by side with his interest came the growing charm of her; he hardly knew whether to talk to her or to be silent with her, to elicit and trace the changes animation made, or to admire the dainty beauty of her features in repose. movement and rest alike became her so well that to drive out either for the other seemed a gain burdened with an equal loss; her quick transitions from expression to expression were ruthless as well as bountiful. she appeared very happy, forgetful now of the puzzle that he had called to her mind, of the distrust that had afflicted her, entirely given over to the pleasure of living and of being there. then she liked him; he was no jar, no unwelcome element. but there was still a distance between them, marked by her occasional nervousness, her ignoring of a remark that pressed her too closely, her skirting round topics which threatened to prove too serious. she seemed to ask him not to compel her to any issue, not to make her face any questions or attempt any determination, to let her go on being happy as long as might be possible without driving her to ask why she was happy or how long she would be. happy she was; as they rose reluctantly to go back to the inn she turned to him, saying: "i shall never forget the day you've given me." but, arrived at the inn, she forgot her love of the meadows. now she was glad to be in the snug parlour, glad dinner was near, glad to sit in a chair again. she went upstairs under the escort of the questioning admiring landlady, and came down fresh and radiant. in passing she gave him her hand, still cool and moist from water. "isn't that nice?" she asked, and laughed merrily when he answered, "oh, well, nice enough." the window opened on a little garden; she flung it wide. "there's nobody to spy on how much we eat," she said, "and the evening smells sweet. oh, do let's begin!" and she clapped her hands when the meal came. ashley found a sort of pity mingling with his other feelings for her, compassion for the simplicity and readiness of emotion which expose their possessor to so many chances of sorrow as well as to a certainty of recurrent joys. but he fell in with her mood and they joined in a childish pretence that they were at a great banquet, dignifying the simple chicken with titles they recollected from _menu_ or constructed from imagination, while the claret, which could make no great claims on intrinsic merit, became a succession of costly vintages, and the fictitious bill, by which she declared she would measure his devotion to her, grew by leaps and bounds. it was strange to realise that in twenty-four hours she would be back in her theatre, a great, at least a notorious, personage, talked of, stared at, canvassed, blamed, admired, the life she herself made so simple a thing given over to a thousand others for their pleasure and curiosity. a touch of jealousy made itself felt in his reflexions. "i'm beginning rather to hate your audiences," he said. a shrug and a smile sent the audiences to a limbo of inexpressible unimportance. "you'll think differently about that to-morrow," he warned her. "be content with what i feel to-night; i am." they had finished dinner; both again had smoked cigarettes. "how long before the train?" she asked. "an hour and a half," he answered with a hint of triumph in his voice; the end was not yet; even after the time for the train there was the journey. evening fell slowly, as it seemed with a sympathetic unwillingness to end their day. she moved to an arm-chair by the side of the window and he sat near her. talk died away unmissed and silence came unnoticed. she looked a little tired and leant back in her seat; her face shewed pale in the frame of dark hair that clustered round it; her eyes were larger and more eloquent. the fate that he had braved, or in truth invited, was come; he loved her, he so loved her that he must needs touch her. yet there was that about her which made his touch timid and light; a delicacy, an innocence which he was inclined to call paradoxical, the appeal of helplessness, a sort of unsubstantiality that made her seem the love for a man's soul only. one of her hands lay on the arm of her chair; he laid his lightly on it and when she turned smiled at her. she smiled back at him with deprecation but with perfect understanding. she knew why he did that; she did not resent it. she turned her hand over and very lightly grasped his fingers in a friendly tender pressure; she gazed again into the little garden while their hands were thus distantly clasped. she seemed to yield what she must and to beg him to ask no more. he longed to be able to do her will as it was and not to seek to change it, to offer her no violence of entreaty and to bring her into no distress. but the sweetness of love's gradual venturing allured him; it might be still that she only tolerated, that she gave a return for her day's happiness, and allowed this much lest she should wound a man she liked. with that he was not content, he was hotly and keenly discontent. she had become everything to him; he must be everything to her; if it must be, everything in sorrow and renunciation, but everything; if not for always, at least for now, for the end of this golden day, everything. he could not go home without the memory of her lips. he leant forward towards her; she turned to him. for a moment she smiled, then grew grave again; she let him draw her nearer to him, and with averted face and averted eyes suffered his kiss on her cheek. in the very midst of his emotion he smiled; she preserved so wonderfully the air of not being responsible for the thing, of neither accepting nor rejecting, of being quite passive, of just having it happen to her. he kissed her again; after much entreaty, once she kissed him lightly, shyly, under protest as it were, yet with a sincerity and gladness which called out a new tenderness in him; they seemed to say that she had wanted to do it very much long before she did it, and would want to do it again, and yet would not do it again. the kiss, which from many women would have levelled all barriers, seemed to raise new ones round her. he was ashamed of himself when his love drove him to besiege her more. even now she was not resentful, she did not upbraid or repel him; she broke into that little nervous laugh of hers, as she lay back passive in the chair, and murmured so low that he hardly caught the words, "don't. don't make love to me any more now." her prohibition or request had availed with bowdon's hesitating conscience-ridden impulse; perhaps there was small cause to wonder at that. it availed now no less with ashley mead's impetuous passion. her low whisper protected her absolutely; the confession it hinted disarmed him; he caught both her hands and held them in a long clasp, looking the while into her appealing eyes. but he entreated her no more and he kissed her no more. a moment later he rose, went and sat on the window-sill, and lit a cigarette; the glow seemed a tiny beacon of fire to shew the harbour, that danger was past, that her orders were understood and accepted. she lay very quiet, looking at him with steady, grateful, loving eyes, acknowledging a kindness that she had not doubted and yet found fine in him. his transgression--perhaps she hardly counted it one--was forgiven because he stayed his steps at her bidding. he knew that she trusted him; and in spite of her prohibition he believed that she loved him. now one of the riddles about her seemed to find an explanation. he understood how she had passed through the dangers and the ordeal, and had come out still with her freshness and her innocence; how her taste had saved her from those who would have been deaf to the appeal that had arrested him, how powerful and sufficing a shield that appeal was to any man whom her taste would allow to come close to her in comradeship. you could not be false to a confidence like that; if you were a man who could, you would never have the chance. thus ashley summed up a case which a little while ago had seemed to him very strange. it seemed strange and unusual still, with a peculiar charm of its own. it was weakness breeding strength, surrender made security. it put a man on his honour; it took away the resistance which might make honour forget itself in the passion of victory. it was like being made guardian of another's treasure; you were careful of it, however heedless you were of your own. as they journeyed home, she was mirthful and joyous. this day was done, but she did not despair of the world; there should be other days, and the work of this day should endure. she made plans by which they were to meet, to be much together, to unite their lives by many ties. she let him see how much he had entered into her schemes; she told him plainly again and again that he had become to her quite different from all other men. she revealed to him her little habits, her tempers, her ways, her manoeuvres, her tricks; she had plenty of all of them. she shewed an open delight in the love which she had won from him and made no pretence of concealing anything of what he was to her. of jack fenning she said not a word; of caution in the externals of her own behaviour, of what people might think or say, of any possible difficulties in their relation to one another, not a word. she was happy and she was grateful. he took her to the door of her own house; she was not hurt but seemed a little surprised that he would not go in. he did not offer to kiss her again, but could not avoid thinking that she would have been neither angry nor grieved if he had. his last memory was of her looking round her door, smiling delightedly and nodding to him, her eyes full of a thousand confidences. "come soon," she called at last before she hid herself from his sight. when he reached his own rooms, he found awaiting him a note from sir james muddock, begging him to come to the office at buckingham palace road at eleven the next morning. "i have had an interview with my doctor," the old man wrote, "which makes it necessary for me to consider very seriously certain immediate steps. i hope that i shall be able to rely on your assistance." the note was sent by hand and marked "immediate." its meaning was plain enough. the long-expected verdict had come; sir james must be relieved; another head was wanted in the firm of muddock and mead. with his brain still full of ora pinsent the matter of the message seemed remote to ashley, but he forced himself to descend to it. he was to have the offer of a partnership, the offer of great wealth, the opportunity of a career limited only by his own talents and no longer clogged by poverty. would the offer be free, or hampered by a tacit unacknowledged understanding? he knew well enough sir james' mind about his future. how strange that future looked in the after-glow of this day! yet what future had this day? here was a question that he could not bring himself to discuss patiently. future or no future, this day had altered his life, seemed at this moment to have altered it so completely that on it and on what had happened in it would turn his answer to the offer of great wealth and the prospect of a career. even in his own thoughts he observed that reticence about alice muddock which would have governed his tongue in speaking of her to another; but, affect as he would, or thought himself obliged to, he knew that she formed a factor in the situation, that she was in her father's mind when he wrote, no less than that other object of the old man's love, the great firm in buckingham palace road. "it's strange," he thought, "that the thing, after dragging on so long, should come to a head now, to-night, just when--." he broke off his reflexions and, going to the window, looked out on the lights of the bridge and listened to the lessening noise of the town. he was dimly conscious that in this day of long idleness, by the slow low river and in the little inn, he had done more to draw the lines and map the course of his life than in any hour of labour, however successful and however strenuous. fate had surprised him with a point-blank question, the stand-and-deliver of a direct choice. saying he would think it all over, he sat late that night. but thoughts will not always be compelled and disciplined; his vigil was but a pictured repetition of the day that he had lived. the day had been ora's day. hers also was the night. chapter vi away with the ribbons! few things make the natural man, a being who still occupies a large apartment in the soul of each of us, more impatient than to find people refusing to conform to his idea of the way in which they ought to seek and find happiness. so far as sane and sensible folk are concerned--there is no need to bring the asylums into the argument--his way is the way; deviations from it, whether perversely deliberate or instinctive and unreasoned, are so many wanderings from the only right track. he likes money--then only fools omit to strive for it. stability of mind is his ideal--what more wretched than to be tossed from mood to mood? a regular life is the sole means of preserving health in stomach and brain--it is melancholy to see persons preferring haphazard and ill-regulated existences. nay, it makes this natural man rather vexed if we do not like his furniture, his favourite vegetable, his dentist, and so forth; his murmured "_de gustibus_" has a touch of scorn in it. he conceives a grudge against us for upsetting established standards of excellence in matters of life, conduct, upholstery, and the table. our likings for people in whom he sees nothing puzzle and annoy him equally; the shrug with which he says, of a newly married couple for instance, "they seem very happy," adds quite clearly, "but on no reasonable grounds have they a right to be, and in my heart i can't quite believe they are." sir james muddock--once again the occasion of generalisations--had never been able to understand why ashley mead did not jump at the chance of alice muddock's hand and a share in buckingham palace road. the lad was poor, his prospects were uncertain, at the best they could not yield wealth as sir james had learnt to count it; the prejudice against trade is only against trade on a small scale; any ambitions, social or political, would be promoted, not thwarted, by his entry into the firm. as for alice, she was the best girl in the world, clever, kind, trustworthy; she was very fond of him; he was fond of her and appreciated her company. ashley was turned thirty; he was not asked to surrender the liberty of early youth. he had had his fling, and to sensible men this fling was a temporary episode, to be enjoyed and done with. it was time for him to get into harness; the harness offered was very handsome, the manger well filled, the treatment all that could be desired. when sir james summed up the case thus, he had no suspicion of what had passed during one sunday in the country; it is fair to add that it would have made no difference in his ideas, if he had known of it. the day in the country with ora pinsent would have been ticketed as part of the fling and thus relegated to after-dinner memories. sir james did not understand people to whom the fling was more than an episode, to whom all life went on being a series of flings of ever-changing dice, till at last and only in old age the box fell from paralysed fingers. therefore he did not understand all that was in the nature of ashley mead; he would have understood nothing at all of what was in ora pinsent's. ashley's decision had taken itself, as it seemed, without any help or effort on his part. here was the warrant of its inevitability. he thought, when he first read the old man's summons, that he was in for a great struggle and faced with a hard problem, with an anxious weighing of facts and a curious forecast of possibilities, that he must sit down to the scrutiny in idleness and solemnity. but somehow, as he slept or dressed or breakfasted, between glances at his paper and whiffs of his pipe, he decided to refuse many thousands a year and to ignore the implied offer of alice muddock's hand. in themselves thousands were good, there was nothing to be said against them; and of alice he had been so fond and to her so accustomed that for several years back he had considered her as his most likely wife. she and the thousands were now dismissed from his life--both good things, but not good for him. he sighed once with a passing wish that he could be different; but being what he was he felt himself hopelessly at war with sir james' scheme as a whole, and with every part of it. contrast it with the moods, the thoughts, the atmosphere of life which had filled his yesterday! and yesterday's was his native air; thus it seemed to him, and he was so infected with this air that he did not ask whether but for yesterday his decision would have been as easy and unfaltering. the old man was hurt, grieved, and, in spite of previous less direct rebuffs, bitterly disappointed; he had not thought that his offer would be refused when expressly made; he had not looked to see his hints about his daughter more openly ignored the more open they themselves became. his anger expressed itself in an ultimatum; he flung himself back in his elbow chair, saying, "well, my lad, for the last time, take it or leave it. if you take it, we'll soon put you through your facings, and then you'll be the best head in the business. but if you won't have it, i must take in somebody else." "i know, sir james. don't think i expect you to go on giving me chances." "if it's not you, it's got to be bertie jewett." bertie jewett was herbert, son of peter jewett who had served through all the changes and lately died as manager in buckingham palace road. "he won't refuse, anyhow." the tone added, "he's not such a fool." "no, he's not such an ass as i am," said ashley, answering the tone and smiling at poor sir james with an appealing friendliness. "that's your word, not mine; but i'm not going to quarrel with it," said sir james without a sign of softening. "what you're after i can't see. what do you want?" ashley found himself unable to tell the head of the firm what he wanted. "i can get along," he said lamely. "i make a bit writing for the papers, and there's a brief once in a blue moon; and of course i've got a little; and this secretaryship helps for the time." this beggarly catalogue of inadequate means increased sir james' scorn and bewilderment. "are you above it?" he asked with sudden heat. "good god, sir, don't think me a snob as well as an ass," prayed ashley. "then i don't know what you do want." matters seemed to have reached a standstill. but sir james had a last shot in his locker. "go up and lunch in kensington palace gardens," he said. "talk it over with the ladies, talk it over with alice." ashley wanted to refuse; on this day he had no desire to see alice. but refusal seemed impossible. "all right, sir james, i will," he said. "take a week, take a week more. if you say no then, it's bertie jewett--and your chance is gone for ever. for heaven's sake don't make a fool of yourself." affection mingling with wrath in the entreaty made it harder to resist. ashley walked off with the last words ringing in his ears; they recalled lord bowdon and the athenæum corner. after reflexion and against inclination bowdon had determined not to make a fool of himself, and had intrenched his resolution with apparent security against the possibility of a relapse into a less sensible course. here was ashley's example; but he shied at it. "and how the devil am i to talk to alice about it?" he exclaimed petulantly, as he struck across the front of buckingham palace and headed up constitution hill. there had been a general impression that he would marry alice muddock, and a general impression about us assumes to ourselves a vaguely obligatory force. we may not justify it, but we feel the need for some apology if we refuse. besides ashley had, up to a certain point, shared the impression, although in a faint far-off way, regarding the suggested alliance not as the aim of his life but as a possible and not unacceptable bourn of his youth. his entrance into the firm was a topic so closely connected that he felt much awkwardness in discussing it with alice muddock. of her feelings he thought less than of his own; he was not by nature a selfish man, but he had now fallen into the selfishness of a great pre-occupation. the smallest joy or the lightest sorrow for ora pinsent would have filled his mind. it is difficult to feel in anything like this way towards more than one person at a time. his sympathy for alice muddock was blunted and he excused its want of acuteness by an affected modesty which questioned her concern in him. it chanced that lady kilnorton was at lunch. she seemed in high spirits and talked vigorously. her theme was the artistic temperament; she blamed its slavishness to the moment. lady muddock showed an anxiety to be furnished with details for purposes of increased disapproval; alice was judicial. one man among three women, ashley would have been content to listen, but, when appealed to, he defended the aspersed disposition. he felt the conversation approaching ora pinsent, step by step; she was in all their minds; the only case in point known to lady muddock, the instance most interesting to alice, an unwelcome persistent presence to irene, to him a subject to be neither encouraged nor avoided without risk of self-betrayal. it was curious how she had come into the circle of their lives, and having entered seemed to dominate it. but presently he grew sure of his face and, for the rest, preferred that they should abuse her rather than not speak of her; he grudged every abstraction of his thoughts which banished her image. the discussion brought its trials. irene's well-restrained jealousy and lady muddock's inquisitive disapproval were merely amusing; it was alice's judicial attitude which stirred him to resentment. to assess and assay with this cold-blooded scientific accuracy seemed inhuman, almost from its excess of science unscientific, since it was a method so unsuited to the subject. "now take ora," said irene, at last grasping the nettle. "there's nothing she wouldn't do for you at one moment, the next she wouldn't do anything at all for you." "for her acquaintances, you mean?" alice asked. "oh, no, my dear. for anybody, for her best friend. you can't call her either good or bad. she's just fluke, pure fluke." "well, i know it's the thing to pretend not to like flukes--" ashley began. the thin jocularity served for a shield. "oh, what's the use of asking a man? he just sees her face, that's all. nobody's denying her looks." lady kilnorton seemed petulant. "of course a life like hers," observed lady muddock, "is very demoralising." "my dear lady muddock, why?" asked ashley, growing exasperated. "well, i only know what minna soames says, and--" "mother dear, minna soames is a goose," alice remarked. ashley was grateful, but still with reservations as to the judicial tone. irene kilnorton, engaged in her secret task of justifying herself and taking a rosy view of bowdon's feelings, talked more for her own ends than for those of the company. "that sort of people suit one another very well," she went on. "they know what to expect of each other. harm comes only when people of a different sort get entangled with them." "you're vague," said ashley. "what different sort?" he had partly fathomed her mood now, and his eyes were mischievous as he looked at her. "sensible people, mr. mead." there was a touch of asperity in the brief retort, which made a thrust from him seem excusable. "suppose lord bowdon had never seen you," he said with plausible gravity, "and, being in that state of darkness, had fallen in love with miss pinsent; would it have been so very surprising?" "very," said irene kilnorton. "and dreadful?" "well, bad for him. he'd never have got on with her and--" "there's mr. fenning," interposed alice with a quiet laugh. a moment's pause ensued. ashley had been startled at the introduction of the name, but he recovered himself directly. "oh, well," he said, "of course there's mr. fenning. i'd forgotten him. but he's quite accidental. leave him out. he's not part of the case." "but there's so often a mr. fenning," alice persisted. "can he be considered quite accidental?" ashley had made much the same remark in different words to irene kilnorton a few weeks before; but remarks do not bear transplanting. "isn't that rather a traditional view?" he asked. "you mean a prejudiced one?" "well, yes." "i suppose so. but prejudices start somehow, don't they?" her smile was very gentle, but still, to his mind, horribly aloof and judicial. could she not understand how a woman might be carried away, and blunder into a mr. fenning, _per incuriam_ and all in a minute (so to speak)? in such a case was it to be expected that the mr. fenning in question should be all in all to her? in some ways perhaps she must acknowledge his existence; but at any rate she needn't darby-and-joan it with him! "poor dear ora!" said irene kilnorton after a pause. yet she was not naturally malicious any more than ashley mead was naturally selfish. if we are responsible for the moods we raise in others miss pinsent's account was mounting up. ashley allowed himself the retort of a laugh as lady muddock rose from the table. "i came to talk to you," he said to alice, as she passed him. "then drink your coffee quick, and come into the garden," she answered with her usual frank kindness. when she looked at him her aspect and air became less judicial. in the garden he opened the subject of sir james' proposal; his eyes were set straight in front of him, hers on the ground. her answer would have dismayed sir james, and it surprised ashley. she was energetically, almost passionately, opposed to his entering the business. "it's not your line, or your taste, or your proper work," she said. "what's the good of being rich if you're doing what you hate all the time?" "i felt just like that," he said gratefully, "but i was afraid that i felt like it because i was a fool." "you can make your own way. don't sell yourself to the business." he glanced at her stealthily; her colour had risen and her lip trembled. did she think of anything besides the business when she bade him not sell himself? a moment later she laughed uneasily, as, with a reference to the conversation at lunch, she said, "you've too much of the artistic temperament for buckingham palace road." "i? i the artistic temperament?" he accepted the trite phrase as a useful enough symbol of what they both meant. "yes," she answered steadily. "a good deal of it." "then i come under irene kilnorton's censures?" "under a good many of them, yes." something in her manner again annoyed and piqued him. she was judging again, and judging him. but she was interesting him also. she spoke of him; she knew him well: and just now he was in some doubt about himself. "i don't know what you mean," he said, seeking to draw her out. "oh, things carry you away; and you like it. you don't want to get to a comfortable place and stay there. i'm not saying anything you mind?" "no. i don't think so, at least." she glanced at him full for a moment as she said, "i never think anything you'd mind, ashley." then she went on hastily. "but you must be prepared to see bertie jewett in great prosperity--a big house and so on--and to know it might all have been yours." "i'm prepared for that," he said absently. he did not at all realise the things he was abandoning. "but of course you'll get on. you'll be something better than rich." "perhaps, if i don't--don't play the fool." "you keep calling yourself a fool to-day. why do you? you're not a fool." "it's only a way of speaking and not quite my own way, really," he laughed. "it means if i don't enjoy life a little instead of spoiling it all by trying to get something that isn't particularly well worth having; it means, in fact, if i don't allow scope to my artistic temperament." it meant also if he did not spend more days in the country with ora pinsent; for though he did not (as he had hinted) call that folly to himself, he was now on his defence against a world which would call it folly with no doubtful voice, and would exhort him earnestly to imitate lord bowdon's decisive measures of self-protection. it was in the power of this clear-sighted girl thus to put him on his defence, even in the full swing of his attraction towards ora pinsent; better than anyone, she could shew him the other side of the picture. he fell into a silence occupied with puzzled thoughts. she grew grave, except for a sober little smile; she was thinking that it was easy to be wise for others, for all the world except herself; while she was playing the judicial prudent friend to him, the idea of another part was in her head. there may be hope without expectation; it would not have been human in her to hope nothing from this talk in the garden, to build no fancies on it. but she rebuked her imagination; whatever it was that filled his mind--and his occasional air of distraction had caught her notice--she had little share in it, she knew that well. "the talk at lunch was _à propos_," she said presently. "i'm going to call on miss pinsent this afternoon." "you're going to call--?" the surprise was plain in his voice. this sudden throwing of the two together seemed an odd trick of circumstances! his tone brought her eyes quickly round to him and she looked at him steadily. "why not? she asked me. i told you so," she said. ashley could not deny it; he shrugged his shoulders. "shan't i like her?" "everybody must like her, i think," he answered, awkward, almost abashed. but then there came on him a desire to talk about ora, not so much to justify himself as to tell another what she was, to exhibit her charm, to infect a hearer with his own fever. he contrived to preserve a cool tone, aiming at what might seem a dispassionate analysis of a fascination which everybody admitted to exist; but he was at once too copious and too happy in his description and his images. the girl beside him listened with that little smile; it could not be merry, she would not let it grow bitter, but schooled it to the neutrality of polite attention. she soon saw the state of his mind and the discovery was hard for her to bear. yet it was not so hard as if he had come to tell her of an ordinary attachment, of a decorous engagement to some young lady of their common acquaintance, and of a decorous marriage to follow in due course. then she would have asked, "why her and not me?" with ora pinsent no such question was possible. neither for good nor for evil could any comparison be drawn. and another thought crept in, although she did not give it willing admittance. ora was not only exceptional; she was impossible. impossibility might be nothing to him now, but it could not remain nothing forever. the pain was there, but the disaster not irrevocable. among the somewhat strange chances which had marked the life of mr. fenning there was now to be reckoned a certain shamefaced comfort which he all unwittingly afforded to alice muddock. but alice was not proud of the alliance. ashley broke off in a mixture of remorse and embarrassment. his description could not be very grateful to its hearer; it must have come very near to betraying its utterer. alice did not pretend that it left her quite in the dark; she laughed a little and said jokingly: "one would think you were in love with her. i suppose it's that artistic temperament again. well, this afternoon i'll look and see whether she's really all you say. the male judgment needs correction." as their talk went on he perceived in her a brightening of spirits, a partial revival of serenity, a sort of relief; they came as a surprise to him. the lightness with which she now spoke of ora appeared, to a large degree at least, genuine. he did not understand that she attributed to him, in more sincerity than her manner had suggested, the temper which had formed the subject of their half-serious half-jesting talk. her impression of him did not make him less attractive to her; he was not all of the temper she blamed and feared; he had, she persuaded herself, just enough of it to save him from the purely ribbon-selling nature and (here came the point to which she fondly conducted herself) to give her both hope and patience in regard to her own relations with him. she could not help picturing herself as the fixed point to which he would, after his veerings, return in the end; meanwhile his share of the temperament excused the veerings. lady kilnorton had forced the game with entire apparent success, but alice's quick eyes questioned the real completeness of that victory. she would play a waiting game. there was no question of an orthodox marriage with the young lady from over the way or round the corner, an arrangement which would have been odious in its commonplace humiliation and heart-breaking in its orderly finality. but ora pinsent was not a finality, any more than she was the embodiment of an orderly arrangement. that fortunate impossibility which attached to her, by virtue of jack fenning's existence, forbade despair, just as her fascination and her irresistibility seemed to prevent humiliation and lessen jealousy. the thing was a transient craze, such as men fell into; it would pass. if she joined her life to ashley mead's she was prepared (so she assured herself) for such brief wanderings of allegiance, now and then; as time went on, they would grow fewer and fewer, until at last she conquered altogether the tendency towards them. "and she must be ten years older than i am," her reflections ended; that the real interval was but seven did not destroy the importance of the point. having offered ashley a lift to piccadilly, she went off to get ready, and presently bowdon, who had called to pick up irene, strolled into the garden for a cigarette. "hullo, what are you doing here? you ought to be making your living," he cried good-humouredly. "i've been throwing it away instead," said ashley. "should you like to be a partner in muddock and mead?" "a sleeping one," said bowdon with a meditative pull at his moustache. ashley explained that he would have been expected to take an active part. bowdon evidently thought that he ought to have been glad to take any part, and rebuked him for his refusal. "take the offer and marry the girl," he counselled. "she'd have you all right, and she seems a very good sort." "i don't feel like settling down all of a sudden," said ashley with a smile. they walked side by side for a few paces; then bowdon remarked, "depend upon it, it's a good thing to do, though." "it's a question of the best date," said ashley, much amused at his companion. "now at your age, lord bowdon--" "confound you, ashley, i'm not a hundred! i say it's a good thing to do. and, by jove, when it means a lump of money too!" a pause followed; they walked and smoked in silence. "good creatures, women," remarked bowdon. ashley did not find the remark abrupt; he traced its birth. alice had left much the same impression behind her in his mind. "awfully," he answered; there was in his voice also a note of remorse, of the feeling that comes when we cannot respond to a kindness so liberally as it deserves. "of course they aren't all alike, though," pursued bowdon, as though he were reasoning out an intricate subject and coming on unexpected conclusions. "in fact they differ curiously, wonderfully." his thoughts had passed, or were passing, from irene kilnorton to ora pinsent; obedient to this guidance ashley's followed in a parallel track from alice muddock to ora pinsent. "they're charming in different ways," said he with a slight laugh. bowdon shewed no signs of mirth; he was frowning a little and smoked rather fast. "and men are often great asses," he observed a few moments later. again ashley had kept pace, but his face was more doubtful than his companion's and there was hesitation in his voice as he replied, "yes, i suppose they are." this subterranean conversation, shewing above ground only faint indications of what it really meant to each of the talkers, had carried them to the end of the garden. turning round at the fence, they saw irene and alice walking towards them, side by side. both ladies were well dressed, irene rather brilliantly, alice with quiet, subdued good taste; both seemed attractive, irene for her bright vivacity and merry kindness, alice for her strength of regard and a fine steady friendliness. a man who was fortunate enough to gain either of them would win a wife of whom he might justly be proud when he talked with the enemy in the gate, and moreover would enjoy an unusually good prospect of being happy in his own house. the man who had won one, and the man who could, if he would, win the other, approached them in a slow leisurely stroll. "yes, great asses," repeated bowdon in a reflective tone. "i didn't say we weren't," protested ashley mead with an irritated laugh. they would have found a most heartfelt endorsement of the view which they reluctantly adopted, had sir james muddock known how small a share of ashley's visit had been honestly devoted to a consideration of the advantages of a partnership in muddock and mead, and how much larger a part had been given to a subject concerning which sir james could have only one opinion. chapter vii under the nosegay when alice muddock reached ora's little house in chelsea and was shewn into the drawing-room, she found herself enjoying an introduction to mr. sidney hazlewood and forced to shake hands with babba flint. hazlewood struck her favourably; there was a repressed resolution about him, a suggestion of being able to get most of what he might happen to want; no doubt, though, his desires would be limited and mainly professional. babba was, as usual, quite inexplicable to her and almost intolerable. the pair had, it seemed, come on business, and, after an apology, ora went on talking business to them for fully a quarter of an hour. she was in a businesslike, even a commercial money-grubbing mood; so were the men; amid a number of technical terms which fell on alice's ignorant ears the question of what they would make was always coming uppermost. there was indeed a touch of insincerity in ora's graspingness; it did not seem exactly affectation, but rather like a part for which she was cast on this occasion and into which she threw herself with artistic zeal. she had to play up to her companions. there was in her neither the quiet absorption in the pecuniary aspect which marked mr. hazlewood, nor the tremulous eagerness with which babba counted imaginary thousands, the fruit of presupposed successes. hazlewood, a clean-shaven hard-lined man of close on fifty, and babba with his long moustache, his smooth cheeks, his dandiness, and his youth, treated ora exactly in the same way--first as a possible partner, then as a possible property. they told her what she would make if she became a partner and how much they could afford to pay her as a property if she would hire herself out to them. ora had her alternative capacities clearly grasped and weighed their relative advantages with a knowing hand. alice thought it a strange scene by which to make her first more intimate study of the irresistible impossible miss pinsent, the miss pinsent of uncontrollable emotions and unknowable whims. what images the world made of people! yet somehow, in the end, had not the world a way of being just right enough to save its credit? at last the conference appeared to be about to break up. alice was almost sorry; she could have gone on learning from it. "only remember," said mr. hazlewood, "that if we do make a deal, why, it is a deal!" ora began to laugh; an agreement was an agreement, she remembered, and a deal, by parity of reasoning, a deal. hazlewood's wrinkle clamoured for seriousness; hard money was at stake, and over that surely even genius could look grave. "oh, she won't want to cry off this," said babba with a sagacious nod. alice had never known how babba lived (any more than she knew why). it appeared now that he supported himself by speculations of this description; she fancied that he asserted himself so much because the other two seemed to consider him, in the end, rather superfluous; more than once he had to remind them that he was indispensable; they yielded the point good-naturedly. she was interrupted in her thoughts by hazlewood, who made a suave remark to her and held out his hand with a low bow. ora was chaffing babba about a very large flower in his buttonhole. "is miss pinsent a good woman of business?" alice asked in an impulse of curiosity. hazlewood glanced at ora; she was entirely occupied with babba. "miss pinsent," said he, with his overworked but still expressive smile, "is just exactly what you happen to find her. but if you call often enough, there'll come a time when you'll find her with a good head on her shoulders." alice felt vaguely sorry for mr. hazlewood; it must be wearing to deal with such unstable quantities. she could imagine herself exchanging sympathy with him on the vagaries of the artistic temperament; would she grow a wrinkle, of brow or of heart, over ashley mead? or had she grown one? "well, you've had a lot of experience of her, haven't you?" she asked, laughing, and wondering what he thought of ora. his answer expressed no great affection. "good lord, yes," he sighed, furrowing his brow again. ora darted up to him, put an arm through his, and clasped her hands over his sleeve. "abusing me?" she said, turning her face round to his. for a moment alice thought that she was going to kiss him and hoped vaguely she would not; but she felt that she did not know the etiquette; it might be usual. "telling the truth," said mr. hazlewood with stout courage; then with pronounced gallantry he raised his arm with ora's hands on it and kissed one of the hands; his manner now was quite different from his business manner of a few moments ago; his eyes were different too, hardly affectionate, but very indulgent. "he likes me really, you know, though i worry him dreadfully," said ora to alice. babba came up; he had been arranging the big flower before a mirror. "seen lady kilnorton lately? she's brought it off with bowdon, i hear," he said to alice. "she's engaged to lord bowdon," said alice stiffly. "deuced lucky woman," observed babba, blind to the rebuke which lay in alice's formality of phrase. "take him away," ora commanded mr. hazlewood. "we've done with him and we don't want him any more. we aren't sure we like him." "oh, come now, i ain't a bad chap, miss pinsent," pleaded babba piteously. "we're not at all sure we like him," said ora inexorably. "take him away at once, please, mr. hazlewood." and hazlewood led him out, protesting bitterly. for a moment or two ora moved about, touching the furniture into the places in which she wanted it, and fingering the flowers in the vases. then she came quickly to alice, sat down by her side, and cried expansively, "it's really charming of you to come. and you're like--you're like something--oh, i don't know! i mean you're a lovely change from those men and their business and their money." "i like mr. hazlewood." "oh, so do i. but my life's so much mr. hazlewood. why did you come?" "you asked me," said alice. "yes, i know, but i hardly thought you'd come." she darted back to the previous conversation. "i'm going to make a lot of money, though, and then i'm going to have a long holiday, and a villa somewhere in italy." "oh, they won't let you rest long." "it won't be very long really, because i shall spend all the money," ora explained with a smile. "let's have some tea." she rang, and tea was brought by a very respectable middle-aged woman. ora addressed her maid as janet and gave her a series of orders; janet listened to them with a non-committal air, as though she would consider whether they were reasonable or not, and act according to her conclusion. alice noticed that she called her mistress "ma'am;" the reference to mr. fenning was very indirect, but it was the first that alice had ever heard made in ora's presence. it seemed to her also that janet laid some slight emphasis on the designation, as though it served, or might be made to serve, some purpose besides that of indicating the proper respect of a servant. she found herself wondering whether janet dated from the time when mr. fenning was still a present fact and formed a member of the united fenning household (which, by the way, was an odd entity to contemplate). if that were the case, a conversation with janet might be very interesting; knowledge might be gained about the bulwark; alice had begun to look on mr. fenning as a bulwark--and to tell herself that she did no such thing. a large number of photographs stood on the mantel-piece and about the room, most of them signed by their originals. many were of men; one might be of mr. fenning. a silver frame stood on a little table just by the sofa. alice's intuitive perception told her that here was ora's favourite place; her traditions caused her to conclude that the frame (its back was towards her) held mr. fenning's portrait. she was not undiplomatic, only less diplomatic than many other women; she took a tour of inspection, saying how pretty the room was and declaring that she must look closer at the photograph of an eminent tragedian on the opposite wall. her return movement shewed her the face of the portrait which she had guessed to be mr. fenning's; it was that of her friend ashley mead. "yes," said ora, "he sent me that yesterday. i was so glad to have it." "you gave him a return?" asked alice with a careless laugh, the laugh appropriate to the moment. "he chose one and i wrote on it. sugar, miss muddock?" alice took sugar. "you've known him ever so long, haven't you?" asked ora, handing the cup. "ages, ever since we were children. he's very nice and very clever." "i've only known him quite a little while." ora paused and laughed. "some people would say that's why his picture's in the place of honour." "you like change?" asked alice. ashley liked change also. but ora made her old defence. "people change, so of course i change to them." the explanation did not quite satisfy herself. "oh, i don't know," she said impatiently. "anyhow i haven't left off liking ashley yet. i may, you know." alice, conscious that she herself in her hostess' position would have said "mr. mead," tried to make the obvious allowances; it was just like that clasping of the hands round hazlewood's arm, just like the air of expecting to be kissed. fully aware of insurgent prejudices, she beat them down with a despotic judgment; she would not follow in the wake of her stepmother nor adopt the formulas of minna soames. curiously enough ora was in somewhat the same or a parallel state of mind, although she did not realise it so clearly. she too was struggling to understand and to appreciate. she was sure she would be friends with miss muddock, if she could get within her guard; but why did people have guards, or why not drop them when other people shewed themselves friendly? you might have to keep the babba flints at their distance, no doubt, but even that was better done by ridicule than by stiffness. "we still see a good deal of him," said alice, "although he has an immense lot of engagements. he generally comes to lunch on sunday." ora reflected that he had not followed his usual practice on one sunday. alice went on to give a brief description of ashley's general relation to the muddock family, and referred to her father's wish that he should enter the business. "he came to talk to me about it to-day," she said, "but it wouldn't suit him in the least, and i told him so." "oh, no, it wouldn't," cried ora. "i'm so glad you told him right." their eyes met in a sudden glance. did they both know so much of ashley mead, of his tastes, his temper, and what would suit him? an embarrassment arrested their talk. alice was conscious that her hostess' eyes rested on her with an inquisitive glance; it had just occurred to ora that in meeting this girl she had encountered a part of the life of ashley mead hitherto unknown to her. "what part? how much?" her eyes seemed to ask. she was not jealous of alice muddock, but she was inclined to be jealous of all that life of ashley's of which she knew nothing, which her visitor had shared. with a sudden longing she yearned for the inn parlour where he had no other life than a life with her; the sudden force of the feeling took her unawares and set her heart beating. she came again to alice and sat down by her; silence had somehow become significant and impossible. "i like your frock," she said, gently fingering the stuff. "at least i like it for you. i shouldn't like it for me." the relativity of frocks, being, like that of morals, an extensive and curious subject, detained them for a few moments and left them with a rather better opinion of one another. incidentally it revealed a common scorn of minna soames, who dressed as though she were stately when she was only pretty; this also knit them together. but they progressed nearer to liking than to understanding one another. small points of agreement, such as the unsuitability of the business to ashley and the inappropriateness of her gowns to minna soames, made intercourse pleasant but could not bridge the gulf between them; they were no more than hands stretched out from distant banks. alice began to talk of irene kilnorton and bowdon. while attributing to them all proper happiness and the finality of attachment incidental to their present position, she told ora, with a laugh, that they had all seen how much bowdon had been struck with her. "i think he did like me," said ora with a ruminative smile. "he's safe now, isn't he?" she added a moment later. the thought had been alice's own, but it needed an effort for her to look at it from ora's point of view. to be a danger and to know yourself to be a danger, to be aware of your perilousness in a matter-of-fact way, without either exultation or remorse, was a thing quite outside alice's experience. on the whole to expect men to fall in love with you and to be justified in this anticipation by events would create a life so alien from hers that she could not realise its incidents or the state of mind it would create. "i like lord bowdon," said ora. "but--" she paused and went on, laughing, "he's rather too sensible for me. he'll just suit irene kilnorton. but really i must write and tell him to come and see me. i haven't seen him since the engagement." "you'd much better not," was on the tip of alice's tongue, but she suspected that the impulse to say it was born of her still struggling prejudices. "ask them together," she suggested instead. "oh, no," said ora pathetically. "he'd hate it." alice did not see exactly why he should hate it. engaged people always went about together; surely always? "were you ever engaged?" ora went on. "never," said alice with a laugh. "i've been--well, of course i have--and i hated it." with curiosity and pleasure alice found herself on the threshold of the subject of mr. fenning. but ora turned aside without entering the hidden precincts. "and i'm sure i should hate it worse now. you wouldn't like it, would you?" "i should like it very much, if i cared for the man." "well," ora conceded, "he might make it endurable, if he treated it properly. most men look so solemn over it. as soon as they've got you, they set to work to make you think what a tremendous thing you've done. as if that was the way to enjoy yourself!" she paused, seemed to think, smiled out of the window, and then, turning to alice, said with an innocence evidently genuine, "ashley mead would make it rather pleasant, i think." the trial was sudden; alice had no time to put on her armour; she felt that her face flushed. again their eyes met, as they had when it was agreed that the business would not suit ashley. the glance was longer this time, and after alice turned away ora went on looking at her for several moments. that was it, then; irene kilnorton had not spoken idly or in ignorant gossip. what she had said fell short of truth, for she had spoken of an alliance only, not of love. now ora knew why the girl talked so much of ashley; now she knew also why the girl shewed such interest in herself. yes, the rich miss muddock would be ashley's wife if she were wooed; besides being rich she was pleasant and clever, and knew how to dress herself. (this last moral quality ranked high in ora's list.) such an arrangement would be in all ways very beneficial to ashley. she wondered whether ashley knew how entirely the game was in his own hands. she felt a sudden and sore pity for alice, who had been so cordial and so pleasant and whose secret she had heedlessly surprised. the cordiality seemed very generous; there was in it a challenge to counter-generosity. in an instant the heroic idea of giving him up to alice flashed through her brain. this fine conception was hardly born before she found herself asking wrathfully whether he would consent to leave her. alice was herself again; she said that she thought mr. mead might make an engagement very pleasant, but that such a relation to him would perhaps not be very exciting to her, since she had known him all her life. this suppression of emotion was not to ora's taste; it burked a scene to which her instinct had begun to look forward. but as generosity would be at this point premature (even if it should ever become tolerable) she was forced to acquiesce. a little later alice took her leave with increased friendliness and a pressing invitation to ora to come and see her at kensington palace gardens when there was no party and they could have another quiet talk together. surrender--or the inn parlour? generosity or joy? as an incidental accompaniment, correctness or incorrectness of conduct? these alternatives presented themselves to ora when she was left alone. the _rôle_ of renunciation had not only obvious recommendations but also secret attractions. how well she could play it! she did not exactly tell herself that she could play it well--the temperament has its decent reticences--but she pictured herself playing it well and wished for an opportunity to play it. she would have played it beautifully for irene kilnorton's benefit, had that lady asked her assistance instead of taking the matter into her own resolute hands. she would have sent bowdon away with an exhortation to see his own good and to forget her, with a fully adequate, nay, a more than ample, confession of the pain the step was causing her, but yet with a determination which made the parting final and irene's happiness secure. all this vaguely rehearsed itself in her brain as she lay on the sofa beside ashley mead's portrait in its silver frame. and her subsequent relations both with irene and with bowdon would have been touched with an underlying tenderness and sweetened by the common recollection of her conduct; even when he had become quite happy with irene, even when he had learnt to thank herself, he would not quite forget what might have been. having arrived at this point, ora burst into a laugh at her own folly. all that went very well, so very smoothly and effectively, grouped itself so admirably, and made such a pretty picture. but she took up the photograph in the silver frame and looked at it. it was not bowdon's likeness but ashley mead's; the question, the real question, was not whether she should give up bowdon; fate was not complaisant enough to present her with a part at once so telling and so easy. it was not bowdon with whom she had spent a day in the country, not bowdon who had been with her in the inn parlour, not bowdon who, alice muddock thought, might make an engagement very pleasant. the grace of self-knowledge came to her and told her the plain truth about her pretty picture. "what a humbug i am!" she cried, as she set down the photograph. for the actual opportunity was very different from the imagined, as rich in effect perhaps, but by no means so attractive. she still liked her part, but the rest of the cast was not to her taste; she could still think of the final interview with a melancholy pleasure, but, with this distribution of characters, how dull and sad and empty and intolerable life would be when the final interview was done! the subsequent relations lost all their subdued charm; underlying tenderness and common recollections became flat and unprofitable. "an awful humbug!" sighed ora with a plaintive smile. why were good things so difficult? because this thing would be very good--for him, for poor alice, for herself. a reaction from the joy of sunday came over her, bringing a sense of fear, almost of guilt. she recollected with a flash of memory what she had said to jack fenning when they parted in hot anger. "you needn't be afraid to leave me alone," she had cried defiantly, and up to now she had justified the boast. she had been weary and lonely, she had been courted and tempted, but she had held fast to what she had said. her anger and her determination that jack should not be in a position to triumph over her had helped to keep her steps straight. now these motives seemed less strong, now the loneliness was greater. if she sent ashley away the loneliness would be terrible; but this meant that the danger in not sending him away was terrible too, both for him and for her. as she sank deeper and deeper in depression she told herself that she was born to unhappiness, but that she might at least try not to make other people as unhappy as she herself was doomed to be. while she still lay on the sofa, in turns pitying, reproaching, and exhorting herself, janet came in. "a letter, ma'am," said janet. "your dinner will be ready in ten minutes, ma'am." "thanks, janet," said ora, and took the letter. the handwriting was not known to her; the stamp and postmark were american; bridgeport, conn., the legend ran. "i don't know anybody in bridgeport, or in conn.--conn.?--oh, yes, connecticut," said ora. the silver frame stood crooked on the table. ora set it straight, looked at the face in it, smiled at some thought, sighed at the same or some other thought, and lazily opened the letter from bridgeport, conn.; she supposed it was a communication of a business kind, or perhaps a request for a photograph or autograph. "my dear ora, i have had an accident to my hand, so get a friend to write this for me. i am here in a merchant's office, but have had a bit of luck on wall street and am in funds to a modest extent. so i am going to take a holiday. i shall not come to england unless you give me leave; but i should like to come and see you again and pay you a visit. how long i stayed would depend on circumstances and on what we decided after we had met. a letter will find me here for the next month. i hope you will send one inviting me to come. i would write more if i could write myself; as it is i will only add that i am very anxious to see you and am sure i can set right any mistakes that there have been in the past. write as soon as you can. yours affectionately, jack." she turned back to the envelope:--"miss ora pinsent." the friend who wrote jack's letter probably did not know that he was writing to jack's wife. janet knew jack's writing, but not the writing of jack's friend. in secrecy and privacy jack's letter had come. she laid it down beside the portrait in the silver frame, and lay back again quietly with wide-opened eyes. the clock ticked away ten minutes; dinner was ready; she lay still. had people a right to rise from the dead like this? were they justified, having gone out of life, in coming back into it under cover of a friend's handwriting and a postage stamp? they had parted for ever, jack and she, most irrevocably, most eagerly, most angrily. a few lines on a sheet of note paper could not change all that. he had been dead and gone; at least he had existed only as a memory and as--she hardly liked to say an encumbrance--as a check, as a limiting fact, as a difficulty which of necessity barred her from ordering her doings just as she might have liked to order them. now he proposed suddenly to become a fact, a presence, a part of her again, and stole a hearing for this proposal in the insidious disguise of a friend's handwriting. how he chose his time too! in wild fancy she imputed to him a knowledge of the curious appositeness of his letter's arrival. it came just when she was unhappy, torn with doubts, feeling low, yes, and feeling guilty; just after the revelation of alice muddock's feelings, just after the day in the country, just while she was saying that, for weal or woe, she could not send ashley mead away. at such a moment she would not have opened the letter had she known it for his; but he had had an accident to his hand and the unknown writing had gained him access. janet came in again. "your dinner is ready, ma'am," she said, and went on, "these have come for you, ma'am," laying a nosegay of roses on the little table beside the portrait in the silver frame, and the letter from bridgeport, conn. ora nodded; there was no need to ask whence the roses came; they were of the colour she had declared her favourite by the river bank on sunday. "i'll come to dinner directly," she said, and seeing janet's eye on the letter, she forgot that it was in a friend's handwriting and pushed it under the nosegay till the roses hid it. there was nothing to be seen on the table now but the roses of the colour she loved, and the picture in its silver frame. to toy with material symbols of immaterial realities is pretty enough work for the fancy or the pen. the symbols are docile and amenable; the letter can be pushed under the roses till their blooms utterly conceal it, and neither you nor anybody else can see that it is there. the picture you do not care about can be locked away in the drawer, the one you love placed on the little table by your elbow as you sit in your favourite seat. unhappily this artistic arrangement of the symbols makes no difference at all to the obstinate realities. they go on existing; they insist on remaining visible or even obtrusive; audible and even clamorous. the whole thing is a profitless trick of the fancy or the pen. although the letter was pushed under the roses, jack fenning was alive in bridgeport, conn., with a desire to see his wife in his heart, and his passage money across the atlantic in his pocket. as ora drove down to the theatre that night, she moaned, "how am i to play with all this worrying me?" but she played very well indeed. and she was sorry when the acting was over and she had to go back to her little house in chelsea, to the society of the letter and the roses. but now there was another letter: "i am coming to-morrow at . be at home. a. m." "what in the world am i to do?" she asked with woeful eyes and quivering lip. it seemed to her that much was being laid on the shoulders of a poor young woman who asked nothing but to be allowed to perfect her art and to enjoy her life. it did not occur to her that the first of these aims is accomplished by few people, that at any rate a considerable minority fail in the second, and that the fingers of two hands may count those who in any generation succeed in both. the apparent modesty of what she asked of fortune entirely deceived her. she sat in her dressing-gown and cried a little before she got into bed. chapter viii the legitimate claimant ashley mead did not take the week's consideration which sir james had pressed on him. the same evening he wrote a letter decisively declining to assume a place at the helm in buckingham palace road. sir james, receiving the letter and handing it to alice, was disappointed to meet with no sympathy in his expressed views of its folly. he was nearly angry with his daughter and frankly furious against ashley. he was proud of his daughter and proud of his business; the refusal left him very sore for both. as soon as he reached his office he gave vent to his feelings by summoning bertie jewett to his presence and offering him the position to whose attractions ashley had been so culpably blind. here there was no refusal. a slim, close-built, dapper little fellow, with a small fair moustache and small keen blue eyes, full of self-confidence, perfectly self-controlled, almost sublimely industrious, patiently ambitious, bertie turned away from no responsibilities and let slip no opportunities. he knew himself bob muddock's superior in brains; he had known of, and secretly chafed against, the proposed intrusion of ashley mead. now he was safe, and fortune in his hands. but to bertie the beauty of firm ground was not that you can stand still on it and be comfortable, but that it affords a good "take-off" when you want to clear an obstacle which lies between you and a place even more desirable in your eyes. sir james explained the arrangements he proposed to make, his big share, bob's moderate share, bertie's small share; the work, as is not unusual, was to be in an inverse ratio to the share. then the old man approached the future. when he was gone there was a sum of money and a big annuity for lady muddock; subject to that, bob was to have two-fifths of his father's share to add to his own; the rest was to be alice's. in that future time alice's share would be nearly as big as bob's; the addition of another small share would give it preponderance. bertie's blue eye was very keen as he examined the nature of the ground he had reached and its capacities in the way of "take-off." but on going forth from sir james' office, he could at first do little but marvel at the madness of ashley mead; for he knew that ashley might have taken what he had just received, and he suspected that the great jump he had begun to meditate would have been easy to ashley. for incontestably alice had shown favour to ashley--and had not shown favour to bertie jewett. bob and bertie lunched together at bob's club that day, the occasion allowing a little feasting and relaxation from toil. the new project touching alice was not even distantly approached, but bertie detected in bob a profound dissatisfaction with ashley mead. ashley's refusal seemed to bob a slur on the business, and concerning the business he was very sensitive. he remarked with mingled asperity and satisfaction that ashley had "dished himself all round." the "all round" indicated something besides the big block in buckingham palace road, and so was significant and precious to bertie jewett. "naturally we aren't pleased," bob said, assuming to express the collective views of the family. "fact is, ashley's got a bit too much side on, you know." bertie jewett laughed cautiously. "he doesn't like the shop, i suppose!" bob pursued sarcastically. "i'm sorry sir james is so much annoyed about it," remarked bertie with apparent concern. "he'll see what a fool he's made of himself some day," said bob. alice was in his mind, but went unmentioned. bob's opinion was shared in its entirety by irene kilnorton, who came over to express it to alice as soon as the news reached her through bowdon. bowdon had heard it from ashley himself, they being together on the business of the commission. irene was amazed to find alice on ashley's side and would allow no merit to her point of view. "oh, no, it's all wrong," she declared. "it would have been good for him in every way; it would have settled him." "i don't want him settled," said alice. "oh, if you knew how tired i get of the business sometimes! besides it will make mr. jewett so happy. he takes ashley's place, you know, though father won't give him as big a share as he'd have given ashley." "well, i shall tell mr. mead what i think of him." she paused, hesitating a moment as to whether she should say a disagreeable thing or not. but she was annoyed by alice's attitude and decided to say it. "not that he'll care what i say or what anybody says, except ora pinsent," she ended. "won't he?" asked alice. she felt bound to interject something. "what a creature she is!" cried irene. "when i went to see her this morning, i found her in tears. what about? oh, i don't know. but i spoke to her sensibly." "poor miss pinsent!" "i said, 'my dear ora, i suppose you've done something silly and now you're sorry for yourself. for goodness' sake, though, don't ask me to be sorry for you.'" "had she asked you?" said alice with a smile. lady kilnorton took no notice of the question. "i suppose," she went on scornfully, "that she wanted to be petted. i wasn't going to pet her." "i think i should have petted her. she'd be nice to pet," alice remarked thoughtfully. irene seemed to lose patience. "you don't mean to say that you and she are going to make friends?" she exclaimed. "it would be too absurd." "why shouldn't we? i liked her rather; at least i think so." "i wish to goodness that husband of hers would come back and look after her. what's more, i said so to her; but she only went on crying more and more." "you don't seem to have been very pleasant," alice observed. "i suppose i wasn't," irene admitted, half in remorse. "but that sort of person does annoy me so. as i was saying to frank, you never know where to have them. oh, but ora doesn't mind it from me." "then why did she cry more and more?" "i don't know--unless it was because i reminded her of mr. fenning's existence. i think it's a good thing to do sometimes." "perhaps. i'm not sure, though, that i shouldn't leave it to mr. fenning himself." "my dear, respectability goes for something. the man's alive, after all." alice knew that he was alive and in her heart knew that she was glad he was alive; but she was sorry that ora should be made to cry by being invited to remember that he was alive. irene was, presumably, happy with the man she had chosen; it was a good work leaning towards supererogation (if such were possible) when she took ora's domestic relations under her wing. she hinted something of this sort. "oh, that's what ashley mead says; we all know why he says it," was irene's mode of receiving the good advice. a pause followed; irene put her arm through alice's and they began to walk about the garden. lady muddock was working at her embroidery at the open window; she was pronouncedly anti-ashleyan, taking the colour of her opinions from her husband and even more from bob. "where's lord bowdon?" "oh, at his tiresome commission. he's coming to tea afterwards. i asked mr. mead, but he won't come." "you'll be happier alone together." irene kilnorton made no answer. she looked faintly doubtful and a trifle distressed. presently she made a general remark. "it's an awful thing," she said, "to undertake--to back yourself, you know--to live all your life with a man and never bore him." "i'm sure you couldn't bore anybody." "frank's rather easily bored, i'm afraid." "what nonsense! why, you're making yourself unhappy just in the same way that miss pinsent--" "oh, do stop talking about ora pinsent!" cried irene fervently. then she gave a sudden apprehensive glance at her companion and blushed a little. "i simply meant that men wanted such a lot of amusing," she ended. in recording her interview with ora, irene had somewhat exaggerated her brutality, just as in her reflexions about her friend she exaggerated her own common-sense. ora drove her into protective measures; she found them in declaring herself as unlike to ora as possible. in reality common-sense held no disproportionate or disagreeable sway in her soul; if it had, she would have been entirely content with the position which now existed, and with her relations towards bowdon. there was nothing lacking which this vaunted common-sense could demand; it was stark sentimentality, and by consequence such folly as ora herself might harbour and drop tears about, which whispered in her heart, saying that all was nothing so long as she was not for her lover the first and only woman in the world, so long as she still felt that she had seized him, not won him, so long as the mention of ora's name still brought a look to his face and a check to his talk. it was against herself more than against ora that she had railed in the garden; ora had exasperated her because she knew in herself a temper as unreasonable as ora's; she harped on ora's husband ill-naturedly--as she went home, she confessed she had been ill-natured--because he who was to be her husband had dreamt of being ora's lover. even now he dared not speak her name, he dared not see her, he could not trust himself. the pledge his promised bride had wrung from him was safe so long as he did not see or let himself think of ora. it was thus that irene read his mind. she read it rightly--to his own sorrow and remorse--rightly. he was surprised too. about taking the decisive step he had hesitated; except for circumstances rather accidentally provocative, perhaps he would not have taken it. but its virtue and power, if and when taken, he had not doubted. he had thought that by binding his actions with the chain of honour he would bind his feelings with the chain of love, that when his steps could not wander his fancy also would be tethered, that he could escape longing by abstinence, and smother a craving for one by committing himself to seem to crave for another. the maxims of that common-sense alternately lauded and reviled by irene had told him that he would be successful in all this; he found himself successful in none of it. ora would not go; her lure still drew him; as he sat at his commission opposite to his secretary at the bottom of the table, he was jealous of his secretary. thus he was restless, uncomfortable, contemptuous of himself. but he was resolute too. he was not a man who broke faith or took back his plighted word. irene was to be his wife, was as good as his wife since his pledge was hers; he set himself to an obstinate fulfilment of his bargain, resolved that she should see in him nothing but a devoted lover, ignorant that she saw in him the thing which above all he wished to hide. such of ora's tears as might be apportioned to the unhappiness she caused to others were just now tolerably well justified, whatever must be thought of those which she shed on her own account. here was bowdon restless and contemptuous of himself, irene bitter and ashamed, alice with no surer, no more honest, comfort than the precarious existence of mr. fenning, sir james muddock (ora was no doubt partly responsible here also) grievously disappointed and hurt; while the one person who might be considered to owe her something, mr. bertie jewett, was as unconscious of his debt as she of his existence; both would have been surprised to learn that they had anything in the world to do with one another. but after all most of ora's tears were for herself. small wonder in face of that letter from bridgeport, connecticut! bowdon wished to be married very soon; why wait, he asked; he was not as young as he had been; it would be pleasant to go to the country in august man and wife. in fine the chain of honour gave signs of being strained, and he proposed to tie up the other leg with the fetters of law; he wanted to make it more and more impossible that he should give another thought to anybody except his affianced wife. in marriage attachment becomes a habit, daily companionship strengthens it; surely that was so? and in the country, or, better still, on a yacht in mid-ocean, how could anything remind him of anybody else? but irene would not hasten the day; she gave many reasons to countervail his; the one she did not give was a wild desire that he should be her lover before he became her husband. so on their feigned issues they discussed the matter. "the end of july?" he suggested. it was now mid-june. "impossible, frank!" she cried. "perhaps november." in september and october ora would be away. two months with ora away, absolutely away, perhaps forgotten! irene built hopes high on these two months. "not till november!" he groaned. the groan sounded well; but it meant "don't leave me free all that time. tie me up before then!" "ashley mead seems obstinate in his silly refusal of sir james muddock's offer," she said, anxious to get rid of the conflict. "why should he take it?" asked bowdon. "he can get along very well without it; i don't fancy him at the counter." "oh, it's so evidently the sensible thing." "i've heard you tell him yourself not to go and sell ribbons." how exasperating are these reminders! "i've grown wiser in ever so many ways lately," she retorted with a smile. there was an opening for a lover here. she gave it him with a forlorn hope of its acceptance. "yes; but i'm not sure it's a good thing to grow so very wise," he said. then he came and sat by her. "you mustn't be sentimental," she warned him. "remember we're elderly people." he insisted on being rather sentimental; with a keen jealousy she assessed his sincerity. sometimes he almost persuaded her; she prayed so hard to be convinced; but the wish begot no true conviction. then she was within an ace of throwing his pledge back in his face; but still she clung to her triumph with all its alloy and all its incompleteness. she had brought him to say he loved her; could she not bring him in very truth to love? why had ora but to lift a finger while she put out all her strength in vain? it would not have consoled her a whit had she been reminded of ora's tears. like most of us, she would have chosen to win and weep. as bowdon strolled slowly back through the park, repeating how charming irene was and how wise and fortunate he himself was, he met ashley mead. ashley was swinging along at a good pace, his coat-tails flying in the wind behind him. when bowdon first saw him he was smiling and his lips were moving, as though he were talking to himself in a pleasant vein. in response to his friend's hail, he stopped, looked at his watch, and announced that he had ten minutes to spare. "where are you off to in such a hurry?" asked bowdon. ashley looked openly happy; he had an air of being content with life, of being sure that he could make something satisfactory out of it, and of having forgotten, for the time being at all events, any incidental drawbacks which might attend on it. bowdon was smitten with an affectionate envy, and regarded the young man with a grim smile. "going to see a lady," said ashley. "you seem to be making a day of it," observed bowdon. "in the morning you refuse a fortune, in the afternoon--" "oh, you've heard about the fortune, have you? i've just been down to buckingham palace road, to congratulate young jewett on being in--and myself on being out. now, as i mentioned, lord bowdon--" "now you're on your way to see miss pinsent?" "right; you've guessed it, my lord," laughed ashley. "you don't seem to be ashamed of yourself." "no, i'm not." "you know all about mr. fenning?" "well, as much as most of us know about him. but i don't see why i shouldn't take tea with miss ora pinsent." bowdon turned and began to walk slowly along beside ashley; ashley looked at his watch again and resigned himself to another five minutes. he owed something to bowdon; he could spare him five of ora's minutes; to confess the truth, moreover, he was a little early, although he had made up his mind not to be. "jewett's the ablest little cad, i know," said ashley. "at least i think he's a cad, though i can't exactly tell you why." "of course he's a cad," said bowdon, who had dined with bob muddock to meet him. "there's no salient point you can lay hold of," mused ashley; "it's pervasive; you can tell it when you see him with women, you know; that brings it out. but he's got a head on his shoulders." "that's more than can be said for you at this moment, my friend." "i'm enjoying myself very much, thank you," said ashley with a radiant smile. "you won't be for long," retorted bowdon, half in sorrow, half in the involuntary malice so often aroused by the sight of gay happiness. "look here, you ought to be idiotic yourself just now," ashley remonstrated. then out came his watch again. the sight of it relieved bowdon from the fear that he had betrayed himself; evidently he occupied no place at all in his companion's thoughts. "be off," he said with rueful good-nature. "only don't say i didn't tell you." ashley laughed, nodded carelessly, and set off again at his round pace. but presently the round pace became intolerably slow, and he hailed a hansom. he was by way of being economical about hansoms, often pointing out how fares mounted up; but he took a good many. he was soon landed at the little house in chelsea. ora was not in the room when janet ushered him in. "i'll tell my mistress, sir," said janet gravely, taking up a smelling-bottle which stood on ora's little table and carrying it off with her. blind to this subtle indication that all was not well in the house, ashley roamed about the room. he noticed with much satisfaction his portrait in the silver frame and his roses in a vase; then he looked at the photographs on the mantel-piece; falling from these, his eyes rested for a moment in idleness on a letter which bore the postmark "bridgeport, conn." "ah, here she is!" he cried, as a step sounded and the door-handle was turned. ora entered and closed the door; but she did not advance towards him; the smelling-bottle was in her hand. "i wrote you a note telling you not to come," she said. "thank heaven i didn't get it," he answered cheerfully. "i haven't been home since the morning. you can't send me away now, can you?" ora walked slowly towards the sofa; he met her half-way and held out both his hands; she gave him one of hers in a listless despairing fashion. "oh, i know!" said he. "you've been making yourself unhappy?" she waved him away gently, and sat down. "what was in the note you wrote me?" he asked, standing opposite to her. "that i could never see you again," she said. "oh, come!" ashley expostulated with a laugh. "that's rather summary, isn't it? what have i done?" "irene kilnorton has been here." "ah! and was she disagreeable? she is sometimes--from a sense of duty or what she takes for it." "yes, she was disagreeable." "if that's all--" he began, taking a step forward. "that's not all," ora interrupted. "are my eyes red?" "you've not been crying?" "yes, i have," she retorted, almost angrily. "oh, why did i go with you on sunday? why did you make me go?" she seemed to be conscience-stricken; he drew up a chair and sat down by her. she did not send him away now but looked at him appealingly. she had something of the air that she had worn in the inn parlour, but there joy had been mingled with her appeal; there was no joy in her eyes now. "we didn't do much harm on sunday," he said. "i believe i'm preventing you doing what you ought to do, what all your friends wish for you, what would be best for you. it's just like me. i can't help it." "what are you preventing me from doing?" "oh, you know. irene says you are quite getting to like her. and she's so nice." "but lady kilnorton's engaged already." "you know i don't mean lady kilnorton. don't make fun now, ashley, don't." ashley leant forward suddenly and kissed her cheek. "oh, that's not the least use," she moaned disconsolately. "if that was all that's wanted, i know you'd do it." a mournful smile appeared on her lips. "but it only makes it worse. i've made up my mind to something." "so have i. i've made up my mind that you're the most charming woman in the world, and that i don't care a hang about anything else." "but you must, you know. we must be reasonable." "oh, i see irene kilnorton's been very disagreeable!" "it's not irene kilnorton." "is it my true happiness, then?" "no," said ora, with another fugitive smile. "it's not exactly your true happiness." "well, then, i don't know what it is." ora was silent for a moment, her dark eyes filled with woe. "there's a letter on the mantel-piece," she said. "will you give it to me?" he rose and took the letter. "this one from america?" he asked. "i say, you're not going off there, starring, are you? because i shall have to come too, you know." "no, i'm not going there." she took the letter out of its envelope. "read it," she said, and handed it to him. somehow, before he read a word of it, the truth flashed into his mind. he looked at her and said one word: "fenning?" she nodded and then let her head fall back on the sofa. he read the letter carefully and jealously; that it was written by a friend's hand no doubt prevented jack fenning from saying more, as he himself hinted; yet the colourlessness and restraint of what he wrote were a comfort to ashley. he laid the letter down on the table and looked for a moment at his own picture. ora's eyes were on him; he leant forward, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. "poor dear!" said he. then he folded the letter, put it in its envelope, laid the envelope on the mantel-piece, read bridgeport, conn., again on the postmark, and, turning, stood looking down on her. he had not got quite home to the heart of the situation. all that day long, as it seemed to him, there had been ineffectual efforts to stop him, to turn him from his path, and to rescue him from the impulses which were carrying him along. the buckingham palace road proposal, irene kilnorton's hints, alice muddock's presence, had all been as it were suggestions to him; he had not heeded the suggestions. now came something more categorical, something which must receive attention and insisted on being heeded. mr. fenning had suddenly stepped out of vagueness into definiteness, out of a sort of hypothetical into a very real and pressing form of existence. he was now located in space at bridgeport, connecticut; he was palpable in his written message; he became urgent for consideration by virtue of his proposal. ashley had, in his heart, not taken mr. fenning very seriously; now mr. fenning chose to upset his attitude in that respect in a most decisive fashion. for whatever ora decided to do, there must from now be a difference; ashley could not doubt that. she might accept her husband's proposal; in that case her whole life was changed and his with it. she might refuse to have anything to do with it; but then would not the discarded but legitimate claimant on her affections and her society force her and him out of the compromise under which they now sheltered themselves? either way, jack fenning must now be reckoned with; but which was to be the way? with a curious sense of surviving ignorance, with an uncomfortable recognition that he was only at the beginning of the study and on the outskirts of a knowledge of the woman whom he already loved and held nearest to him of anybody in the world, ashley discovered that he had no idea in which way ora would face the situation, what would be her temper, or what her decision. for the first time in their acquaintance a flash of discomfort, almost of apprehension, shot across his mind. was she as alien, as foreign, as diverse from him as that? but he would not admit the feeling, would not have it or recognise it; it was absurd, he told himself, to expect to foresee her choice, when he knew so little of the factors which must decide it. did he know fenning, had he been privy to their married life? not in her but in the nature of the case lay the puzzle. he dismissed his doubt and leant down towards the sad beautiful face beside him. "well, dear?" he asked, very gently. "i'm going to tell him to come," said she. chapter ix renunciation: a drama the words in which ora declared her intention of recalling jack fenning to her side and of taking up again the burden of married life sounded like the statement of a firm, unalterable, and independent resolution; after them it seemed as though ashley had only to bow his head and go his ways; his task would be, if not easy, yet plain and simple. but with the brave sound came the appealing glance; the words were uttered more like a prayer than a decree. she had thrown herself on his mercy in the inn parlour on the sunday; she appeared to throw herself on his mercy again now, and in reality to await his determination rather than announce her own. but she was eager to win from him the verdict that she suggested; she was not hoping for a refusal while she satisfied appearances by asking. the appeal was full of fear and doubt, but it was genuine and sincere. her eyes followed him as he walked to the window and as he came back and stood again before her; she watched the struggle in him with anxiety. once she smiled faintly as though to show her understanding and her sympathy with what was passing in his mind. "i feel all that too," she seemed to say. "have you quite made up your mind?" he asked her at last. "you've realised what it means? i don't know him, of course, and you do. well, can you do it?" "i must do it. i ought to do it," she said pathetically. "you know i ought to do it." he shrugged his shoulders; probably she was right there, unless jack fenning were a much worse calamity than he had any good reason for supposing; certainly everybody would hold her right, everybody who had not queer theories, at least. "you must help me," she said. he was silent. she rose and came to stand by him, speaking to him in a low whisper. "yes, you must help me, you must make me able to do it. i can do it if you help me, ashley. it is right, you know." a hint of amusement shewed itself in his face. "perhaps, but i shouldn't have thought i could help you much," he said. "unless you mean by going away and staying away?" "oh, no, no," she cried in terror. "you mustn't go away, you mustn't leave me alone, i should die if you did that now. it's a thing for both of us to do; we must help one another. we shall make one another stronger. don't you see what i mean? you won't go?" he had not fathomed her mood yet, but only one answer to her prayer was possible. "i won't go as long as you want me," he said. "you promise? you promise me that?" she insisted. "yes, i promise," he assured her with another smile. "and you'll make it easy for me?" she, in her turn, smiled a moment. "i mean you won't make it too difficult? i must be good, you must let me be good. some people say you're happy when you're good. i wonder! i shall be very miserable, i know." the tears were standing in her eyes; she looked indeed very miserable; he kissed her. "yes," she murmured, as though he had told her in words that he pitied her very much; she preserved that childlike sort of attitude towards caresses; to ashley it seemed to make kissing her almost meritorious. she saw no inconsistency between accepting his kisses and holding to her heroic resolution; it seemed almost as though she must be kissed to enable her to hold to her resolution; it was the sympathy, or even the commendation, without which her virtue could not stand. "i can do it," she said plaintively. then she drew herself up a little. "yes, i can," she repeated proudly, "i'm sure i can. we can do what we ought, if we try. oh, but how i shall hate it! if only it had come a little sooner--before--before our sunday! it wouldn't have been so bad, then." "no, it wouldn't," he said. "poor ashley!" she said, pressing his hand. "will it be very hard for you?" he answered with the shamefaced brevity and reserve with which men, trained as he had been, confess to emotion. "i shan't like it, naturally." "but you must be strong too," she urged. "we must make each other strong." she returned with evident comfort to this idea of their helping one another; they were to fight as allies, in a joint battle, not each to support a solitary unaided struggle. to most people it would have seemed that they would make one another weak. ora was sure of the contrary; they would make one another strong, support one another against temptation, and applaud one another's successes. she could be good, could be even heroic, could perform miracles of duty and resignation, if she had the help of ashley's sympathy and the comfort of his presence. and he would feel the same, she thought; she could soften the trial to which she was obliged to subject him; she could console him; her tender grief and her love, ardent while renouncing, would inspire him to the task of duty. she grew eager as this idea took shape in her mind; she pressed it on him, anxious to make him see it in the aspect in which she saw it, to understand the truth and to appreciate the beauty that lay in it. she was sure it was true. it surprised her to find this beauty also in it. but if they separated now, cut themselves adrift from one another, and went off their different ways, all that drew her in the picture would be destroyed, and she would be left without the balm of its melancholy sweetness. she tried by every means in her power to enlist him on her side and make him look at the question as she looked at it. always obedient to her pleading orders, never able openly to reject what she prayed him to accept, ashley feigned to fall in with an idea which his clearsightedness shewed very much in its real colours and traced to its true origin. it had begun in the instinctive desire not to lose him yet, to put off the day of sacrifice, to reconcile, so far as might be possible, two inconsistent courses, to pay duty its lawful tribute and yet keep a secret dole for the rebel emotion which she loved. up to this point she was on ground common enough, and did only what many men and women seek and strive to do. her individual nature shewed itself in the next step, when the idea that she had made began to attract her, to grow beautiful, to shape itself into a picture of renunciatory passion, moving and appealing in her eyes. but there must be other eyes; he too must see; by interchange of glances they must share and heighten their appreciation of what they were engaged on. her morality, her effort to be, as she put it, good, must not only be liberally touched by emotion; it must be supported and stimulated by sympathetic applause. reluctantly and almost with a sense of ungenerousness, as though he were criticising her ill-naturedly, he found himself applying to her the terms of her own art, beginning to see her in effective scenes, to detect an element of the theatrical in her mood. this notion came to him without bringing with it any repugnance and without making him impute to her any insincerity. she was sincere enough, indeed absolutely engrossed in her emotion and in the picture her emotion made. but the sincerity was more of emotion than of purpose, and the emotion demanded applause for the splendid feat of self-abnegation which it was to enable her and him to achieve. he was quite incapable of casting this glamour round his own share in the matter, but he strove to feel and perceive it in hers as she pleaded softly with him that he should not leave her to struggle in grim solitude. and he was glad of any excuse for not leaving her. "i can't think yet of what it will be like when he's come," she said. "i mustn't think of that, or--or i couldn't go on. i must just do it now; that's what we've got to do, isn't it? we must get it done, ashley, and leave all the rest. we must just do what's right without looking beyond it." "there's no particular good in looking forward," he admitted ruefully. "you're quite clear about it?" "oh, yes, aren't you? i'm sure you are." she looked at him apprehensively. "you mustn't turn against me. i can be strong with you to help me; i couldn't be strong against you." her voice fell even lower. "not for an hour," she ended in a whisper. again she threw herself on his mercy; again he could not fail her or be deaf to her prayer. "if you think it right, i can say nothing against it," he said. "no. you wouldn't be happy if you did; i mean if you did persuade me to anything else. i know there aren't many men like you, capable of doing what you're going to do for me. but you can do it." he perceived the glamour encircling him now as well as her; quarrelling with his own words, still he said to himself that his part also was to be an effective one; she was liberal to him and shewed no desire to occupy all the stage; her eyes would be as much for him as for herself. "and because you're strong, i can be strong," she went on. "we shall both be glad afterwards, shan't we?" "let's rest in the consciousness of virtue, and never mind the gladness," he suggested. ora discarded the gladness almost eagerly. "yes," she said. "because we shall both be terribly unhappy. we've got to face that. we aren't doing it blindly. we know what it means." he doubted greatly whether she knew what it meant; she could not realise its meaning so long as she refused to look forward or to consider the actual state of things when jack fenning had arrived, so long as she preferred to concentrate all her gaze on the drama of renunciation which was to precede and bring about his coming. but in all this there was only an added pathos to him, a stronger appeal to his compassion, and an insuperable difficulty in the way of even trying to make her understand; such an attempt seemed brutal in his eyes. he could comfort her now; he could not tell her that when the moving scene ended with the entrance of jack fenning he would be able to comfort her no more. the same mood which prevented her from looking forward made her reluctant to talk of her husband as he actually was. under pressure of ashley's questions she told him that she had begun by loving jack and had gone on liking him for some little while; but that he bore poverty badly and yet was indolent; that he often neglected her and sometimes had been unkind; that he was very extravagant, got into terrible money difficulties, and had been known to turn to the bottle for relief from his self-created troubles. but she became very distressed with the subject and obviously preferred to leave jack fenning vague, to keep him to the part of a husband in the abstract. this was all the drama needed--a husband accepted in duty but no longer loved or desired; the personal characteristics or peculiarities of the particular husband were unessential and unimportant. ashley was surprised to find how little he had learnt about mr. fenning. but he was learning more about mr. fenning's wife. "it's not what he is," urged ora, "it's what we've got to do." by now ashley felt irrevocably coupled with her in a common task; and to him at least the precise character of the husband was not important. they were to act on the high plane of duty; jack's past misdeeds or present defects were to be of no moment except in so far as they might intensify the struggle and enhance the beauty of renunciation. ashley was so far infected with her spirit that he was glad to be left with a number of impressions of jack fenning all vaguely unfavourable. "nothing will ever alter or spoil the memory of our sunday," she said. "it'll be there always, the one sweet and perfect thing in life. i think we shall find it even more perfect because of what we're going to do. i shall think about it every day as long as i live. i think it helps to have been happy just once, don't you? it'll never be as if we hadn't known we loved one another." with the dismissal of the topic of jack fenning's character and the acceptance of the position that they were not to look forward beyond the act of renunciation, ora had grown composed, cheerful, and at moments almost gay. already she seemed to have triumphed in her struggle, or their struggle as she always called it; already she was minded to exchange congratulations with her ally. her mere presence was such a charm to him as to win him to happiness, even while they were agreeing that happiness was impossible; the sense of loss, of deprivation, and of emptiness was postponed and could not assert itself while she moved before his eyes in the variety of her beauty and grace. though he could accord but a very half-hearted adhesion to the scheme she had planned, again he welcomed it, because for the time at least it left her to him; nor could he be altogether sorrowful when she made her great and confessed love for him the basis on which the whole plan rested, the postulate that gave to the drama all its point and to the sacrifice all its merit. if she were triumphing in renunciation, he triumphed in a victory no less great, and hardly less sweet because the fruits of it were denied to him, because it was to rank as a memory, and not to become a perpetual joy. at least she loved him, trusted him, depended on him; he was to her more than any man; he was her choice. he would not have changed parts with jack fenning although he had to go out of her life and jack was coming into it again. surely to be desired is more than to possess? "i suppose people suspect about us," she said. "i'm sure irene does, and i think miss muddock does. but we've nothing to be ashamed of; we can't help loving one another and we're going to do right." she paused a moment, and then, looking at him with a timid smile, added, "how awfully surprised everybody will be when they hear that jack's coming back! i think a lot of them hardly believed in him." no doubt she divined accurately the nature of a considerable body of opinion. "i daresay not," said ashley. "you'll tell people what's going to happen?" "just my friends. it would look so odd if he came without any warning." it could not be denied that she was interested in thinking of the effect which her news would create. she saw herself telling it to people. "of course i shall announce it as if it was the most ordinary thing," she went on. "you must do the same; say i told you about it. they'll be rather puzzled, won't they?" "oh, my dear!" said he, half laughing, half groaning, as he took her hand for a moment and pressed it lightly. "yes, i daresay they'll be puzzled," he added with a rueful smile. "we mustn't shew we notice anything of that sort," pursued ora. "nobody must see what it is we're really doing. they won't know anything about it." her eyes fixed themselves on his. "i daresay they'll suspect," she ended. "we can't help that, can we?" "we must keep our own counsel." "yes. if they like to talk, they must, that's all." she had more to say of this secret of theirs, talked about, guessed at, canvassed, but not fully understood and never betrayed; it was to be something exclusively their own, hidden and sacred, a memory for ever between them, a puzzle to all the rest of the world. "i daresay they'll guess that we care for one another," she said, "but they'll never know the whole truth. i expect they wouldn't believe in it if they did. they wouldn't think we could do what we're going to." not till he prepared to go did her sorrow and desolation again become acutely felt. she held his arms and prayed him not to leave her. "you must rest a little while and eat something before you go to the theatre," he reminded her. "no, no, don't leave me. stay with me, do stay with me. why can't i always have you with me? why shouldn't i? how cruel it is!" she was almost sobbing. "ashley, don't go," she whispered. "well, i won't go," he said. "i'll stay and dine with you and take you to the theatre." "and fetch me home afterwards?" "no, i don't think i'll do that as well." "why not?" she asked resentfully. ashley shook his head. after a long look at him ora sighed deeply. "i suppose you'd better not," she admitted. "but you'll stay now, won't you?" she ran across to the bell and rang it; her tone was gay as she told janet that mr. mead would dine with her; between being left now and being left two hours hence a gulf of difference yawned. "i'm afraid there's not much dinner, ma'am," said janet in a discouraging, perhaps a disapproving, way. "oh, you won't mind that, will you?" she cried to ashley, and when janet went out she sighed, "it's so nice to have you." his smile had mockery in it as well as love. "it's for such a little while too," she went on. "presently i shan't have you at all." the little meal that they took together--ashley ignoring an engagement to dine with friends, ora seeming unmindful of things much harder to forget--was not a sorrowful feast. the shadow of the great renunciation did not eclipse ora's gaiety, but tempered it with a soft tenderness. none of her many phases had charmed her friend more; never had she seemed stronger in her claim on his service, more irresistible in the weakness with which she rested her life on his. his taste, his theoretical taste, had not been for women of this type, but rather, as he used to put it, for a woman with a backbone, a woman like alice muddock; theoretical preferences exist to be overthrown. the unpretentious "jobbed" victoria was waiting at the door, and at last ora made up her mind to start. it was but a little after seven, the streets were still light and full. the beginning of the renunciation might have seemed a strange one to the passer-by who recognised the occupants of the victoria. many looked at ora, thinking they had seen her before; some certainly knew her, some also knew ashley. in reply to a not very serious expostulation from her companion ora declared that it did not matter if people gossipped a little, because her announcement would put an end to it all directly; meanwhile shouldn't they enjoy themselves while they could? "if you hadn't taken me to the theatre to-night, i could never have got there," she declared with conviction. ashley knew quite well that this was not literal truth and that she would have gone anyhow; whatever had happened to her, her instinct would have taken her; but the untruth had a truth in it and she thought it all true. it was an instance of the way in which she had put herself in his hands, had told him what she wanted him to do with her, and was now leaving him to do it. he had, in a slang phrase which came into his mind, "to see her through;" he had to ensure that the great renunciation should be properly carried out. it was consoling, although no doubt somewhat whimsical, that the renunciation should seem to excuse what but for it would have been condemned as an imprudence, and, while dooming them to ultimate separation, should excuse or justify them in being as much together as they could in the present. it was "only for a little while;" the coming of jack fenning would end their pleasant hours and silence those who cavilled at them. the consciousness of their approaching virtue bred in ora, and even in ashley to some degree, both a sense of security and a tendency to recklessness; it seemed as though they had had no reason to fear either themselves or other people. "you might come and fetch me afterwards," she said coaxingly. but here he stood firm and repeated his refusal. she seemed surprised and a little hurt. but at the moment babba flint lifted his hat and bowed from the pavement with much _empressement_. "the story of our drive will be half over london by midnight," said ashley. "it doesn't matter now," she assured him, lightly touching his hand. "shall you write soon?" he asked. "yes, to-morrow," she said. an idea seemed to strike her. "hadn't i better telegraph?" she asked. "wouldn't that look unnecessarily eager?" he suggested. the notion of a telegram stirred a jealousy, not of any real fact, but of the impression that it might convey to mr. fenning. he did not wish jack fenning to suppose that his home-coming was joyously awaited. ora had been caught with the attraction of a telegram; it would emphasise the renunciation; but she understood the objection. "no," she said, "i'd better write. because i shall have to explain the reasons for what i'm doing and tell him how--how we're to be to one another." she glanced at ashley. he was looking straight in front of him. "i'll shew you the letter," she said in a low voice. "i don't want to see the letter; i won't see it," he returned. "oh, it is hard for both of us!" she sighed. "but you know, dear, you know so well what you are to me; nobody ever has been or ever will be what you are. won't you see the letter?" "no, i won't see the letter." ora was disappointed; she would have liked sympathy and appreciation for the letter. since these were not to be had, she determined to send quite a short business-like letter. "no," she said. "i won't enter on any sort of discussion. i shall just tell him that i don't feel justified in refusing him leave to come. that'll be best; afterwards we must be guided by circumstances." the "we" amused ashley, for undoubtedly it served to couple ora and himself, not ora and her husband; from time to time he awoke for a moment to the queer humour of the situation. "we must see how he behaves himself," he said,--smiling. "yes," she assented gravely, but a moment later, seeing his amusement, she broke into a responsive laugh, "i know why you're smiling," she said with a little nod, "but it is like that, isn't it?" perhaps for the time it was, but it was very clear to him that it could not go on being. professing to think of nothing but the renunciation, she had begun to construct an entirely impossible fabric of life on the basis of it. in this fabric ashley played a large part; but no fabric could stand in which both he and jack fenning played large parts; and jack's part was necessarily large in any fabric built with the renunciation for its cornerstone. else where was the renunciation, where its virtue and its beauty? to see the impossibility of a situation and its necessary tendency to run into an _impasse_ is logically the forerunner to taking some step to end it. since, however, logic is but one of several equal combatants in human hearts, men often do not act in accordance with its rules. they wait to have the situation ended for them from without; a sort of fatalism gains sway over them and is intensified by every growth of the difficulty in which they find themselves. unconvinced by ora's scheme and not thoroughly in harmony with her mood, ashley acted as though the one satisfied and the other entirely dominated him. when they parted at the theatre door there were two understandings arrived at between them, both suggested by her, both accepted obediently by him. one was that he should not fail to come and see her next day, and the day after, and the day following on that; to this he pledged himself under sanction of his promise to be her ally in the struggle and not to forsake her. the other arrangement was that the letter of recall should be written and despatched to jack fenning within twenty-four hours. ora reluctantly agreed that ashley should not have any hand in its composition or even see it before it was sent, but she was sure that she not only must but also ought to render to him a very clear and full account of all that it did and did not contain. "because," she said, as she gave him her hand in unwilling farewell, "we're going to fight this battle together, aren't we?" he nodded. "i couldn't fight it without you, indeed i couldn't," were the last words she spoke to him; they came with all the added force of the last imploring look from her eyes and the last pleading smile on her lips. then the theatre swallowed her up, and he was left to walk home, to remember his neglected engagement, to telegraph excuses in regard to it, then speedily again to forget it, and to spend an evening in which despair, wonder, tenderness, and amusement each had their turn with him. he had not lost her yet, but he must lose her; this idea of hers was absurd, ludicrous, impossible, yet it was also sweet, persuasive, above all expressive of her in her mingled power and weakness. it was herself; and from it, therefore, he could no more escape than he could from her. chapter x the licence of virtue irene kilnorton was in a state of pardonable irritation; just now she often inclined to irritation, but the immediate cause of this fit and its sufficient excuse lay in babba flint's behaviour. if only he could have believed it, he always annoyed her; but it was outrageous beyond the common to come on her "at home" day, and openly scout her most interesting, most exciting, most comforting piece of news. he stuck his glass in his eye, stared through it an instant, and dropped it with an air of contemptuous incredulity. "she told me herself," said irene angrily. "i suppose that's pretty good authority." "the very worst," retorted babba calmly. "she's just the person who has an interest in spreading the idea. mind you, i don't say he doesn't exist; i reserve judgment as to that because i'm aware that he used to. but i do say he won't turn up, and i'm willing to take any reasonable bet on the subject. in fact the whole thing is as plain as a pikestaff." "what whole thing?" she spoke low, she did not want the rest to hear. babba spread his hands in a deprecating toleration for his hostess' density. "she's everywhere with mead," he said. "drives to the theatre with him, you know, walks with him, talks about him." "that doesn't explain anything, even if it's true." "doesn't it? when you're being indiscreet, lay emphasis on your husband. that's the standing rule, lady kilnorton. you'll see; when she gets tired of mead, we shall hear no more of jack fenning." irene looked at him resentfully; he was abominably confident. and after all ora was a strange being; in spite of their friendship, still outside her comprehension and not reducible to her formulas. "but she's full of his coming," she expostulated. "she's--well, not exactly glad, i suppose--" "i should suppose not," smiled babba. "but quite excited about it. and mr. mead knows he's coming too." "no doubt mead says he knows he's coming." babba had once served his articles to a solicitor, and reminiscences of the rules of evidence and the value of testimony hung about him. "well, i believe he'll come," irene declared with external firmness and an internal faintness. "he won't, you'll see," returned babba placidly. desiring an end to this vexatious conversation, irene cast her eyes round her guests who were engaged in drinking tea and making talk to one another. her glance detached bowdon from his attendance on minna soames and brought him to her side; babba, however, did not move away. "the whole thing is very likely a despairing effort of miss pinsent's conscience," he said. "how are you, lord bowdon?" "ah, babba, you here? gossipping as usual, i see." "he says ora's husband won't come." "well, he doesn't know anything about it." "i'll take six to four," said babba eagerly. "i don't think i care to bet about it," said bowdon. "ah, i expect not!" for babba the only possible reason against making any bet in the world was the fear of losing it. "do go and talk to minna soames," irene implored him. "she'll be ready enough to disbelieve anything creditable about poor ora." babba smiled knowingly and began to edge away. bowdon sat down by his _fiancée_. "i do believe it, you know," she said, turning to him. babba looked back with a derisive smile. "why should she say it, if it's not true?" asked irene, addressing bowdon and pointedly ignoring babba. "oh, no doubt it's true," said bowdon. "why shouldn't it be true?" babba had put forward the constant companionship of ora and ashley mead at once as evidence that the report was not true and as the explanation of its being circulated; irene was inclined to attribute to it only the first of these functions. "she goes on very oddly, if it is," she murmured. "but then she is odd." "it's true, depend upon it," said bowdon. his solid persistence both comforted and exasperated her. she desired to think the report true, but she did not wish him to accept it merely in the unquestioning loyalty to ora pinsent which his tone implied. a thing was not true simply because ora chose to say it; men lose all their common-sense where a woman is concerned; so say women themselves; so said irene kilnorton. "what impresses me," she went on, "is that ashley mead told me." "i suppose he got his information from her." "of course; but he can judge." she paused and added, "it's a very good thing, if it is true." "is it?" asked bowdon. the question was an almost naked dissent. irene looked at him severely. "it seems to me," she observed, "that men ought to pretend to approve of respectability. one doesn't ask them to be respectable." "the man's a scamp, according to all accounts." "he's her husband." "he'll make her miserable, and take her money, and so on." "no doubt his arrival will be inconvenient in a good many ways," irene allowed herself to remark with significant emphasis. she had, she declared, no patience with the way men looked at such things; the man was the woman's husband after all. she found growing in her a strong disposition to champion mr. fenning's cause through thick and thin. "we don't know his version of the case," she reminded bowdon after a pause. "oh, that's true, of course," he conceded with what she felt was an empty show of fairness. in reality he had prejudged the case and condemned the absent and unheard defendant. that was because he was a man and ora pinsent good-looking; a habit regrettable in men generally becomes exasperating, almost insulting, in one's own lover, especially with circumstances of a peculiar nature existing in the past and still very vivid in memory. one way in which the news affected bowdon he had allowed irene to perceive; he was not at his ease as to how ora would fare, and there was a touch of jealousy in his picture of mr. fenning's probable conduct. but he was conscious also of thankfulness that he had escaped from the sort of position in which he might have been placed had he yielded to his impulse, and in which, so far as he saw, ashley mead was now involved. his dignity would not have suffered him to enter into any rivalry with fenning, while to leave the field clear to fenning would have been a sacrifice hard to make. from this evil fortune the woman by him had rescued him, or enabled him to rescue himself, and he was full of gratitude to her; while she was still resenting the jealousy which he had betrayed with regard to ora pinsent, he surprised her by some whispered words of more tenderness than he commonly used and by a look which sent new hope through her. suddenly she grasped that this event might do what she had not been able to do, might reconcile him to what was, gradually wean him wholly from the thought of what might have been, and in the end render him to her entirely her own in heart and soul. she would be very grateful to jack fenning if he accomplished that for her; he would have remade her life. "you're quite gallant to-day," she whispered with a blush and a glad sparkle in her eyes. "we were very nearly quarrelling just now, weren't we?" she asked with a bright smile. "we'll never be nearer, my dear," he answered; he had the most intense desire to please her. "and about this fenning man! imagine!" she whispered in scornful amusement. bowdon went off to the house and the other guests took their leave. when all had gone alice muddock arrived; the two ladies had arranged to dine and spend a quiet hour together before they went to the parties for which they were engaged. when they were left alone alice, with a sigh, told her friend that queen's gate seemed like a refuge. "we've been so uncomfortable at home the last few days," she explained. "at least i've found it very uncomfortable. you know about ashley and the business? well, father's furious with him about it, so's bob, so's my stepmother, of course. and then--" she paused as though in hesitation. "well, and then?" asked irene kilnorton. "bob's brought home a lot of gossip about him from the club. has mr. flint been here?" lady kilnorton nodded tragically. "he told bob something, and father's furious about that too. so he won't hear ashley's name mentioned, and takes his revenge by having bertie jewett always in the house. and i don't think i much like bertie jewett, not every day anyhow." "i've only just made his acquaintance--through your brother." "oh, he's just what he would be; it's not his fault, you know." she began to laugh. "he pays me marked attentions." "the industrious apprentice!" said irene with a nod. "ashley's the idle one." "it's all very absurd and very tiresome." she had risen and walked across the room. from the other end of it she asked abruptly, "what do they say about him and miss pinsent?" "oh, my dear, what don't they say about everybody?" "i don't believe it. i like her; and of course i like him." "and i expect they like one another, so it's all harmonious," said irene; but she repented the next moment. "i don't believe anything bad. but he's very silly about her. it'll all pass." after a moment, thanks to the new hope in her, she added a courageous generalisation. "such nonsense never lasts long," she said. then she looked at alice, and it struck her suddenly that alice would have referred to the news about jack fenning, had she known it; it seemed odd that everybody should not have heard of a subject so rich in interest. "you know about mr. fenning?" she asked. "mr--? oh, yes! you mean miss pinsent's husband? i know she has a husband, of course." then she did not know the new development. "i've got a bit of news for you," said irene luxuriously. "guess." "i won't guess even to please you. i hate guessing." "well, mr. fenning's coming home. i'll tell you all about it." beyond the bare fact there was in reality very little to tell, but the fact was capable of being clothed with so much meaning, of being invested with so many attendant possibilities, of taking on such various colours, that it seemed in itself a budget of news. alice did justice to its claims; she was undeniably interested; the two found themselves talking it over in a vein which prevented them from pretending to one another that they were not both excited about it. they felt like allies who rejoiced together at the coming of a reinforcement. irene's satisfaction was open and declared; alice was more reticent and inclined to thoughtfulness. but even as an abstract existence on the other side of the world mr. fenning had comforted her; his virtue as a balm was endlessly multiplied by the prospect of his arrival in concrete form and flesh. "the men amuse me," said irene loftily. "they're all pitying ora; they don't seem to give a thought to poor mr. fenning." "have you seen ashley since--since the news came?" "yes, but only for a minute. he mentioned it as certain, but quite indifferently. of course he'd pretend to be indifferent." "i suppose so," said alice. "perhaps he is really." "how can he be?" "perhaps he means to take no notice of mr. fenning." "my dearest alice!" cried irene. "you absolutely shock me. besides it isn't like that at all. ora's most excited about his coming. i can't make them out, though." they fell to debating the constant companionship; the drive to the theatre, improved by babba flint's tongue into an invariable habit, was a puzzle, fitting very badly with an excited interest in mr. fenning's return. from these unprofitable enquiries they agreed to retreat to the solid basis of hope which the reappearance of the husband gave; on that they congratulated one another. common danger breeds candour; common good fortune breeds candour; finally, a _tête-à-tête_ dinner breeds candour. by the time they reached the sweets irene kilnorton, in the course of a demonstration that ashley must and would get over his infatuation, that such nonsense never lasted, and that mr. fenning's return would put a summary end to anything of the sort, had confided to her friend that just for a little while lord bowdon had shewn signs of an inclination to hover round the same perilous flame. she was able to reveal the secret now, because she was so full of hope that it was all a thing of the past; she found her confidence itself strengthened by a bold assertion of it. "frank's got over it pretty quickly, anyhow," she ended with a secure laugh. alice was not so expansive, she had not victory to justify her; she said nothing in words, but when irene accompanied her "it'll all come right, dear, you'll see," with a squeeze of the hand, she blushed and smiled, returned the squeeze, and kissed her friend on the first convenient opportunity. for all practical purposes the confession was complete, and the alliance sealed anew,--with the addition of a third, involuntary, and unconscious member in the person of mr. jack fenning of bridgeport, connecticut. at alice's party ashley mead appeared. lady muddock made timid efforts to avoid him and ludicrously timid attempts to snub him. he laughed at both, and insisted on talking to her with great cordiality for ten minutes before he carried alice off to supper. her he treated with even more than his usual friendly intimacy; he surprised her by displaying very high spirits. all went well with him, it seemed; he had been paid fine compliments on his work as secretary to the commission; his acceptance of the post promised to help rather than hinder him at the bar; he had received a suggestion that he should try his hand at a couple of articles a week for an important journal. "it's all quite wrong, of course," he said, laughing. "after refusing buckingham palace road, i ought to be reduced to starvation and have to crawl back like the prodigal son. but the course of events is terribly unregenerate; it's always missing the moral. the world isn't very moral, left to itself." alice loved him in this mood of gaiety; her own serious and sober disposition found relief in it. but she liked it more as a flower of talk than as a living rule of action. "i'm so glad," she said, with full sincerity. "of course i knew that your getting on was only a matter of time." "i really believe," he said, "that i've at last just got the knife between the outside edges of the oyster shell. i hope it's a good oyster inside, though!" "it's sure to be a good one for you," was her answer. she could not help giving him that sort of answer; if it betrayed her, she must bear the betrayal. she gave him the answer even now, when he was under the ban of heavy disapproval on account of ora pinsent. but she wondered to find him so gay, in a state of such contentment with the world, and of such interest in it. bearing in mind what she now knew, she would not have marvelled to find him in deepest depression or even in a hardly controlled despair. he looked down in her face with a merry laugh and some trifling joke which was only an excuse for it; his eyes dwelt on her face, apparently in a frank enjoyment of what he found there. but what could he, who looked daily on the face of ora pinsent, find there? his pleasure was absurd, she told herself, but it won upon her; at least she was not boring him; for the moment anyhow he was not wishing himself somewhere else. here was a transient triumph over the lady with whom the gossips linked his name; to alice's modesty it was much to make forgotten in absence one in whose presence she herself must have been at once forgotten. he began to flirt with her; he had done the same thing before, now and then, by way of a change she supposed, perhaps lest their friendship should sink too far into the brotherly-sisterly state. she desired this state less than he, but his deviations from it brought her pleasure alloyed with pain. indeed she could not, as she admitted, quite understand flirtation; had it been all pretence she could have judged and would have condemned, but a thing so largely made up of pretence, and yet redeemed from mere pretence by a genuineness of the moment's mood, puzzled her. fretfully aware of a serious bent in herself, of a temper perilously near to a dull literalness, she always tried to answer in kind when he, or indeed anybody else, offered to engage in the game with her. when it was ashley she used to abandon herself, so far as her nature allowed her, to the present pleasure, but never got rid of the twofold feeling that he did not mean what he said and that he ought to mean more than he said. that he should flirt with her now was especially strange. she did not do him the injustice of supposing that he was employing her merely in order to throw the critics of his relations with ora off the scent. she came nearer to the truth in concluding that the flirtation, like the rest of his bearing, was merely an outcome of general good-humour. the puzzle was postponed only one stage; how could he be in good-humour, how did he contrive to rejoice in his life and exult in it? he was in love with ora pinsent; such a love was hopeless if not disastrous, disastrous if not hopeless; in any aspect that she could perceive it was irremediably tragic. but ashley mead was radiant. the idea which irene kilnorton said absolutely shocked her recurred as a possible explanation; did he mean to take no notice of mr. fenning? an alarmed horror filled her; her love and her moral code joined in an urgent protest. such a thing would mean degradation for him, it might mean ruin or something like it for his career; besides that, it must mean an end of him so far as she was concerned; it would set an impenetrable insurmountable barrier between them. but how did men approach a determination like that? surely through sorrow, gloom, and despair? ah, but there was sometimes a mad desperate gaiety that went with and covered such a resolve. she looked at him with a sudden distress that showed itself in her eyes and parted lips. the change in her caught his notice, but she was too engrossed with her fear to feel embarrassment or false shame. he broke off what he was saying to ask, "why, what's the matter, alice? have you seen a ghost drinking champagne?" "they say you're being very foolish," she answered in a low steady voice, not moving her eyes from his face. "oh, ashley, you're not going to--to do anything mad?" a pause followed; presently he looked at her and said, with seeming surprise, "have you been thinking of that all the time?" "no, only just now." "why? i mean, what made you think of it?" "i've heard things. and you were so--i can't say what i mean! when people are very gay and in great spirits, and so on, don't the scotch say they're fey, and that something will happen to them?" "most nations have said so," he answered lightly; but a slight frown came on his brow, as he added, "so i'm fey, am i?" his laugh was a little bitter. "i've no right to speak to you." "every right." whatever was in his face, there was neither offence nor resentment. "only it's not worth your while to bother," he went on. "you know i think it is," she answered with simple directness. he looked at her wistfully; for a moment there came to him such a mood as had arrested bowdon's steps and availed to turn his feet into a new path. but ashley's temper was not the same. he did not say that because this path was the best it should be his, be the other ever so attractive; he admitted with a sigh that the other was more attractive, nay, was irresistible, and held on his way straight to it. "you're one of the best people in the world, alice," he said. and he added, smiling, "don't believe all you hear. everybody is behaving very properly." "that's not the kensington palace gardens' opinion." "i'm afraid i'm damned for ever in sir james' eyes. bertie jewett reigns in my stead." "yes, that's it exactly," she agreed. he shrugged his shoulders petulantly. "so be it," said he, with contemptuous resignation. "oh, i don't mean that i think you look at it like that," he added an instant later. she wanted to speak to him about what irene kilnorton had told her; her desire was to hear from his own lips that he did not mean to take no notice of mr. fenning. the subject was difficult of approach, embarrassed by conventionalities and forbidden by her consciousness of a personal interest. before she could find any way of attacking it indirectly, ashley began to talk again fluently and merrily, and this mood lasted until she parted from him; she had no further chance of getting inside his guard, and went home, wondering still at his high spirits. on the whole she had drawn comfort from the evening. she decided to reject that far-fetched idea which called him fey because he was merry, and to repose on two solid facts: the first being that ashley did not seem heart-broken, the second that mr. fenning was coming back to his wife. among any people whom she could measure or understand, these two facts would have been of high importance, enough in themselves to determine the issue. but she felt about ashley something of the same ignorance which paralysed all her efforts to understand ora pinsent or to forecast the actions of that gifted but bewildering lady. certainly she would have been no more in her intellectual depth had she understood that the doings which were setting babba flint's tongue and all the other tongues a-wagging were simply a natural outcome and almost an integral part of a great scheme of renunciation. she could not be blamed. ashley mead himself was hardly less at a loss on the occasions when he allowed himself to take thought concerning the matter. but they were few; he could despair of the situation, and this he did often when he was alone; he could accept it, as he came to do when with ora; he could abandon himself to the gaiety of the moment, as in the mood in which alice had found him. but he could not think out the course of events. he had now only one clear purpose, to make things as easy as he could to ora, to obey her commands, to fall in with her idea, to say nothing which would disturb the artificial tranquillity which she seemed to have achieved. the letter had started on its way to jack fenning, the renunciation was set on foot. the few days, the week or two, that still remained to them seemed to make little difference. to scandal he had become indifferent, the arrival was to confute it; of pain he had become reckless since it was everywhere and in every course; the opinions of his friends he gathered merely as a source of bitter amusement; the good fortune on which he had allowed himself to descant to alice muddock had a very ironical flavour about it, since it chose to come at the time when it could afford him no real gratification, when he was engrossed with another interest, when he had room only for one sorrow and only for one triumph. at supper at one of his clubs that night he chanced to find mr. sidney hazlewood, who was a member. ashley sat down beside him at the table, exchanging a careless nod. mr. hazlewood ate his supper with steady silent persistence; ashley made rather poor work of a kidney; he had not really wanted supper, but preferred it to going home to bed. "you're not conversational," he observed at last to hazlewood. "afraid of interrupting your reverie," hazlewood explained with a grim smile. "i shouldn't have sat down by you unless i'd wanted to talk. how's the piece going?" "first-rate. thought you'd have known; you're about pretty often." "yes, but i generally omit to enquire at the box office," said ashley with an air of apology. mr. hazlewood pushed back his chair and threw down his napkin. then he lit a cigar with great care and took several whiffs. at last he spoke. "mind you, mead," said he with a cautious air, "i don't say it's wrong of a man at your time of life to be a fool, and i don't say i haven't been just as great a fool myself, and i don't say that you haven't a better excuse for it than i ever had, and i don't say that half the men in town wouldn't be just as great fools as you if they had the chance." "i'm glad you're not going to say any of those absurd things," remarked ashley with gravity. "but all i say is that you are a fool." "is that quite all?" asked ashley. hazlewood's smile broadened a little. "not quite," said he. "i left out one word. an epithet." ashley surveyed him with a kindly and good-tempered smile. "well, old chap, i don't see how you could say anything else," he observed. it was merely one, no doubt a typical one, of the opinions that had for the present to be disregarded. in due time the renunciation would confound them all. of this mr. hazlewood and his like foresaw nothing; had it been shewn to them in a vision they would not have believed; if, _per impossibile_, they believed--ashley's lips set tight and stern as imagination's ears listened to their cackling laughter. from of old virtue in man is by men praised with a sneer. chapter xi what is truth? there was one aspect of the renunciation on which ora had the tact not to dwell in conversation with her faithful ally; it was, however, an added source of comfort to herself, and proved very useful at moments when her resolve needed reinforcement. as an incidental result of its main object, as a kind of byproduct of beneficence, the renunciation was to make alice muddock happy. ora had always given a corner to this idea. to use the metaphor which insisted on occurring to ashley, alice had a part--not a big part, but a pretty part; in the last act her faithful love was to be rewarded. she would not (and could not consistently with the plan of the whole piece) look to receive a passionate attachment, but a reasonable and sober affection, such as her modest wisdom must incline her to accept, would in the end be hers; from it was to spring, not rapturous joy, but a temperate happiness, and a permanent union with ashley mead. ashley was to be led to regard this as the best solution, to fall in with it at first in a kind of resignation, and later on to come to see that it had been the best thing under the circumstances of the case. ora could bring him to perceive this (though perhaps nobody else could); to her alice would owe the temperate happiness, and ashley a settlement in life from all points of view most advantageous. ora herself continued to have a good deal to do with this hypothetical wedded life; she pictured herself making appearances in it from time to time, assuaging difficulties, removing misunderstandings, perhaps renewing to ashley her proof of its desirability, and shewing him once again that, sweet as her life with him and his with her must have proved, yet the renunciation had been and remained true wisdom, as well as the only right course. these postnuptial scenes with ashley were very attractive to ora in her moods of gentle melancholy. the picture of the married life in the considerable intervals during which she made no appearance in it, but was somewhere with mr. fenning, was left vague and undefined. ora caught at a visit from lord bowdon as the first fruit of the renunciation and a promise of all that was to follow after. he had not come near her since the day when she dismissed him with her "don't;" within a week from the announcement of mr. fenning's approaching return he paid a call on her. the inference was easy, and to a large extent it was correct. ora could not resist drawing her visitor and irene kilnorton into the play; quite small parts were theirs, but they furnished the stage and heightened the general impression. their married life also was to be tinged and coloured by the past; they also were to owe something to the renunciation; it had restored to them complete tranquillity, removed from him a wayward impulse, from her a jealous pang, and set them both on the straight path of unclouded happiness. she could not say any of this to bowdon, but she hinted it to ashley, who laughed, and when bowdon came she hinted to him her hopes concerning alice muddock. he laughed like ashley, but with a very doubtful expression in his eyes. by now the world was talking rather loudly about miss pinsent and mr. ashley mead. bowdon was inclined to think that his hostess was "humbugging" him in a somewhat transparent fashion. he did not resent it; he found, with an appreciable recrudescence of alarm, that he minded very little what she talked about so that she sat there and talked to him. his inward "thank god, the fellow's coming!" was a triumphant vindication of part, at least, of ora's faith in the renunciation. he pulled his moustache thoughtfully as he observed, "i suppose a match between miss muddock and ashley was always an idea. irene says old sir james has been set on it for years." sir james made a quiet and unobtrusive entry on the stage, bringing (by a legitimate stretch of fancy) his sympathetic wife with him; even ora could not make anything of bob for scenic purposes. "but ashley's not a fellow to be forced into what he doesn't care about." "not forced, no," murmured ora. the method was not so crude as that. "and we've no right to take the lady's feelings for granted." "oh, no," said ora earnestly. "there are certainly no signs of anything of the sort at present." "at present! no!" she cried almost indignantly. then she detected a hint of amusement in bowdon's eye and began to laugh. in spite of all the sorrow and pain involved in the renunciation, its spice of secrecy and mystification sometimes extorted a smile from her; people were so hopelessly puzzled about it, so very far from guessing the truth, and so wide of the mark in their conjectures. bowdon evidently shared the general bewilderment and felt a difficulty in talking to her about ashley mead. she presented him with another topic. "the news about you and irene made me so happy," she said. "irene's such a dear." "you're very kind," he muttered. this topic was not much less awkward than the other, and ora's enthusiasm had imparted to her manner the intense cordiality and sympathy which made irene say that she conveyed the idea of expecting to be kissed; he preferred that she should not suggest that idea to him. "it's such a lovely arrangement in every way," she pursued. "isn't it?" her eyes were raised to his; she had meant to be quite serious, but her look betrayed the sense of fun with which she offered her congratulations. she could not behave quite as though nothing had ever passed between them; she was willing to minimise but declined to annihilate a certain memory common to them. "i'm going to come and see you very often when you're married," she went on. bowdon was willing enough to meet her subtly hinted mockery. "i hope you'll be very discreet," he said with a smile. "oh, i'll be discreet. there isn't much to be discreet about, is there?" "that's not my fault," he allowed himself to remark as he rose to take leave. "oh, you're not going yet?" she cried. "if you do i shall think it was simply a duty call. and it's so long since i've seen you." her innate desire--it was almost an instinct--to have every man leave her with as much difficulty as possible imparted a pathetic earnestness to her tone. "perhaps i shan't have many more chances of seeing you." "many--after i'm married," he reminded her, smiling. "no, i'm serious now," she declared. "you--you know what's going to happen, lord bowdon?" "yes, i know." "of course when jack comes home i shan't be so free. besides--!" she did not end the sentence; the suppressed words would obviously have raised the question of jack fenning's acceptability to her friends. for his part bowdon immediately became certain that jack was a ruffian. he held out his hand, ostensibly in farewell; ora took it and pressed it hard, her eyes the while demanding much sympathy. bowdon found himself giving her intense sympathy; he had not before realised what this thing meant to her, he had been too much occupied with what it meant to him. he could not openly condole with her on her husband's return, but he came very near that point in his good-bye. "your friends will always want to see you, and--and be eager to do anything in the world they can for you," he said. the pressure of her hand thanked him, and then he departed. as he walked out of the hall-door, he put his hat very firmly on his head and drew a long breath. he was conscious of having escaped a danger; and he could not deny, in spite of poor ora's hard fortune, that the return of mr. fenning was a good thing. good or bad, the coming was near now. the brief and business-like letter had reached bridgeport, connecticut, and had elicited a reply by cable. in eight days mr. fenning might be expected at southampton. as the event approached, it seemed to become less and less real to ashley; he found himself wondering whether a man who is to be hanged on monday has more than the barest intellectual belief in the fact, whether it really sinks into his consciousness until the rope is absolutely round his neck. accidents by sea and land suggested themselves to an irresponsible and non-indictable fancy; or jack had merely meant to extort a gift of money; or his unstable purpose would change. the world that held himself and ora seemed incapable of opening to receive jack fenning; something would happen. nothing did happen except that the last days went on accomplishing themselves in their unmoved way, and when ashley went to bed each night jack fenning was twenty-four hours nearer. ora's conduct increased the sense of unreality. she wanted him always with her; she dissipated his scruples with radiant raillery or drowned them in threatened tears. on the other hand, she was full of jack fenning now; often talking about him, oftener still about how she would receive him. she sketched his career for ashley's information; the son of a poor clergyman, he had obtained a berth in a shipowner's office at hamburg; he had lost it and come home; he had made the acquaintance of a jewish gentleman and been his clerk on the stock exchange; he had written a play and induced the jewish gentleman to furnish money for its production; disaster followed; jack became an auctioneer's clerk; the jewish gentleman, with commendable forgivingness, had put him in the way of a successful gold mine (that is, a successfully floated gold mine); he had made two thousand pounds. "then he married me," ora interpolated into her summary narrative. the money was soon spent. then came darker times, debts, queer expedients for avoiding, and queerer for contriving, payment, and at last a conviction that the air of america would suit him better for a time. the picture of a worthless, weak, idle, plausible rascal emerged tolerably complete from these scattered touches. one thing she added, new to her hearer and in a way unwelcome: jack was--had been, she put it, still treating him as belonging to the past--extremely handsome. "handsomer than you, much," she said, laughing, with her face very near his over his shoulder as he sat moodily by the window. he did not look round at her, until, by accident as it seemed and just possibly was, a curl of her dark hair touched his cheek; then he forgave her the handsomeness of jack fenning. irene kilnorton had been with her that day and had told her that, since she chose to have the man back, she must treat him properly and look as though she were glad to see him; that she must, in fact, give a fair trial to the experiment which she had decided to allow. being thoroughly in harmony with the theory of renunciation, this advice made a great impression on ora. she professed her joy that jack was to arrive on a sunday, because she would thus be free from the theatre and able to meet him at southampton. to meet him at southampton was an admirable way of treating him properly and of giving a fair trial to the experiment. ashley's raised brows hinted that this excess of welcome was hardly due to the prodigal. ora insisted on it. he was past surprise by now, or he would have wondered when she went on: "but of course i can't go alone; i hate travelling alone; and i don't know anything about how the boats come in or anything. you must come with me, you know." "oh, i'm to go with you, am i?" "yes; and you'll go and find him and bring him to me. somebody'll tell you which is him." "and then i'm to leave you with him and come back to town alone?" ora's smile suddenly vanished. "don't, dear," she said, laying her hand on his arm. that was her way always when he touched on the black side of the situation. her plans and pictures still stopped short with the arrival of the boat. "it'll be our last time quite alone and uninterrupted together," she reminded him, as though he could forget the object of the expedition and be happy in the thought that it meant two hours with her. "i don't see why you shouldn't travel back with us," she added a moment later. "oh, of course you will!" he chafed at her use of the word "us," for now it meant herself and jack, and had the true matrimonial ring, asserting for mr. fenning a position which the law only, and not ashley's habit of thought, accorded him. but he would have to accustom himself to this "us" and all that it conveyed. he forced himself to smile as he observed, "perhaps fenning'll want to smoke!" ora laughed merrily and said that she hoped he would. even to ashley it seemed odd that the notion appeared to her rather as a happy possibility than as a _reductio ad absurdum_ of her attitude; she really thought it conceivable that jack might go and smoke, while she and ashley had another "last time quite alone together." but she had such an extraordinary power of commending absurdities to serious consideration that he caught himself rehearsing the best terms in which to make the suggestion to mr. fenning. in those days he had it always in mind to tell her a thing on which he was resolutely determined, which even she could not make him falter about. with the entry of jack fenning must come his own exit. he did not deceive himself as to his grounds for this resolve, or deck in any gorgeous colours of high principle what was at best no more than a dictate of self-respect and more probably in the main an instinct of pride. but from the hour of the arrival of the boat he meant to be no more an intimate friend of hers. had his business engagements allowed he would have arranged to leave london. absence from town was impossible to him without a loss which he could not encounter, but london is a large place, where people need not be met unless they are sought. he would deliver her over to her husband and go his way. but he did not tell her; she would either be very woeful, and that calamity he could not face, or she would give a thoughtless assent and go on making her pictures just the same. the resolution abode in his own heart as the one fixed point, as the one definite end to all this strange period of provisional indiscretion and unreal imaginings. when he thought of it, he rose to the wish that jack might be still handsome and might prove more reputable and kinder than he had been in the old days. ora herself was beginning to have hopes of jack, or hopes of what she might make of him by her zealous care and dutiful fidelity; ashley encouraged these hopes and they throve under his watering. in the course of the last week there was added to the great idea of a renunciation of ashley the hardly less seductive and fascinating project of a reformation of jack fenning. this conception broadened and enriched the plot of the fanciful drama, added a fine scene or two, and supplied a new motive for the heroine. in the end ora had great hopes of jack in the future and a very much more charitable opinion of him in the past. she paid her promised visit to alice muddock on the wednesday, jack fenning being due on the following sunday. in these last days ora devoted herself entirely to people who were, in some way or other, within the four corners of the scheme of renunciation. alice was amazed to find in her a feeling about her husband's arrival hardly distinguishable from pleasure; at least she was sure that a cable message that he was not coming would have inflicted a serious disappointment on her visitor. but at the same time this strange creature was obviously, openly--a few weeks ago alice would not have hesitated to say shamelessly--in love with ashley mead. the two men's names alternated on her lips; it seemed moral polyandry or little better. alice's formulas were indeed at fault. and through it all ran the implied assertion that alice was interested in the affair for a stronger reason than the friendship which she was so good as to offer to ora. here again, according to ora's method, irene kilnorton's share in the scheme was hinted at, while alice was left to infer her own. she did so readily enough, having drawn the inference on her own account beforehand, but her wonder at finding it in ora's mind was not diminished. to be passionately in love with a man and to give him up was conceivable; any heights of self-sacrifice were within the purview of alice's mind. to find a luxury in giving him up was beyond her. to return to a husband from a sense of duty would have been to alice almost a matter of course, however bad the man might be; to set to work to make out that the man was not bad clashed directly with the honest perspicacity of her intellect. and, to crown all, in the interval, as a preparation for resuming the path of duty, to set all the town talking scandal and greet the scandal with a defiance terribly near to enjoyment! alice, utterly at fault, grew impatient; her hard-won toleration was hard tried. "i'm sure you understand all i feel," said ora, taking her friend's hand between hers. "indeed i don't," replied alice bluntly. "anyhow you're sorry for me?" ora pleaded. here alice could give the desired assurance. ora was content; sympathy was what she wanted; whether it came from brain or heart was of small moment. by a coincidence, which at first sight looked perverse, bob brought babba flint into alice's room at tea-time. alice did not like babba, and feared that his coming would interrupt the revelation of herself which ora in innocent unconsciousness was employed in giving. the result proved quite different. babba had declared to irene kilnorton that the coming of mr. fenning was a figment concocted from caprice or perhaps with an indirect motive; he advanced the same view to ora herself with unabashed impudence, yet with a seriousness which forbade the opinion that he merely jested. "of course i can't tell whether you expect him, miss pinsent. all i know is he won't come." babba's eye-glass fell from his eye in its most conclusive manner. "oh, yes, he will," cried ora triumphantly. "i know all about it; the boat, and the time, and everything else." "you'll see, he won't be there," babba persisted. "i wonder if you'll be awfully surprised!" "why should i say he's coming if he isn't?" asked ora, but rather with amusement than indignation. "oh, for an advertisement, or just because it came into your head, or as the homage liberty pays to matrimony; any reason you like, you know." their debate filled alice with wonder. it was strange that ora should lend an ear to babba's suggestions, that she should not at once silence him; yet she listened with apparent interest, although, of course, she repudiated the motives imputed to her and declared that in all sincerity she expected her husband. babba fell back on blank assertion. "he won't come, you'll see," he repeated. the extreme impertinence of the little man moved alice to resentment; in whatever sense his remarks were taken, they must bear an offensive meaning. but ora did not seem resentful; strangely enough she began to shew signs of disturbance, she brought forward serious arguments to prove that jack fenning would come, and appealed to babba to alter his opinion with pathetic eyes. babba was inexorable. "really you must allow miss pinsent to know," alice expostulated. "it's a matter of experience," babba observed. "they're always going to turn up, but they never do." "why do you say he won't come?" asked ora anxiously. "i've told you the reason. they never do," repeated babba obstinately. bob muddock burst into a laugh, alice frowned severely, ora's brows were knit in puzzled wrinkles. this suggestion of an impediment in the way of the renunciation and reformation was quite new to her; but she did not appear to be struck at all by what seemed to alice the indecency of discussing it. "suppose he didn't!" ora murmured audibly; a smile came slowly to her lips and her eyes seemed to grow full of half-imaged possibilities. babba made no comment; his smile was enough for all who knew the facts of the present situation; for example, for all who knew in what company miss pinsent drove to the theatre. "if he didn't--" ora began. babba's mocking eye was on her. she began to laugh. "i know what you're thinking!" she cried with a menacing wave of her hand. the scene had become distasteful, almost unendurable, to alice muddock. here was the side of ora that she detested; it raised all the old prejudices in her and argued that they were well justified. she also knew what babba flint's look meant, and wanted to turn him out of the room for it. such punishment would be only proper; it would also have propitiated in some degree the jealousy which made her unwilling to admit that possibly mr. fenning might not come. the young men went; she and ora were alone together; alice's feeling of hostility persisted and became manifest to ora's quick perception. in an instant she implored pity and forgiveness by abandoning herself to condemnation. "now you see what i am! and you might have been my friend!" she murmured. "but you don't know how unhappy i am." "i don't believe you're unhappy at all," said alice with blunt barbarity. "not unhappy!" exclaimed ora in dismay. if she were not unhappy, the whole structure tumbled. "you will be, though," alice pursued relentlessly. "you'll be very unhappy when mr. fenning comes, and i think you'd be unhappy if by any chance he didn't come." she paused and looked at her visitor. "i shouldn't like to be like you," she said thoughtfully. ora sat quiet; there was a scared look on her face; she turned her eyes up to alice who sat on a higher chair. "why do you say that sort of thing to me?" she asked in a low voice. "it's quite true. i shouldn't. and all the rest is true too." her voice grew harder and harder in opposition to an inner pleading for mercy. this woman should not wheedle her into lies; she would tell the truth for once, although ora did sit there--looking like a child condemned to rigorous punishment. "it's not decent the way you talk about it, and let people talk about it," she broke out in a burst of indignation. "have you no self-respect? don't you know how people talk about you? oh, i wouldn't be famous at the price of that!" ora did not cry; the hurt was beyond tears; she grew white, her eyes were wide and her lips parted; she watched alice as a dog seems to watch for the next fall of the whip. "you say you're unhappy. lots of us are unhappy, but we don't tell all the world about it. and we don't hug our unhappiness either and make a play out of it." what ashley had reluctantly and secretly thought came in stern and cutting plainness from alice's lips; but ashley would have died sooner than breathe a word of it to ora. "i suppose," said alice, "you think i'm angry because--because of something that concerns myself. i'm not, i'm just telling you the truth." she was sure that it was the truth, however it might be inspired, however it was that she had come to utter it. "what does that man say about you when you aren't there? he says almost everything to your face! and you laugh! what does he say after dinner, what does he say at his club?" "please let me go home," said ora. "please let me go home." she seemed almost to stagger as she rose. "i must go home," she said, "or--or i shan't have time for dinner." "i suppose you like--" alice began, but she stopped herself. she had said enough; the face before her seemed older, thinner, drawn into lines that impaired its beauty, as it were scarred with a new knowledge; the eyes that met hers were terrified. "it's all true," she said to herself again. "quite true. only nobody has ever told her the truth." she rang the bell, but did not go with ora to the door; neither of them thought of shaking hands; a quarter of an hour before ora would have offered one of her ready kisses. now she went quietly and silently to the door and opened it with timid noiselessness. as she went out, she looked back over her shoulder; a movement from alice, the holding out of a hand, would have brought her back in a flood of tears and a burst of pitiful protests at once against herself and against the accusations laid to her charge. no sign came; alice stood stern and immovable. "i'm late as it is. good-bye," whispered ora. she went out. alice stood still where she was for a moment before she flung herself into a chair, exclaiming again, and this time aloud, "it's true, it's true; every word of it's the truth!" she was very anxious to convince herself that every word of it was true. chapter xii at close quarters the next few days were critical for the renunciation, and consequently for the reformation which was to accompany it. in the first place, jack fenning was now very near; secondly, ashley mead's behaviour was so perfect as to suggest almost irresistibly an alternative course; finally, thanks to alice muddock's outspokenness, ora was inclined to call virtue thankless and to decide that one whom all the world held wicked might just as well for all the world be wicked. she had appealed from alice to irene kilnorton, hinting at the cruelty to which she had been subjected. she found no comfort; there was an ominous tightening of irene's lips. ora flew home and threw herself--the metaphorical just avoids passing into the literal--on ashley's bosom. there were tears and protests against universal injustice; she cried to him, "take me away from all of them!" what answer did she expect or desire? he could not tell. mr. fenning was due on sunday, and ora's piece was running still. yet at the moment it seemed as though she would fly into space with him and a hand-bag, leaving renunciations, reformations, virtues, careers, and livelihoods to look after themselves, surrendering herself to the rare sweetness of unhindered impulse. for himself, he was ready; he had come to that state of mind in regard to her. his ordinary outlook on life was blocked by her image, his plan of existence, with all its lines of reason, of hope, of ambition, blurred by the touch of her finger. only very far behind, somewhere remote in the background, lay the haunting conviction that these last, and not his present madness, would prove in the end the abiding reality. what made him refuse, or rather evade, the embracing of her request was that same helplessness in her which had restrained his kisses in the inn parlour. if she turned on him later, crying, "you could do what you liked with me, why did you do this with me?" what would he have to answer? "we'll settle it to-morrow; you must start for the theatre now," he said. "so i must. am i awfully late?" cried ora. that evening he dined with bob muddock. bertie jewett and babba flint were his fellow-guests. all three seemed to regard him with interest--bob's, admiring; bertie's, scornful; babba's, amused. bob envied the achievement of such a conquest; bertie despised the man who wasted time on it; babba was sympathetic and hinted confidential surprise that anybody made any bones about it. but they none of them doubted it; and of the renunciation none knew or took account. a course of action which fails to suggest itself to anybody incurs the suspicion of being mad, or at least wrong-headed and quixotic. ashley told himself that his conduct was all these things, and had no countervailing grace of virtue. it was no virtue to fear a reproach in ora's eyes; it was the merest cowardice; yet that fear was all that held him back. after dinner bob drew him to a sofa apart from their companions and began to discuss the dramatic profession. ashley suffered patiently, but his endurance changed to amusement when bob passed to the neighbouring art of music, found in it a marked superiority, and observed that he had been talking over the subject with minna soames. "i don't see how anybody can object to singing at concerts," said bob, with a shake of the head for inconceivable narrow-mindedness, "not even the governor." "sits the wind in that quarter?" asked ashley, laughing. "i've got my eye on her, if that's what you mean," answered bob. "she's ripping, isn't she?" the vague and violent charms which the epithet seemed to imply were not minna's. ashley replied that she was undoubtedly pretty and charming. bob eyed him with a questioning air; it was as though a man who had been on a merry-go-round were consulted by one who thought of venturing on the trip. "people talk a great deal of rot," bob reflected. "a girl isn't degraded, or unsexed, or anything of that sort, just because she sings for her living." "surely not," smiled ashley. the prejudices were crying out in pain as bob's newborn idea crushed and mangled them. "but the governor's so against all that sort of thing," bob complained. then he looked up at his friend. "that's mostly your fault," he added, with an awkward laugh. "my dear bob, the cases are not parallel." "well, miss soames hasn't got a husband, of course." there was no use in being angry, or even in representing that the remark which had seemed so obvious to bob was a considerable liberty. "imagine her with a thousand husbands, and still the cases couldn't be parallel." "she's not on the stage." "and if she were, the distinctions run by people, not by professions," said ashley. "well, i'm thinking of it," bob announced. and he added, with a ludicrous air of desiring the suspicion, while he repudiated the fact, of dishonourable intentions, "all on the square, of course." "good heavens, i should think so!" said ashley. the imagination of man could attribute no crooked dealings or irregular positions to miss soames. "still, i don't know about the governor," bob ended, with a relapse into gloom. "she'd retire from her work, of course?" ashley suggested, smiling. "if she married me? oh, of course," said bob decisively. "she wouldn't want the money, would she?" any other end of a profession had not occurred to him, and his opinion that active and public avocations were not "unsexing" to women was limited by the proviso that such employments must be necessary for bread-and-butter. an eye for the variety of the human mind may make almost any society endurable. here was bob struggling with conscious daring against convention, as a prelude to paying his court to a lady who worshipped the god whom he persuaded himself to brave; here was babba flint drifting vulgarly, cheerfully, irresponsibly, through all his life and what money he happened from time to time to possess; here was bertie jewett, his feet set resolutely on the upward track, scorning diversion, crying "excelsior" with exalted fervour as he pictured the gold he would gather and pocket on the summit of the hill; here, finally, was ashley himself, who had once set out to climb another hill, and now eagerly turned his head to listen to a sweet voice that cried to him from the valley. such differences may lie behind four precisely similar and equally spotless white shirt-fronts on the next sofa any evening that we drop into the club. therefore it needs discrimination, and perhaps also some prepossessions, to assign degrees of merit to the different ideas of how time in this world had best be passed. "the fact is," babba was saying to bertie jewett, as he nodded a knowing head towards ashley, "he was getting restive, so she made up this yarn about her husband." he yawned, as if the matter were plain to dulness. "what an ass he is!" mused bertie. "don't you know the chance he had? he might have been where i am!" babba turned a rather supercilious look on his companion. "the shop? must be a damned grind, isn't it?" bertie was nettled; he revealed a little of what he had begun to learn that he ought to conceal. "i bet you i earn a sovereign quicker than you earn a shilling," he remarked. "daresay you do," murmured babba, regarding the end of his cigar. babba was vulgar, but not with this sort of vulgarity. "and more of 'em," pursued bertie. "but you have an infernally slow life of it," babba assured him. babba was ignorant of the engrossing charms that sparkle in the eyes of wealth, forbidding weariness in its courtship, making all else dull and void of allurement to its votaries. to each man his own hunger. back to his hunger went ashley mead, no less ravenous, yet seeing his craving in the new light of desires revealed to him, but still alien from him. all his world seemed now united in crying out to him to mind his steps, in pointing imploringly or mockingly to the abyss before his feet, in weeping, wondering, or laughing at him. that some of the protests were conscious, some unwitting, made no difference; the feeling of standing aloof from all the rest gave him a sense of doom, as though he were set apart for his work, and amidst condemnation, pity, and ridicule must go through with it. for to-morrow he thought that she would come with him, leaving mr. fenning desolate, sidney hazlewood groaning over agreements misunderstood as to their nature, friends heart-broken, and the world agape. but the next day she would not come, or, rather, prayed not to be taken. "you mustn't, you mustn't," she sobbed. "alice muddock had made me angry, oh, and hurt me so. i was ready to do anything. but don't, ashley dear, don't! do let me be good. that'll be the best way of answering her, won't it? i couldn't answer her then." "alice? what's alice been saying?" he asked, for he had not been told the details of that particular case of cruelty. "i can't tell you. oh, it was horrible! was it true? say it wasn't true!" "you haven't told me what it was," he objected. "oh dear me, neither i have!" cried ora, drawing back from him; her eyes swam in tears, but her lips bent in smiles. "how awfully absurd of me!" she exclaimed, and broke into the low luxurious laughter that he loved. "well, it was something bad of me; so it couldn't be true, could it?" he pressed her to tell him what it was and she told him, becoming again sorrowful and wounded as she rehearsed the story; the point of view surprised her so. to ashley it was no surprise, nothing more than a sharp unsparing utterance of the doubts of his own mind. his quarrel with alice was that she said it, not that she thought it; she was bound to think it when he in all his infatuation could not stifle the thought. was he in love then with a bundle of emotions and ready to give away his life in exchange for a handful of poses? in self-defence he embraced the conclusion and twisted it to serve his purpose. what more is anybody, he asked--what more than the sheet on which slide after slide is momentarily shewn? "but still she was wrong," said ora. "oh, i can forgive her. of course i forgive her. it's only because she's fond of you. i know i'm not really like that. it's not the true me, ashley." the idea of the "true me" delighted ora, and the "true me" required that mr. fenning should be met punctually on sunday next. the renunciation raised its head again. "the 'true me,' then, is really a very sober and correct person?" asked ashley. "yes," she answered, enjoying the paradox she asserted. her interest in herself was frank and almost might be called artistic. "do you think me strange?" she asked. "i believe you're laughing at me half the time." "and the other half?" "we weep together, don't we? poor ashley!" on the saturday he came to see her again in order to make final arrangements for their expedition of the next day. there was also a point on which they had never touched, to which, as he believed, ora had given no consideration. was mr. fenning to settle down in the little house at chelsea? at present the establishment was in all its appearance and fittings so exclusively feminine that it seemed an impossible residence for a man. ora was not in the room when janet ushered him in; that respectable servant lingered near the door and, after a moment's apparent hesitation, spoke to him. "i beg pardon, sir," she said, "but could you tell me where i can get some good whiskey?" "whiskey?" ashley exclaimed in surprise. "mr. fenning, sir, used to be particular about his whiskey, and as he's--" "oh, yes, of course, janet." he thought for a moment and mentioned the wine merchant with whom lord bowdon dealt. "i think you'll be safe there," he ended with a nod. janet thanked him and went out. "this really brings it home," said ashley, dropping into a chair and laughing weakly to himself. "tomorrow night jack fenning'll sit here and drink that whiskey, while i--" he rose abruptly and walked about the room. his portrait in the silver frame was still on the little table by ora's favourite seat; not even a letter from bridgeport, connecticut, was there to hint of mr. fenning. the demand for a good whiskey seemed the sole forerunner of the wanderer's return. "she doesn't know in the least what she's doing," ashley muttered as he flung himself into his seat again. that afternoon she was in the mood hardest for him to bear. she was sanguine about her husband; she recalled the short time they had contrived to be happy together, dwelt on the amiable points in his character, ascribed his weaknesses more to circumstances than to nature, and took on her own shoulders a generous share of blame for the household's shipwreck. all this is to say that the reformation for the instant took precedence of the renunciation, and a belief in the possibility, not perhaps of being happy with jack, but at least of making jack happy, was bedecked in the robes of a virtuous aspiration. "it would be no use having him back if i couldn't make him happy, would it?" she asked. she shewed sometimes this strange forgetfulness of her friend's feelings. "i know i've got a photograph of him somewhere," she said with a troubled little frown. "i wonder where it is!" then a lucky thought brought a smile. "i expect he'd like to see it on the mantel-piece, wouldn't he?" she cried, turning to ashley. "i should think he'd be very touched. he might even believe it had been there all the time." "don't be sarcastic," said ora good-humouredly. "i'll ask janet where i've put it." janet, being summoned and questioned, knew where miss pinsent had put the photograph, or anyhow where it was to be found. in a few minutes she produced it. "it is handsome, you see," said ora, handing it across to ashley. she appeared anxious for a favourable opinion from him. the face was certainly handsome. the features were straight, the eyes large, the brow well formed; there was no great appearance of intellect or resolution, but the smile was amiable. ashley handed it back with a nod of assent, and ora set it on the mantel-piece. ashley's bitterness overflowed. "put it in the frame instead of mine," he said, stretching out his hand to take his own portrait. in an instant ora was across to the table and snatched up the picture. she held it close to her with both hands and stood fronting him defiantly. "no," she said, "no. you shan't touch it. nobody shall touch it." he leant back with a smile of despairing amusement. she put down the portrait and came close to him, looking at him intently; then she dropped on her knees beside him and took his hand between hers. "fancy you daring to think that!" she said. a look of terror came into her eyes. "you're not going to be like that?" she moaned. "i can't go on if you're going to be like that." he meant far more than he had hinted in his bitter speech; this afternoon he had intended to tell her his resolution; this was his last visit to the little house; from to-morrow afternoon he would be an acquaintance to whom she bowed in the streets, whom she met now and then by chance. he might tell her that now--now while she held his hands between hers. and if he told her that and convinced her of it, she would not go to meet jack fenning. he sat silent as she looked up in his eyes. his struggle was short; it lacked the dramatic presentment of ora's mental conflicts, it had no heroic poses; but there emerged again clearly from the fight the old feeling that to use her love and his power in this fashion would not be playing fair; he must let her have her chance with her husband. "i was a brute, ora," he said. "i'll do just what you like, dear." with a bound she was back to merriment and her sanguine view of favourable possibilities in mr. fenning. she built more and more on these last, growing excited as she pictured how recent years might, nay must, have improved him, how the faults of youth might, indeed would, have fallen away, and how the true man should be revealed. "and if he wants a friend, you'll always be one to him," she ended. ashley, surrendering at discretion, promised to be a friend to jack fenning. the next day found her in the same temper. she was eager and high-strung, merry and full of laughs, thoughtfully kind, and again thoughtlessly most cruel. when he called for her in the morning she was ready, waiting for him; from her air they might have been starting again for a day in the country by themselves, going to sit again in the meadow by the river, going to dine again in the inn parlour whose window opened on the sweet old garden. no such reminiscences, so sharp in pain for him, seemed to rise in her or to mar her triumph. for triumphant she was; her great purpose was being carried out; renunciation accomplished, reformation on the point of beginning. prosperously the play had run up to its last great scene; soon must the wondering applause of friends fall on her ear; soon would alice muddock own that her virtue had been too cruel, and babba flint confess his worldly sagacity at fault. to herself now she was a heroine, and she rejoiced in her achievements with the innocent vanity of a child who displays her accomplishments to friendly eyes. how much she had suffered, how much forgone, how much resisted! now she was to reap her reward. their train was late; if the boat had made a good passage it would be in before them; the passengers who had friends to meet them would be in waiting. they might find jack fenning on the platform as their engine steamed into the station. they had talked over this half way through the journey, and ora seemed rather pleased at the prospect; ashley took advantage of her happy mood to point out that it would be better for him to leave her alone with jack; he would get a plate of cold meat somewhere, and go back to town by himself later on. she acquiesced reluctantly but without much resistance. "we can tell you about our journey afterwards," she said. then had come more rosy pictures of the future. at last they were finished. there was a few minutes' silence. ashley looked out of the window and then at his watch. "we ought to be there in ten minutes," he said. her eyes grew wide; her hands dropped in her lap; she looked at him. "in ten minutes, ashley?" she said in a low voice. it had come at last, the thing, not pictures, not imaginings of the thing. "ten minutes?" she whispered. he could hardly speak to her. as her unnatural excitement, so his unnatural calm fell away; he lost composure and was not master of his voice. he took her hands and said, "good-bye, my dear, good-bye. i'm going to lose you now, ora." "ashley, ashley!" she cried. "i'm not going to be unkind, but there must be a difference." "yes," she said in a wondering tone. "there must, i suppose. but you'll come often?" he meant never to come. "now and then, dear," he said. then he kissed her; that he had not meant to do; and she kissed him. "ashley," she whispered, "perhaps he won't be kind to me; perhaps--oh, i never thought of that! perhaps he'll be cruel, or--or not what i've fancied him. ashley, my love, my love, don't leave me altogether! i can't bear it, indeed i can't. i shall die if you leave me." she was terrified now at the thought of the unknown man waiting for her and the loss of the man whom she knew so well. her dramatic scenes helped her no more; her tears and terror now were unrehearsed; she clung to his hand as though it held life for her. "oh, how did i ever think i could do it?" she moaned. "are we going slower? is the train stopping? oh, are we there, are we there?" "we've not begun to go slower yet," he said. in five minutes they must arrive. "stay with me till i see him; you must stay; you must stay till i've seen what--what he's going to be to me. i shall kill myself if you leave me." "i'll stay till you've found him," ashley answered in a hard restrained voice. "then i must go away." the train rumbled on; they were among the houses now; the ships in the harbour could be seen; the people in the next carriage were moving about, chattering loudly and merrily. the woman he loved sat with despairing eyes, clinging to his hand. "it's slower," she whispered, with lips just parted. "it's slower now, isn't it?" the train went slower; he nodded assent. the girl next door laughed gaily; perhaps she went to meet her lover. suddenly the brake creaked, they stopped, there was something in the way. "how tiresome!" came loudly and impatiently from next door. ora's grasp fixed itself tighter on his hand; she welcomed the brief reprieve. her eyes drew him to her; the last embrace seemed to leave her half animate; she sank back in her seat with closed eyes. with a groan and a grumble the wheels began to move again. ora gave a little shiver but made no other sign. ashley let down the window with a jerk, and turned his face to the cool air that rushed in. he could not look more at ora; he had a thing to do now, the last thing, and it was not good for the doing of it that he should look at her. she might cry again to him, "take me away!" and now he might forget that to obey was not fair play. besides, here came the platform, and on the platform he would find jack fenning. there may be passions but there must not be scenes; he could not tell jack that he had decided to take ora back to town on his own account. he and she between them had spun a web of the irrevocable; they had followed virtue, here was the reward. but where were the trappings which had so gorgeously ornamented it? ora's eyes were closed and she saw them no more. slowly they crept into the station; the platform was full of people and of luggage; it seemed as though the boat were already in. at last the train came to a stand; he laid his hand lightly on ora's. "here we are," he said. "will you wait by the carriage till i find out where he is?" she opened her eyes and slowly rose to her feet. "yes; i'll do what you tell me," she said. he opened the door and helped her to get out. she shivered and drew her cloak closer round her. there was a bench near. he led her to it and told her to sit there. "i shall know him and i'll bring him to you. promise not to move," he said. just as he turned to leave her she put out her hand and laid it on his arm. "ashley!" he heard her whisper. he bent down to catch what she said, but it was a moment before she went on. it seemed as though words came hard to her and she would like to tell him all with her eyes. she raised her other hand and pointed to the arm that rested on his. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "did i ever tell you? i forget what i've told you and what i haven't." "what is it? what do you want to tell me?" "he struck me once; on the arm, just there, with his fist." she touched her arm above the elbow, near the shoulder. she had never told him that; nothing less than this moment's agony, wherein sympathy must be had at every cost, could have brought it to her lips. ashley pressed her hand and turned away to look for jack fenning. chapter xiii the heroine fails the fast train, by which they ought to travel, left for london in a quarter of an hour; a slow train would follow twenty minutes later. ashley procured this information before undertaking his search; since the platform was still crowded it seemed possible that mr. fenning would not be found in time for the fast train. he proved hard to find; yet he might have been expected to be on the look-out. ashley sought him conscientiously and diligently, but before long a vague hope began to rise in him that the man had not come after all. what then? he did not answer the question. it was enough to picture ora freed from her fears, restored to the thoughtless joyousness of their early days together. if by wild chance he had found the man dead or heard that he was dead, he would have been glad with a natural heathen exultation. people die on voyages across the atlantic sometimes; there is an average of deaths in mid-ocean; averages must be maintained; how maintain one with more beneficial incidental results than by killing mr. fenning? ashley smiled grimly; his temper did not allow the humour of any situation to escape him; he felt it even in the midst of the strongest feelings. his search for jack fenning, while jack fenning's wife sat in terror, while he loved jack fenning's wife, had its comic side; he wondered how matters would strike jack, supposing him to be alive, and to have come; or, again, if he were dead and fluttering invisible but open-eyed over the platform. he saw the girl who had been in the next carriage, hanging on a young man's arm, radiant and half in tears; but the young man was not like jack's photograph. there were many young men, but none of them jack fenning. he scoured the platform in vain. a whistle sounded loud, and there were cries of "take your seats!" ashley looked at his watch; that was the express starting; they would be doomed to crawl to town. where the plague was jack fenning? this suspense would be terrible for ora. how soon could he be safe in going back and telling her that jack had not come? what a light would leap to her face! how she would murmur, "ashley!" in her low rich voice! she seemed able to say anything and everything in the world to him with that one word, "ashley!" to help the eloquence of her eyes. a rush of people scurrying out of the refreshment-room and running to catch the express encountered and buffeted him. here was a place he had not ransacked; perhaps jack fenning was in the refreshment-room; a remembrance of janet's anxiety about a good whiskey gave colour to the idea. ashley waited till the exodus was done and then strolled in; the place was almost empty; the barmaids were reaching their arms over the counter to gather up the used glasses or wipe the marble surface with cloths. but at the far end of the room there was a man standing at the bar, with a tumbler before him; he was smoking and in conversation with the girl who served him. ashley stood still on the threshold for a moment or two, watching this man. "this is my man," he said to himself; he seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of the fact and not to rely on any pose or air which he had noticed in the photograph; he knew that he was looking at ora's husband, and stood and looked at him. the man had come; he was not dead; he was here, drinking at the bar. "how much would he take to go away again?" that was ashley's thought. then he shook his head and walked towards the man, who had just set his glass down empty. "you'll have missed the express," said the girl behind the counter. "i was bound to have a drink," protested the customer in a rather injured tone. he turned away, stooped, lifted a hand-bag, and came down the room. ashley noticed that his right hand was bandaged; he thought he noticed also a slight uncertainty in his walk; he did not lurch or stagger, but he swayed a little. "just sixpenn'orth too much," was ashley's summary. then he walked up to the stranger and asked if he had the honour of addressing mr. fenning. there remained always in ashley mead's mind a memory of jack fenning as he was that day, of his soft blurred voice, his abashed eyes, his slight swayings, and the exaggerated apologetic firmness (or even aggression) of gait that followed them, of his uneasy deference towards the man who met him, of his obvious and unfeigned nervousness on being told that miss pinsent was waiting for him. had child married child? the question leapt to ashley's thoughts. here was no burly ruffian, full of drink and violence. he had been drinking, but surely as a boy who takes his second glass of birthday port, not knowing the snake which lurks among that pleasant, green grass? he had struck ora; the ugly fact was there; yet now ashley found himself asking whether children had not their tempers, whether they are to be judged as men are judged, as gentlemen claim to be judged. jack fenning came neither in a truculent resentment against his wife, nor in a masterful assertion of his rights, nor (which would have been worst of all) in a passion for her. he did not question ashley's position, he did not ask how he came to be there; nor did he demand to be taken to his wife, nor did he fly to seek her. "she's here, is she?" he said with an unmistakable accent of alarm. "yes, she's here. come along. i'll take you to her," said ashley curtly. he was angry to find his resentment oozing away. "didn't you know she was coming to meet you?" "she said she might," murmured jack. "but i didn't think she would." "i thought there'd be a crowd and so on, so i ran down with her," ashley explained, despising himself for explaining at all. "awfully kind of you," said mr. fenning. "where--where did you leave her?" "oh, on a seat on the platform. where's your luggage?" "here." he held up the hand-bag. "that all?" "yes, that's all," said jack with a propitiatory smile. "i didn't see the good of bringing much." he paused and then added, "i haven't got much, you know." another pause followed. "i hope that--that miss pinsent's all right?" he ended. "yes, she's all right. come along." then he asked abruptly, "hurt your hand?" jack raised his hand and looked at it. "i got it burnt," he said. "we were making a night of it, and some fool made the poker hot--we had an open fire--and i didn't see it was hot and laid hold of it." he looked at his companion's face, which wore a grim smile. "of course i shouldn't have done it if i hadn't had a drop too much," he added, smiling. "good god!" groaned ashley to himself as he led the way. wouldn't anything, the burly ruffian, the crafty schemer, or even the coarse lover, have been better than this? any of them might have ranked as a man, any of them might have laid a grasp on ora and ruled her life to some pattern. but what could or should this poor creature do? why, he had come at her bidding, and now was afraid to meet her! "has she talked about me?" jack asked timidly. "yes, a lot," said ashley. he looked over his shoulder and sent a very direct glance into his companion's eyes. "she's told me all about it, or nearly all," he added. jack looked ashamed and acutely distressed. ashley felt sorry for him and cursed himself for the feeling. "you'll get along better now, i hope," he said, looking away. then he smiled; it had occurred to him to wonder what all the folk who were so interested in the coming of mr. fenning would make of this mr. fenning who had come. for an embodiment of respectability, of regularity of life, and of the stability of the conjugal relation, this creature was so--there seemed but one word--so flabby. "is janet still with miss pinsent?" asked jack. it was evident that he hesitated as to what he ought to call his wife. there was a little pause before he pronounced her name. "yes," said ashley. "janet's there. she's ordered some whiskey you'll like." jack, unobservant of sarcasm, smiled gratefully; he reminded ashley of a child rather afraid of its parents and finding comfort in the presence of a kind familiar nurse. "it was about here i left miss pinsent," ashley went on, glancing round. there was the seat on which ora had sat; but ora was not on the seat. ashley looked about, scanning the platform, seeking the graceful figure and gait that he knew so well. jack put his bag down on the seat and stared at the roof of the station. "i don't see her," said ashley. "she must have moved." he glanced at jack and added with a sudden burst of laughter, "now you must stay here while i look for her!" "you're very kind," said jack fenning, sinking down on the seat. "i might be the father of twins," said ashley, as he walked off. jack, left alone, furtively unclasped the bag, sought a small bottle, and took a small mouthful from it; he wanted all his nerve to meet his wife. again ashley mead searched the station and ransacked the waiting-rooms; again in whimsical despair he explored the refreshment saloon; all were empty. what had become of ora? he returned to the seat where jack fenning was. a tall burly guard stood by jack, regarding him with a rather contemptuous smile. when ashley approached he turned round. "perhaps you're the gentleman, sir?" he said. "mr. mead, sir?" "i'm mr. mead," said ashley. "the lady who went by the express left this note for you, sir. i thought it was for this gentleman but he says it isn't." "thanks, i expect it's for me," said ashley, exchanging a shilling for a scrap of twisted paper addressed to him in ora's familiar scrawl. the guard looked at the pair with a faint curiosity, spun his shilling in the air, and turned away. they were, after all, a very unimportant episode in the life of the guard. "i have gone. as you love me, don't let him follow me. i am heart-broken:--ora." thus ran the note which ashley read. at the last moment, then, the great drama had broken down, renunciation and reformation had refused to run in couples, the fine scenes would not be played and--the heroine had fled from the theatre! an agreement was an agreement, as mr. hazlewood insisted; but ora had broken hers. here was ashley mead with a stray husband on his hands! he laughed again as he re-read the note. where had she gone, poor dear, she and her broken heart? she was crying somewhere with the picturesqueness that she could impart even to the violent forms of grief. his laugh made friends with a groan as he looked down on the flabby figure of jack fenning. that such a creature should make such a coil! the world is oddly ordered. "what the devil are we to do now?" he exclaimed aloud, glancing from the note to jack, and back from jack to the note. the note gave no help; jack's bewildered questioning eyes were equally useless. "she's gone," ashley explained with a short laugh. "gone? where to?" helplessness still, not indignation, not even surprise, marked the tone. "i don't know. you're not to follow her, she says." jack seemed to sink into a smaller size as he muttered forlornly, "she told me to come, you know." his uninjured hand moved longingly but indecisively towards his bag. "will you have a dram?" he asked. "no, i won't," said ashley. "well, we can't stay here all night. what are you going to do?" "i don't understand what you mean by saying she's gone," moaned jack. "it's all she says--and that you're not to follow. what are you going to do?" his look now was severe and almost cruel; jack seemed to cringe under it. "i don't know," he muttered. "you see i--i've got no money." "no money?" "no. i had a little, but i had infernally bad luck at poker, coming over. you wouldn't believe how the luck ran against me." ashley put his hands in his pockets and regarded his companion. "so you've no money?" "about five shillings." "and now you've no wife!" jack twisted in his seat. "i wish i hadn't come," he said fretfully. "so do i," said ashley. "but here you are!" he took a turn along the platform. the burly guard saw him and touched his hat. "train for london in five minutes, sir. the last to-night, sir. going on?" "damn it, yes, we'll go on," said ashley mead. at least there was nothing to be gained by staying there. "your ticket takes you through to london, i suppose?" he asked jack. "yes, it does; but what am i to do there?" asked jack forlornly. something restrained ashley from the obvious retort, "what the devil do i care?" if he abandoned jack, jack must seek out ora; he must track her by public and miscellaneous inquiries; he must storm the small house at chelsea, braving ora for the sake of janet and the whiskey. or if he did not do that, he would spend his five shillings as he had best not, and--visions of police-court proceedings and consequential newspaper broad-sheets rose before ashley's eyes. he took jack to london with him. the return journey alone with mr. fenning was an unconsidered case, an unrehearsed effect. mr. and mrs. fenning were to have gone together; in one mad pleasant dream he and ora were to have gone together, with jack smoking elsewhere. reality may fail in everything except surprises. ora was heaven knew where, heart-broken in chelsea or elsewhere, and ashley was in charge of mr. fenning. "good god, how everybody would laugh!" thought ashley, himself hovering between mirth and ruefulness. the pencil of babba flint would draw a fine caricature of this journey; the circumstances might wring wonder even from mr. hazlewood's intimate and fatigued acquaintance with the ways of genius; as for kensington palace gardens--ashley suddenly laughed aloud. "what's the matter?" asked jack. "it's all so damned absurd," said ashley, laughing still. an absurd tragedy--and after all that jack should come as he did, be what he was, and go on existing, was in essentials pure tragedy--seemed set on foot. "what am i to do with the fellow?" asked ashley of himself. "i can't let him go to chelsea." nor, on reflection, could he let him go either to the workhouse or to the police-court. in fact, by an impulsive extension of the very habit which had appealed so strongly to his chivalry, ora had thrown not herself only but her husband also on his hands! london drew near, even for the slow train, and with london came the problem. ashley solved it in a flash, with a resolve that preserved the mixture of despair and humour which had become his attitude towards the situation of affairs. above him in his house by charing cross there lived a clerk; the clerk had gone for a month's holiday, and had given liberty to the housekeeper to let his bed-sitting-room (so the compound was termed) to any solvent applicant. jack fenning should occupy the room for this night at least; he would be safe from danger, from observation, from causing trouble at chelsea or wherever his wife might be. thus to provide for him seemed mere humanity; he had but five shillings and a weakness for strong drink; and although he had struck ora (the violence grew more and more inconceivable), yet in a sense he belonged to her. "and something must happen to clear it all up soon," ashley reflected in an obstinate conviction that things in the end went reasonably. a short interview with the housekeeper was enough to arrange for jack fenning's immediate comfort; then ashley took him into his own room and gave him an improvised supper, and some whiskey and water mixed very weak; jack regarded it disconsolately but made no protest; he lugged out a pipe and began to smoke, staring the while into the empty grate. "i wonder where she's gone!" he said once, but ashley was putting on his slippers and took no notice of the question. there lay on the table a note and a telegram; jack's eyes wandered to them. "perhaps the wire's from her," he suggested timidly. "perhaps," said ashley, taking it up. but the message was from alice muddock and ran, "father had a paralytic stroke to-day. afraid serious. will you come to-morrow?" "it's not from miss pinsent," said ashley, as he turned to the note. this was from bowdon, sent by hand: "i'm glad to say that i've persuaded irene to be married in a month from now. as you're such a friend of hers as well as of mine, i hope you'll be my best man on the occasion." "and the note's not from her either," said ashley, walking up to the mantel-piece and filling his pipe. jack leant back in his chair and gulped down his weak mixture; he looked up in ashley's face and smiled feebly. ashley's brows were knit, but his lips curved in a smile. the mixed colours held the field; here was poor old sir james come to the end of his work, to the end of new blocks and the making of sovereigns; here was bowdon triumphantly setting the last brick on the high wall behind which he had entrenched himself against the assault of wayward inclinations. was irene then at peace? would bob hold his own or would bertie jewett grasp the reins? was bowdon resigned or only fearful? what a break-up in kensington palace gardens! what the deuce should he do with this man? and where in heaven's name was ora pinsent? ashley's eyes fell on a couple of briefs which had been sent after him from the temple; it seemed as though the ordinary work of life were in danger of neglect. "we can't do anything to-night, you know," he said to jack in an irritated tone. "you don't want to knock her up to-night, i suppose, even if she's at her house?" "no," said jack meekly. "are you ready for bed then?" jack cast one longing glance at the whiskey bottle, and said that he was. ashley led him upstairs, turned on the gas, and shewed him the room he was to occupy. desiring to appear friendly, he lingered a few moments in desultory and forced conversation, and, seeing that jack's wounded hand crippled him a little, began to help him to take his things out of the bag and lay them in handy places. jack accepted his services with regard to the bag, and set about emptying his own pockets on the mantel-piece. presently ashley, his task done, turned round to see his companion standing with back turned, under the gas jet; he seemed to be regarding something which he held in his hand. "i think you'll be all right now," said ashley, preparing to make his escape. jack faced round with a slight start and an embarrassed air. he still held in his hand the object which he had been regarding; ashley now perceived it to be a photograph. was it ora's--ora's, treasured through years of separation, of quarrel, of desertion and apparent neglect? had the man then grace in him so to love ora pinsent? a flash of kindliness lit up ashley's feelings towards him; a pang of sympathy went near to making him sorry that ora had fled from welcoming the home-comer. his eyes rested on jack with a friendly look; jack responded with a doubtful wavering smile; he seemed to ask whether he could in truth rely on the new benevolence which he saw in his host's eyes. ashley smiled, half at his own queer thoughts, half to encourage the poor man. the smile nourished jack's growing confidence; with a roguish air which had not been visible before he held out the picture to ashley, saying, "pretty girl, isn't she?" with a stare ashley took the portrait. it could not be ora's, if he spoke of it like that; so it seemed to the lover who translated another's feelings into his own. in an instant he retracted; that was how jack fenning would speak of ora; short-lived kindliness died away; the man was frankly intolerable. but the sight of the picture sent his mind off in another direction. the picture was not ora's, unless in previous days ora had been of large figure, of bold feature, of self-assertive aspect, given to hats outrageous, and to signing herself, "yours ever, daisy." for such were the salient characteristics of the picture which mr. jack fenning had brought home with him. a perverse freak of malicious memory carried ashley back to the room in the little house at chelsea, where his own portrait stood in its silver frame on the small table by ora's favourite seat. _mutato nomine, de te!_ but, lord, what a difference the name makes! "very pretty," he remarked, handing back the image which had occasioned his thought. "some one you know on the other side?" "yes," said jack, standing the picture up against the wall. ashley was absurdly desirous of questioning him, of learning more about daisy, of discovering whether mr. fenning had his romance or merely meditated in tranquillity on a pleasant friendship. but he held himself back; he would not be more mixed up with the man than fate and ora pinsent had commanded. there was something squalid about the man, so that he seemed to infect what he touched with his own flabby meanness. how in the world had ora come to make him her husband? no doubt five years of whiskey, in society of which daisy was probably too favourable a specimen to be typical, would account for much. he need not have been repulsive always; he might even have had a fawning attractiveness; it hung oddly about him still. but how could he ever have commanded love? love asks more, some material out of which to fashion an ideal, some nobility actual or potential. at this point his reflections were very much in harmony with the views of alice muddock. he hated to think what ora had been to this man; now he thanked god that she had run away. he would have liked himself to run away somewhere, never to see jack fenning, to forget that he had ever seen him, to rid ora of every association with him. it was odious that the thought of her must bring the thought of fenning; how soon would he be able to think of her again without this man shouldering his way into recollection by her side? until he could achieve that, she herself, suffering an indignity, almost seemed to suffer a taint. "good-night," said he. "we'll have a talk in the morning about what's to be done." "good-night, mr. mead. i'm--i'm awfully obliged to you for everything." "not at all," said ashley. he moved towards the door. as he passed the table his eye fell on jack's flask, which lay there. for an instant he thought of cautioning jack against an excessive use of it; but where was the good and why was it his business? without more he left his unwelcome guest to himself. and jack, being thus left alone, had some more whiskey, another look at his picture, and another smoke of his pipe. after that he began to consider how very hardly his wife had used him. or, rather, he tried to take up and maintain this position, but he failed. he was so genuinely relieved that ora had not been there; he did not want to meet ora; he knew that he would be terribly uncomfortable. why had he come? he wandered up to the mantel-piece again and looked with pathetic reproach at the picture and the signature below it. "i wish she hadn't made me!" he groaned as he turned away and began to undress himself. ora had allowed him to come, but it could hardly be said that she had made him. moreover his protest seemed to be addressed to the picture on the mantel-piece. chapter xiv as mr. flint said irene kilnorton looked, as she had been bidden, out of the window in queen's gate and perceived a four-wheeled cab laden with three large boxes; from that sight she turned her eyes again to ora pinsent, who sat in a straight-backed chair with an expression of unusual resolution on her face. it was eleven o'clock on monday morning. "i lay awake all night, trembling," said ora. "imagine if he'd come to the house!" "but, good gracious, you told him to come, ora! you must see him now." "i won't. i thought you'd be kind and come with me; but i'm going anyhow." "where is he?" "i don't know. i suppose ashley has done something with him; only i wonder i haven't had a letter." "ashley!" lady kilnorton's tone fully explained her brief remark, but ora only nodded her head and repeated, "yes, ashley." "and where do you propose to go?" "devonshire." "and what about your theatre?" "oh, i've sent a wire. the understudy must do it. i couldn't possibly." "and are you going alone to devonshire?" "yes. at least i suppose ashley couldn't go with me, could he?" "he would if you asked him, i should think," said irene most impatiently. "he can run down and see me, though," observed ora in a slightly more cheerful tone. "i shall wire my address and ask him to let me know what--what happened. only--only i'm rather afraid to know. i should like just to leave it all to ashley." "i think you're quite mad." "i was nearly, at the thought of meeting him. i wonder what ashley did with him." a faint and timid smile appeared on her lips as she looked at her friend. "their meeting must have been rather funny," she added, with obvious fear, but yet unable to resist confiding her amusement. "did anybody ever beat you, ora?" demanded lady kilnorton. "yes, dear," confessed ora plaintively. "then they didn't do it enough, that's all." ora sat silent for a moment still, smiling a little. "it's no good being unkind to me," she remarked then. "i don't see how i could have done anything else. i did my very best to--to let him come; but i couldn't." "it's not very likely you could, when you'd been spending every hour of the day with ashley mead! actually took him to meet your husband!" "i suppose it was that, partly; but i couldn't have got even as far as i did without ashley. why won't you come to devonshire?" "among other things, i'm going to be married." "oh! soon?" "in a month." "really? how splendid! i should think lord bowdon's a lovely lover. i'm sure he would be." ora was now smiling very happily. irene seemed to consider something seriously for a moment or two; then she gave it utterance. "i'm afraid you're disreputable, after all," she said. "no, i'm not," protested ora. "oh, but, my dear, how i should like to be! it would simplify everything so. but then ashley--" she broke off and frowned pensively. "oh, i don't mean exactly what you've done, but what you are." she came suddenly across the room, bent down, and kissed ora's cheek. then, as she straightened herself again, she said, "i don't think we can be friends." at first ora laughed, but, seeing irene very grave, she looked at her with scared eyes. irene met her gaze fully and directly. "you didn't tell me all alice muddock said to you," said irene. "no, not quite," ora murmured; "it was horrid." "she's told me since. well, she only said what you've made us all think of you." "you?" asked ora, her eyes still set on her friend. "yes," said irene kilnorton, and, turning away, she sat down by the window. a silence followed, broken only by a stamp of the hoof from the cab-horse at the door. then irene spoke again. "don't you see that you can't go on as you've been going on, that it's impossible, that it ruins everybody's life who has anything to do with you? don't you see how you're treating your husband? don't you see what you're doing to ashley mead?" ora had turned rather white, as she had when alice muddock told her that not for the sake of fame would she pay ora's price. they were both against her. "how hard people are!" she cried, rising and walking about the room. "women, i mean," she added a moment later. "oh, i know you make men think what you like," said irene scornfully. "we women see what's true. i'm sure i don't want to distress you, ora." ora was looking at her in despair tempered by curiosity. bitterly as she had felt alice's onslaught, she had ended in explaining it to herself by saying that alice was an exceptionally cold and severe person, and also rather jealous concerning ashley mead. irene kilnorton was neither cold nor severe, and ora had no reason to think her jealous. the agreement of the two seemed a token and an expression of a hostile world in arms against her, finding all sins in her, hopelessly blind to her excuses and deaf to the cries of her heart which to her own ears were so convincing. irene thought that she ought to have been beaten more; if she told of mr. fenning's isolated act of violence, irene would probably disapprove of nothing in it except its isolation. "i thought you'd sympathise with me," she said at last. "then you must have thought me a goose," retorted irene crossly. her real feelings would have led her to substitute "very wicked" for "a goose," but she had an idea that an ultra-moral attitude was _bourgeois_. "goose" gave her all she wanted and preserved the intellectual point of view. but to ora the moral and the intellectual were the scylla and charybdis between which her frail bark of emotions steered a perilous, bumping, grazing way, lucky if it escaped entire destruction on one or the other, or (_pace_ the metaphor) on both at once. she felt that the world was harsh and most ill-adapted to any reasonable being; for ora also seemed to herself very reasonable; reason follows the habit of the chameleon and takes colour from the tree of emotions on which it lies. from her meditations there emerged a sudden terrible dread that swallowed up every other feeling, every other anxiety. all the world (must not the world be judged by these two ladies?) was against her. her action was to it beyond understanding, her temperament beyond excuse. would ashley feel the same? "have i tired him out?" she cried to herself. all else she could surrender, though the surrender were with tears; but not his love, his sympathy, her hold over him. he must see, he must understand, he must approve. she could not have him also rebelling against her in weariness or puzzled disgust. then indeed there would be nothing to live for; even the refuge in devonshire must become an arid tormenting desert. for the times when he could run down and see her had gone near to obliterating all the other times in her imaginary picture of the refuge in devonshire: just as her occasional appearances had filled the whole of that picture of ashley's married life drawn in the days of the renunciation. she rose and bade irene good-bye with marked abruptness; it passed as the sign of natural offence, and kindness mingled with reproach in irene's parting kiss. but irene asked no more questions and invited no more confidences. ora ran downstairs and jumped into her cab. a new fear and a new excitement possessed her; she thought no more of irene's censure; she asked no more what had become of jack fenning. "what station, miss?" asked the driver, taking a look at her. he had seen her from the gallery and was haunted by a recollection. "oh, i'm not going to the station!" exclaimed ora impatiently; why did people draw unwarranted inferences from the mere presence of three boxes on the roof of a cab? she gave him ashley's address with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air she could muster. but for the terror she was in, it would have been pleasant to her to be going for the first time to those rooms of his to which she had sent so many letters, so many telegrams, so many boy-messengers, so many commissionaires, but which in actual palpable reality she had never seen yet. reflecting that she had never seen them yet, she declared that the reproaches levelled at her were absurdly wide of the mark and horribly uncharitable. they didn't give her credit for her real self-control. but what was ashley feeling? again she cried, "have i tired him out?" now she pictured no longer from her own but from his standpoint the scene at the station, and saw how she had left him to do the thing which it had been hers to do. for the first time that day a dim half-recollected vision of the renunciation and reformation took shape in her brain; she dubbed it at once an impossible and grotesque fantasy. ashley must have known it for that all the time; who but ashley would have been so generous and so tactful as never to let her see his opinion of it? who but ashley would have respected the shelter that she made for herself out of its tattered folds? and now had she lost ashley, even ashley? by this time jack fenning, his doings, and his whereabouts, had vanished from her mind. ashley was everything. the laden cab reached the door; ora was out in a moment. "wait," she cried, as she darted in; the driver shifted the three boxes, so as to make room for additional luggage; he understood the situation now; his fare had come to pick up somebody; they would go to the station next. mr. a. mead dwelt on the first floor; on the second floor lived mr. j. metcalfe brown. having gleaned this knowledge from names in white letters on a black board, ora mounted the stairs. the servant-girl caught a glimpse of her and admired without criticising; charity reigned here; a lady's gown was scrutinised, not her motives. ora reached the first floor; here again the door was labelled with ashley's name. the sight of it brought a rebound to hopefulness; the spirit of the adventure caught on her, her self-confidence revived, her fears seemed exaggerated. at any rate she would atone now by facing the problem of her husband in a business-like way; she would talk the matter over reasonably and come to some practical conclusion. she pulled her hat straight, laughed timidly, and knocked at the door. how surprised he'd be! and if he were disposed to be unkind--well, would he be unkind long? he had never been unkind long. why, he didn't answer! again she knocked, and again. he must be out. this check in the plan of campaign almost brought tears to ora's eyes. she must enquire. she was about to go downstairs again and ring the bell when she heard a door opened on the landing above, and a man's step. she paused; this man might give her news of ashley; that he might be surprised to see her did not occur to her. a moment later a voice she knew well exclaimed in soliloquy, "good heavens, what a creature!" and round the bend of the stairs came ashley himself, in a flannel jacket, smoking a pipe, with his hair much disordered. ora wore a plain travelling frock suitable for a dusty journey to devonshire; her jacket was fawn colour, her hat was black; yet even by these sober hues the landing seemed illuminated to ashley mead. "well!" he cried, taking his pipe from his mouth and standing still. "open this door," ora commanded, in a little tumult of gladness; in an instant his eyes told her that she had not tired him out. "and who's a creature?" "a creature?" he asked, coming down. "yes. you said somebody was. oh, i know! the man above? mr. j. metcalfe brown?" "exactly," said ashley. "metcalfe brown." he took a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and held it open for her. he was laughing. "so this is your den!" she cried. "what are those papers?" the desk was strewn with white sheets. "our commission. i've been having a morning at it." "between it and metcalfe brown?" "well, yes, he does need some of my attention." "what a noise he makes!" said ora, for a dragging tread sounded on the ceiling of the room. "he must be rather a bore?" "yes, he is," said ashley, with a short laugh and a quick amused glance at her. "where's my picture?" ora demanded, looking round. "strictly concealed," ashley assured her. "i wonder i've never come here before," she reflected, sitting down in his arm-chair. "well, on the whole, so do i," said ashley, laughing still. she was taking a careful and interested view of the room. the steps overhead went on. "i think it would be very nice," she said at last, "except for metcalfe brown." "there's always something one could do without," observed ashley mead. "i like you in that coat. oh, well, i like you in any coat. but i never saw you ready for work before. ashley, who is metcalfe brown? and how i wish he'd sit still!" "he's a clerk," said ashley; his smile persisted, but his brows were knit in a humorous puzzle. a pause followed. ora looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked at him again. ashley said nothing. "you might ask me something," she murmured reproachfully. he shook his head. she rose and came behind him; laying a hand on his shoulder she looked round in his face; mirth and appeal mingled as of old in the depths of her eyes. "am i very dreadful?" she whispered. "are you quite tired of me, ashley?" there was a sound from above as though a man had thrown himself heavily on a sofa or a bed. "bother metcalfe brown," whispered ora. "ashley, i couldn't help it. i was afraid." "you needn't have been afraid with me," he said in a low voice. "but--but you wouldn't have stayed. i was so frightened. you know what i told you; i remembered it all. he'd had too much to drink; he wasn't generally cruel, but that made him. ashley dear, say you forgive me?" the dim sound of a quavering voice reached them through the ceiling. for an instant ora raised her head, then she bent down again to ashley. "because i'm going away, to devonshire," she went on. "and i mayn't see you for ever so long, unless you'll come and see me; and irene kilnorton says you oughtn't to. but you must. but still it will be days! oh, how shall i pass days without you? so do forgive me before i go." "forgive you!" said he with a little laugh. "ah, you do," she sighed. "how good you are, ashley." she pressed his shoulder with her hand. "i couldn't go on living if it wasn't for you," she said. "everybody else is so hard to me. i ran away last night because i couldn't bear to lose you!" she paused and moved her face nearer his, as she whispered, "could you bear to lose me?" mr. metcalfe brown tumbled off the bed and seemed to stagger across the room towards the mantel-piece. "no," said ashley mead. "but i'm going away; my boxes are on the cab outside. i daren't stop now he's come; i might meet him; he might--no, i daren't stay." her voice fell yet lower as she asked, "what did he say? where is he? what have you done with him?" ashley gently raised her hand from his arm, rose, and walked to the fireplace. he looked at her as she bent forward towards him in the tremulous eagerness of her questioning, with fear and love fighting in her eyes, as though she looked to him alone both for safety and for joy. and, as it chanced, mr. metcalfe brown made no sound in the room above; it was possible altogether to forget him. ora took the chair that ashley had left and sat looking at him. for a moment or two he said nothing; it was the pause before the plunge, the last hasty reckoning of possibilities and resources before a great stake. then he set all on the hazard. "you needn't have run away," he said in a cool, almost bantering tone. "fenning didn't turn up at all." mr. metcalfe brown walked across the room and threw himself into a chair; at least the sounds from above indicated some such actions on his part. "i don't know why, but he didn't," said ashley with a momentary glance at the ceiling--rather as though he feared it would fall on him. "not come?" she whispered. "oh, ashley!" she seemed for a moment to hold herself in the chair by the grasp of her hands on its arms. then she rose and moved slowly towards him. "he didn't come?" "not a sign of him." "and--and he won't, will he?" "i don't expect so," said ashley, smiling. ora seemed to accept his answer as final. she stood still, for a moment grave, then breaking into a gurgle of amused delighted laughter. ashley glanced again at the ceiling; surely a man who had ever heard that laugh must remember it! but had the man upstairs? was not that laugh made and kept for him himself from the beginning of the world? so his madness persuaded him. "rather funny, wasn't it? so i came back alone by the slow train--a very slow train it was, without you." ora's mood was plain enough. she was delighted, and she was hardly surprised. no instability of purpose and no change of intention were out of harmony with her idea of her husband. there was no telling why he had not come, but there was nothing wonderful in his not coming. she spread her arms out with a gesture of candid self-approval. "well, i've done my duty," said she. "yes," said ashley, smiling. he was relieved to find his word taken so readily. "but do you think you're doing it by staying here?" "how rude you are! why shouldn't i?" "it's irregular. and somebody might come." he paused and added, "suppose metcalfe brown dropped in?" "what would he think?" cried ora with sparkling eyes. "is he a very steady young man?" "i don't know; he's got a picture signed 'yours ever, daisy,' on his mantel-piece." ora's eyes shewed no recognition of "daisy." "the girl he's engaged to, i suppose," she said rather scornfully; high and unhappy passion is a little contemptuous of a humdrum engagement. "perhaps," said ashley cautiously. "oh, he's moving about again; and he's singing! i wish we could hear better!" for the sound of the voice was very muffled. "i know that tune though. where have i heard it before?" "everybody used to torture one with it a few years ago; somebody sang it at the alhambra." "oh, yes, i went with--i went once and heard it." the voice died down in a gentle grumble. the little puzzled frown with which ora had listened also passed away. "going to devonshire?" asked ashley mead. "to devonshire? no," said ora decisively. "why should i go away now?" "you must go away from here." "must i, ashley?" "yes, you must. consider if metcalfe brown--" "oh, bother your metcalfe brown! there's always somebody like that!" "yes, generally. come, i'll take you to your cab--" "but you'll come and see me to-morrow?" "yes, i'll come to-morrow." "oh, isn't everything perfect? what's that? he must be throwing the fire irons about!" "never mind him. come along." "i don't mind him. i don't mind anybody now. how could i ever have thought of bringing--of doing what i did? why did you let me, ashley? but it's all right now, isn't it?" "come down quietly; metcalfe brown'll hear us." "i don't care." "oh, but you must. consider my reputation!" "very well, i'll be quiet," said ora with another low and joyous laugh. they stole downstairs together. metcalfe brown was quiet; he did not open his door, look out, glance down the well of the stairs and see who was ashley mead's companion; he sat with his pipe in his mouth and his glass by his side, while ora escaped in safety from the house. the cabman had employed his leisure first in recollecting how his fare's face came to be familiar to him, secondly (since he had thus become interested in her), in examining the luggage labels on the three large boxes. there was a friendliness, and also a confidence, in his manner as he leant down from his box and said, "paddington, miss pinsent?" "paddington! no," said ora. ashley began to laugh. ora laughed too, as she gave her address in chelsea. "where i took you up, miss?" asked the cabman. "yes," said ora, bright with amusement. "it really must seem rather funny to him," she said in an aside to ashley, as she got in. the cabman himself was calling the affair "a rum start," as he whipped up his horse. to ashley mead it seemed very much the same. there were, however, two people who were not very seriously surprised, janet the respectable servant and mr. sidney hazlewood the accomplished comedian. they received ora, at the house in chelsea and at the theatre respectively, with a very similar wrinkling of the forehead and a very similar sarcastic curving of the lips; to both of them the ways of genius were well known. "mr. fenning hasn't come after all," said ora to janet, while to mr. hazlewood she observed "i felt so much better that i've come after all." janet said, "indeed, ma'am." mr. hazlewood said, "all right," and sent word to the understudy that she was not wanted. on the whole her sudden change of plan seemed to ora to cause less than its appropriate sensation--except to the cabman, whose demeanour had been quite satisfactory. as mr. hazlewood was dressing for his part, it chanced that babba flint came in, intent on carrying through an arrangement rich, as were all babba's, in prospective thousands. when the scheme had been discussed, hazlewood mentioned ora's wire of the morning and ora's appearance in the evening. babba nodded comprehendingly. "something to do with the husband perhaps," hazlewood hazarded. "not that it needs any particular explanation," he added, hiding his wrinkle with some paint. "husband, husband?" said babba in a puzzle. "oh, yes! by jove, he was to come yesterday! hasn't turned up, of course?" "haven't seen or heard anything of him." "of course not," said babba placidly. "i knew he wouldn't. i told bowdon he wouldn't, but bowdon wouldn't bet. give me a wire, though." hazlewood's dresser was ready with a telegraph-form and babba, in the wantonness of exuberant triumph, sent a message to bowdon's house asserting positively that mr. fenning had not come. that evening bowdon dined with irene, and the telegram, forwarded by messenger, reached him there. after dinner alice ran in to give news of a rather better character concerning her father. she also heard the contents of babba flint's message. ora's underlying desire for a sensation would have been satisfied. they were all amazed. "this morning she thought he had come," irene persisted. "i wonder if ashley mead knows anything about it. have you seen him, alice?" "no; he telegraphed that he couldn't possibly come to kensington palace gardens to-day, but would early to-morrow." alice's tone was cold; ashley ought to have gone to kensington palace gardens that day, she thought. "it's very odd, isn't it, frank?" asked irene. "it's not our affair," said bowdon; he was rather uncomfortable. "except," said irene with a glance at alice and an air of reserved determination, "that we have to consider a little what sort of person she really is. i don't know what to make of it, do you, alice?" no less puzzled was ashley mead as he kept guard on the man to whom he had transferred the name of metcalfe brown, and wondered how he was to persevere in his assertion that the man had not come. for here the man was, and, alas, by now the man was peevishly anxious to see his wife; from no affection, ashley was ready to swear, but, as it seemed, in a sort of fretful excitement. no doubt even to such a creature the present position was uncomfortable; possibly it appeared even degrading. "we'll settle about that to-morrow," said ashley mead; and in spite of a pang of self-reproach he added, "have a little drop more whiskey?" for to-night must be tided over; and whiskey was the only tide that served. chapter xv the man upstairs kensington palace gardens, whither ashley mead hastened early on tuesday morning, was not the same place to him as it had been. the change went deeper than any mere shadow of illness or atmosphere of affliction. there was alienation, a sense of difference, the feeling of a suppressed quarrel. the old man knew him, but greeted him with a feeble fretfulness, lady muddock was distantly and elaborately polite, even in bob a constraint appeared. alice received him kindly, but there was no such gladness at his coming as had seemed to be foreshadowed by her summons of him. was she resentful that he had not come the day before? that was likely enough, for his excuses of pressing business did not sound very convincing even to himself. but here again he sought a further explanation and found it in a state of things curiously unwelcome to him. it may be easy to abdicate; it is probably harder to stand by patiently while the new monarch asserts his sway and receives homage. bertie jewett was in command at kensington palace gardens; when sir james could talk he called bertie and conferred with him; on him now lady muddock leaned, to him bob abandoned the position by birth his own; it was his advice which alice repeated, his opinions which she quoted to ashley mead as they took a turn together in the garden. both business and family, the big house and the big block, owned a new master; bertie's star rose steadily. ashley was prepared with infinite scorn. he watched the upstart with an eye acute to mark his lapses of breeding, of taste, and of tact, to discern the vulgarity through affected ease, the coarseness of mind beneath the superficial helpfulness. something of all these he contrived to see or to persuade himself that he saw, but a whole-hearted confident contempt denied itself to him. there is a sort of man intolerable while he is making his way, while he pushes and disputes and shoulders for place; the change which comes over him when his position is won, and what he deems his rights acknowledged, is often little less than marvellous. it is as though the objectionable qualities, which had seemed so ingrained in him and so part of him that they must be his from cradle to grave and perhaps beyond, were after all only armour he has put on or weapons he has taken into his hand of his own motion, to do his work; the work done they are laid aside, or at least so hidden as merely to suggest what before they displayed offensively. so concealed, they are no longer arrogant or domineering, but only imply a power in reserve; they do no more than remind the rash of what has been and may be again. in part this great transformation had passed over bertie jewett; the neat compact figure, the resolute eye, the determined mouth, the brief confident directions, wrung even from ashley admiration and an admission that, if (as poor old sir james used to say) the "stuff" was in himself, it was in bertie also, and probably in fuller measure. neither business nor family would lack a good counsellor and a bold leader; neither family nor business would suffer by the substitution of bertie for himself. watching his successor, he seemed to himself to have become superfluous, suddenly to have lost his place in the inmost hearts of these people, and to have fallen back to the status of a mere ordinary friendship. was that in truth alice's mood towards him? it was not, but his jealous acuteness warned him that it soon might be. she did not tell him now that she disliked bertie jewett; she praised bertie with repentant generosity, seeking opportunities to retract without too much obtrusiveness the hard things she had said, and fastening with eager hand on all that could be commended. ashley walked by her, listening. "where we should be without him now i don't know," she said. "i can't do much, and bob--well, bob wants somebody to guide him." "i hope you'll let me be of any use i can," he said; in spite of himself the words sounded idle and empty. "you're most kind, ashley, always, but i don't think there's anything we need trouble you about for the present. we don't expect any immediate change in father." "when i said i wouldn't have anything to do with the business, i didn't include kensington palace gardens in the word." "oh, i know you didn't. indeed i'll ask you for help when i want it." he was silent for a moment or two. then he said, "you agreed with me about the business. do you still think i was right?" "i'm more than ever sure of it," she answered with a direct gaze at him. "i grow surer of it every day. it wasn't the least suited to you; nor you to it, you know." she smiled as she spoke the last words. "and jewett's in his element?" "i hear he's wonderfully able, and he's very nice and considerate about everything too. oh, no, you'd never have done for it." what she said was what she had always said; she had always been against his selling the ribbons, had thought that he was too good to sell ribbons and loved him for this very thing. but the same words may carry most different implications; was not the idea in her head now that, if it would not have been good for him to sell the ribbons, neither would it have been good for the ribbons nor for the family whose prosperity depended on them? her smile had been indulgent rather than admiring; he accused her of reverting to the commercial view of life and of suffering a revival of the family prejudices and of the instinct for getting and reverencing wealth. he felt further from her and detected a corresponding feeling in her. he studied her in the light of that unreasonable resentment with which bertie jewett inspired him; he saw that she read him in the light of her judgment of ora pinsent; and he knew tolerably well what she thought and said of ora pinsent. they were further apart. yet at the end old kindliness revived and he clasped her hand very heartily. "i'm always at your orders," he said. "always." she smiled; did she intend to remind him that the day before he had neglected her summons? his conscience gave her smile that meaning, and he could not tell her that he had been obliged to play jailer to mr. fenning--for mr. fenning had not come! but her smile was not reproachful; it was still indulgent. she seemed to expect him to say such things, to know he would, to accept them as his sincere meaning at the time, but not to expect too much from them, not to take them quite literally, not to rely on them with the simple ample faith that the words of a solid trustworthy man receive. the love that has lived on admiration may live with indulgence; she seemed still to love him although now with opened eyes. and when he was gone, she turned back to the business of life with a sigh, to business and bertie jewett. back she went to work, and in her work ashley mead had no longer a place. at this time, among his conquests--and they were over himself as well as others--bertie jewett achieved a complete victory over irene kilnorton's old dislike of him. he was so helpful, so unobtrusive, so strong, so different from feather-headed people who were here one moment and elsewhere the next, whom you never knew where to have. she had what was nearly a quarrel with bowdon because he observed that, when all was said and done, bertie was not a gentleman. "nonsense, frank," she said tartly. "he only wants to go into society a little more. in all essentials he's a perfect gentleman." bowdon shook his head in impenetrable, silent, male obstinacy. he was not apt at reasons or definitions, but he knew when he did and when he did not see a gentleman before him; he and his ancestors had spent generations in acquiring this luxury of knowledge. his shake of the head exasperated irene. "i like him very much," she said. "he has just the qualities that made me like you. one can depend on him; he's not harum-scarum and full of whims. you can trust yourself with men like that." "i hope i'm not as dull as i sound, my dear," said bowdon patiently. "dull! who said you were dull? i said i could trust you, and i said i could trust bertie jewett. oh, i don't mean to say he's fascinating like ashley mead. at least i suppose ashley is fascinating to most people." "most women anyhow," murmured bowdon. "i consider," said irene solemnly, "that ora pinsent has done him infinite harm." "poor miss pinsent!" "oh, yes, of course it's 'poor miss pinsent'! if you'd been in the garden of eden you'd have said nothing but 'poor eve'! but, frank--" "yes, dear." "i believe alice is getting tired of him at last." here was a useful conquest--and a valuable ally--for bertie jewett. bowdon perceived the bent of irene's thoughts. "good god!" he muttered gently, between half-opened lips. then he smiled to himself a little ruefully. was alice also to seek a refuge? remorse came hard on the heels of this ungracious thought, and he kissed irene gallantly. "suppose," he suggested, "that you were to be content with looking after your own wedding for the present and leave miss muddock to look after hers." irene, well pleased, returned his kiss, but she also nodded sagaciously, and said that if he waited he would see. bowdon was now so near his marriage, so near inviolable safety, that he allowed himself the liberty of thinking about ora pinsent and consequently of ashley mead. that the husband had not come--babba's triumphant telegram was still in his pocket--surprised as much as it annoyed him. in absence from ora he was able to condemn her with a heartiness which his _fiancée_ herself need not have despised; that his condemnation could not be warranted to outlast a single interview with its object was now no matter to him, but merely served to explain the doings of ashley. ashley was hopelessly in the toils, this was clear enough. strangely hovering between self-congratulation on his own escape and envy of the man who had not run away, bowdon asked what was to be the end, and, as a man of the world, saw but one end. ashley would pay dear and would feel every penny of the payment. his was a nature midway between ora's and irene's, perhaps it had something even of alice muddock's; he had a foot in either camp. reason struggled with impulse in him, and when he yielded he was still conscious of what he lost. he could not then be happy, and he would hardly find contentment in not being very unhappy. he must be tossed about and torn in two. whither would he go in the end? "anyhow i'm safe," was bowdon's unexpressed thought, given new life and energy by the news that ora pinsent's husband had not come. for now the tongues would be altogether unchained, and defence of her hopeless. had she ever meant him to come, ever believed that he was coming, ever done more than fling a little unavailing dust in the world's keen eyes? the memory of her, strong even in its decay, rose before him, and forbade him to embrace heartily what was irene's and would be everybody's theory. but what other theory was there? bowdon was living in his father's house in park lane, and these meditations brought him to the door. a servant awaited him with the news that ashley was in the library and wanted to see him. the business of their commission brought ashley often, and it was with only a faint sense of coincidence that bowdon went in to meet him. ashley was sitting on a sofa, staring at the ceiling. he sprang up as bowdon entered; there was a curious nervousness in his air. "here you are, bowdon!" he cried. bowdon noticed, without resenting, the omission of his title; hitherto, in deference to seniority and bowdon's public position, ashley had insisted on saying "lord bowdon." he inferred that ashley's mind was busy. "here i am, ashley. what do you want? more witnesses, more reports, what is it?" "it's not the commission at all." "take a cigar and tell me what it is." ashley obeyed and began to smoke quickly; he stood now, while bowdon dropped into a chair. "in about a month i shall have seven hundred pounds coming in," said ashley. "just now i've only a hundred at the bank." "present economy and the prospect of future recompense," said bowdon, smiling. "i want five hundred now, to-day. they'll give it me at the bank if i get another name. will you--?" "i won't give you my name, but i'll lend you five hundred." ashley looked down at him. "thank you," he said. "do you trust your servant?" "more than you, ashley, and i'm lending you five hundred." "then send him round to the bank." "my good fellow, i can write a cheque." "no, i want five hundred-pound notes--new ones," said ashley, with his first glimmer of a smile. "very well," said bowdon. he went to the table, wrote a cheque, rang the bell, and, when his personal servant had been summoned, repeated ashley's request. "very good, my lord," said the man, and vanished. bowdon lit a cigarette and resumed his seat. "it's for--," ashley began. "as you like about that," said bowdon. "only why were they to be new hundred-pound notes?" "in order to appeal to the imagination. i'm going to tell you about it." "as long as it's because you want and not because i want, all right." "i believe i'm going to do a damned rascally thing." "can't you keep it to yourself then?" asked bowdon, with a plaintive intonation and a friendly look. "at present i've lent you five hundred. that's all! they can't hit me." "i want somebody to know besides me, and i've chosen you." "oh, all right," muttered bowdon resignedly. ashley walked twice across the room and came to a stand again opposite his friend. "the notes are for miss pinsent's husband," said he. bowdon looked up quickly. "hullo!" said he, with lifted brows. "i mean what i say; for fenning." "as the price of not coming?" "who told you he hadn't come?" "babba flint; but it's all over the place by now." "babba's wrong," said ashley. "he came on sunday night. the notes are to bribe him to go away again." there was a pause; then bowdon said slowly: "i should like to hear a bit more about this, if you don't mind, ashley. the money's yours. i promised it. but still--since you've begun, you know!" "yes, i know," said ashley quickly. "look here, i'll tell you all about it." the hands ticked the best part of the way round the clock while ashley talked without pause and uninterrupted, save once when the notes were brought in and laid on the table. he told how the man had come, what the man was, how ora had fled from him, and how, while the man moved about in the room above, he himself had told her that the man had not come. he broke off here for an instant to say, "you can understand how i came to tell her that?" on receiving bowdon's assenting nod he went on to describe how for two days he had kept his prisoner quiet; but now he must take some step. "i must take him to her, or i must murder him, or i must bribe him," he ended, with the laugh that accompanies what is an exaggeration in sound but in reality not beyond truth. "i don't like it," said bowdon at the end. "you haven't seen him as i have," was ashley's quick retort. to him it seemed all sufficient. "used to beat her, did he?" bowdon was instinctively bolstering up the case. ashley hesitated a little in his answer. "she said he struck her once. i'm bound to say he doesn't seem violent. drink, i suppose. and she--well, it might seem worse than it was. why the devil are we to consider him? he's impossible anyhow." "i wasn't considering him. i was considering ourselves." "i'm considering her." "oh, i know your state of mind. well, and if he takes the money and goes?" "she'll be quit of him. it'll be as it was before." "will it?" asked bowdon quietly. the two men regarded one another with a long and steady gaze. ashley's eyes did not shirk the encounter. "i mean that," he said at last. "but--." he shrugged his shoulders slightly. he would do his best, but he could answer for nothing. he invited bowdon to take his stand by him, to fix his attention only on saving her the ordeal which had proved beyond her strength, just to spare her pain, to ask nothing of what lay beyond, not to look too anxiously at the tools they were using or the dirt that the tools might leave on their hands. bowdon gained a sudden understanding of what irene kilnorton had meant by saying that ora did ashley infinite harm; but above this recognition and in spite of it rose his old cry so scorned by irene, "poor ora pinsent!" to him as to ashley mead the thought of carrying this man to ora pinsent and saying, "you sent for him, here he is," was well nigh intolerable. they were both men who had lived, as men like them mostly live, without active religious feelings, without any sense of obligation to do good, but bound in the strictest code of honour, pharisees in the doctrine and canons of that law, fierce to resent the most shamefaced prompting of any passion which violated it. a rebel rose against it--was it not rebellion?--drawing strength from nowhere save from the pictured woe in ora pinsent's eyes. they sat smoking in silence, and now looked no more at one another. "it's got nothing to do with me," bowdon broke out once. "then take back your money," said ashley with a wave of his hand towards the notes on the table. "you're on the square with me, anyhow," said bowdon with a reluctant passing smile. he wished that ashley had been less scrupulous and had taken his money without telling him what use he meant to put it to. "i tell you what, you'd better come and see the fellow," said ashley. "that'll persuade you i'm right, if anything will." bowdon had become anxious to be persuaded that the thing was right, or at least so excusable as to be near enough to the right, as to involve no indefensible breach of his code, no crying protest from his honour; if the sight of the man would convince him, he was ready and eager to see the man. besides, he had a curiosity. ora had married the man; this adventitious interest hung about jack fenning still. "pocket the notes, and come along," he said, rising. they were very silent as they drove down to ashley's rooms. the affair did not need, and perhaps would not bear, much talking about; if one of them happened to put it in the wrong way they would both feel very uncomfortable; it could be put in a right way, they said to themselves, but so much care was needed for this that silence seemed safer. bowdon was left in ashley's rooms while ashley went upstairs to fetch mr. fenning, whom he found smoking his pipe and staring out of the window. ashley had made up his mind to carry matters with a high hand. "i want you downstairs a minute or two," he said curtly. "all right; i shall be jolly glad of a change," said jack, with his feeble smile. "it's pretty slow here, i can tell you." "hope you won't have much more of it," ashley remarked, as he led the way downstairs. to suggest to a man that he is of such a disposition as to be ready to surrender his claim to his wife's society, take himself off for good, and leave her fate in the hands of gentlemen who are not related to her in consideration of five hundred pounds, is to intimate that you hold a very peculiar opinion of him. even with jack fenning ashley felt the difficulties of the position. bowdon gave him no help, but sat by, watching attentively. the high-handed way was the only way; but it seemed rather brutal to bully the creature. ashley began. in a pitiless fashion he hinted to jack what he was, and hazarded the surmise that he set out to rejoin his wife for much the same reason which babba flint had thought would appeal to him. bowdon waited for the outbreak of anger and the flame of resentment. jack smiled apologetically and rubbed his hands against one another. the other two exchanged a glance; their work grew easier; it seemed also to grow more disgusting. the man was passive in their hands; they had it all to do; the responsibility was all theirs. "we propose, mr. fenning, that you should return to america at once, without seeing miss pinsent or informing her of your arrival. you have lost time and incurred expense--and--er--no doubt you're disappointed. we shall consider all this in a liberal spirit." ashley's speech ended here; he was inclined to add, "i'll deal with you as one scoundrel with another." "go back now, without seeing her?" was there actually a sparkle of pleasure, or relief, or thankfulness in his eye? ashley nodded, took out the notes, and laid them on the table. bowdon shifted his feet, lit a cigarette, and looked away from his companions out of the window. "i have here five hundred pounds. if you'll take the first boat and slip away without letting your--er--visit be known to anybody, i'll hand them over to you, when you step on board." jack shook his head thoughtfully. "you see i'm out of a place," he said. "i threw up my position to come." he was haggling about the price, nothing else; bowdon got up and opened the window. "i made a sacrifice for the sake of returning to miss pinsent; my expenses have been--" "for god's sake, how much do you want?" said bowdon, turning round on him. "there's a little spec i know of--" began jack, with a confidential smile. "how much?" said ashley. "i think you ought to run to a thousand, mr. mead. a thousand's not much for--" "doing what you're doing? no, it's damned little," said ashley mead. "give him the money, ashley," said bowdon from the window. "all right, i'll give it you when i see you on board. mind you hold your tongue while you're here!" jack was smiling happily; he seemed like a man who has brought off a great _coup_ which was almost beyond his hopes, in which, at least, he had never expected to succeed so readily and easily. looking at him, ashley could not doubt that if he and bowdon had not furnished means for the "little spec" ora pinsent would have been asked to supply them. "i shall be very glad to go back. i never wanted to come. i didn't want to bother miss pinsent. i've my own friends." there was a sort of bravado about him now. "somebody'll be glad to see me, anyhow," he ended with a laugh. "no doubt," said ashley mead; his tone was civil; he loathed mr. fenning more and more, but it was not the moment for him to get on moral stilts. bowdon was as though he had become unconscious of jack's proximity. "there's a boat to-morrow; i'll try for a passage on that." "the sooner the better," ashley said. "yes, the sooner the better," said fenning. he looked doubtfully at the two men and glanced across to a decanter of whiskey which stood on a side table. "then we needn't say any more," ashley remarked, hastily gathering the crisp notes in his hand; jack eyed them longingly. "i'll see you again to-night. good-bye." he nodded slightly. bowdon sat motionless. again jack looked at both, and his face fell a little. then he brightened up; there was whiskey upstairs also. "good afternoon," he said, and moved towards the door; he did not offer to shake hands with bowdon; he knew that bowdon would not wish to shake hands with him; and the knowledge did not trouble him. "oh, ashley, my boy, ashley!" groaned bowdon when the door closed behind mr. fenning. "he came to blackmail her." "evidently. but--i say, ashley, was he always like that?" "of course not," said ashley mead almost fiercely. "he must have been going down hill for years. good god, bowdon, you know the change liquor and a life like his make in a man." "yes, yes, of course," muttered bowdon. [illustration: "somebody'll be glad to see me anyhow," he ended with a laugh] "thank heaven we've saved her from seeing him as he is now!" "i'm glad of that too." bowdon rose and flung the window open more widely. "tell you what, ashley," he said, "it seems to me the room stinks." ashley made no answer; he smiled, but not in mirth. there was a knock at the door. ashley went to open it. jack fenning was there. "i beg pardon, mr. mead," he said, "but if you'll give me a sheet of paper, i'll write for the passage; and i may have to pay something extra for going back by this boat." "i'll look after that. here's paper." and he hustled mr. fenning out. at the moment a tread became audible on the stairs. ashley stood where he was. "somebody coming," he said to bowdon. "hope he won't catch fenning!" then came voices. the two men listened; the door was good thick oak, and the voices were dim. "i know that voice," said ashley. "who the deuce is it?" "it's a man, anyhow," said bowdon. he had entertained a wild fear that the visitor might be ora herself; the scheme of things had a way of playing tricks such as that. "well, good-bye," said the voice, not jack fenning's. they heard jack going upstairs; at the same moment came the shutting of his door and a knock at ashley's. with a glance at bowdon, warning him to be discreet, ashley opened it. mr. sidney hazlewood stood on the threshold. "glad to find you in," he said, entering. "how are you, bowdon? i want your advice, mead. somebody's stealing a piece of mine and i thought you'd be able to tell me what to do. you're a lawyer, you see." "yes, in my spare time," said ashley. "sit down." hazlewood sat and began to take off his gloves. "you've got a queer neighbour upstairs, that fellow foster," he said. "he told me he'd made your acquaintance too." "he's only here for a day or two, and i had to be civil." "funny my meeting him. i used to come across him in the states. don't you be too civil." "i know he's no great catch," said ashley. "he lived by his wits out there, and very badly at that. in fact he'd have gone under altogether if he'd been left to himself." ashley felt that bowdon's eyes were on him, but bowdon took no share in the talk. "who looked after him then?" he asked. "his wife," said hazlewood. "she used to walk on, or get a small part, or sing at the low-class halls, or anything you like. handsome girl in a coarse style. daisy macpherson, that's what they called her. she kept him more or less going; he always did what she told him." he paused, and added with a reflective smile, "i mean she said she was his wife, and liked to be called mrs. foster in private life." this time neither bowdon nor ashley spoke. hazlewood glanced at them and seemed to be struck with the idea that they were not much interested in foster and the lady who was, or said she was, his wife. "but i didn't come to talk about that," he went on rather apologetically. "only it was odd my meeting the fellow." "oh, i don't know," said ashley carelessly. "what's the play, hazlewood, and who's the thief?" chapter xvi morality smiles for ora pinsent the clouds were scattered, the heavens were bright again, the sun shone. the dread which had grown so acute was removed, the necessity for losing what had come to be so much to her had passed away. and all this had fallen to her without blame, without calling for abasement or self-reproach. nay, in the end, on a view of the whole case, she was meritorious. she had summoned her husband back; true, at the last moment she had run away from him and shirked her great scenes; but if he had really come (she told herself now) she would have conquered that momentarily uncontrollable impulse and done her duty. after a few days' quiet in the country she would have gained strength and resolution to carry out her programme of renunciation and reformation. but he had not come and now he would not come; not even a message came. he refused to be reformed; there was no need for anybody to be renounced. she had done the right thing and by marvellous good fortune had escaped all the disagreeable incidents which usually attend on correct conduct. none could blame her; and she herself could rejoice. she had offered her husband his due; yet there was nothing to separate her from ashley or to break the sweet companionship. at last fate had shewn her a little kindness; the world unbent towards her with a smile, and she, swiftly responsive, held out both her hands to it in welcome for its new benevolence. trouble was over, the account was closed; she was even as she had been before the hateful letter came from bridgeport, connecticut. in very truth now she could hide the letter among the roses and let it lie there forgotten; the realities had fallen into line with the symbols. as for the people who were to have been edified by the reformation and comforted by the renunciation, why, irene and alice muddock had both been so inexplicably harsh and unkind and unsympathetic that ora did not feel bound to make herself miserable on their account. irene had got her husband, alice did not deserve the man whom ora understood her to want. it happened that she herself was made for ashley and ashley for her; you could not alter these things; there they were. she lay back on the sofa with her eyes on the portrait in the silver frame, and declared that she was happier than she had been for years. if only ashley would come! for she was rather hurt at ashley's conduct. here was thursday morning and he had not been to see her. he had written very pretty notes, pleading pressing engagements, but he had not come. she was a little vexed, but not uneasy; no doubt he had been busy. she would, of course, have excused him altogether had she known that it was only on wednesday evening that he was free from his burden and back in town, after seeing his passenger safely embarked on the boat which was to carry him and his thousand pounds back to bridgeport, connecticut, or somewhere equally far from the town where she was. although ashley did not come, she had a visitor, and although the visitor was babba flint, he came not merely in curiosity. his primary business was connected with a play. he had the handling (such was his expression) of a masterpiece; the heroine's part was made for ora, the piece would do great things here, but, babba asserted, even greater in america. the author wanted ora to play in it--authors have these whims--and, if she consented, would offer his work to mr. hazlewood; but hazlewood without ora would not serve the turn. "so i ran round to nobble you," said babba. "you know sidney wants to go to the states, if he can get plays. well, mine (he had not actually written it) is a scorcher." "should i have to go to america?" asked ora apprehensively. "it's absurd you haven't been before." he proceeded to describe ora's american triumph and the stream of gold which would flow in. "you take a share," he said. "i can offer you a share. sidney would rather have you on a salary, but take my advice and have a share." the conversation became financial and ora grew apparently greedy. as alice muddock had noticed, she had the art of seeming quite grasping and calculating. but about going to america she gave no answer. the matter was not urgent; the thing would not become pressing for months. on being cross-questioned babba admitted that the masterpiece was not yet written; the idea was there and had been confided to babba; he was thunderstruck with it and advised an immediate payment of two hundred pounds. then the masterpiece would get itself written; all wheels must be oiled if they are to run. "and if you take half, you'll make a fortune," said babba. making a fortune for a hundred pounds was the kind of operation which attracted ora. "i'll write you a cheque now," she said. babba smiled in a superior manner. "there isn't all that hurry, as long as you're on," he observed. "won't you give me a kiss for putting you on?" "if it goes as you say, i'll give you a kiss--a kiss for every thousand i make," said ora, laughing. "there won't be any of me left," groaned babba, with a humorous assumption of apprehension. he paused for a moment, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and added, "but what would mr. fenning say?" ora sat on her sofa and regarded him. she said nothing; she was trying to look grave, resentful, dignified--just as alice muddock would look; she knew so well how vulgar babba was and how impertinent. alas that he amused her! alas that just now anybody could amuse and delight her! her lips narrowly preserved their severity, but her eyes were smiling. babba, having taken a survey of her, fell into an appearance of sympathetic dejection. "awfully sorry he didn't come!" he murmured; "i say, don't mind me if you want to cry." "you're really atrocious," said ora, and began to laugh. "nobody but you would dare," she went on. "oh, i believe in him all right, you know," said babba, "because i've seen him. but most people don't, you know. i say, miss pinsent, it'd have a good effect if you advertised; look _bonâ fide_, you know." "you mustn't talk about it, really you mustn't," said ora, with twitching lips. it was all wrong (oh, what would alice muddock say?), but she was very much amused. if her tragedy of renunciation would turn to a comedy, she must laugh at the comedy. "keep it up," said babba, with a grave and sincere air of encouragement. "postpone him, don't give him up. let him be coming in three months. it keeps us all interested, you know. and if you positively can't do anything else with him, divorce him." ora's eyes turned suddenly away. "anyhow don't waste him," babba exhorted her. "i tell you there's money in him." "now you must stop," she said with a new note of earnestness. it caught babba's attention. "kick me, if you like," said he. "i didn't know you minded, though." "i don't think i did, much," said ora. then she sat up straight and looked past babba with an absent air. she had an idea of asking him what he thought of her in his heart. he was shrewd under his absurdities, kind under his vulgarity; he had never made love to her; in passing she wondered why. but after all nobody thought babba's opinion worth anything. "do you remember meeting miss muddock here?" she enquired. "rather," said babba. "i know her very well. now she's a good sort--reminds you of your mother grown young." "well, she thought you detestable," said ora. the praise of alice was not grateful to her, although she acknowledged the aptness of babba's phrase. "yes, she would," said he cheerfully. "i've got to shoulder that, you know. so have we all, if it comes to that." "we all! what do you mean?" ora did not seem amused now. "oh, our sort," said babba. "i'll leave you out, if you particularly wish it." "just tell me what you mean." "can't, for the life of me," said babba. "have a cigarette?" he held out his case; ora took a cigarette. they both began to smoke. "but we give her fits," he went on in a meditative tone, as of a man who recognised facts, although he disclaimed all power of explaining them. "i tell you what, though--" he resumed; but again he paused. "well?" said ora irritably. "that's the sort to marry," said babba, and put his cigarette in his mouth with a final air. "ask her, then," said ora, with an uncomfortable laugh. "i think i see myself!" smiled babba. "how should we mix?" ora rose from the sofa and walked restlessly to the window. her satisfaction with the world was shadowed. she decided to tell babba nothing of what alice muddock, nothing of what irene kilnorton, had said to her. for, strange as it seemed, babba would understand, not ridicule, appreciate, not deride, be nearer endorsing than resenting. he would not see narrow, ignorant, uncharitable prejudice; it appeared that he would recognise some natural inevitable difference, having its outcome in disapproval and aloofness. was there this gulf? was babba right in sitting down resignedly on the other side of it? her thoughts flew off to ashley mead. on which side of the gulf was he? and if on the other than that occupied by "our sort," would he cross the gulf? how would he cross it? "well, you'll bear the matter of the play in mind," said babba, rising and flinging away his cigarette. "oh, don't bother me about plays now," cried ora impatiently. babba stood hat in hand, regarding her critically. he saw that she was disturbed; he did not perceive why she should be. the change of mood was a vagary to be put up with, not accounted for; there was need of mr. hazlewood's philosophy. he fell back on raillery. "cheer up," he said. "he'll turn up some day." "stop!" said ora, with a stamp of her foot. "go away." "not unpardoned?" implored babba tragically. ora could not help laughing, as she stretched out her hand in burlesque grandeur, and allowed him to kiss it. "anyhow, we'll see you through," he assured her as he went out, casting a glance back at the slim still figure in the middle of the room. partly because he had not come sooner, more from the shadow left by this conversation, she received ashley mead when he arrived in the afternoon with a distance of manner and a petulance which she was not wont to show towards him. she had now neither thanks for his labours in going to meet mr. fenning nor apologies for her desertion of him; she gave no voice to the joy for freedom which possessed her. babba flint had roused an uneasiness which demanded new and ample evidence of her power, a fresh assurance that she was everything to ashley, a proof that though she might be all those women said she was, yet she was irresistible, conquering and to conquer. and her triumph should not be won by borrowing weapons or tactics from the enemy. she would win with her own sword, in her own way, as herself; she had rather exaggerate than soften what they blamed in her; still she would achieve her proof and win her battle. there seemed indeed no battle to fight, for ashley was very tender and friendly to her; he appeared, however, a little depressed. pushing her experiment, she began to talk about irene and alice, and, as she put it, "that sort of woman." "but they aren't at all the same sort of woman," he objected, smiling. "oh, yes, they are, if you compare them with me," she insisted, pursuing the path which babba's reflections had shewn her. "well, they've certain common points as compared with you, perhaps," he admitted. "they're good and i'm not." "you aren't alarmingly bad," said ashley, looking at her. he was wondering how she had come to marry fenning. "look at my life and theirs!" "very different, of course." they had never been joined in bonds of union with fenning. she leant forward and began to finger the flowers in her vase. "it would have been better," she said, "if jack had come. then you could have gone back. i know you think you're bound not to go back now." he took no notice of her last words, and asked no explanation of what "going back" meant. "i'd sooner see you dead than with your husband," he said quietly. forgetting the flowers, she bent forward with clasped hands. "would you, ashley?" she whispered. the calm gravity of his speech was sweet incense to her. speaking like that, he surely meant what he said! "how could you help me to bring him back, then?" "i hadn't quite realised the sort of man he must be." "oh!" this was not just what she wanted to hear. "there's nothing particular the matter with him," she said. "the things you told me--" "i daresay i was unjust. i expect i exasperated him terribly. i used rather to like him--really, you know." "you wouldn't now," said ashley with a frown. the remark seemed to shew too much knowledge. he added, "i mean, would you?" "now? oh, now--things are different. i should hate it now." she rose and stood opposite to him. "what's the matter?" she asked. "you're not happy to-day. is anything wrong?" he could not tell her what was wrong, how this man whom she had so unaccountably brought into her life seemed first to have degraded her and now to degrade him. to tell her that was to disclose all the story. he could throw off neither his disgust with himself nor his discontent with her. she had not asked him to borrow money and bribe jack fenning to go away; it was by no will of hers that he had become a party to the sordid little drama which hazlewood's information enabled him to piece together. all she saw was that he was gloomy and that he did not make love to her. he should have come in a triumph of exultation that their companionship need not be broken. her fears were ready with an explanation. was babba flint right? was the companionship unnatural, incapable of lasting, bound to be broken? she looked down on him, anger and entreaty fighting in her eyes. "i believe you're sorry he didn't come," she said, in a low voice. "do you want to get rid of me? you've only to say so, if that's what you want." "i'm not sorry he didn't come," said ashley, with a smile. "now you're amused. what at?" "oh, the way things happen! among all the things i thought you might say to me, i never thought of your telling me that i was sorry he hadn't come." he raised his eyes to hers suddenly. "do you know anything about what he does out there?" he asked. "no; he never wrote, except that once. i don't want to know; it doesn't matter to me." "one letter in five years--isn't it five?--isn't much." "oh, why should he write? we separated for ever." "but then he proposed to come." "dear me, don't be logical, ashley. you see he didn't come. i suppose he had a fit of something and wrote then." she paused, and added with a smile, "perhaps it occurred to him that i used to be attractive." "and then he forgot again?" "i suppose so. why do you talk about him? he's gone!" she waved her hand as though to scatter the last mist of remembrance of jack fenning. "perhaps he wanted to get some money out of you," said ashley. "you aren't flattering, ashley." "ah, my dear, a man who does what i do may say what i say." something in his words or tone appealed to her. she knelt down by his chair and looked up in his face. "you do all sorts of things for me, don't you?" "all sorts." "and you hate a good many of them?" "some." "and your friends hate all of them for your sake! i mean irene, and miss muddock, and so on. ashley, would you do anything really bad for me?" "i expect so." "i don't care; i should like it. and when you'd done it i should like to go and tell alice muddock all about it." "she wouldn't care." his voice sounded sincere, not merely as though it gave utterance to the proper formal disclaimer of an unloved lady's interest in him. ora did not miss the ring of truth. "has she begun not to care?" she asked. "if you choose to put it in that way, yes," he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "you see, we go different ways." the talk seemed all of different ways and different sorts to-day. "yes, i know," she answered, drawing a little back from him, but not rising from her knees. ashley was not looking at her, but, resting his head on his hands, gazed straight in front of him; he was frowning again. "what are they saying about jack not coming?" she asked suddenly. "what they would," said ashley, without turning his head. "you know; i needn't tell you." "oh, yes, i know. well, what does it matter?" "not a ha'penny," said ashley mead. it was not what they said that troubled him; what they said had nothing to do with what he had done. "ashley," she said, with an imperative note in her voice, "i know exactly what i ought to do; i've read it in a lot of books." her smile broke out for a moment. "most books are stupid--at least the women in them are. i was stupid before--before jack didn't come, and i thought i'd do it. well, i won't. i don't believe you'd be happier. i won't give you up, i won't let you go." ashley turned on her with a smile. "nothing equals the conceit of women," he said. "they always think they can settle the thing. whatever you say, i've not the least intention of being given up." it crossed his mind that to allow himself to be given up now would be a remarkable piece of ineptitude, when he had sacrificed a thousand pounds, and one or two other things, in order to free himself and her from the necessity of their renunciation. "wouldn't you go if i told you?" "not i!" "well then, i've half a mind to tell you!" her tone was gay; babba flint's inexplicable convictions and voiceless philosophy were forgotten. the man she loved loved her; what more was there to ask? she began to wonder how she had strayed from this simple and satisfactory point of view; didn't it exhaust the world? it was not hers to take thought for him, but to render herself into his hands. not ashamed of this weakness, still she failed to discern that in it lay her overwhelming strength. she stretched out her hands and put them in his with her old air of ample self-surrender, of a capitulation that was without condition because the conqueror's generosity was known of all. "what are we worrying about?" she cried with a low merry laugh. "here are you, ashley, and here am i!" and now she recollected no more that this kind of conduct was exactly what seemed horrible to alice muddock and wantonly wicked to irene kilnorton. in this mood her fascination was strongest; she had the power of making others forget what she forgot. ashley mead sat silent, looking at her, well content if he might have rested thus for an indefinite time, with no need of calculating, of deciding, or of acting. as for her, so for him now, it was enough. with a light laugh she drew her hands away and sprang to her feet. "i wish i hadn't got to go to the theatre," she exclaimed. "we'd dine somewhere together. oh, of course you're engaged, but of course you'd break it. you'd just wire, 'going to dine with ora pinsent,' and they'd all understand. they couldn't expect you to refuse that for any engagement; you see, they know you're rather fond of me. besides they'd all do just the same themselves, if they had the chance." so she gave rein to her vanity and her triumph; they could not but please him since they were her pæan over his love for her. till the last possible moment he stayed with her, driving with her to the theatre again as in the days when the near prospect of the renunciation made indiscretion provisional and unimportant. he would not see her act; it was being alone with her, having her to himself, which was so sweet that he could hardly bring himself to surrender it. to see her as one of a crowd had not the virtue that being alone with her had; it brought back, instead of banishing, what she had made him forget--the view of the world, what she was to others, and what she was to himself so soon as the charm of her presence was removed. he left her at the door of the theatre and went off to keep his dinner engagement. with her went the shield that protected him from reflexion and saved him from summing up the facts of the situation. morality has curious and unexpected ways of justifying itself, even that somewhat specialised form of morality which may be called the code of worldly honour. this was ashley mead's first reflexion. a very stern character is generally imputed to morality; people hardly do justice nowadays to its sense of humour; they understood that better in the old days. "the lord shall have them in derision." morality is fond of its laugh. here was his second thought, which came while a vivacious young lady gave him her opinion of the last popular philosophical treatise. to take advantage of mr. hazlewood's carelessly dropped information, to follow up the clue of the good-for-nothing foster and the masterful daisy macpherson, to set spies afoot, to trace the local habitation of the "little spec," and to find out who formed the establishment that carried it on--all this would be no doubt possible, and seemed in itself sordid enough, with its sequel of a divorce suit, and the notoriety of the proceedings which miss pinsent's fame would ensure. yet all this might possibly have been endured with set teeth and ultimately lived down, if only it had chanced that mr. hazlewood had been to hand with his very significant reminiscences before lord bowdon and ashley mead had made up their minds that jack fenning must be got out of the way, and that a thousand pounds should buy his departure and bribe him not to obtrude his society upon the lady who was his wife. that mr. hazlewood came after the arrangement was made and after the bargain struck was the satiric touch by which morality lightened its grave task of business-like retribution. what, if any, might be the legal effect of such a transaction in the eyes of the tribunal to which miss pinsent must be persuaded to appeal, ashley did not pretend to know and could not bring himself seriously to care. the impression which it would create on the world when fully set forth (and he knew jack fenning too well to suppose that it would not be declared if it suited that gentleman's interest) was only too plain. the world perhaps might not understand bowdon's part in the affair; probably it would content itself with surmises about something lying in the past and with accompanying sympathetic references to poor irene kilnorton; but its judgment of himself, of jack fenning, and of ora pinsent was not doubtful. would the world believe that ora knew nothing about the manner of jack's coming and the manner of jack's going? the world was not born yesterday! and about ashley mead the world would, after a perfunctory pretence of seeking a charitable explanation, confess itself really unable to come to any other than one conclusion. the world would say that the whole thing was very deplorable but would not attempt to discriminate between the parties. "six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." that would be the world's verdict, and, having arrived at it, it would await the infinitely less important judgment of the court with a quiet determination not to be shaken in its view of the case. to pursue a path that ended thus was to incur penalties more degrading and necessities more repugnant than could lie in an open defiance of this same world with its sounding censures and malicious smiles. to defy was in a way respectable; this would be to grovel, and to grovel with no better chance than that of receiving at last a most contemptuous pardon. "six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." he would be paired off with jack fenning, ora coupled with the masterful daisy macpherson. let them fight it out among themselves--while decent people stood aloof with their noses in the air, their ears open, and their lips as grave as might be. such was the offer of peace which morality, certainly not serious beyond suspicion, made to ashley mead; if he would submit to this, his offence touching that matter of the thousand pounds and the burking of mr. fenning's visit should be forgotten. better war to the death, thought ashley mead. but what would bowdon say? and what would be the cry that echoed in the depths of ora's eyes? he asked the question as he looked at her picture. suddenly with an oath he turned away; there had come into his mind the recollection of jack fenning's ardent study of miss macpherson's face. _mutato nomine de te_:--and does the name make such a difference? chapter xvii at sea and in port to irene kilnorton, occupied with the matter against her will and in face of self-contempt, the non-appearance of jack fenning was a source of renewed irritation and uneasiness. she could not smile with the world nor agree to dispose of the subject with the cynical and contented observation that she had never supposed the man would come and had her doubts about there being such a man at all. her consideration of it was bound to be more elaborate, her view more individual. hence came the self-contempt and anger which afflicted her without affecting facts. for the present indeed ora was infatuated with ashley mead, a position of affairs deplorable on general grounds but reassuring on personal; but then where was her safety, what security had she? she let injustice trick her into panic--with such as ora the infatuation of monday afternoon might be followed by a new passion on tuesday morning. the mixture of jealousy with her moral condemnation caused irene to suffer an unhealthy attraction to the subject; she could not help talking about it; she talked about it with bowdon to his great discomfort. he was not a good dissembler; he could respect a secret, but his manner was apt to betray that there was a secret; he was restless, impatient, now and then almost rude, when irene harped on the string of jack fenning's strange behaviour. or was it not ora's? had ora at the last moment, for reasons unquestionably sufficient, countermanded her husband? bowdon was pathetic in his plea of ignorance, but the plea did not ring true. thus she was sore with her _fiancé_, vexed with ashley mead, and furious against ora pinsent. yet, being a woman of the world, she was polite to ora when they met, friendly if severe to ashley, and, as has been said, interested in both of them with a reluctant intensity. any strangeness there might be in her own attitude was suggested to her for the first time by the very different behaviour of her friend alice muddock. here she found a definiteness of mind, a resolution, and a relentlessness which she hardly knew whether to laugh at, to shudder at, or to admire. she knew what ashley had been to alice; she remembered how in the beginning alice had taken a liking to ora pinsent. yet now her own anger could hardly seem deep or serious beside alice's silent condemnation; her moral disapproval, with its copious discussion and its lively interest, was mere frippery compared with her friend's eloquent ignoring of the very existence of the culprits. having dropped in to talk the whole thing over, irene was amazed to find that she was ashamed to introduce the subject. "i suppose i'm not really moral at all," thought irene with a moment's insight into the radical differences between her friend and herself, between the talkative shockedness of society and the genuine grieved concern which finds in silence its only possible expression. "and i brought ora here!" irene reflected in mingled awe and amusement; her deed seemed now like throwing a lighted squib into a chapelfull of worshippers. "it's a little bit absurd," was suggested by her usual way of looking at things. "quite proper, though," added her jealousy of ora pinsent. but the habitual had the last word with her. "i suppose the muddocks were brought up in that way," she ended. alice had been brought up in that way; from that way she had struggled to escape with the help of some uncertain intellectual lights; but the lights had drawn their flickering radiance from the flame of her love for ashley mead. so long as she could she had believed the best, or had at least refused to believe the worst. but the lights did not now burn brightly, their oil gave out, and the prejudices (if they were prejudices) began to gather round, thick and darkening. a lax judgment on a matter of morals seldom survives defeat suffered at the hands of the sinner. this fortuitous buttressing of righteousness is all to the good. yet because she did not see how her own feelings joined forces with her idea of right, how the fact of the argosy being laden with her own hopes intensified in her eyes the crime of the pirate, alice muddock became hard to the sinners as well as justly severe on their censurable doings; and, from having once tried to understand and excuse them, grew more certain that they could put forward no mitigating plea. weeks passed and ashley mead was not asked to kensington palace gardens. "it's a little inhuman; she was fond of him," thought irene. then came a flash of light. "bertie jewett!" she cried inwardly, and her lips set in the stoniness of a new disapproval. much as bertie had conciliated her, the reaction went too far for lady kilnorton's taste. it is very well to be estimable, but it is very ill to be estimable and nothing else; and she thought that bertie was nothing else, unless it were that he was also a little vulgar; to bowdon she had denied this; to herself she admitted it. yet she was very wrong. he might be vulgar; he was estimable; but he was much besides; hence it happened that the thing which seemed to her so impossible was in a fair way to come about. old sir james was dying, and stayed his last tottering steps on bertie jewett's arm; bob came home day by day to tell how all the business hung on bertie jewett; bob's echo, lady muddock, was of course in the same cry; the potent influence of the household, which so encircles the individual, ringed alice round with the praises of bertie jewett. she had no passion for him, but now it seemed to her that passions were of doubtful advantage and that she at least was not meant for them; the idea of having one had been part of her great mistake. bertie lay right on the true lines of her life, as training and fate--as god, she said to herself--had planned them for her; if she followed them, would she not come to bertie? all this was much, yet not enough had he been only estimable. he was strong also, strong to advance and strong to wait; the keenness of his pale blue eyes saved him here as it saved him in the bargains that he made. it shewed him his hour and the plan of his attack. with cautious audacity he laid his siege, letting his deeds not his words speak for him, trusting not to his words but to his deeds to disparage his rival. the man had the instinct for success--or seemed to have it, because his desires and capabilities were so nicely adjusted and of such equal range. he could not have written a poem, but he never wanted to. ora pinsent would have suffered under him as under a long church service; but then he would never have tried to please that lady. "do you really like him?" irene asked alice as they walked in the garden. "yes," said alice thoughtfully. "i really like him now." "oh, because he's helpful and handy, and looks after you all!" "no, there's something more than that." she frowned a little. "you can rely on him; i don't mean to do things so much as to be things--the things you expect, you know. i think the one terrible thing would be to have to do with a person who was all fits and starts; it would seem as though there was no real person there at all." "that's what i always feel about ora pinsent." irene took courage and introduced the name deliberately. "yes," alice assented briefly. irene had no doubt that she was thinking of miss pinsent's friend also, and when she came to report the conversation to bowdon this aspect of it took the foremost place. "if she marries mr. jewett," said irene, "it'll be just in a recoil from ashley mead." bowdon did not look at her but at the end of the cigarette which he was smoking by the window in queen's gate. he had no difficulty in understanding how a recoil might land one in a marriage; this was to him trodden ground. "she'll be happier with him," irene continued. "ora has quite spoilt ashley for any other woman." bowdon agreed that miss pinsent might very likely have some such effect, but he expressed the view quite carelessly. "besides, really, how could any self-respecting woman think of him now, any more than any man could of her?" bowdon made no answer to this question, which was, after all, purely rhetorical. "but, hang it, jewett!" he remarked after a pause. "i know," said irene, forgetting her former dialectical championship of bertie. the matter was serious now. "she needn't have taken quite such an extreme remedy; but he was on the spot, you see; and--and it's the business. she's falling right back into the business, over head and ears and all. it's rather sad, but--" it seemed as though she meant that it was better than linking fortunes with a being all fits and starts. she rose and came near him. "i think we're just about right, you and i, frank," she said. "we aren't jewetts and we aren't oras. i think we're the happy compromise." "you are, no doubt, my dear. i'm a dull dog," said bowdon. she looked at him for a moment and turned away with a little sigh. the marriage was very near; was the work yet fully done, or had fits and starts still their power over him and their attraction for him? he made a remark the next moment which vexed her intensely. "well, you know," he said with a thoughtful smile, "i expect we seem to miss pinsent just what jewett seems to us." irene walked away and sat down in a chair on the other side of the room. "i'm sure i don't care what i seem to ora pinsent," she said very coldly; but bowdon smoked on in pensive silence. at this time both the triumph and the activity of babba flint were great. he was divided between the masterpiece of dramatic writing at whose birth he was assisting, and the masterpiece of prescience which he had himself displayed touching the matter of mr. fenning's return. when he contemplated these two achievements (and he took almost as much personal credit for the first as for the second) he said openly that he ought to find excuse for being "a bit above himself." it was no use to tell him that he was not writing the play, and neither of the men who knew chose to tell him that he had been wrong in regard to jack fenning. thus left to a blessed self-conceit, he obtruded on ashley mead certain advice which was received with a curious bitter amusement. "if i were you, i'd find out something about the fellow," he said. "i mean--why didn't he come?" he looked very sly. "_cherchez la femme_," he added. "and if i found her?" asked ashley. "oh, well, you know best about that," said babba. he conceded that it was entirely for ashley to say whether he would greet a chance of establishing his relations with ora on a regular and respectable basis. "but, depend on it, she's there," he added, waving his hand in the supposed direction of the united states. "i shouldn't wonder at all," ashley remarked, his recollection fixed on miss macpherson's portrait. "now if we all go over in the winter--" began babba. "you all? who do you mean?" "why, if we take the play. have i told you about--?" "oh, lord, yes, babba, twenty times. but i'd forgotten." "well, if hazlewood and miss pinsent and i go--we can't ask you, i'm afraid, you know--we can nose about a bit." ashley looked at him with a helpless smile; the picture conjured up by his expression lacked no repulsive feature. here was a hideously apt summary of the prospect which had been in his own thoughts; if he followed the clue, he must nose about or get somebody to nose about for him. "shut up, babba," he commanded, rudely enough; but babba smiled and told him to think it over. babba did not recognise any defect in the manner of offering his services or anything objectionable in the substance of them. he had flung open a door; he could not be expected to guarantee the cleanliness of the threshold, since he had not a very fine eye with which to guide the broom. whatever ashley might think about the opportunities supposed to be afforded by the suggested excursion to america, he could not avoid giving consideration to the tour itself. the london season drew to a close; mr. hazlewood wanted to make his plans; babba and his associates were urgent for a yes or a no. if ora said yes, after a brief rest she would set to work at rehearsals and in a few weeks cross the seas; if she said no, she had the prospect of a long holiday, to be spent how she would, where she would, with whom she would. this position of affairs raised the great question in a concrete and urgent form; it pressed itself on ashley mead; he began to wonder when it would make an impression on ora. for up to the present time she did not seem to have looked ahead; she had fallen back into the state of irresponsible happiness from which her husband's letter had roused her. she considered the tour with interest and even eagerness, but without bringing it into relation with ashley mead; in other moments she talked rapturously about the delights of a holiday, but either ignored or tacitly presupposed the manner and the company in which she was to spend it. she never referred to her husband; she had, and apparently expected to have, no letter from him. he was gone; ora seemed as unconscious of the problem to which his disappearance gave rise as she was ignorant of the means by which the disappearance had been brought about. she had left to ashley the decision as to whether she should or should not undertake the renunciation and reformation; so she appeared to leave it to him now to make up his mind what must be done since the reformation had become impossible and the renunciation of no effect. meanwhile she was delightfully happy. it was this unmeditated joy in her which made it at once impossible for ashley to leave her and impossible to shape plans by which he should be enabled to stay with her. to do either was to spoil what he had, was to soil a simple perfection, was to run up against the world, against the world's severe cold alice muddocks with their scorn of emotions, and its babba flints with their intolerable manoeuvres and hints of profitable nosings. that a choice of courses should be forced on him became irksome. things were very well as they were; she was happy, he was happy, jack fenning was gone, and--well, some day he would pay lord bowdon a thousand pounds. he was in this mood when the american tour faced him with its peremptory summons, with its business-like calculations of profit, its romantic involving of despair, its abominable possibilities of nosing. babba spoke of it to him, so did mr. hazlewood, both with an air of curiosity; ora herself speculated about it more and more, sometimes in her artistic, sometimes in her financial, sometimes in her fatalistic mood. she was strange about it; now she would talk as though he were to be with her, again as if he were to be at work here at home and his letters her only comfort. she never faced facts; she did not even look at them from the corner of an eye, over the shoulder. "shall i go or not?" she would ask him, as though it were a question between keeping some trivial engagement and breaking it for a pleasanter. "now, shall i go, ashley dear?" had she no notion of what things meant? away from her he often asked this question; when he was with her, it died away on his lips. then he declared that, if he could so cheat necessity and beguile the inevitable from its path, she should never know what things meant, never take a hard reckoning with the world, never be forced to assess herself. she had forgotten what irene and what alice had said to her, or had persuaded herself that they spoke for form's sake, or in jealousy, or in ignorance, or because their clergyman had such influence over them, or for some such cause. she was now as simply unreasoning as she was simply happy; she was altogether at his disposal, ready to go or stay, to do what he ordered, even (as he knew) to leave him in tears and sorrow, if that were his will. she left it all to him; and, having it all left to him, he left it to mr. hazlewood, to babba flint, or to any other superficially inadequate embodiment in which the necessary chose to clothe itself. but bowdon's thousand pounds? such a man as ashley--or as his creditor--will be careless of all things in earth or heaven save a woman's secret, his given word, the etiquette of his profession, and a debt of honour. the thousand pounds was in the fullest sense a debt of honour. he had not a thousand pounds. to save was impossible while ora went everywhere with him. money to her was like manna and seemed to entail the same obligation that none of the day's bounty should be left to the next morning. ashley was hard-up; the prosaic fact shot across his mental embarrassments in a humorous streak. he laughed at it, at himself when he bought ora bouquets or the last fancy in blotting-pads, at her when she asked him for a sovereign, because she had no place convenient for the carrying of a purse. at a word she would have repaid, and besides flung all she had into his hands. but that word he would not speak. the commission drew near to its close; brief bred brief but slowly; and as long as he owed bowdon a thousand pounds he seemed to himself more than criminal. but did he owe it? yes, a thousand times. for if he did not, then bowdon was something more to ora pinsent than a chance acquaintance or a friend's _fiancé_. he acknowledged the hearty good comradeship which had shewn itself in the loan; but it had been a loan; only by repaying it could he appropriate the service to himself and remove another's offering from the shrine at which he worshipped. matters standing in this position, time, with its usual disregard of the state of our private affairs, brought on the wedding of irene kilnorton and lord bowdon. irene had found no sufficient reason for objecting to ashley's presence. logic then demanded that an invitation should be sent to miss pinsent. as it chanced, it pleased ora to come in conspicuous fashion, in a gown which the papers were bound to notice, in a hat of mark, rather late, full of exuberant sympathy with the performance. she arrived only a minute before the bride, while bowdon and ashley mead stood side by side close to the altar-rails. both saw her the moment she came in, both looked at her, neither made any comment on her appearance. as soon as the procession entered she made an effort to relapse into decorous obscurity, but, willy-nilly, she halved attention with the proper heroine of the day. a wedding affected ora; the ready tears stood in her eyes as the solemn confident vows were spoken. ashley almost laughed as he listened to bowdon's; he had a sudden sense that it would be rather absurd if ora and he took such vows; he had a distinct knowledge that the woman of whom he himself thought was in the minds of bride and bridegroom also. he glanced at her, she smiled at him with her innocent disregard of appearances. he looked the other way and found alice muddock with eyes firm set on her prayer-book. the officiating minister delivered a little discourse, one of his own writing, in lieu of the homily. looking again, ashley found alice's eyes on the minister with a grave meditative gaze, as though she weighed his words and assessed the duties and the difficulties they set forth; but ora was glancing round the church, finding acquaintances. when the ceremony ended and they had come out of the vestry, he walked past ora in the wake of the procession. ora smiled in a comprehending, rather compassionate way; her emotion was quite gone. now she seemed to bid him take the ceremony for what it was worth. he had watched to see whether bowdon looked at her; bowdon had not looked. that was because the ceremony had seemed of importance to him. ashley broke into a smile; it would have been more encouraging, if also more commonplace, had ora's tears not been so obviously merely a tribute to the literary gifts of the composers of the service. at the reception afterwards--it was quiet and small--one thing happened which seemed to have a queer significance. he found ora, and took her round the rooms. as they made their circuit they came on alice muddock; she was talking to bertie jewett. she looked up, bowed to ashley, and smiled; she took no notice at all of ora pinsent. ashley felt himself turn red, and his lips shaped themselves into angry words; he turned to ora. ora was looking the other way. she had been cut; but she had not seen it; she had not noticed alice muddock. but ashley understood that the two women had parted asunder, that to be the friend of one was in future not to be a friend to the other. it was a queer moment also when ora, full again of overflowing emotions, flung herself on irene's breast, kissed her, blessed her, praised her, prayed for her, laughed at her, lauded her gown, and told her that she had never looked better in her life. irene laughed and returned the kiss; then she looked at her husband, next at ashley, lastly at ora pinsent. there was a moment of silent embarrassment in all the three; ora glanced round at them and broke into her low laugh. "why, what have i done to you all?" she cried. "have i hypnotised you all?" bowdon raised his eyes, let them rest on her a moment, then turned to ashley mead. the two women began to talk again. for a moment the two men stood looking at one another. they had their secret. each telegraphed to the other, "not a word about the thousand!" then they shook hands heartily. ora and ashley passed on. for a moment bowdon looked after them. then he turned to his bride and found her eyes on him. he took her hand and pressed it. her eyes were bright as she looked at him for an instant before a new friend claimed her notice. as she greeted the friend, bowdon gave a little sigh. he was in port! but the laughing, dancing, buffeting, dangerous waves are also sweet. "i'm glad i went," said ora, as ashley handed her into her victoria. she laughed as she lay back on the cushions. "it was so funny at my wedding," she said. "jack lost the ring." she waved her hand merrily as she was driven away. "come soon," she cried over her shoulder. he waved his hand in response and turned to go back into the house. in his path stood bertie jewett. for an instant ashley stood still. "i suppose it's about over," he said carelessly. "just about. i must get back to the shop," said bertie, looking at his watch. but he did not move. ashley, glancing beyond him, saw alice muddock coming towards the door. "so must i," he said, clapping on his hat and hailing a hansom. he jumped in and was carried away. one of bowdon's servants brought his walking-stick to his rooms the next day. he had forgotten it in a passing recollection of old days, when alice and he used to laugh together over the manoeuvres by which they got rid of bertie jewett. chapter xviii the play and the part babba flint's dramatic masterpiece progressed and took shape rapidly. "the beggar's got at it at last," babba said, in one of his infrequent references to the author. mr. hazlewood did not talk much, but was plainly of opinion that there might be a great deal of money made. ora was enthusiastic. she had seen the scenario and had read the first draft of the great scene in the third act. the author had declared his conviction that no woman save ora could play this scene; ora was certain that it would be intolerable to her that any other woman should. she did not then and there make up her mind to play it, but it began to be certain that she would play it and would accept such arrangements of her life and her time as made her playing of it possible. in this way things, when suggested or proposed, slid into actual facts with her; they grew insensibly, as acquaintances grow; she found herself committed to them without any conscious act of decision. "let her alone, she'll do it," said hazlewood to babba, and babba did no more than throw out, on the one side, conjectures as to the talent which certain ladies whom he named might display in the _rôle_, and, on the other, forecasts of the sure triumph which would await ora herself. finally he added that ora had better see the whole piece before she arrived at a conclusion. hazlewood approved and seconded these indirect but skilful tactics. with every such discussion the play and the part made their footing more and more secure in ora's mind. she began to talk as though, in the absence of unforeseen circumstances, she would be "opening" in new york with the play and the part in october; when she spoke thus to ashley mead, the old look of vague questioning was in her eyes; it seemed to him as though the old look of apprehension or appeal were there also, as though she were a little afraid that he would forbid her to go and prevent her from playing the part. but in this look lay the only reference that she made to her present position, and her only admission that it held any difficulties. his answer to it was to talk to her about the play and the part; this he could not do without the implied assumption that she would act the part in the play, would act it with sidney hazlewood, and would act it in america in october. what these things that were gradually insinuating themselves into the status of established facts meant to him he began to see. for the play was nothing to him, he had no share in the venture, and certainly he could not tour about the united states of america as a superfluous appendage to mr. hazlewood's theatrical company. the result was that she would go away from him, and that the interval before she went grew short. up to the present time there was no change in their relations; as they had been before the coming and going of jack fenning, they were still. but such relations must in the end go forward or backward; had he chosen, he knew that they would have gone forward; more plainly than in words she had left that to him; but he had left the decision to the course of events, and that arbiter was deciding that the relations should go backward. she loved him still, tenderly always, sometimes passionately; but the phase of feeling in which her love had been the only thing in the world for her was passing away, as the counter-attraction of the play and the part increased in strength. the rest of her life, which love's lullaby had put to sleep, was awaking again. in him a resignation mingled with the misery brought by his recognition of this; unless he could resort to the "nosings" which babba flint suggested, he would lose her, she would drift away from him; he felt deadened at the prospect but was not nerved to resist it. he was paralysed by an underlying consciousness that this process was inevitable; the look in her eyes confirmed the feeling in him; now she seemed to look at him, even while she caressed him, from across a distance which lay between them. his encounter with bertie jewett after the wedding had been the incident which made him understand how he had passed out of alice muddock's life, and she out of his, his place in hers being filled by another, hers in his left empty. the fatalism of his resignation accepted a like ending for himself and ora pinsent. presently she would be gone; there was no use in trying to weld into one lives irrevocably disassociated by the tendency of things. this was the conclusion which forced itself upon him, when he perceived that she would certainly act in the play and certainly go to america in the autumn. the mists of love conceal life's landscape, wrapping all its features in a glowing haze. presently the soft clouds lift, and little by little the scene comes back again; once more the old long roads stretch out, the quiet valleys spread, the peaks raise their heads; the traveller shoulders his knapsack and starts again on his path. he has lingered; here now are the roads to traverse and the peaks to climb; here is reality; where is that which was the sole reality? but at first the way seems very long, the sack is very heavy, and the peaks--are they worth the climbing? "what's the matter, ashley? you're glum," she said one day, after she had been describing to him the finest situation in the finest part in the finest play that had ever been written. it was a week before her theatre was to close and before a decision as to plans for the future must be wrung from her by the pressure of necessity. the thought of how he stood had been so much with him that suddenly, almost without intention, he gave voice to it. she charmed him that day and he felt as though the inevitable must not and somehow could not happen, as though some paradox in the realm of fact would rescue him, as a witty saying redeems a conversation which has become to all appearance dull beyond hope of revival. "i'm losing you, ora," he said slowly and deliberately, fixing his eyes on her. "you'll take this play; you'll go to america; you're thinking more about that than anything else now." a great change came on her face; he rose quickly and went to her. "my dear, my dear, i didn't mean to say anything of that sort to you," he whispered as he bent over her. "it's quite natural, it's all as it should be. good god, you don't think i'm reproaching you?" he bent lower still, meaning to kiss her. she caught him by the arms and held him there, so that he could come no nearer and yet could not draw back; she searched his face, then dropped her hands and lay back, looking up at him with quivering lips and eyes already full of tears. blind to his feelings as she had been, yet her quickness shewed them all to her at his first hint, and she magnified his accusation till it grew into the bitterest condemnation of her. "you've given simply everything for me," she said, speaking slowly as he had. "i don't know all you've done for me, but i know it's a great deal. i told you what alice muddock said i was; you remember?" she sprang to her feet suddenly and threw her arms round his neck; "i love you," she whispered to him; it was apology, protest, consolation, all in one. "ashley, what do i care about the wretched play? only i--i thought you were interested in it too. how lovely it would be if we could act it together!" her smile dawned on her lips. "only you'd be rather funny acting, wouldn't you?" she ended with a joyous little laugh. ashley laughed too; he thought that he would certainly be funny acting; yet he was sure that if he could have acted with her he need not have lost her. "but i think i liked you first because you were so different from all of them at the theatre," she went on, knitting her brows in a puzzled frown. he might have recollected that alice muddock had liked him because he was so different from all of them in buckingham palace road. well, alice had turned again to buckingham palace road, and bertie jewett's star was in the ascendant. "i should hate to have you act," she said, darting her hand out and clasping his. they sat silent for some moments; ora's fingers pressed his in a friendly understanding fashion. "there's nobody in the world like you," she said. he smiled at the praise, since his reward was to be to lose her. things would have their way, and he would lose her. as alice back to the business, as bowdon back to a suitable alliance, so she back to her theatre. as for himself, he happened to have nothing to go back to; somewhat absurdly, he was glad of it. "all sorts of stupid people are quite happy," ora reflected dolefully. "everything seems to be arranged so comfortably for them. it's not only that i married jack, you know." she was right there, although she rather underrated the importance of the action she mentioned. even without jack there would have been difficulties. but her remark brought jack, his associations and his associates, back into ashley mead's mind. "perhaps i shall run across jack in america," she added a moment later. it was indeed not only jack, but it was largely jack. jack, although he was not all, seemed to embody and personify all. ashley's love for her was again faced and confronted with his distaste for everything about her. herself he could see only with his own eyes, but her surroundings he saw clearly enough through the eyes of a world which did not truly know her--the world of irene bowdon, almost the world of alice muddock. could he then take her from her surroundings? that could be done at a price to him definite though high; but what would be the price to her? the answer came in unhesitating tones; he would be taking from her the only life that was hers to live. then he must tell her that? he almost laughed at the idea; he knew that he would not be able to endure for a second the pain there would be in her eyes. to wrench himself away from her would torture her too sorely; let her grow away from him and awake some day to find herself content without him. "and what a fool all my friends would think me!" he reflected. but the reflexion did not weigh with him; he had protected her life from the incursion of jack fenning, he would protect it from his own tyranny. he leant forward towards her and spoke to her softly. "take the play, ora," he said; "take the part, go to america, and become still more famous. that's what you can do and what you ought to do." "and you? will you come with me?" "why no," he said, smiling. "i must stay and roll my little stone here. yours is a big stone and mine only a little one, but still i must roll my own." "but i shall be away months." "yes, i know, long months. but i won't forget you." "you won't really? i should die if you forgot me, ashley. if i go i shall think of you every hour. oh, but i'm afraid to go! i know you'll forget me." he had but little doubt that the forgetfulness would come, and that it would not come first from him. she had no inkling of the idea that she could herself cease to feel for him all that she felt now. she extracted from him vows of constancy and revelled in the amplitude of his promises. presently her mind overleapt the months of absence, saw in them nothing but a series of triumphs which would make him more proud of her, and a prospect of meeting him again growing ever nearer and nearer and sweetening her success with the approaching joy of sharing it all with him and telling him all about it. anything became sweet, shared with him; witness the renunciation! "if i hadn't you, i shouldn't care a bit about the rest of it," she said. "but somehow having you makes me want all the rest more. i wonder if all women are like that when they're as much in love as i am." ashley knew that all women were by no means like that, but he said that he suspected they were, and assured ora that the state of feeling she described was entirely consistent with a great and permanent love. as, before, his one object had been to support her through the renunciation, to make it easy and possible for her, so now he found himself bending his energies and exerting his ingenuity to persuading her that there was no incompatibility between her love and her life, between her ambition and her passion, between him and the masterpiece for whose sake she was to leave him. he had seen her once in despair about herself and dared not encounter a second time the pain which that sight of her had given him; he himself might know the truth of what she was and the outcome of what she did; he determined that, so far as he could contrive and control the matter, she should not know it. she should go and win her triumph, she should go in the sure hope that he would not change, in the confidence that she would not, that their friendship would not, that nothing would. then she would dry her tears, or weep only in natural sorrow and with no bitterness of self-accusation. it seemed worth while to him to embark again on oceans of pretence for her sake, just as it had seemed worth while to pretend to believe in the renunciation, and worth while to break his code by bribing jack fenning with a borrowed thousand pounds. at this time a second stroke fell on old sir james muddock; worn out with work and money-making, he had no power to resist. the end came swiftly. it was announced to ashley in a letter from bertie jewett. lady muddock was prostrate, bob and alice overwhelmed with duties. bertie begged that his letter might be regarded as coming from the family; he shewed consideration in the way he put this request and assumed his position with delicacy. ashley read with a wry smile, not blaming the writer but wondering scornfully at the turn of affairs. the old man had once been almost a father to him, the children near as brother and sister; now bertie announced the old man's death and the children pleaded that they were too occupied to find time to write to him. he went to the funeral; through it all his sense of being outside, of having been put outside, persisted, sharing his mind with genuine grief. from whatever cause it comes that a man has been put outside, even although he may have much to say for himself and the expulsion be of very questionable justice, it is hard for him to avoid a sense of ignominy. ashley felt humiliation even while he protested that all was done of his own choice. he spoke to the muddocks no more than a few kind but ordinary words; he did not go to the house. bertie invited him there and pressed the invitation with the subdued cordiality which was all that the occasion allowed; but he would not go on bertie's invitation. the resentment which he could not altogether stifle settled on bob. bob was the true head of family and business now. why did bob abdicate? but he had himself been next in succession; bob's abdication would have left the place open for him; he had refused and renounced; he could not, after all, be very hard on poor bob. again a few days later came a letter from bertie jewett. this time he made no apology for writing; he wrote in his official capacity as one of sir james's executors. by a will executed a month before death sir james left to ashley mead, son of his late partner, the sum of one thousand pounds to be paid free of legacy duty. ashley had no anger against the old man and accepted this acknowledgment of his father's position without contempt; it was not left to him but to his father's son; before the will was made he had been put outside. "he might have left you more than that," said ora. "you see, i wouldn't go into the business," ashley explained. "no, and you wouldn't do anything he wanted," she added with a smile. "it's really very good of him to leave me anything." "i don't call a thousand pounds anything." "that's all very well for you, with your wonderful play up your sleeve," said ashley, smiling. "but, as it happens, a thousand pounds is particularly convenient to me, and i'm very much obliged to poor old sir james." for armed with bertie jewett's letter he had no difficulty in obtaining an overdraft at his bank and that same evening he wrote a cheque for a thousand pounds to the order of lord bowdon. in allotting old sir james's money to this particular purpose he found a curious pleasure. the muddock family had been hard on ora and hard on him because of ora; it seemed turning the tables on them a little to take a small fraction of their great hoard and by its means to make them benefactors to ora, to make them _ex post facto_ responsible for jack fenning's departure, and to connect them in this way with ora's life. his action seemed to forge another link in the chain which bound together the destinies of the group among which he had moved. sir james would have given the thousand for no such purpose; he had not laboured with any idea of benefiting ora pinsent. bowdon would not like taking the thousand pounds; he had desired to lay his own gift at ora's feet. but sir james being dead should give, and lord bowdon being his lady's husband should take. so ashley determined and wrote his cheque with a smile on his lips. things turned out so very oddly. "what have you done with your legacy?" asked ora. when money came in to her, she always "did something" with at least a large proportion of it; in other words she got rid of it in some remarkable, salient, imagination-striking manner, obtaining by this means a sense of wealth and good fortune which a mere balance at the bank, whether large or small, could never give. ashley looked up at her as she stood before him. "i've paid an old debt with it," he said. "i was very glad to be able to. i'm quite free now." "were you in debt? oh, why didn't you tell me? i've got a lot of money. how unkind of you, ashley!" "i couldn't take your money," said ashley. "and i wasn't pressed. my creditor wouldn't have minded waiting for ever." "what an angel!" said ora. she was a little surprised that under the circumstances ashley had felt called upon to pay. "exactly," he laughed. "it was bowdon." "he's got lots of money. i wonder he takes it." "i shall make him take it. i borrowed it to get something i wanted, and i don't feel the thing's mine till i've paid him off." "oh, i understand that," said ora. "don't tell him i told you." "all right, i won't. i don't suppose i shall get a chance of telling lord bowdon anything. irene was like ice to me at the wedding." in reality irene had not failed to meet with a decent cordiality the outpouring of ora's enthusiasm. "confound you, i didn't want it," was lord bowdon's form of receipt for the cheque; he scribbled it on half a sheet of note paper and signed it "b." this was just what ashley had expected, and he found new pleasure in the constraint which he had placed on his friend's inclination. he shewed the document to ora when he next went to see her. "you were quite right," he said. "bowdon didn't want the money. look here." ora read the scrawl and sat turning it over and over in her fingers. "but he had to take it," said ashley with a laugh of triumph, almost of defiance. "i should think he'd be a very good friend," said ora. "if irene would let him, i mean," she added with a smile. "do you think he'd lend me a thousand pounds and not want it paid back?" she asked. "from my knowledge of him," said ashley, "i'm quite sure he would." "people do an awful lot of things for me," said ora with a reflective smile. she paused, and added, "but then other people are often very horrid to me. i suppose it works out, doesn't it?" ashley was engaged in a strenuous attempt to make it work out, but he had little idea in what way the balance of profit and loss, good and evil, pleasure and pain, was to be arrived at. "you'd do simply anything for me, wouldn't you?" she went on. although he had certainly done much for her, yet he felt himself an impostor when she looked in his face and asked him that question. there seemed to him nothing that he would not suffer for her, no advantages, no prospects, and no friendships that he would not forgo and sacrifice for her. but he would not "do simply anything for her." there was much that he would not, as it appeared to him could not, do for her. else what easier than to say, "we know so-and-so about your husband, and we can find out so-and-so by using the appropriate methods"? what easier than to say, "i'll go in your train to america, and while you win the triumphs i'll do the nosing"? for if he said that to her, if he opened to her the prospect of being rid, once and for all, of jack fenning, of levelling the only fence between him and her of which she was conscious, of enabling her to keep her masterpiece and her triumphs and yet not lose her lover, her joy would know no bounds and the world be transfigured for her into a vision of delight. but yet he could not. all was hers short of negativing himself, of ceasing to be what he was, of gulfing his life, his standards, his mind in hers. she judged by what she saw, and set no bounds to a devotion that seemed boundless. but to him her praise was accusation, and he charged himself with giving nothing because he could not give all. ora understood very little why he suddenly caught her in his arms and kissed her. but she thought it a charming way of answering her question. "poor ashley!" she sighed, as she escaped from his embrace. she had occasional glimpses of the imperfection of his happiness, just as she had occasional pathetic intuitions of what her own nature was. chapter xix collateral effects on the whole irene bowdon felt that she ought to thank heaven, not perhaps in any rapturous outpouring of tremulous joy, but in a sober give-and-take spirit which set possible evil against actual good, struck the balance, and made an entry of a reasonably large figure on the credit side of the sheet. surely it was in this spirit that sensible people dealt with heaven? if once or twice in her life she had not been sensible, to repeat such aberrations would little become an experienced and twice-married woman. you could not have everything; and lord bowdon's conduct had been extremely satisfactory. only for two days of one week had he relapsed into that apparent moodiness, that alternation of absent-mindedness with uncomfortable apologies, which had immediately succeeded the offer of his hand. on this occasion something in a letter from ashley mead seemed to upset him. the letter had a cheque in it, and irene believed that the letter and cheque vexed her husband. she had too much tact to ask questions, and contented herself, so far as outward behaviour went, with bowdon's remark that ashley was a young fool. but her instinct, sharpened by the old jealousy, had loudly cried, "ora pinsent!" she was glad to read in the papers that ora was to go to america. yes, on the whole she would thank heaven, and assure herself that lord bowdon would have made her his wife anyhow; that is, in any case, and without--she never finished the phrase which began with this "without." so ora pinsent was going to america. surely madness stopped somewhere? surely ashley mead would not go with her? irene had never given up hopes of ashley, and at this first glimmer of a chance she was prepared to do battle for him. she had never quite reconciled herself to bertie jewett; her old dislike of the ribbon-selling man and the ribbon-selling atmosphere so far persisted that she had accepted, rather than welcomed, the prospect of bertie. she wrote and begged alice muddock to come across to tea. she and bowdon were in her house in queen's gate, his not being yet prepared to receive her. she fancied that she saw her way to putting everything right, to restoring the _status quo ante_, and to obliterating altogether the effect of ora pinsent's incursion; she still felt a responsibility for the incursion. of course she was aware that just now matrimonial projects must be in the background at kensington palace gardens; but the way might be felt and the country explored. "mr. jewett, mr. jewett, mr. jewett;" this seemed the burden of alice's conversation. the name was not mentioned in a romantic way, nor in connexion with romantic subjects; it cropped up when they talked of the death, of the funeral, of the business, of money matters, future arrangements, everything that goes to make up the ordinary round of life. alice was quite free from embarrassment and shewed no self-consciousness about the name; but its ubiquity was in the highest degree significant in irene's eyes. she knew well that the man who has made himself indispensable has gone more than half-way towards making any other man superfluous, and she seemed to be faced with the established fact of bertie jewett's indispensability. the time would come when he would ask his reward; either he must receive it or he must vanish, carrying off with him all the comfort his presence had given and breaking the habit of looking to him and leaning on him which had become so strong and constant. if irene meant to enter the lists against bertie, she would be challenging an opponent who knew how to fight. "have you seen anything of ashley mead?" she asked, as she lifted the teapot and poured out the tea. "he came to the funeral, but of course we had no talk, and he's not been since." "you haven't been asking people, i suppose?" "we haven't asked him," said alice calmly. she took her tea and looked at her hostess with perfect composure. "he couldn't come just now without being invited, you know," irene suggested. "perhaps not," said alice, rather doubtfully. "i don't think he wants to come." she paused, and then added deliberately, "and i don't want him to come." now she flushed a very little, although her face remained steady and calm. she did not seem to shrink from the discussion to which her friend opened the way. "it would be nonsense to pretend that he's what he used to be to us," she went on. "you know that as well as i do, irene." "i don't know anything about it," declared irene pettishly. "i think you're hard on him; all men are foolish sometimes; it doesn't last long." had not lord bowdon soon returned to grace, soon and entirely? "oh, it's just that you see what they are," said alice. she set down her cup and gazed absently out of the window. irene was irritated; her view had been that momentary weaknesses in a man were to be combated, and were not to be accepted as final indications of what the man was; she had acted on that view in regard to her husband, and, as has been stated, on the whole she thanked heaven. she thought that alice also might, if she chose, bring herself to a position in which she could thank heaven moderately; but it was not to be done by slamming the door in the face of a prodigal possibly repentant. she cast about for a delicate method of remarking that ora pinsent was going to america. "it was quite inevitable that he should drift away from us," alice continued. "i see that now. i don't think we're any of us bitter about it." "he needn't go on drifting away unless you like." "it isn't very likely that i should make any efforts to call him back," said alice, with a faint smile. "why not?" asked irene crossly. "well, do women do that sort of thing?" "why, of course they do, my dear." alice's smile expressed a very clear opinion of such conduct, supposing it to exist. irene grew red for an instant and pushed her chair back from the table. anger makes delicate methods of remarking on important facts seem unnecessary. "you know ora pinsent's off to america?" she asked. "no, i know nothing of miss pinsent's movements," said alice haughtily. "i don't read theatrical gossip." irene looked at her, rose, and came near. she stood looking down at alice. alice looked up with a smile; the irritation in both seemed to vanish. "oh, my dear girl, why must you be so proud?" asked irene, with a nervous little laugh. "you cared for him, alice." "yes; all the world knew that. i didn't realise, though, quite how well they knew it." "and now you don't?" alice's eyes did not leave her friend's face as she paused in consideration. "i don't suppose i shall ever be so happy as i used to think i should be with ashley mead," she said at last. "but i couldn't now. i should always be thinking of--of what's been happening lately. irene, i loathe that sort of thing, don't you?" "oh, with men it's just--" irene began. "with some sort of men, i suppose so," alice interrupted. "i tried to think it didn't matter, but--could you care for a man if you knew he had done what ashley has?" in ninety hours out of a hundred, in ninety moods out of a hundred, irene would have been ready with the "no" that alice expected so confidently from her; with that denial she would instinctively have shielded herself from a breath of suspicion. but now, looking into the grave eyes upturned to hers, she answered with a break in her voice, "yes, dear; we must take what we can get, you know." then she turned away and walked back to her tea-table; her own face was in shadow there, and thence she watched alice's, which seemed to rise very firm and very white out of the high black collar of her mourning gown. she loved alice, but, as she watched, she knew why ashley mead had left her and given himself over to ora pinsent; she had not often seen so nearly in the way men saw. then she thought of what bertie jewett was; he could not love as this girl deserved to be loved. "and we don't always get what we deserve," she added, forcing another nervous laugh. "most women have to put up with something like what you mean, only they're sensible and don't think about it." "i'm considered sensible," said alice, smiling. "sensible people are only silly in different ways from silly people," irene declared, with a touch of fresh irritation in her voice. "well then, it's no use?" she asked. "it's no use trying to undo what's done." alice got up and came and kissed her friend. "it was like you to try, though," she said. "and i suppose it's to be--?" "it's not to be anybody," alice interrupted. "fancy talking about it now!" "oh, that's conventional. you needn't mind that with me." "really i'm not thinking about it." but even as she spoke her face grew thoughtful. "our life's arranged for us, really," she said. "we haven't much to do with it. look how i was born to the business!" "and you'll go on in the business?" "yes. i used to think i should like to get away from it. perhaps i should like still; but i never shall. there are terribly few things one gets a choice about." "marriage is one," irene persisted, almost imploringly. "do you think it is, as a rule?" asked alice doubtfully. their talk had drawn them closer together and renewed the bonds of sympathy, but herein lay its only comfort for irene bowdon. the disposition that alice shewed seemed clearly to presage bertie jewett's success and to prove how far he had already progressed. she wondered to find so much done and to see how ashley had lost his place in the girl's conception of what her life must be. "i should have fought more," irene reflected, and went on to ask whether that were not because she also felt more than her friend, or at least differently; did not the temperament which occasioned defeat also soften it? yet the girl was not happy; she was rather making the best of an apparently necessary lack of happiness; life was a niggard of joy, but by good management the small supply might be so disposed as to make a good show and so spread out as to cover a handsome space. against the acceptance of such a view irene's soul protested. it was dressing the shop-window finely when there was no stock inside. "i shouldn't mind what a man had thought," she said, "if i could make him think as i wanted him to now." "no, but you'd know him too well to imagine that you ever could," said alice. a little inhuman, wasn't it? the old question rose again in irene's mind, even while she was feeling full of sympathy and of love. it was all too cold, too clear-sighted, too ruthless; if you were very fond of people, you did not let yourself know too well what you did not wish to think about them; you ought to be able to forget, to select, to idealise; else how could two people ever love one another? there must be a partiality of view; love must pretend. she could fancy ashley's humorously alarmed look at the idea of living in company with perfect clear-sightedness. as for ora--but surely the objection here would come even sooner and more clamorously from clear-sightedness itself? "i daresay you're right, dear, but it doesn't sound very encouraging," she said. "i declare it's a good thing i'm married already, or i should never have dared after this!" "if it is like that, we may just as well admit it," said alice, with a smile and a sigh. "i must go back," she added. "mr. jewett's coming to dinner to talk over some business with me." business and mr. jewett! that indeed seemed now the way of it. irene kissed her friend with rueful emphasis. at this time lady muddock, while conceiving herself prostrate and crushed under the blow which had fallen on her, was in reality very placid and rather happy. as a dog loves his master she had loved her husband; the dog whines at the master's loss, but after a time will perceive that there is nobody to prevent him from having a hunt in the coverts. a repressive force was removed, and lady muddock enjoyed the novel feeling of being a free agent. and everything went very well according to her ideas. minna soames, whose father had been a clergyman, and who had sung only at concerts, would become her daughter-in-law, and bertie jewett her son-in-law; minna would cease to sing, and bertie would carry on the business; bob would be perfectly happy, and alice would act with true wisdom and presently find her reward. she had a sense of being at home in all things, of there being nothing that puzzled or shocked or upset her. she disliked the unfamiliar; she had therefore disliked ora pinsent, even while she was flattered by knowing her; but it was just as flattering and at the same time more comfortable to have known and voluntarily to have ceased to know her. as for ashley mead, he had never let her feel quite at ease with him; and the society which he had been the means of bringing to the house was not the sort which suited her. she made preparations for taking a handsome villa at wimbledon; to that she would retire when bob brought his bride to kensington palace gardens. in a word, the world seemed to be fitting itself to her size most admirably. bowdon had been paying a visit of condolence to her while alice was with his wife--so irene had contrived to distribute the quartette--and discovered her state of mind with an amusement largely infected with envy. his own life was of course laid on broader lines than hers; there was a wider social side to it and a public side; but he also had come to a time of life and a state of things when he must fit himself to his world and his world to him, much in lady muddock's fashion--when things became definite, vistas shortened, and the actual became the only possible. the return of his thousand pounds typified this change to him; it closed an incident which had once seemed likely to prevent or retard the process of settling down to which he was now adapting and resigning himself; he admitted with a sigh that he had put it off as long as most men, and that, now it was come, it had more alleviations for him than for most. well, the ground had to be cleared for the next generation; theirs would be the open playing-fields; it was time for him to go into the house and sit down by the fire. what was there to quarrel with in that? did not _placens uxor_ sit on the other side of the hearth? and though tempests were well enough in youth, in advanced years they were neither pleasant nor becoming. but he wished that it was all as grateful to him as it was to lady muddock. alice came in before he left and took him to walk with her in the garden. the burden of her talk chimed in with his mood; again she dwelt on the view that one's place was somewhere in the world, that by most people at all events it had only to be found, not made, but that sorrow and a fiasco waited on any mistake about it. she spoke only for herself, but she seemed to speak for him also, expressing by her subdued acquiescence in giving up what was not hers, and her resolute facing of what was, the temper which he must breed in himself if he were to travel the rest of the way contentedly. "but it's a bit of a bore, isn't it?" he asked, suddenly standing still and looking at her with a smile. "yes, i suppose it's a bit of a bore," said she. then she went on rather abruptly, "have you seen ashley since you came back?" "only once, for a moment at the club." "is he getting on well? will he do well?" "if he likes," said bowdon, shrugging his shoulders. "but he's a queer fellow." "i don't think he quite agrees with us in what we've been saying." "i don't know about that. at any rate i fancy he won't act on it." "there's no use talking about it," she said with an impatience only half suppressed. "he's so different from what he used to be." "not so very, a little perhaps. then you're a little different from what you used to be, aren't you?" she looked at him with interest. "yes?" she said questioningly. "add the two little differences together and they make a big one." "a big difference between us?" "that's what i mean. i feel the same thing about him myself. he's not for settling down, miss muddock." "oh, i suppose we both know why that is," she said. "we needn't mention names, but--" "well, we know how it is even if we don't know why it is; but it isn't all miss pinsent, or--" he paused an instant and ended with a question. "or why doesn't he settle down there?" she seemed to consider his question, but shook her head as though she found no answer. to adduce the obvious objection, the fenning objection, seemed inconsistent with the sincerity into which their talk had drifted. "i tell you what," said bowdon, "i'm beginning to think that it doesn't much matter what sort a man is, but he ought to be one sort or the other. don't you know what i mean?" she walked by his side in silence again for a few minutes, then she turned to him. "are we contemptuous, or are we envious, or what are we, we people of one sort?" she asked. "on my honour i don't know," answered bowdon, shaking his head and laughing a little. "i think i'm contemptuous," she said, and looked in his face to find an equal candour. but he did not give his decision; he would not admit that he inclined still a little towards the mood of envy. "anyhow it must be strange to be like that," she said; she had thought the same thing before when she sat in the theatre, watching ora pinsent act. then she had watched with an outside disinterested curiosity in the study of a being from another world who could not, as it had seemed, make any difference to her world or to her; but ora had made differences for her, or at least had brought differences to light. so the various lines of life run in and out, now meeting and now parting, each following its own curve, lead where it may. "i must run away," said bowdon, "or i shall keep my wife waiting for dinner." "and i must go and dress, or i shall keep mr. jewett waiting for dinner." they parted with no more exchange of confidence than lay in the hint of a half-bitter smile. lord bowdon walked home to queen's gate, meditating on the developments and manifestations of the modern spirit. he yielded to fashion so far as to shape his phrase in this way and to affix mental capital letters to the dignified words. but in truth he was conscious that the affair was a very old one, that there had been always a modern spirit. in the state of innocency adam fell, and in the days of villainy poor jack falstaff; the case would seem to be much the same with the modern spirit. still there is good in a label, to comfort the consciences of sinners and to ornament the eloquence of saints. the eloquence of saints was on the lips of his wife that evening when they dined together, and bowdon listened to it with complete intellectual assent. he could not deny the force of her strictures on ashley mead nor the justness of her analysis of ora pinsent. but he did not love her in this mood; we do not always love people best when they convince us most. ashley was terribly foolish, ora seemed utterly devoid of the instinct of morality, intimated irene. "no," said bowdon, with a sudden undeliberated decisiveness, "that's just what she's got. she hasn't anything else, but she has that." the flow of irene's talk was stemmed; she looked across at him with a vexed enquiring air. "you've not seen anything like so much of her as i have," she objected. "really i don't see what you can know about it, frank. besides men never understand women as women do." "sometimes better, and i'm quite right here," he persisted. "why did she send for her husband?" "i don't think there was ever any real question of his coming." this remark was not quite sincere. "oh, yes, there was," said bowdon with a smile. the smile hinted knowledge and thereby caused annoyance to his wife. how did he come to know, or to think he knew, so much of ora? but it was no great thing that had inspired his protest; it was only the memory of how she once said, "don't." "i'm going to see her," irene announced in resolute tones. "i used to have some influence over her, and i'm going to try and use it. i may do some good." "in what direction, dear?" there was a touch of scepticism in bowdon's voice. "about ashley mead. i do believe everything could be made happy again. frank, i'm not reconciled to bertie jewett yet." bowdon shook his head; he was reconciled to bertie jewett and to the tendency of events which involved the success of bertie jewett. "and she ought to go back to her husband," irene pursued. the modern spirit had not, it must be presumed, left lord bowdon entirely untouched, else he could not have dissented from this dictum; or was it only that a very vivid remembrance of mr. fenning rose in his mind? "i'm hanged if she ought," he said emphatically. "and if you only knew what the fellow's like--" he came to a sharp stop; his wife's surprised eyes were set on his face. "you don't know what he's like, you've never seen him; you told me so, long ago, when i first got to know her." lord bowdon appeared embarrassed. "wasn't it true?" asked irene severely. "yes, it was true," he answered, and truly, for, at the time he said it, it had been true. "then how do you know what he's like?" she persisted. the servants had left them to their coffee. irene came round and sat down close to her husband. "you know something, something you didn't mean me to know. what is it, frank?" bowdon looked at her steadily. he had meant to tell nothing; but he had already told too much. a sudden gleam of understanding came into her eyes; her quick intuition discerned a connection between this thing and the other incident which had puzzled her. "i believe it's something to do with that cheque ashley mead sent you," she said. she would not move her eyes from his face. "i'm not at liberty to tell you anything about it. of course i'm not going to deny that there's a secret. but i can't tell you about it, irene." "you would be quite safe in telling me." she rose and stood looking down on him. "you ought to tell me," she said. "you ought to tell me anything that concerns both you and ora pinsent." she was amazed to say this, and he to hear it. the one point of silence, of careful silence, the one thing which neither had dared to speak of to the other, the one hidden spring which had moved the conduct of both, suddenly became a matter of speech on her lips to him. suddenly she faced the question and demanded that he also should face it. she admitted and she claimed that what touched him and ora pinsent must touch her also. and he did not contest the claim. "i must know, if--if we're to go on, frank," she said. "there's much less than you think," said he. "but i'll tell you. i tell you in confidence, you know. fenning came. that's all." irene made no comment. that was not all; the cheque from ashley mead was not explained. bowdon proceeded with his story. he told what he had to tell in short sharp sentences. "the fellow was impossible." "it was impossible to let her see him." "he was a rascal." "he drank." pauses of silence were interspersed. "it would have killed her." "he only wanted money of her." "the idea of his going near her was intolerable." "she had forgotten what he was, or he had gone down-hill terribly." "and the money?" asked irene, in a low whisper. she had seated herself again, and was looking before her into the fireplace. "he came for money; he had to have it if he was to go. ashley asked me for it. i gave it him." "as a loan? he sent it back." "i didn't mean it as a loan. but, as you say, he's sent it back." "why?" "because he didn't want her to be indebted to me for it." his bitterness cropped out in his tone; he had desired a share in the work which ashley would not give him. he must have forgotten his wife for the moment, or he would have kept that bitterness out of his voice; indeed for the moment he seemed to have forgotten her, as he leant his head on his hand and stared gloomily at the floor. "so we gave him the money, and he went away again." she was silent. "you wouldn't wonder so much if you'd seen him." "i don't wonder," she said. "i haven't seen him, but i don't wonder. and you never told her?" "no, i never told her." "nor ashley mead?" "no, he's never told her, either. and you mustn't." for an instant his tone was rigidly imperative. in spite of the tone she seemed to pay no heed to the last words. "you kept it all from her?" she asked again. "yes," he said. "does that seem very wrong to you?" "oh, i don't know," she groaned. "or very strange?" he asked, turning his head and looking towards her. she rose to her feet suddenly, walked to the mantel-piece, and stood there with her back towards him. "no," she said, "not very strange. it's only what i knew before. it's not strange." she turned round and faced him; she was rather pale, but she smiled a little. "i knew all the time that you were in love with her too," she said. "of course you wouldn't let the man go near her!" bowdon raised his eyes to his wife's face. she turned away again. "i knew it when i made you propose to me," she said. chapter xx the ways divide it may safely be said that, had bowdon's wife been such as ora pinsent, or bowdon himself of the clay of which ora was made, the foregoing conversation would not have stopped where it did, nor with the finality which in fact marked its close. it would have been lengthened, resumed, and elaborated; its dramatic possibilities in the way of tragedy and comedy (it was deficient in neither line) would have been developed; properly and artistically handled, it must have led to something. but ordinary folk, especially perhaps ordinary english folk, make of their lives one grand waste of dramatic possibilities, and as things fell out the talk seemed to lead to nothing. when irene had made her remark about knowing that her husband was in love with ora even when she induced him to propose to herself, she stood a moment longer by the mantel-piece and then went upstairs, as her custom was; he held the door open for her, as his custom was; sat down again, drank a small glass of cognac, and smoked a cigar, all as his custom was; in about half an hour he joined her in the drawing-room and they talked about the house they were going to take in scotland for the autumn. neither then nor in the days that followed was any reference made to this after-dinner conversation, nor to the startling way in which the hidden had become open, the veil been for a moment lifted, and the thing which was between them declared and recognised. the dramatic possibilities were, in fact, absolutely neglected and thrown away; to all appearance the conversation might never have taken place, so little effect did it seem to have, so absolutely devoid of result it seemed to be. it was merely that for ever there it was, never to be forgotten, always to form part of their consciousness, to define permanently the origin of their relations to one another, to make it quite plain how it was that they came to be passing their lives together. that it did all these not unimportant things and yet never led to another acute situation or striking scene shews how completely the dramatic possibilities were thrown away. it did not even alter irene's resolve of going to see ora pinsent. to acquiesce in existing facts appeared the only thing left to do so far as she herself was concerned: but the facts might still be modified for others; this was what she told herself. besides this feeling, she was impelled by an increased curiosity, a new desire to see again and to study the woman who had been the occasion of this conversation, who had united her husband and her friend in a plot and made them both sacrifice more than money because they would not have jack fenning come near her. we are curious when we are jealous; where lies the power, what is the secret of the strength which conquers us? the scene in the little house at chelsea was very much the same as alice muddock had once chanced on there. sidney hazlewood and babba flint were with ora; after a swift embrace ora resumed her talk with them. the talk was of tours, triumphs, and thousands; the masterpiece was finished; it bulged nobly in babba's pocket, type-written, in brown covers, with pink ribbons to set off its virgin beauty. on the table lay a large foolscap sheet, fairly written; this was an agreement, ready for ora's signature; when it had received that, it would be, as hazlewood was reminding ora, an agreement. ora was struck anew with the unexpectedness of this result of merely writing one's name, and shewed a disinclination to take the decisive step. she preferred to consider tour, triumphs, and thousands as hypothetical delights; she got nearly as much enjoyment out of them and was bound to nothing. babba smoked cigarettes with restless frequency and nervous haste; a horse and cart could almost have been driven along the wrinkle on mr. hazlewood's brow. he looked sixty, if he looked a day, that afternoon. irene sat unnoticed, undisturbed, with the expression in her eyes which a woman wears when she is saying, "yes, i suppose it would be so; i suppose men would. i don't feel it myself, but i understand how it would be." the expression is neither of liking nor of dislike; it is of unwilling acquiescence in a fact recognised but imperfectly comprehended. the presence of the power is admitted, the source but half discovered; the analysis of a drug need not be complete before we are able to discern its action. "i won't sign to-day," said ora. "i might change my mind." "good lord, don't!" cried babba, seizing another cigarette. "that's just why we want you to sign to-day," said hazlewood, passing his hand over his forehead in a vain effort to obliterate the wrinkle. "then you'd bring an action against me!" exclaimed ora indignantly. "without a doubt--and win it," said hazlewood. "i hate agreements. i hate being committed to things. oh, do give me a cigarette!" after all, was it not strange that both the men should have done what they had for her? was there not a touch of vulgarity in her? to the jealous eyes of a woman, perhaps. "but men don't see that," thought irene bowdon as she sat on the sofa; she was in that favourite seat of her hostess', by the little table, the portrait in its silver frame, and the flower-vase that once had hidden the letter from bridgeport, connecticut. there was more in ora's mood than her natural indecision, or her congenital dislike of being bound, or her ingrained dread of agreements which were agreements. the men did not see this; what do men see? but the observant woman on the sofa saw it. the power of the tour, the triumphs, and the thousands was fought by another power; the battle raged in the heart of the woman who would not sign, who chaffed and laughed and protested petulantly, who put off her persuaders by any art or device her beauty excused or her waywardness furnished, who would say neither yes nor no. the conflict declared itself in her nervous laughs, in her ridiculous puffings at an ill-used cigarette, in the air of attention which seemed to expect or hope for a new arrival, perhaps somebody to rescue her, to decide for her, to take the burden of choice from the shoulders that she shrugged so deprecatingly. "it's awful to go wandering about over there for months," she said. "i hate you both, oh, how i hate you both!" "the part--" began babba. "do be quiet. i know it's a lovely part," cried ora. then she turned suddenly to irene and began to laugh. "don't tell anybody how silly i am, irene," she said, and she looked at the clock again with that expectant hopeful air. "it's now or never," declared mr. hazlewood, with much solemnity. "oh, nonsense!" said ora peevishly. "it's now or to-morrow; and to-morrow will do just as well." hazlewood and babba exchanged glances. after all, to-morrow would be just in time; they had wrestled long with her to-day. "if you'll take your bible oath to settle one way or the other to-morrow--" babba began. "i will, i will, oh, of course i will," ora interrupted, infinite joy and relief lighting up her face. "i shall know quite well by to-morrow. do go now, there's good men. i'll settle it all in five minutes to-morrow." "mind you do," said babba, looking round for his hat. hazlewood had his and was staring at the crown of it; a coach and four might have hazarded passage along the wrinkle now. "you'll be just the same to-morrow," he observed, hardly reproachfully, but with an air of sad knowledge. "i shan't," said ora indignantly. "if you think that of me, i wonder you have anything to do with me. oh, but i suppose i'm useful! nobody cares for me--only just for the use i am to them!" both men smiled broadly; greatly to her surprise and disgust irene found herself exchanging what she was obliged to call a grin with babba flint; she had not expected to live to do that. "that's just it, miss pinsent," said babba. "you ain't clever, and you ain't pleasant, and you ain't pretty; but the fool of a public happens to like you, so we've all got to pretend you are; and we mean to work you to the last tanner, don't you know?" mr. hazlewood smiled sardonically; he did not admire babba's wit. "this time to-morrow then," said ora, ringing the bell. "oh, and take your agreement with you; i won't have the odious thing here." she flung it at babba, who caught it cleverly. "i couldn't live in the room with it," she said. ora waited till she heard the house door shut upon her visitors. "thank goodness!" she cried then, as she sank into a chair opposite irene. "how good of you to come and see me," she went on. irene was hard on her search; she did not allow herself to be turned aside by mere civilities, however charming might be the cordiality with which they were uttered. "are you really going to america?" she asked. ora's face grew plaintive again; she thought that she had got rid of that question till the next day. "oh, i suppose so. yes. i don't know, i'm sure." she leant forward towards her friend. "i suppose you're awfully happy, aren't you, irene?" irene smiled; she had no intention of casting doubts on her bliss in her present company. "then do be kind to me, because i'm awfully miserable. now you're looking as if you were going to tell me it was my own fault. please don't, dear. that doesn't do any good at all." "not the least i'm sure, to you," said irene bowdon. ora scanned her friend's face anxiously and timidly. she was speculating on the amount of sympathy to be expected; she knew that on occasion irene could be almost as unjust as alice muddock. she was afraid that irene would break out on her. irene was in no such mood; coldly, critically, jealously observant, she waited for this woman to throw new lights on herself, to exhibit the kind of creature she was, to betray her weakness and to explain her power. "can't you make up your mind whether to go or not?" she asked with a smile. "if you only knew what going means to me!" cried ora. suddenly she rose and flung herself on her knees beside her friend. irene had an impulse to push her away; but she sat quite still and suffered ora to take her hand. "you see, he can't come with me," ora went on, with a pathetic air which seemed to bemoan the wanton impossibility of what might, had it been so disposed, have been quite possible. "who can't go with you? mr. mead?" "yes, ashley; who else could i mean?" "well, i don't suppose he can." irene gave a short laugh. "no," said ora resentfully. "he can't, you see." she looked up in irene's face. "at least i suppose he can't?" she said in a coaxing voice; then dreariness conquered and reigned in her whole air as she added mournfully, "anyhow, i'm sure he won't." "i hope to goodness he won't," said irene bowdon. ora drew a little away, as though surprised; then she nodded and smiled faintly. "i knew you'd say that," she remarked. "what in the world else should i say?" irene demanded. "nothing, i suppose," sighed ora. "it would be quite out of the question, wouldn't it?" "quite," said irene, and shut her lips close as the one word left them. her patience was failing. there were two possible things, to be respectable, and not to be respectable; but there was no such third course as ora seemed to expect to have found for her. "of course if i give up the tour," said ora, in a meditative tone, "things could go on as they are." "could they?" cried irene. "oh, i don't know how they are, and i don't want to ask. well, then, i suppose i don't believe the worst or i shouldn't be here; but almost everybody does, and if you go on much longer quite everybody will." "i don't mind a bit about that," remarked ora. her tone was simple and matter-of-fact; she was neither making a confession nor claiming a merit. "how can i be expected to? i lost all feeling of that sort when jack didn't come. he was the person who ought to have cared, and he didn't care enough to come when i said he might." the reference to mr. fenning touched irene's wound, and it smarted again. but she was loyal to her husband's injunction and gave no hint which might disturb ora's certainty that jack fenning had not come. "i think you'd better go away before you've quite ruined ashley mead's life," she said in cold and deliberate tones; "and before you've ruined yourself too, if you care about that." she expected to be met by one of ora's old pitiful protests against harsh and unsympathetic judgments; the look in ora's eyes a little while ago had foreshadowed such an appeal. but it did not come now. ora regarded her with a faint smile and brows slightly raised. "i don't see," she said, "how all sorts of different people can be expected all to behave in exactly the same way." "what's that got to do with it?" asked irene irritably. "well, that's what it comes to, if you listen to what people say." "do you mean if you listen to what i say?" "yes," said ora, with a smile, "you and miss muddock and all the rest of them. and i suppose you've made lord bowdon as bad by now? i'm not going to think about it any more." she shook her head as though to clear away these mists of conventional propriety. "if people can be happy anyhow, why shouldn't they?" she added. "i believe," said irene, "that you really think you're coming to a new resolution. as if you'd ever thought of anything except what you liked!" ora shook her head again, this time in gentle denial; memories of infinite sacrifices to the ideal rose before her; for example, there was the recalling of her husband. but she would not argue as to her own merits; she had ceased to expect justice or to hope for approbation. "it's all no use," she said despondently. "i may say what i like, but he won't come." again she spoke as though she would not give up the tour and would sign the agreement on the morrow, and would do this although she knew that ashley would not come. then they would separate! to her own sheer amazement and downright shame irene bowdon felt a sharp pang of sorrow; for ora looked puzzled and forlorn, as though she did what she could not help and suffered keenly at the price she had to pay. their eyes met, and ora divined the newly born sympathy. "you are sorry for me, aren't you?" she murmured, stretching her hands out towards her friend. "yes," said irene, with a laugh. "i actually am." she was beginning to understand the transaction which had sent jack fenning away richer by a thousand pounds. "i know you'd help me if you could," ora went on, "but nobody can; that's the worst of it." she paused for a moment, and then remarked with a mournful smile, "and suppose babba's wrong and the play does no good after all!" irene's warmth of feeling was chilled; she did not understand the glamour of the play so well as she appreciated the pathos of the parting. the strength of the tie came home to her, the power which fought against it was beyond her experience or imagination. "i wonder you can think about the play at all," she said. "oh, you've no idea what a part it is for me!" cried ora. but her plea sounded weak, even flippant, to irene; she condemned it as the fruit of vanity and the sign of shallowness. ora caused in others changes of mood almost as quick as those she herself suffered. "well, if you go because you like the part, you can't expect me to be very sorry for you. it's a very good thing you should go; and your part will console you for--for what you leave behind." ora made no answer; her look of indecision and puzzle had returned; it was useless to try to make another understand what she herself failed to analyse. but as the business drew alice muddock, so the play drew her; and the business had helped to turn alice's heart from ashley mead. he had not been able there to conquer what was in the blood and mingled its roots with the roots of life. no thought of a parallel came to irene bowdon; any point of likeness between the two women or their circumstances would have seemed to her impossible and the idea of it absurd; they were wide asunder as the poles. what she did dimly feel was the fashion in which ashley seemed to stand midway between them, within hearing of both and yet divided from each; she approached the conclusion that he was not really made for either, because he had points which likened him to both. but this was little more than a passing gleam of insight; she fell back on the simpler notion that after all ashley and ora could not be so very much in love with one another. if they were victims of the desperate passion she had supposed, one or other or both would give up everything else in the world. they were both shallow then; and probably they would do nothing very outrageous. relief, disappointment, almost scorn, mingled together in her as she arrived at this conclusion. "i'm sure you and mr. mead will end by being sensible," she said to ora, with a smile which was less friendly than she wished it to appear. "you've been very foolish, but you both seem to see that it can't go on." she leant forward and looked keenly at ora. "well?" said ora, put on her defence by this scrutiny. "do you really care much about him? i wonder if you could really care much about anybody!" she was rather surprised to find herself speaking so openly about an attachment which her traditions taught her should be sternly ignored; but she was there to learn what the woman was like. "i don't love people often, but i love ashley," was ora's answer; it was given with her own blend of intensity and innocence. to irene bowdon, even armoured as she was in prejudice, it carried conviction. "it'll almost kill me to go away from him." "you'll forget all about him." "should i be any happier if i believed that? should you be happier for thinking that you'd stop loving your husband?" "if i had to lose him--" irene began. "no, no, no," insisted ora; her eyes were full of tears. "oh, you don't understand, how can you understand? i suppose you think it's jack? i tell you it would be the same if jack had never existed. no, i don't know. but anyhow it would be the same if he didn't exist now." she began to walk about the room, her hands clasped tight on one another. as she spoke the door opened and ashley came in. irene started, but did not move: she had not wished to see them together; the sight of their meeting revived her disapprobation; the thing, being made palpable, became again offensive to her. but escape was impossible. ora seemed entirely forgetful of the presence of any onlooker; she ran straight to ashley, crying his name, and caught him by both his hands. he looked across at irene, then raised ora's hands in his and kissed each of them. he seemed tired. "i'm late," he said. "i've had a busy day." he released ora and came towards irene. "they've actually taken to sending me briefs! how are you, lady bowdon?" "and the briefs keep him from me," said ora; she was standing now in the middle of the room. "yes," he said with a smile at her. "the world's a very selfish thing; it wants a big share." he paused a moment, and went on, "i smell much tobacco; who's been here?" "sidney hazlewood and babba," ora answered. "they came about the play. they want me to sign the agreement to-morrow." "ah, yes," he said wearily. "they're very persistent gentlemen. your husband all right, lady bowdon?" "quite, thanks." irene rose. she had a desire to get away. she did not follow the lines of the play nor understand the point of the tragedy; but the sight of them together made her sure that there was a tragedy, and she did not wish to see it played. in the first place, that there should be a tragedy was all wrong, and her presence must not sanction it; in the second place, the tragedy looked as if it might be intolerably distressing and must be utterly hopeless. they would find no way out; his weariness declared that as plainly as the helplessness of ora's puzzled distress. irene decided to go home; she would be better there; for although she had her own little tragedy, she could keep it safely under lock and key. the secret purpose of her visit stood accomplished; if she had realised ora in distress, she would have sorrowed to send jack fenning back to her. the difference between doing it with sorrow and refusing to do it altogether was no greater than might be expected between a woman and men in such a case. to have got thus far without having seen mr. fenning must stand for an achievement to lady bowdon's credit. ora let her go without resistance. at the last irene was full of friendly feeling, but of feeling that here was the end of a friendship. by one way or another ora was drifting from her; they would not see much more of one another. perhaps it had never been natural that they should see much of one another; atoms from different worlds, they had met fortuitously; the chance union yielded now before the dissolving force of their permanent connexions. but even such meetings leave results, and ora, passing out of her friend's life as a presence, would not be forgotten; she left behind her the effect that she had had, the difference that she had made. she could never be forgotten; she would only be unmentioned and ignored; there must be many minutes in which irene would think of her and know that she was in bowdon's thoughts also. the way of things seemed to be that people should come into one's life, do something to it, and then go away again; the coming was not their fault, what they did seemed hardly their own doing. she was no longer angry with ora; she was sorry for ora, and she was sorry for herself. was there not some wantonness somewhere? else why had ora's raid on her little treasure-house come about? it had done harm to her, and no good to ora. but she kissed ora with fondness as she left her. "i'm glad to find you here," said ashley, as he escorted her downstairs. "it shews you don't believe the gossip about her--about her and me." irene turned to him, but made no comment. "oh, i don't know that there's any particular credit to anybody in the gossip not being true; still as a fact it isn't true. she hasn't got you here on false pretences." irene seemed now not to care whether the gossip were true or not. she did not get into her carriage, but detained ashley on the doorstep. "what are you going to do?" she asked. "haven't you talked about it to ora?" he enquired. "yes, but ora doesn't know what to do." she was possessed with a longing to tell him that she knew about jack fenning, but her loyalty to bowdon still restrained her. ashley looked at her; his face struck her again as being very tired and fretted, but it wore his old friendly smile; he seemed to take her into his confidence and to appeal to a common knowledge as he answered her. "oh, you know, she'll go to america," he said. "it'll end in that." "does she want to go?" asked irene. his eyes dwelt steadily on hers and he nodded his head. "yes, she wants to go," he said, smiling still. "she doesn't know it, poor dear, but she wants to go." "she'd stop if you told her!" exclaimed irene impulsively. how came she to make such a suggestion? she spent half the evening trying to discover. "yes, that's so too," he said. "and--and of course you can't go with her?" "i shan't go with her," said ashley. "i can't, if you like to put it that way." she pressed him; her curiosity would not be satisfied. "you don't want to go?" she asked. his answer was very slow in coming this time, but he faced the question at last. "no," he said, "i don't want to go." he paused, glanced at her again, and again smiled. "so, you see, we shall both have what we really like, and there's no reason to pity us, is there, lady bowdon?" then she got into her carriage, and, as she shook hands with him, she said, "well, i don't know that you're worse off than a good many other people." "i don't know that we are," said ashley. and, as she went home, she added that they had themselves to thank for their troubles, whereas the greater part of hers could not fairly be laid at her own door. "if that makes it any better, you know," she murmured, half aloud. but perhaps one minded to deal with her as faithfully as she thought that ora should be dealt with, might have observed that not to become lady bowdon had once been a thing in her power. chapter xxi what does it mean? [illustration: the contract punctiliously signed by all the parties, and witnessed by janet the maid ... they had opened a bottle of champagne] the bargain was struck, the agreement made, the contract punctiliously signed by all the parties, and witnessed by janet the maid. there were two copies; mr. hazlewood had one, ora the other; babba possessed himself of a memorandum. they had opened a bottle of champagne and drunk success to the enterprise; prospective triumphs, thousands, fame, bubbled out into the glasses. babba was wildly hilarious, and vulgar with a profusion of debased phrases beyond even his wont. mr. hazlewood smoothed his brow provisionally; he knew that it must wrinkle again many times ere the tour was done and the thousands pocketed. ora talked very fast, smoked two cigarettes, and darted to and fro about the room, restless as quicksilver, utterly refusing to take her seat on the sofa. the arrangements suspended during her days of indecision could now swiftly be put in working order; men waited for the word at the end of cables and telephones across the atlantic. the announcements needed only the final touches of babba's practised pen; the berths on the boat would be booked before to-morrow's sun rose. the thing was settled; beyond all other agreements, this agreement was an agreement; beyond all other undertakings, this undertaking bound them all. for they were launched on a great venture and none could now draw back. it had ended in ora's consenting to go, as ashley mead had said it would. babba flint and sidney hazlewood were gone; janet, who also had drunk a glass of champagne, had withdrawn below again; it was very quiet in the drawing-room of the little house in chelsea. ora was in her seat now, by the small table, the portrait, and the vase of fresh roses which from day to day were never wanting. she lay back there, looking at the ceiling with wide-opened eyes; she did not move except when her fingers plucked fretfully at a trimming of lace on her gown; she was thinking what she had done, what it came to, what it would end in. she remembered her uncomfortable talk with ashley the day before, after irene had gone, when he would not say "sign," nor yet, "for god's sake, darling, don't sign, don't go, don't leave me;" but would only smile and say, "you want to go, don't you, ora?" she had been able to say neither, "yes, i want to go," nor yet, "for all the world i wouldn't leave you;" but had been perverse and peevish, and at last had sent him away with a petulant dismissal. but all the time they both had known that she would sign and that she would go, because things were setting irresistibly in that direction and it was impossible to say no to fate. fate does not take denials; its invitations are courteously but persistently renewed. so now she had signed and she was going. of course it meant much more than appeared on the surface; she had felt that even at the moment, in spite of babba's jokes and hazlewood's business-like attitude. when she was left alone, the feeling came on her in tenfold strength; the drama of her action started to light, its suppressed meaning became manifest, all its effects unrolled themselves before her. yet how shortly all could be put; she was going away from ashley mead; the sweet companionship was to be broken. did such things come twice, could threads so dropped ever be picked up again? but all this happened by her own act. she faced the charge with a denial that there was more than the most superficial of truths in it. she had not been able to help her action; it was hers in a sense, no doubt, but it was the action of a self over which not she as she knew herself, but this mysterious irresistible bent of things, held control. and the control was very tyrannous. ashley was bound too; for in all the uncomfortable talk there had been never a suggestion that he should come with her; for both of them that had become an impossibility not to be taken into account. as things would have it, he could not go and she could not stay. there assailed her such a storm of fear and horror as had beset her once before, when her fine scheme of renunciation and reformation was shattered by the little hard fact that the train drew near to the station and in ten minutes ashley would be gone and jack fenning come. she caught ashley's picture and kissed it passionately; then she laid her head down on the cushions and began to sob. she knew now what she had done; she had driven ashley out of her life, and life without him was not worth having. how had she been so mad as to sign, to deliver herself bound hand and foot to these men who only wanted to make money out of her, to think that any triumph could console her for the loss of her love? was it too late, would not a telegram undo all that had been done? she sat up with a sudden abrupt movement; should she write one? they might send her to prison, she supposed, or anyhow make her pay a lot of money. they would think she used them very badly. oh, what was all that? they could get somebody else to play her part-- why, so they could! anybody would be glad to play that part; it might bring new treasure of glory to the great--sweet strange fame to one yet unknown. ora's sobs were for a moment stayed; she sat looking straight in front of her. ah, how hard things were! how they harassed, how they tortured, how they tore one asunder! she lay back and sobbed again, now not so passionately, but more gently, yet despairingly. so tragic a guise may sometimes be assumed by such homely truths as that you cannot blow both hot and cold, that you can't eat your cake and have it, and that you must in the end decide whether you will go out by the door or by the window. she had told ashley to come to her again that day to hear her decision. it was the appointed hour, and she began to listen for his tread with fear. for he would think that she did not love him, and she did love him; he would say that she wanted to go, and she loathed going; he would tell her all her going meant, and she knew all it meant. it would be between them as it had been yesterday, and worse. alas, that she should have to fear the sound of ashley's foot! ah, that she could throw herself into his arms, saying, "ashley, i won't go!" then the sweet companionship and days in the country could come again, all could be forgotten in joy, and the existence of to-morrow be blotted out. and mr. hazlewood and babba would get somebody else to play the part--the great, great part. there was the tread. she heard and knew it, and sat up to listen to it, her lips parted and her eyes wide; marked it till it reached the very door, but did not rise to meet it. she would sit there and listen to all that he said to her. he came in smiling; that seemed strange; he walked up to her and greeted her cheerily; she glanced at him in frightened questioning. "so you've arranged it?" he said, sitting down opposite to her. "how do you know, ashley?" "oh, i should know, anyhow," he answered, laughing; "but i met babba singing a song in piccadilly--rather loud it sounded--and he stopped to tell me." "oh," she murmured nervously. that he had come to know in this way seemed an anti-climax, a note which jarred the tragic harmony; she would have told him in a tempest of tears and self-reproach. "you've done quite right," he went on. "it wasn't a chance to miss. i should have been a selfish brute if i'd wanted you to give it up. besides--" he smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "come, ora," he went on, "don't look so sorrowful about it." he was not as he had been the day before; the touch of mockery which she had seemed to see then was quite gone. he took her hand and caressed it gently. "poor dear," he said, "making up your mind always upsets you so terribly, doesn't it?" "it's going away from you," she whispered, and her grasp fixed tightly on his hand. "for a few months," he said. "don't you think that long?" she cried, her eyes growing reproachful; she had made up her mind that it was eternity. "i don't mean to think it long, and you mustn't think it long," he said. "the time'll go like lightning. get an almanac and ink out the days, as homesick boys do at school; it's quite consoling. and you'll have so much to do, so much to fill your thoughts." "and you?" "oh, i shall jog along till you come back. i shall be there to meet you then. we'll come up to town together." was this really all? was there no great, no final tragedy, after all? so it might seem from his quiet cheerful manner. ora was bewildered, in a way disappointed, almost inclined to be resentful. "it looks as if you didn't care so very much," she murmured; she tried to draw her hand away from his, but he held it fast. he shut his lips close for a moment, and then said, still very quietly, "you mustn't think it means that, dear." on the last word his voice quivered, but he went on again. "it means a very long night; the sun won't rise again for ever so many months. but some day it will." she had turned her head away, and, as he made this confident declaration, a smile bent his lips for a moment, a smile not of amusement. "will it?" she asked, leaning towards him again, praying him to repeat his comforting words. "of course it will." "and you won't forget me? ashley, don't forget me!" "not likely, my dear," said he. "i think miss pinsent makes herself remembered." "because i shan't forget you, not for a moment," she said, fixing her eyes on his. "oh, it's hard to leave you!" she took up her handkerchief from the small table and dried her eyes. "your picture will go with me everywhere," she said, lightly touching it. "but i shan't be able to have your roses, shall i? would you like some tea, ashley?" "very much indeed," said he. after all, why not tea? there is nothing in tea necessarily inconsistent with tragedy; still her vague forecasts of this conversation had not included the taking of tea. "now show me your agreement," he said. "i must see that they've not done you." as they had tea, they looked through the contract, clause by clause. on the whole ashley was very well satisfied, although he suggested that one or two points might be modified in ora's favour; she quite grasped what he put forward and thought that she would be able to obtain the concessions from her partners. "i ought to make all i can, oughtn't i?" she asked. "i'm giving up so much to go." "you ought to be as greedy as you possibly can," he assured her with a laugh. he wanted to prevent her from beginning to talk again of what she was giving up; what she would gain was a better topic; just as she must not think how long she would be away, but on the other hand how soon she would be back. we cannot control facts, but there is a limited choice of aspects in which we may regard them and present them for the consideration of our friends. in this little free field optimism and pessimism are allowed to play. "you can always make me happy!" she sighed, leaning back. "i know the way to do it, you see," he answered. he had decided that in this case the best way to do it was to let her go and play her part. "even when you're gone, i shan't be as miserable as i was before. you've made it all seem less--less big and less awful, you know. every day will really be bringing me nearer to you again; even the first day! it'll begin directly, won't it? oh, i shall cry, but now i shall be able to think of that too." he was not deceiving her in anything like the grave manner in which he had deceived her concerning jack fenning, but he felt something of the same qualms. he did not yield an inch to them externally; he had made up his mind to cheat her into going happily; when once that was done, he thought she would soon grow happy; and if it were to be done, it should be done thoroughly. a few tears were inevitable, but they must be alleviated with smiles of hope. "directly you go away, you'll begin coming back, won't you? really i almost wish you were gone already, ora!" she laughed at this whimsical idea, but agreed that the actual going would be the one irremediably black spot. then she grew grave suddenly, as though an unwelcome thought had flashed into her mind. "ashley," she said, "suppose i--i meet jack! he's over there, you know. what shall i do?" "oh, he won't bother you, i expect," ashley assured her. "but if he does? i shan't have you to take care of me, you know." "if he does, you go straight to hazlewood. he's a good fellow and knows his way about the world. he'll see you come to no harm and aren't victimised." "will he keep jack away from me?" "yes, i think so. take him into your confidence." ashley smiled for a moment. "he'll know the sort of man fenning is." ora seemed a good deal comforted. "yes, i like sidney hazlewood," she said. "he's awfully tiresome sometimes, but you feel that you can rely on him. he gives you an idea of strength, as if you could put yourself in his hands. oh, but not so much as you do, of course! but then you won't be there." "he'll look after you just as well as i should." "perhaps he will, as far as the actual thing goes," she admitted. then she began to smile. "but--but i shan't like it so much from him." "you never know that till you try," said ashley, answering her smile with a cheerful smile. "oh, that's absurd," said ora. "but i do think he'll stand by me." she leant forward and put her hand on his knee. "if i were in very, very great trouble and sent for you, would you come?" "yes," said ashley, "i'd come then." "whatever you had to do? whatever time it took? however far off i was?" "yes," he answered. "anyhow i'd come. but you won't--" he hesitated for a moment. "you won't have any cause to send for me," he ended. "oh, but i should rather like one," she whispered, almost merrily. he shook his head. "i shall come only if you're in very, very great trouble; otherwise you must depend on hazlewood. but you won't be in trouble, and i don't think you'll have any bother about fenning." for would not mr. fenning have the best of reasons for avoiding observation while hazlewood was about? to hazlewood he was foster, and miss macpherson, by the dictates of politeness, mrs. foster. it was in entire accord with the line of conduct which ashley had laid down for himself that even now he said no more of jack fenning, and nothing of what he had done about him or heard about him. he stood aside; he had determined not to take her life into his hands; he could not put his into hers; he would not, then, seek to shape events either for her or for himself; he would give her no information and urge on her no course. if she came across her husband, something would very likely happen; or again it was quite probable that nothing would occur except an unpleasant interview and the transference of some of ora's earnings to jack's pocket. miss macpherson might appear or she might not. ashley had gone as far as he meant to go when he told ora to look to mr. hazlewood if she were in any trouble. and if she should chance to want, or assent to, "nosings" being carried on, why, was not babba flint to be of the party? he dismissed all this from his mind, so far as he could. it was not part of ora, but yet it hung about ora; he hated it all because it hung about her, and would intrude sometimes into his thoughts of her. why had such sordid things ever come near her? but they had, and they, as well as the play and the part, were a fence between her and him. the bitterness of this conclusion was nothing new; he had endured it before; he endured it again as he talked to her and coaxed her into going happily. but amid all the complexities of reasons, of feelings, and of choices in which men live, there are moments when simplicity reasserts itself, and one thing swallows all others; joy or sorrow brings them. then the meeting is everything; or again, there is nothing save the parting, and it matters nothing why we must part, or should part, or are parting. not to be together overwhelms all the causes which forbid us to be together; the pain seems almost physical; people cannot sit still when it is on them any more than when they have a toothache. such a moment was not to be altogether evaded by any clever cheating of ora into going happily. there were the inevitable tears from her; in him there was the fierce impulse after all to hold her, not to let her go, to do all that he was set not to do, by any and every means to keep her in hearing and sight and touch. for when she was gone what were touch and hearing and sight to do? they would all be useless and he, their owner, useless too. but of this in him she must see only so much as would assure her of his love and yet leave her to go happy. that she should go happy and still not doubt his love was the object at which he had to aim; the cost was present emptiness of his own life. but things have to be paid for, whether we are furnishing our own needs or making presents to our friends; the ultimate destination of the goods does not change a farthing in the bill. his last hour with her seemed to set itself, whether in indulgence or in irony he could not decide, to focus and sum up all that she had been to him, to shew all the moods he knew, the ways he loved, the changes that he had traced with so many smiles. she wept, she laughed, she hummed a tune; she took offence and offered it; she flirted and she prayed for love; she held him at arm's length, only to fall an instant later into his arms; she said she should never see him again, and then decided at what restaurant they would dine together on the evening of reunion; she waxed enthusiastic about the part, and then cried that all parts were the same to her since he would not be in the theatre. to be never the same was to be most herself. yet out of all this variety, in spite of her relapses into tragedy, the clear conclusion formed itself in his mind that she was going happy, at least excited, interested, eager, and not frightened nor utterly desolate. yet at the last she hung about him as though she could not go; and at the last--he had prayed that this might be avoided--there came back into her eyes the puzzled, alarmed, doubtful look, and with it the reproach which seemed to ask him what he was doing with her, to say that after all it was his act, that he was master, and that when she gave herself into his hands no profession of abdication could free him from his responsibility. if it were so, the burden must be borne; the delusion under which she went must not be impaired. the last scene came on a misty morning at waterloo station; it had been decided that he should part from her there, should hand her over to the men who wanted to make money out of her, and so go his ways. the place was full of people; babba chattered volubly in the intervals of rushing hither and thither after luggage, porters, friends, provisions, playing-cards, remembering all the things he had forgotten, finding that he had forgotten all that he meant to remember. hazlewood, a seasoned traveller, smoked a cigar and read the morning paper, waiting patiently till his man should put him in the reserved corner of his reserved carriage; certainly he looked a calm man to whom one might trust in a crisis. ora and ashley got a few minutes together in the booking-office, while her maid looked to her trunks and babba flew to buy her flowers. nobody came near them. then it was that it seemed as though the success of his pretence failed in some degree, as though she also felt something of the sense which pressed so remorselessly on him, the sense of an end, that thus they were now together, alone, all in all to one another, and that thus they would never be again. the tears ran down ora's cheeks; she held both his wrists in her hands with the old grip that said, "you mustn't go." she could not speak to him, he found nothing to say to her; but her tears cried to him, "are you right?" their reproach was bitter indeed, their appeal might seem irresistible. what now beside them were parts and plays, lives and their lines, hazlewoods, babba flints, aye, or jack fennings either? they pleaded for the parlour in the little inn, reminding him how there first she had thrown herself on his mercy, asking him whether now for the first time he meant in very truth to turn cruel and abuse the trust. but days had passed, and months, since then; with love had come knowledge, and the knowledge had to be reckoned with, although it had not destroyed the love. was that ungentle? the knowledge was of himself as well as of her; he dealt no blow that he did not suffer. the knowledge was, above all, of the way things were and must be. therefore in all the stress of parting he could not, desire it as he might, doubt that he was right. hazlewood raised his voice and called from the platform, "off in five minutes, mead! hadn't you better take miss pinsent to her carriage?" "come, ora," he said, "you must get in now." for a moment longer she held his arms. "i don't believe i shall ever see you again," she said. then she dried her eyes and walked with him on to the platform. here stood babba, here hazlewood, here all the retinue. ashley led her up to hazlewood. "here she is," he said; he seemed to be handing her over, resigning charge of her. the three turned and walked together to the train. "you'd rather go down just with your maid, i daresay," said hazlewood. "it's time to get in, you know." he held out his hand to ashley and then walked away. "now, dear," said ashley mead. she gave him her hand. for long he remembered that last grasp and the clinging reluctance with which it left him. "good-bye, ashley," she said. "you're beginning to come back from this minute," he reminded her, forcing a smile. "as soon as ever the train moves you're on your way home!" "yes," she smiled. "yes, ashley." but the charm of that conceit was gone; the tone was doubtful, sad, with only a forced recognition of how he meant to cheer her. her eyes were more eloquent and more sincere, more outspoken too in their reproach. "you're sending me away," they said. so she went away, looking back out of the window so long as she could see him; not crying now, but with a curious, wistful, regretful, bewildered face, as though she did not yet know what he had done to her, what had happened, what change had befallen her. this was the last impression that he had of her as she went to encounter the world again without the aid to which he had let her grow so used, without the arm on which he had let her learn to lean. but he seemed to know the meaning she sought for, to grasp the answer to the riddle that puzzled her. as he walked back through the empty town, back to the work that must be done and the day that must be lived through, it was all very clear to him, and seemed as inevitable as it was clear. it was an end, that was what it was--an utter end. for if it were anything but an end, he had done wrong. and he had no hope that he had done wrong. the chilling sense that he knew only too well the truth and the right of it was on him; and because he had known them, he was now alone. would not blindness then have been better? "no, no; it's best to see," said he. chapter xxii other worlds elisha wore worthily the mantle of elijah; nay, there were fresh vigour and a new genius in the management of muddock and mead. the turn-over grew, the percentage of working expenses decreased, the profits swelled; the branches were reorganised and made thoroughly up to the needs of the times; the big block in buckingham palace road advanced steadily in prestige. for all this the small, compact, trim man with the keen pale-blue eyes had to be thanked. he had found a big place vacant; he did not hesitate to jump up to it, and behold, he filled it! moreover he knew that he filled it; the time of promotion was over, the time of command was come. his quieter bearing and a self-possession which no longer betrayed incompleteness by self-assertion marked the change. he did not now tell people that he made sovereigns while they were making shillings. he could not give himself grace or charm, he could not help being still a little hard, rather too brusque and decisive in his ways; he could not help people guessing pretty accurately what he was and whence he came; but the rough edges were filed and the sharpest points rounded. even bowdon, who was for a number of reasons most prejudiced, admitted that it was no longer out of the question to ask him to dinner. the business was to be turned into a company; this step was desirable on many grounds, among them because it pleased miss minna soames. she was to marry bob muddock, now sir robert, and although she liked bob and bob's money she did not care much about bob's shop. neither did bob himself; he did not want to work very hard, now that his father's hand was over him no more, and he thought that a directorship would both give him less to do and mitigate a relationship to the shop hitherto too close for his taste. so the thing was settled, and bertie jewett, as managing director, found himself in the position of a despot under forms of constitutional government. for bob did as he was told; and given that a certain event took place, bertie would control the larger part of the ordinary shares in virtue of his own holding, his brother-in-law's, and his wife's. preference shares only had been offered to the public. the event would take place. nobody in the circle of the muddocks' acquaintance doubted that now, although perhaps it might not occur very soon. for it was not the sort of thing which came with a rush; it depended on no sudden tempest of feeling, it grew gradually into inevitability. union of interest, the necessity of constant meetings, the tendency to lean one on the other, work slowly, but when they have reached a certain point of advance their power is great. bertie jewett had not spoken of marriage yet and not for some time would he; but he had already entered the transaction on the credit side of his life's ledger. alice knew that he had; she did not run away. here was proof enough. "it's not the least use your saying you hope it won't happen. it will," lady bowdon remarked to her husband; and he found it impossible to argue that she was wrong. for there was no force to oppose the force of habit, of familiarity, of what her family wanted, of what the quiet keen little man wanted and meant to have. alice was not likely to fall into a sudden, new, romantic passion; her temper was not of the kind that produces such things. she had no other wooers; men felt themselves warned off. was she then to live unmarried? this was a very possible end of the matter, but under the circumstances not the more likely. then she would marry bertie jewett, unless the past could be undone and ashley mead come again into her heart. but neither was her temper of the sort that lets the past be undone; the registers of her mind were written in an ink which did not fade. besides he had no thought of coming back to her. but there was now, after ora had gone off with her play and her part, a revival of friendship between them, started by a chance encounter at the bowdons' and confirmed by a talk they had together when ashley called in kensington palace gardens. he was not insensible, and thought that she was not, to an element of rather wry comedy which had crept into their relations. he was sorry for himself, as he had very good grounds for being; he perceived that she was sorry for herself and, in view of the dominance and imminence of bertie jewett, fully acknowledged the soundness of her reasons. the comic side of the matter appeared when he recognised that, side by side with this self-commiseration, there existed in each of them an even stronger pity for the other, a pity that could not claim to be altogether free from contempt, since it was directed towards what each of them had chosen, as well as towards what had chanced to befall them from outside. they had both been unfortunate, but there was no need to dwell on that; the more notable point was that whereas he had chosen to be of ora pinsent's party with all which that implied, she was choosing to be of bertie jewett's party with all which that implied. it was no slur on their own misfortunes that each would now refuse to take the others place or to come over to the others faction. the pity then which each had for the other was not merely for a state of circumstances accidental and susceptible of change, but for a habit of mind; they pitied one another as types even while they came again to like one another as individuals. for naturally they over-ran the mark of truth, he concluding that because she was drifting towards bertie she was in all things like bertie, she that because he had been carried off his feet by ora pinsent he was entirely such as ora was. there was certainly something of the comic in this reciprocity of compassion; it made ashley smile as he walked beside alice in the garden. "so bob's going to cut buckingham palace road?" he asked. "hardly that. oh, well, it'll come to something like that. minna has aristocratic instincts." "i remember she had them about the theatre." "she doesn't like the shop." alice had been laughing, but grew grave now as she added, "do you know, i get to like the shop more and more. i often go there and look on while they take stock or something of that kind. one's in touch with a real life there, there's something being done." "i suppose there is," he admitted rather reluctantly. "i don't in the least object to other people doing it. however you said from the beginning that it wouldn't suit me." "yes, i know i did. i think so still." but whether her reasons were quite the same was more doubtful than ever. "but i'm quite sure it suits me admirably. i should like really to work at it." "sir james always relied on your opinion about it." "i suppose he wasn't so wrong as he looked," she said with a little laugh. "it's in our blood, and i seem to have a larger share of it than bob. why should we try to get away from it? it's made us what we are." "you didn't use to think that quite." "no, and you didn't use to--" "be quite such a fool as i am? no, i don't think i did," said ashley. "still--" "still you can't conceive how i can interest myself so much in the business?" "something like that," he admitted. her phrase went as near to candour as it was possible for them to go together. they walked on in silence for a little way, then ashley smiled and remarked, "i believe we get a lot of our opinions simply by disliking what we see of other people's; we select their opposites." "reaction?" "yes; and then we feed what we've picked up till it grows quite strong." they fell into silence again. friendliness could not banish the sense of distance between them; they could agree, more or less, as to how they had come to be so far apart, but the understanding brought them no nearer. even agreeing to differ is still differing. both were rather sad, yet both were smiling faintly, as they walked side by side; it was very absurd that they had ever thought of being so much to one another. yet it was a rather sorrowful thing that in future they were to be so very little to one another. beneath their differences they had just enough of kinship to make them regret that the differences were so great, and so imperative in the conditions they imposed. a sudden impulse made alice turn to him and say, "i know you think i'm narrow; i hope you don't think i've been unkind or unfriendly. i did try to put myself in your place as well as i could; i never thought unkindly about you." "how were you to put yourself in my place?" he asked, smiling at her. "i know you tried. but you'd have had to put yourself in somebody else's place as well." "i suppose so," said alice with a shake of her head; she certainly could not put herself in ora pinsent's place. "after all, people are best in their own places," he went on. he paused for a moment, and added, "supposing they can find out where their places are. you've found yours?" "yes," she answered. "mine is the shop." he sighed and smiled, lifting his hands. "i wonder where mine is," he said a moment later. for if his were not the shop, it had not seemed to be by ora pinsent either. "perhaps i haven't got one," he went on. "and after all i don't know that i want one. isn't it possible to keep moving about, trying one after another, you know?" he spoke lightly, making a jest of his question; but she had fallen into seriousness. "what are you going to do?" she asked. "work and labour truly to get mine own living. as for the rest, really i haven't thought about it." she wanted to ask him whether he still loved ora pinsent, whether he were waiting for her to come back to him, and still made that the great thing in his life. but she could find no words for these questions and no right in herself to ask them. the unuttered thoughts served only to check her sympathy for him; even if he did not look to ora as the great thing in his future life, yet she had been so great in his past as to leave him not caring about the rest. "i'm hard at work, though," he said an instant after; it sounded as if he were seeking to defend himself. alice said something rather commonplace about the advantages of hard work; ashley gave it the perfunctory assent it seemed to demand. then came silence, and to both of them a sense that there was no more to be said between them. in spite of this, perhaps because she would not acknowledge it, alice asked him to dinner the next night, to meet the bowdons and bertie jewett; he accepted with an odd sort of desire to make one of the family circle once again. his interest was mainly in bertie; they sat on either side of alice. ashley's contempt for bertie was now entirely for the type, and even there not very severe, for power of any kind extorts respect; it was in the main supplanted by the curiosity with which we look on people who are doing what we might have done had we so chosen, or been allowed by nature so to choose. there was a moment's pang when he perceived that alice was more at ease and more comfortable in talking to bertie; he was resigned to the change, but it was not very pleasant to look on at it in full operation. irene, on his other side, allowed none of its significance to escape him; her glances pointed the moral; why she did this he could not understand, not tracing how part of her grudge against ora attached to the man who had been so near and so much to ora, and now recalled her so vividly to memory. bowdon was polite to lady muddock, but far from gay. merriment, animation, sallies of wit or chaff, a certain amount of what a hostile critic might call noisiness, had become habitual to ashley in the society which he had recently frequented; he found himself declaring this little party very dull, overdone with good sense and sobriety, wanting in irresponsibility of spirit. he hinted something of this feeling to irene bowdon. "oh, we don't go in for being brilliant," she said with a double touch of malice; she meant to hit at ora and ora's friends, and also perversely to include herself in his hinted depreciation of the company; this she liked to do because the depreciation came, as she knew, from a recollection of ora and ora's sort of society. "being brilliant isn't in itself a crime," pleaded ashley; "even if it were, it's so rare that there's no need for an exemplary sentence." "why don't you talk to alice?" she whispered. "she prefers to talk to mr. jewett." "i'm glad it annoys you." "are you? i'm rather surprised it does. i don't know why it should, you see." irene turned her shoulder on him with emphasised impatience. what right had he to find it dull? did bowdon also find it dull? then came the worst irritation--the admission that it was dull. she turned back to ashley with a sudden twist. "what right have you to expect to be always amused?" she demanded. "none; but i suppose i may mention it when i'm not," said he. "do you know what you remind me of? you'll be angry if i tell you." "then i couldn't deprive you of the pleasure of telling me, lady bowdon." "you're like a drunkard put on lemonade," she said with a vicious little laugh. ashley made no immediate answer; he looked at her with lifted brows; then he also laughed. "the metaphor's rather strong," said he, "but--if you like!" "well, you're very good-tempered," she conceded with a remorseful glance. "i should feel better if you'd hit me back." "i've no weapon." "yes, you have." her tone was marked and significant; he looked straight and attentively in her face; her eyes were not on his watching face but on her husband whose head was bent in courteous attention to lady muddock's doubtfully expounded platitudes. "look here, do you know anything?" he asked. "yes," said she without turning towards him. he grew surer of his ground and hazarded his shot with confidence. "about a thousand pounds?" "yes." "ah, married men, married men! it wasn't his secret. and why in heaven's name did he tell you?" "he was right to tell me. i like the truth." "oh, don't talk about truth! i'm fresh from a surfeit of it. i shouldn't have thought it made you any more--" he paused, in difficulty how to say enough and not too much. "any happier to know?" "well--if you like," said ashley, again accepting her phrase. "no, it doesn't," she said briefly. then she added, "i promised not to tell you; don't let him know i have." "i'll try to prove a better confidant than he is," said ashley. "and why did you tell me?" "you half guessed. i didn't tell. but--don't you think we might sympathise a little?" "we'll sympathise all we can," said ashley with a laugh. "we might almost all sympathise; she's made a difference to almost all of us." "who has?" "she--she--she," said irene bowdon, as she rose in answer to her hostess' signal. "well, yes, she has," ashley admitted, as he drew back the chairs. and while she was still in earshot he added, "but it's all over now." "indeed it isn't, it never will be," said irene over her shoulder, as she swept away. "how ready people are with these eternal negatives," he thought as he sat down to his glass of wine. then he fell to speculating why bowdon had told her about jack fenning and the thousand pounds, and why she had revealed that bowdon had told her. to him the second question seemed the more difficult to answer, but he found an explanation, partly in her desire to defend or apologise for a certain bitterness towards ora which she had betrayed, more perhaps in the simple fact that she was brimming over with the thing and could not restrain herself in the presence of one to whom her disclosure would be so interesting and significant. she had been tempted to show him that she knew more of the situation than he supposed, and must not be treated as an outsider when ora and her affairs came up for discussion. anyhow there the disclosure was, with its proof that, even although the eternal negative might be rashly asserted, for the time at all events ora had very materially affected other lives than his own. "of course i never expected to be where i am; at any rate not till much later." bertie jewett was talking to bowdon about his success and his new position; he talked unaffectedly enough, although perhaps it could hardly be said that he talked modestly. perceiving that his remark had roused ashley to attention, he went on, "among other things, i've got to thank your dislike of a commercial life, mead. that let me in, you see." "come, ashley," laughed bowdon, "here's something to your credit!" "really the exact train of circumstances that has resulted in putting me practically at the head of the concern is rather curious to consider," pursued bertie. bowdon listened with a tolerant, ashley with a malicious smile. "it all seemed to be made so easy for me. i had only to wait, and all the difficulties cleared out of the way. i can talk of it because i had nothing to do with it, except taking what i was offered, i mean." "well, everybody's not equal to that, by any means," said bowdon. "but certainly fortune's treated you well." it was on ashley's lips to say "you owe it all to ora pinsent." but the thing would have been absurd and quite inadmissible to say. perhaps it was also rather absurd to think; he knew the trick he had of magnifying and extending his own whimsical view of events until it seemed to cover the whole field. none the less, an intimate knowledge of the circumstances, of the exact train of circumstances as bertie put it, forbade him to rob miss pinsent of all credit for the result on which he and bowdon were congratulating mr. jewett. why should not poor ora, towards whom so many people were bearing a grudge, have gratitude when she deserved it? "the fact is," said bowdon, tugging his moustache, "things happen very queerly in this world." "after that startling observation, let's go into the garden and smoke," said ashley, rising with a laugh. in the garden ashley talked to lady muddock, and had the opportunity of observing how a seventh heaven of satisfaction might be constructed without a single scrap of material which seemed to him heavenly. such a spectacle should serve as a useful corrective for a judgment of the way of the world too personal and relative in character; it had on ashley the perverse effect of increasing his discontent. if happiness were so easy a thing and placidity so simply come by, if nothing extraordinary were needed for them and nothing dazzling essential, why, what fools were people who went after the extraordinary and the dazzling, and yet in the end failed completely in their quest! and that you were a fool by your very nature was no comfort, but rather increased the hopelessness of the position. "i can't help thinking how wonderfully everything has happened for the best," said lady muddock, her eyes resting on alice and bertie who were walking side by side, a few paces behind bowdon and his wife. "you're rather too optimistic for me," said ashley with a laugh. "i think we do the world rough justice if we admit that most things happen for the second-best." "we are taught--" lady muddock began. "yes, but, my dear lady muddock, we're most of us shocking bad pupils." lady muddock made a few efforts to convert him to the creed of the best, in distinction from that of the second-best; but ashley would not be persuaded. the idea of the second-best gained on him. what had happened to the little circle about him was certainly not ideal, yet it was not calamity; it could hardly claim to be tragedy, yet you were in danger of being brought up short by some sudden pang if you tried to laugh at it. it wanted then a formula to express its peculiar variety, its halting midway between prosperity and misfortune, between what one would have wished and what one might have had to take. the formula of the second-best seemed to suit it very well. even his own individual position, of which he had not taken a sanguine view, fitted itself into the formula with just a little pressing and clipping and management. his life was not ruined; he found himself left with too many interests and ambitions, with too keen an appreciation of all that was going on about him, to yield to the hysteria of such a sentimental conclusion; but it was not, and now would not be, quite what he had once dreamed and even lately hoped. he took courage and decided that he need not fall below the formula of the second-best. and what of ora? would she also and her life fit into the formula? she had never fitted into any formula yet; here lay her charm, the difficulty and the hopelessness of her. but then the new formula was very elastic. she might find a second-best for herself, or accept one if it were offered to her. in the notion that he has learnt or begun to learn the ways of the world and how to take it there lies a subtle and powerful appeal to a man's vanity. there is a delicate flavour in the feeling, surpassing the more obvious delights which may be gained from the proof of intellectual superiority or the consciousness of personal charm. it is not only that the idea makes him seem wiser than his fellows, for the conviction of greater wisdom would not appear to carry much pleasure; it makes him feel better-tempered, better-mannered, better-bred--if it may so be put, more of a gentleman. he is no longer one of the pushing jostling throng, eager to force a way into the front places, to have the best view of the show or the largest share of the presents which are to be distributed; he stands on the outskirts in cool leisureliness, smiling rather superciliously, not exactly happy, but convinced that any effort would turn his negative condition into a positive discomfort. or the old metaphor of the banquet comes back into his mind; when the dish goes round he does not snatch at it; if it is long in coming, he feels and betrays no impatience; if it is finished before it reaches him, he waits for the next course, and meanwhile engages in polite conversation; he does not call out, nor make gestures, nor abuse the waiters (they are great folk in disguise). the rest of the company, who do all these things, commit gross breaches of taste; and although he may go home hungry he will be fed and warmed by the satisfaction of his graceful attitude and the glow of his suavity. of course graceful attitudes are a little tiring and suavity is always more or less of a mask, but here it is that good-breeding finds its field and rewards him who displays it with its peculiar guerdon. perhaps he would have liked the presents or the dishes, and he has not got them; but then his coat is not torn, his shirt is not crumpled, his collar is not limp. the successful betray all these unbecoming signs of a triumph in reality disgraceful; how have they the audacity to exhibit themselves red-faced, puffing, perspiring, hugging their prizes to their breasts and casting round furtive suspicious glances, fearful that they may still be robbed? surely the vulgarity of the means sticks to the end and soils that also? here were very ingenious arguments to prove that the second-best was in a true view the best; so treated and managed, the formula should surely assume new attractions? but if a man be very hungry? the argument is not fairly put. he gets fed, though not on his favourite delicacy. but if he cannot eat rough fare? well, in that case, so much the worse for him; he should not have a dainty stomach. it is a long way from kensington palace gardens to charing cross; there is time for many philosophical reflexions as a man walks from one to the other on a fine night. but at the end, when he has arrived, should his heart beat and his hand dart out eagerly at the sight of an envelope bearing an american postage stamp? does such a paradox impugn his conclusions or merely accuse his weakness? human nature will crop out, and hunger is hunger, however it may be caused. perhaps these backslidings must be allowed; they come only now and then; they will not last, will at least come more seldom. the emptiness will not always vent angry abuse on the good manners which are the cause of it. the letter was a long one, or looked long because it covered many pages--it was understamped, a circumstance prettily characteristic--but ora wrote large, and there was not really a great deal in it. what there was was mostly about the play and the part, the flattering reception, the killing work, the unreasonableness of everybody else. all this was just ora, ora who was neither to be approved of, nor admired, nor imitated, but who was on no account to be changed. ashley read with the same smile which had shewn itself on his face when he commended the formula of the second-best to lady muddock's candid consideration. he came near the end. would there be no touch of the other ora, of his own special secret ora, the one he knew and other people did not? there was hardly a touch; but just on the last page, just before the "yours, ora," there came, "oh, my dear, if only you were with me! but i seem to have got into another world. and i'm lonely, ashley dear." the great clock down at westminster struck one, the hum of the town ran low, the little room was quiet. perhaps moments like these are not the fittest for the formula of the second-best. does it not, after all, need an audience to smile pleased and appreciative applause of it? is it as independent, as grandly independent, as it sounds? does it comfort a man when he is quite alone? is it equal to fighting the contrasts between what is and what might have been? "i seem to have got into another world. and i'm lonely, ashley dear." heavens, how many worlds were there, that all his friends should be getting into others and leaving him alone in his? chapter xxiii the most natural thing by reason of the government's blunders or of the opposition's factiousness--the point awaits the decision of a candid historian in case he should deem it worth his attention--parliament had to assemble in the autumn of this year; the bowdons were back in town in november, the commission met to wind up its work, and ashley mead was in dutiful attendance. before this irene had made up her mind that things were going tolerably, would go better, and in the end would turn out as well as could reasonably be expected. the recuperative effect of a vagrant autumn had produced a healthier state of feeling in her. she had begun to be less fretful about herself, less nervous and inquisitive about her husband; she had resigned herself to the course of events in a hopeful temper. bowdon's bearing towards her was all that she could desire; it was losing that touch of exaggerated chivalry which had smacked of apology and remorse; it was assuming the air of a genuine and contented comradeship. she was inclined to think that their troubles were over. if one or two other things were over with the troubles, the principle of compensation must be accepted manfully. after all, love's alternate joy and woe is not the stuff to make a permanently happy home or the best setting for a useful public career; on the other hand, these can co-exist with a few memories of which one does not speak and a cupboard or two kept carefully locked. having brought herself to this point, and feeling both praiseworthy and sensible in attaining so much, she allowed herself some astonishment at ashley mead, who seemed to have started in an even worse condition and yet to have achieved so much more. he appeared to have passed a complete act of oblivion for himself, and to have passed it with a rapidity which (from one or other of the reasons above referred to) would have been quite impossible to the legislature. surely in him, if in anybody, the period of convalescence should have been long? resolution is good, so is resignation, so are common-sense and strength of will; but there is a decency in things, and to recover too quickly from a folly confirms the charge of levity and instability incurred by its original commission. ashley should not be behaving just for all the world as though nothing had happened; such conduct was exasperating to persons who had reason to know and to feel how much really had happened. to be cheerful, to be gay, to be prospering greatly, to be dining out frequently, to have suppressed entirely all hint of emotions lately so acute and even overpowering, was not creditable to him, and cheated his friends of a singularly interesting subject for observation and comment, as well as of a sympathetic melancholy to which they had perhaps allowed themselves to look forward. it was no defence that irene herself aimed at what he appeared to have achieved, as at a far-off ideal; she had not been, to the knowledge of all london, desperately in love with ora pinsent; she had not thrown up brilliant business prospects, lost an admirable match, and seriously impaired her reputation in the eyes of all respectable people. neither had she bribed jack fenning to go away at the cost of a thousand pounds. "surely all men aren't like that?" she cried with marked indignation. she broke out on ashley once when he came to tea and they chanced to be alone; he met her in a way which increased her annoyance. "well, what has happened after all?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her. "i don't see that anything has. ora has gone on a visit to america; from what i hear, a very successful visit. presently, i suppose, she'll come back. a visit to america doesn't in these days mean a final separation from all one holds dear in the old country. i believe one almost always finds the man who lives next door in london dining at the same table in new york; then one makes his acquaintance." "do you ever hear from her? i never do." "i hear from her every now and then. oh, i admit at once what your look means; yes, not so often as at first." he laughed at the flush of vexation on lady bowdon's face. "i write seldomer too; i can do anything for a friend except carry on a correspondence." "i expect every day to hear of alice muddock's engagement." "do you really think about it every day?" he asked, raising his brows. "what an eye you keep on your acquaintances!" was he genuine? or was he only perfectly, coolly, securely on his guard? irene felt baffled and puzzled; but it was bad enough that he should be able even to pretend so well to her; pretending that nothing had happened was not always easy. "do you think ora will come back?" she asked. "if she's successful she may stay." "oh, she'll come," he nodded. "we shall have her back in chelsea before six months are out." "and when she does?" irene's curiosity had overcome her, but ashley laughed again as he answered, "ascribe what emotions you like to me, lady bowdon; but i haven't heard that jack fenning's health's failing." there was some pretence about the attitude so puzzling and exasperating to irene bowdon, but more of reality. the passing of the months had brought a sense of remoteness; it was intensified by a gradual cessation of the interchange of letters. ora had told him that she seemed to have got into another world and was lonely; she was, without doubt, still in another world; whether still lonely he could not tell. she was in all senses a long way off; what he had chosen, or at least accepted as the lesser evil, was happening; she and her life were diverging from him and his life. he recognised all this very clearly as he ate his chop at the club that evening. she had found him living one life; she had given him another while she was with him; she left him a third different from either of the other two. that evening, whether from some mood of his own or because of what irene had said, she seemed irrevocably departed and separated from him. but even in that hour she was to come back to him so as to be very near in feeling though still across the seas in fact. as he turned into his street about ten o'clock and approached the door of his house, he perceived a man walking slowly up and down, to and fro. there was something familiar in the figure and the gait; an indecision, a looseness, a plaintive weakness. unconsciously ashley quickened his step; he had a conviction which seemed absurd and was against all probability; a moment would prove or disprove its truth. the man came under the gas lamp, stopped, and looked up at ashley's windows. his face was plain to see now. "by god, it is!" whispered ashley mead, with a frown and a smile. a little more slinking, a little more slouching, a little more altogether destitute of the air which should mark a self-respecting man, but unchanged save for these intensifications of his old characteristics, jack fenning stood and looked up at the house whence he had once come out richer by a thousand pounds than when he went in. he seemed to regard the dingy old walls with a maudlin affection. it was a pretty bit of irony that she should come back in this way; that this aspect of her, this side of her life, should be thrust before ashley's eyes when all that he loved of her and longed for was so far away. ashley walked up to jack fenning with lips set firm in a stiff smile. "well, mr. fenning, what brings you here?" he asked. "i've no more thousands about me, you know." "i--i thought you might give me a drink for old friendship," said jack. "they said you were out, and wouldn't let me sit in your room. so i said i'd come back; but i've been waiting all the time." "if you don't mind what the drink's for, i'll give it you. come along." he loathed the man, but because the man in a sense belonged to ora he would not turn him away; curiosity, too, urged him to find out the meaning of an appearance so unexpected. with ora in america, how could it profit jack to make a nuisance of himself in england? there was nothing to be got by that. when they were upstairs and jack had been provided with the evidence of friendship which he desired, ashley lit his pipe, sat down by the fire, and studied his companion in silence for a few moments. jack grew a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny; he was quite aware that he did not and could not stand investigation. but ashley was thinking less of him than of what he represented. he had been just one of those stupid wanton obstacles, in themselves so unimportant, which serve to wreck fair schemes; he seemed to embody the perversity of things, and to make mean and sordid the fate that he typified. "what do you want?" ashley asked suddenly and abruptly. "i've got no more money for you, you know." no doubt jack was accustomed to this style of reception. it did not prevent him from telling his story. he lugged out a cheap broken-backed cigar from his breast-pocket and lit it; it increased the feeble disreputableness of his appearance. "i'll tell you all about it, mr. mead," he said. "it may be worth your while to listen." but the sudden confidence of these last words died away quickly. "i hope to god you'll do something for me!" he ended in a whining voice. this man was ora pinsent's husband. "go on," muttered ashley, his teeth set hard on the stem of his pipe. the story began, but proceeded very haltingly; ashley had to draw it out by questions. the chief point of obscurity was as regards jack's own intentions and motives. why he had come to england remained in vagueness; ashley concluded that the memory of the thousand pounds had drawn him with a subtle retrospective attraction, although reason must have told him that no second thousand would come. but on the matter of his grievances and the sad treatment he had suffered from others jack was more eloquent and more lucid. everybody was against him, even his wife ora pinsent, even his own familiar friend miss daisy macpherson. for miss macpherson had deserted him, had gone over to the enemy, had turned him out, and for lucre's sake had given information to hostile emissaries. and his wife ("my own wife, mr. mead," said jack mournfully) was trying to get rid of him for good and all. ashley suddenly sat up straight in his seat as the narrative reached this point. "to get rid of you? what do you mean?" he asked. "there's a fellow named flint--" said jack between gulps at his liquor. of course there was! a fellow who did not despise nosings! that bygone talk with babba leapt lifelike to ashley's mind. the fellow named flint, aided by the basest treachery on the part of miss macpherson--why had she not denied all compromising facts?--had landed mr. fenning in his present predicament. "what in the world is it you mean?" groaned ashley. "they've begun divorce proceedings," said jack, with a desperate pull at the broken-backed leaky cigar. "my own wife, mr. mead." "upon my soul, you're a much-wronged man," said ashley. in the next few moments he came near to repenting his sarcastic words. repentance would indeed have been absurd; but if every one were kicking the creature it was hard and needless to add another kick. he found some sorrow and disapprobation for the conduct of miss daisy macpherson; it was ungrateful in her who had liked to be known as mrs. foster in private life. "babba flint got round your friend, did he?" he asked. "well, i suppose you've no defence?" "i've got no money, mr. mead." "that's the same thing, you know," said ashley. "well, what's the matter? how does it hurt you to be divorced?" "i never tried to divorce her," moaned jack. "never mind your conduct to your wife; we can leave that out." "i was very fond of miss pinsent; but she was hard to me." "i've nothing to do with all that. what do you want to resist the divorce for?" his tone was savage; how dare this creature tell him that he had been very fond of ora pinsent? must her memory be still more defiled? should he always have to think of this man when he thought of her? jack shrank lower and lower in his chair under the flash of severity; his words died away into confused mutterings; he stretched out his hand towards the whiskey bottle. "you're half drunk already," said ashley. jack looked at him for an instant with hazy eyes, and then poured out some liquor; ashley shrugged his shoulders; his suggested reason had, he perceived, no validity. jack drank his draught and leant forward towards his entertainer with a fresh flicker of boldness. "i know what their game is, mr. mead," he said. "daisy let it all out when we had our row." "whose game?" "why, ora's, and that damned flint's, and hazlewood's." "will you oblige me in one point? if you will, you may have some more whiskey. tell the story without mentioning miss pinsent." jack smiled in wavering bewilderment. why shouldn't he mention ora? he took refuge in an indeterminate "they," which might or might not include his wife. "they mean to get rid of me, then their way's clear," he said with a nod. "their way to what?" "to marrying her to hazlewood," said jack with a cunning smile. he waited an instant; his smile grew a little broader; he took another gulp. "what do you say to that, mr. mead?" he asked. several moments passed, jack still wearing his cunning foolish smile, ashley smoking steadily. what did he say to that? babba had offered him the service of nosings; would he not, in an equally liberal spirit, put them at the disposal of mr. hazlewood? hazlewood was a good fellow, but he would not be squeamish about the nosings. so far there was no improbability. but ora? was she party to the scheme? well, she would gladly--great heavens, how gladly!--be rid of this creature; and the other thing would be held in reserve; it would not be pressed on her too soon. the same mixture of truth and pretence which had marked his talk with irene bowdon displayed itself in his answer to jack fenning. "the most natural thing in the world," he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. jack's face fell, disappointment and dismay were painted on it. his next remark threw some light on the hopes which had brought him to england. "i thought you'd be obliged to me for the tip," he said mournfully. tips and nosings--nosings and tips! "good god, have you any notion at all of the sort of creature you are?" asked ashley. jack giggled uncomfortably. "we're none of us perfect," he said. "i don't see that i'm worse than other people." he paused, and added again, "i thought you'd be obliged to me, mr. mead." ashley had fallen to thinking; now he asked one question. "does miss pinsent know you came here before?" "daisy gave away the whole thing," murmured jack forlornly. "all about my being here and what you did; and hazlewood saw me here, you know." he paused again, and resumed, "it's all pretty rough on me; i don't want to be troublesome, but they ought to do something for me." "and they wouldn't, so you came to me?" jack wriggled about and finished his glass. "well, i won't, either," said ashley. "i've only got thirty shillings. there's a cousin of mine in newcastle who might do something for me if i had a bit of money, but--" "what have you done with the thousand?" "daisy clawed the lot," moaned mr. fenning. it was surely a delusion which made ashley feel any responsibility for the man; he had no doubt prevented jack from rejoining his wife, but no good could have come of the reunion. nevertheless, on the off-chance of there being a moral debt due, he went to the drawer of his writing-table and took out two bank-notes. it occurred to him that the proceeding was unfair to the cousin in newcastle, but in this world somebody must suffer. he held out the notes to jack. "go," he said. jack's eyes glistened as he darted out his hand. "never come back. by heaven, i'll throw you downstairs if you ever come back." jack laughed weakly as he looked at the notes and thrust them into his pocket. he rose; he could still stand pretty steadily. "you understand? never come back or--the stairs!" said ashley, standing opposite to him and smiling at him. "i won't trouble you again, mr. mead," jack assured him. "it's a case where the trouble would be a pleasure, but don't come all the same. you'd be a poor sort of man to be hanged for, you know." jack laughed more comfortably; he thought that he was establishing pleasant relations; but he was suddenly relegated to fright and dismay, for ashley caught him by the shoulder and marched him quickly to the door, saying, "now, get out." jack glanced round in his face. "all right, i'm going, i'm going, mr. mead," he muttered. "don't be angry, i'm going." he darted hastily through the door and stood for one instant at the top of the stairs, looking back over his shoulder with a scared expression. ashley burst into a laugh and slammed the door; the next moment he heard jack's shuffling steps going down. "i must have looked quite melodramatic," he said as he flung himself down on his sofa. his heart was beating quick and the sweat stood on his brow. "good god, what an ass i am!" he thought. "but i only just kept my hands off the fellow. how infernally absurd!" he got up again, relit his pipe, and mixed himself some whiskey-and-water. his self-respect demanded an immediate and resolute return to the plane of civilised life; an instinct to throw jack fenning downstairs, combined with a lively hope that his neck would be broken, was not civilised. and was it grateful? his stiff smile came again as he declared that he ought to consider himself obliged to jack and that the bank-notes were no more than a proper acknowledgment of services rendered. jack's reappearance and jack's news gave the fitting and necessary cap to the situation; they supplied its demands and filled up its deficiencies, they forbade any foolish attempt to idealise it, or to shut eyes to it, or to kick against the pricks. he had elected to have nothing to do with nosings; then he could not look to enjoy the fruits of nosing. the truth went deeper than that; he had been right in his calm bitter declaration that the thing of which jack came to warn him was the most natural thing in the world. ora, being in another world and being lonely, turned to the companionship her new world gave; like sought like. the thing, while remaining a little difficult to imagine--because alien memories crossed the mirror and blurred the image--became more and more easy to explain on the lines of logic, and to justify out of his knowledge of the world, of women and of men. it was natural, indeed he caught the word "inevitable" on the tip of his tongue. the whole affair, the entire course of events since ora pinsent had come on the scene, was of a piece; the same laws ruled, the same tendencies asserted themselves; against their sway and their force mere inclinations, fancies, emotions, passions--call them what you would--seemed very weak and transient, stealing their moment of noisy play, but soon shrinking away beaten before the steady permanent strength of these opponents. the problem worked out to its answer, the pieces fitted into the puzzle, until the whole scheme became plain. as bowdon to his suitable wife, as alice muddock to her obvious husband, so now ora pinsent to the man who was so much in her life, so much with her, whose lines ran beside her lines, converging steadily to a certain point of meeting. yes, so ora pinsent to sidney hazlewood. it would be so; memories of days in the country, of inn parlours, of sweet companionship, could not hinder the end; the laws and tendencies would have their way. the sheep had tried to make a rush, to escape to pleasant new browsing-grounds, the dog was on them in an instant and barked them back to their proper pens again. "only i don't seem to have a pen," said ashley mead. when a thing certainly is, it is perhaps waste of time to think whether it is for the best, and what there may be to be said for and against it. but the human mind is obstinately plagued with a desire to understand and appreciate things; it likes to feel justified in taking up an amiable and acquiescent attitude towards the world in which it finds itself, it does not love to live in rebellion nor even in a sullen obedience. therefore ashley tried to vindicate the ways of fate and to declare that the scheme which was working itself out was very good. even for himself probably a pen would be indicated presently, and he would walk into it. on a broader view the pen-system seemed to answer very well and to produce the sort of moderate happiness for which moderately sensible beings might reasonably look. that was the proper point of view from which to regard the matter; anything else led to an uncivilised desire to throw jack fenning downstairs. thus jack fenning vanished, but in the next day or two there came the letter from ora, the letter which was bound to come in view of the new things she had learnt. ora was not exactly angry, but she was evidently puzzled. she gave him thanks for keeping jack away from her, out of her sight and her knowledge. "but," she wrote, "i don't understand about afterwards; because you found out from mr. hazlewood things that might have made, oh, all the difference, if you'd told them to me and if you'd wanted them to. i don't understand why you didn't tell me; we could have done what's being done now and i should have got free. didn't you want me free? i can't and won't think that you didn't really love me, that you wouldn't really have liked to have me for your own. but i don't know what else i can think. it does look like it. i wish i could see you, ashley, because i think i might perhaps understand then why you acted as you did; i'm sure you had a reason, but i can't see what it was. when we were together, i used to know how you thought and felt about things, and so perhaps, if we were together now, you could make me understand why you treated me like this. but we're such a long way off from one another. do you remember saying that i should begin to come back as soon as ever i went away, and that every day would bring me nearer to you again? it isn't like that; you get farther away. it's not only that i'm not with you now, but somehow it comes to seem as if i'd never been with you--not as we really were, so much together. and so i don't know any more how you feel, and i can't understand how you did nothing after what you found out from mr. hazlewood. because it really would have made all the difference. i don't want to reproach you, but i just don't understand. i shall be travelling about a lot in the next few weeks and shan't have time to write many letters. good-bye." it was what she must think, less by far than she might seem to have excuse for saying. he had no answer to it, no answer that he could send to her, no answer that he could carry to her, without adding a sense of hurt to the bewilderment that she felt. of course too she forgot how large a share the play and the part, with all they stood for, had had in the separation and distance between them which she deplored as so sore a barrier to understanding. she saw only that there had been means by which jack fenning might have been cleared out of the way, means by which he was in fact now being cleared out of the way, and that ashley had chosen to conceal them from her and not to use them himself. hence her puzzled pain, and her feeling that she had lost her hold on him and her knowledge of his mind. reading the letter, he could not stifle some wonder that her failure to understand was so complete. he would not be disloyal to her; anything that was against her was wrung from him reluctantly. but had she no shrinking from what was being done, no repugnance at it, no sense that she was soiled and a sordid tinge given to her life? no, she had none of these things; she wanted to be free; he could have freed her and would not; now sidney hazlewood and babba flint were setting her at liberty. he was far off, they were near; he was puzzling, their conduct was intelligible. she felt herself growing more and more separated from him; was she not growing nearer and nearer to them? the law ruled and the tendency worked through such incidents as these; in them they sprang to light and were fully revealed, their underlying strength became momentarily open and manifest. they would go on ruling and working, using the puzzle, the wound, the resentment, the separation, the ever-growing distance, the impossibility of understanding. these things blotted out memories, so that his very face would grow blurred for her, the tones of his voice dim and strange, the touch of his lips alien and forgotten. she would be travelling a lot in the next few weeks and would not have time to write many letters. he knew, as he read, that she would write no more letters at all, that this was the last to come from her to him, the last that would recall the intimate and sweet companionship whose ending it deplored with poor pathetic bewilderment. she did not see how they came to be so far apart and to be drifting farther and farther apart; she saw only the fact. was it any easier for him to bear because he seemed to see the reason and the necessity? so, "good-bye," she ended; and it was the end. he put the letter away in the drawer whence he had taken the bank-notes for jack fenning, drew a chair up to the table and, sitting down, untied the red tape round a brief which lay there. he began to read but broke off when he had read a few lines and sat for a moment or two, looking straight in front of him. "yes," he said, "there's an end of that." and he went on with the brief. it was indeed the most natural thing in the world. chapter xxiv "a good sight" "one unbroken round of triumph from the hour we landed to the hour we left," said babba flint. he was off duty, had dined well, and come on to mrs. pocklington's rather late; although perfectly master of himself, he was not inclined at this moment to think less well of the world than it deserved. "including the legal proceedings?" asked irene bowdon, studying the figure on her french fan. "well, we put them through all right; pretty sharp too." babba looked at his companion with a droll air. "fact is," he continued, "some of us thought it as well to fix the thing while we were on the other side; complications might have arisen here, you know." "oh, i know what you mean. it's her own look-out; i daresay mr. hazlewood will make a very good husband." "he won't make much difference except in business matters," observed babba composedly. "we all know that well enough." babba did not seem to deplore the state of affairs he indicated. "does he--the man himself?" her curiosity was natural enough. "lord love you, yes, lady bowdon. it's not like the other affair, you see. that wasn't business; this is." he eyed irene's face, which was rather troubled. "best thing, after all," he added. "i suppose so," said irene, looking up with a faint smile. "oh, mind you, i'm sorry in a way. but if you won't pay the price, you don't acquire the article, that's all. i did it for hazlewood, i'd have done it for mead. but if you don't like being in large letters in the bills and the headlines, and being cross-examined yourself, and having her cross-examined, and having everybody--" "in short, if you don't like going through the mud--" "you've got to stay on the near side of the ditch. precisely." irene sighed. babba fixed his eye-glass and took a view of the room. "i'm not mead's sort," he continued, his eye roving round the while, "but i know how it struck him. well, it didn't strike sidney that way and i suppose it didn't strike her. therefore--" he broke off, conceiving that his meaning was clear enough. "she's coming here to-night," he went on a moment later. "and he's here." "situation!" murmured babba, spreading his hands out. "oh dear no," said irene scornfully. "we don't go in for situations in society, mr. flint. isn't that alice muddock over there?" "it is; and jewett with her. still no situation?" he smiled and twisted the glass more firmly in his eye. as he spoke ashley mead came up to alice and bertie, shook hands with both, talked to them for a moment and then passed on, leaving them alone together. alice looked after him for an instant with a faint smile and then turned her face towards her companion again. "your husband here?" asked babba of lady bowdon. "yes, my husband's here," answered irene. she nearly said, "my husband's here too," but such emphatic strokes were not needed to define a situation to babba's professional eye. "he's somewhere in the crowd," she added. "that's all right," said babba, whether mirthfully or merely cheerfully irene could not determine. her next question seemed to rise to her lips inevitably: "and what's become of mr. fenning?" "nobody knows and nobody cares," said babba. "he doesn't count any longer, you see, lady bowdon. we've marked jack fenning off. bless you, i believe miss pinsent's forgotten he ever existed!" "she seems good at forgetting." "what? oh, yes, uncommon," agreed babba rather absently; a pretty girl had chanced to pass by at the minute. irene was inclined to laugh. with all his eye for the situation babba reduced it to absolutely nothing but a situation, a group, a _tableau_, a pose of figures at which you stopped to look for a moment and passed on, saying that it was very effective, that it carried such and such an impression, and would hold the house for this or that number of seconds. it was no use for life to ask babba to take it with the tragic seriousness which irene had at her disposal. "i wonder if she'll have forgotten me," she said. "she always remembers when she sees you again," babba assured her. "ought that to be a comfort to me?" "well, it would be good enough for me," said babba, and he began to hum a tune softly. "after a year, you know, it's something," he broke off to add. "have you really been away a year?" "every hour of it, without including the time i was seasick," said babba with a retrospective shudder. "ah, here she comes!" he went on, and explained the satisfaction which rang in his tones by saying, "i see her most days, but she's always a good sight, you know." as irene watched ora pinsent pass up the room responding gaily to a hundred greetings, it occurred to her that babba's was perhaps the truest point of view from which to regard her old acquaintance, her friend and enemy. in personal intercourse ora might be unsatisfactory; perhaps it was not well to let her become too much to you; it was no doubt imprudent to rely on becoming or remaining very much to her. but considered as a "good sight," as an embellishment of the room she was in, of the society that knew and the world that held her, as an increase of beauty on the earth, as a fountain of gaiety, both as a mirror to picture and as a magnet to draw forth fine emotions and great passions, she seemed to justify herself. this was not to call her "nice" in lady muddock's sense; but it was really the way to take her, the only way in which she would fit into irene's conception of an ordered universe. ashley mead had not, it seemed, been content to take her like that. was the man who walked a few yards behind her, with his tired smile and his deep wrinkle, his carefully arranged effective hair, and his fifty years under decent control--was her new husband content to take her like that and to accept for himself the accidental character which she had the knack of imparting to her domestic relations? he was more respectable and more presentable than jack fenning. jack fenning counted for nothing now; in truth did mr. hazlewood count for much more? except, of course, as babba had observed, in business matters. irene looked up with a little start; there had been a movement by her; she found babba flint gone and ashley mead in his place. his eyes left ora and turned to her. "splendid, isn't she?" he said in a spontaneous unintended outburst. "yes; but--" irene's fan moved almost imperceptibly, but its point was now towards sidney hazlewood. "would you like it?" she asked in a half-whisper. ashley made no answer; his regard was fixed on ora pinsent. ora was in conversation and did not perceive the pair who watched her so attentively. they heard her laugh; her face was upturned to the man she talked to in the old way, with its old suggestion of expecting to be kissed. sidney hazlewood had disappeared into the throng; yes, he seemed decidedly accidental, as accidental as jack fenning himself. "there's my husband," said irene, as bowdon appeared from among the crowd and went up to ora. after a moment he pointed to where they were, and he and ora came towards them together. "prepare to receive cavalry," said irene with a nervous little laugh; the next instant her hands were caught in ora's outstretched grasp. "what an age since i've seen you!" ora cried, and kissed her very affectionately. she remembered irene when she saw her again, as babba had foretold. the two women talked, the two men stood by and listened. ora's greeting to ashley had been friendly but quite ordinary; she did not say that it was an age since she had seen him, but met him as though they had parted yesterday. the situation seemed to fade away; the sense that after all nothing had happened recurred to irene's mind. sidney hazlewood instead of jack fenning--that was all! but a passing glance at ashley's face changed her mood; the smile with which he regarded ora was not the smile he used to have for her. he was admiring still (how should he not?), but now he was analysing also; he was looking at her from the outside; he was no longer absorbed in her. "oh, my trip all seems like a dream," said ora. "a lovely dream! you must come and see the piece when we play it here." they all declared that they would come and see the play; it and it alone seemed to represent her trip to ora's mind; the legal proceedings and mr. hazlewood were not thought of. "i had lots of fun and no trouble," said ora. ashley mead gave a sudden short laugh. it made irene start and she fell to fingering her fan in some embarrassment; bowdon's smile also was uncomfortable. ora looked at ashley with an air of surprise. "he's laughing at me for something," she said to irene. "i don't know what. will you tell me if i come down to supper with you, ashley?" she still called him ashley; irene was definitely displeased; she thought the use of his first name decidedly unseemly under the circumstances. "i'll try," said ashley. ora took his arm and waved a gay adieu. "come and see me very soon," she called, and, as she turned away, she shot a glance at bowdon. "you come too; you haven't been for--" she paused and ended with a laugh. "well, for almost longer than i can remember." the supper-room was not very full; they got a little table to themselves and sat down. it was away in a corner: they were in effect alone. "what were you laughing at? me?" "yes, of course," answered ashley. she looked at him with a rather distrustful and inquisitive glance. "how funnily everything has turned out," she began rather timidly. it was just as he had expected her to begin. "funnily? oh, i don't see that. i call it all very natural," he said. "natural!" ora repeated, lifting her brows. ashley nodded, and drank some champagne. ora seemed disappointed to find him taking that view. the expression of her face set him smiling again. "i don't think i like you to laugh," she said. "it seems rather unkind, i think." he raised his eyes to hers suddenly. "then i won't laugh," he said, in a lower tone. "but i wasn't laughing in that way at all, really." he had, at all events, grown grave now; he pushed his chair a little back and leant his elbow on the table, resting his head on his hand. "if i told you all about how it happened--" she began. "your letter told me," he interrupted. "i don't want you to tell me again." her eyes grew affectionate. she laid a hand on his arm. "was it hard, dear ashley?" she whispered. "i knew how it would be from the moment you went away," was his answer. "then why did you let me go?" she asked quickly, and, as he fancied, rather reproachfully. she seemed to snatch at a chance of excusing herself. "you wanted to go." ora looked a little troubled; she knit her brows and clasped her hands; she seemed to be turning what he said over in her mind. she did not deny its truth, but its truth distressed her vaguely. "it's no use bothering ourselves trying to explain things," ashley went on more lightly. "it's all over now, anyhow." he was conscious of the old weakness--he could not cause her pain. his impulse even now was to make her think that she had been in all things right. "yes." her dark eyes rested on his face a moment. "you liked it while it lasted?" "very much," he admitted, smiling again for a moment. "but it's over. i'm sorry it's over, you know." "are you, ashley? really sorry?" he nodded. "so am i," she said with a sigh. he rose to his feet and she followed his example; but she would not let him take her back to where the people were, but made him sit down in a recess in the passage outside the drawing-room. she seemed to have fallen into a pensive mood; he was content to sit by her in silence until she spoke again. "sidney was very kind, and very helpful to me," she said at last. "i got to like him very much." she was pleading with ashley in her praise of hazlewood. "oh, yes, i know," he murmured. "good heavens, you don't think i'm blaming you?" he had said that to her before; she did not accept it so readily now. "yes, you are," she said, with a little temper. "you've set me down for something--as some sort of person. i know you have. you may say that's not blaming, but it's just as bad." he was surprised at her penetration. "i suppose you always felt like that really, down in your heart," she added thoughtfully. "but you used to like me." "i should rather think i did," said ashley. "you don't now?" "yes, i do." "not so much? not in the same way?" a touch of urgency had come into her tone. "should you expect that? and i'm sure you wouldn't wish it." "some people go on caring always--whatever happens." he leant forward towards her and spoke in a low serious voice. "i shall never be able to think of my life without thinking of you," he told her. after a pause he added, "that's the truth of it, but i don't know exactly how much it comes to. a good deal, i expect; more than generally happens in such cases." "you'll marry somebody!" the prospect did not seem to please her. "very likely," he answered. "what difference does that make? whatever happens, you're there. you put yourself there, and you can't take yourself away again." "i don't want to," said ora, with all her old sincerity in the avowal of her feelings. "of course you don't," he said, with a faint smile. she had spoken seriously, almost pathetically, as though she were asking to be allowed to stay with him in some such way as he had hinted at; for the first time he recognised the look of appeal once so familiar. it brought to him mingled pain and pleasure; it roused a tenderness which made him anxious above all to say nothing that would hurt her, and to leave her happy and content with herself when they parted; this also was quite in the old fashion. "why, you'll stand for the best time and the best thing in my life," he said. "you'll be my holiday, ora. but we can't have holidays all the time." "we had some lovely days together, hadn't we? i'm not sure the first wasn't best of all. you remember?" "oh, yes, i remember." "you're laughing again." but now ora laughed a little herself. the cloud was passing away; she was regaining the serenity of which too much self-examination had threatened to rob her, and the view of herself as the passive subject of occurrences at which she, in common with the rest of the world, was at liberty to sigh or smile in a detached irresponsibility. a man passed by and bowed, saying, "how do you do, mrs. hazlewood?" "isn't that funny?" asked ora. "nobody thinks of calling me mrs. hazlewood." "i certainly shan't think of calling you anything of the kind," said ashley. she laughed, seemed to hesitate a little, but then risked her shot. "you wouldn't have expected me to be called mrs. mead, would you?" she asked. "no, i shouldn't," he answered with a smile. the whole case seemed to be stated in her question. she not only would not have been called, but she would not really have been, mrs. mead--not in any sense which was of true importance. neither had she been mrs. fenning; neither was she mrs. hazlewood; she was and would remain ora pinsent. "of course i don't mind it," ora went on, with a smile whose graciousness was for both her actual husband in the drawing-room and her hypothetical husband in the recess. "but somehow it always sounds odd." she laughed, adding, "i suppose some people would call that odd--your friend alice muddock, for instance." "i haven't the least doubt that alice muddock would call it very odd." "she never liked me really, you know." "well, perhaps she didn't." "but she did like you, ashley." "she certainly doesn't," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "oh, you'd never have got on with her," said ora scornfully. then she jumped up suddenly, crying, "there's babba, i want to speak to him." but before she went, she said one word more. "you were the truest finest friend, ashley. and i wasn't worthy." she looked at him in appeal. "no, not worthy," she repeated. "i think alice muddock's right about me." she threw out her hands in the saddest little protest, dumbly accusing the power that had made her what she was. "i think you could still break my heart by being unhappy," said ashley mead. she gave him a little wistful smile, shook her head, and walked quickly away. her voice rose gaily the next moment, crying, "babba, babba!" and that was all babba's situation came to. there was in fact no situation; there was only a state of things; so ashley decided as he sat on alone. perhaps rather a strange state of things, but certainly no more than that. her being here in town, liable to be met, having to be spoken to, being again a presence as well as a memory--all this made his position different from what it had been while she was over seas. but stranger still was the knowledge that, however often she were met and spoken to, the presence would be and would rest different from the memory. he had recognised the possibility that all which had come to him in the months of separation would vanish again at her living touch and that the old feelings would revive in their imperious exclusive sway. he had known that this might happen; he had not known whether he hoped or feared its happening; because, if it happened, there was no telling what else might happen. now he became aware that it would not happen, and (perhaps this was strangest of all) that the insuperable obstacle came from himself and not from her. she had not ceased, and could not cease, to attract, amuse, and charm, or even to be the woman with whom out of all women he would best like to be. but here the power of her presence stopped; it owned limits; it had not a boundless empire; that belonged now only to the memory of her. it was then the memory, not the presence, which he would always think of when he thought of his life, which would be the great thing to him, which would abide always with him, unchanged, unweakened, unspoilt either by what she was now or in the future might be. she was beyond her own power; herself, as she had been to him, she could neither efface nor mar. he had idealised her; he was rich in the possession of the image his idealising had made; but the woman before his eyes was different or seen with different eyes. as this came home to his mind, a sense of relief rose for a moment in him; he hailed its appearance with eagerness; but its appearance was brief; it was drowned in a sense of loss. he was free; that was the undoubted meaning of what he felt; but he was free at a great cost. it was as though a man got rid of his fetters by cutting off the limb that carried them. he strolled back into the drawing-room. the throng had grown thin. alice muddock and bertie jewett were gone; alice had kept out of ora's way. babba flint was just saying good-bye; the bowdons, ora, and hazlewood were standing in a group together in the middle of the room. he noticed that hazlewood shifted his position a little so as to present a fullback view. really hazlewood need not feel uncomfortable. hazlewood as an individual was of such very small importance. however ashley did not thrust his presence on him, but went off and talked for a few moments with his hostess. meanwhile the group separated; ora came towards mrs. pocklington, hazlewood following. ashley hastily said his own farewell and sauntered off; ora waved her hand to him with her lavish freedom and airy grace of gesture, calling, "good-night, ashley!" hazlewood exchanged a nod with him; then the pair passed out. in the hall bowdon suggested that they should walk a little way together, the night being fine. irene knew well why they wanted to walk together, but got into her carriage without objection; she had no more to fear from ora. as for ashley, so for her ora's work lay in the past, not in the present or the future. the difference in her life, as in his, had been made once and for all; nothing that came now could either increase it or take it away. her fears, her jealousy, her grudge, were for the memory, not for the presence. the two men who had wanted to talk to one another walked in silence, side by side. but presently the silence seemed absurd, and they spoke of trivial matters. then came silence again. [illustration: walked in silence side by side] "i mustn't come much further," said bowdon at last, "or i shan't get home to-night." "oh, come on a little way; it'll do you good," said ashley. so they went on a little way. and at last bowdon spoke. "she doesn't look a day older," he said. "oh, no. she won't look a day older for ever so long." "and old hazlewood's just the same, wrinkle and all." "she won't smooth that away," said ashley with a laugh. bowdon took his arm and they walked on together for a little way further. then bowdon stopped. "i'm going home," he said, dropping ashley's arm. "good-night." "good-night," ashley answered. but for a moment bowdon did not go. with a smile at once confidential and apologetic he put the question which was in his mind: "it's infernally impertinent of me, but, i say, ashley, are you still in love with her?" ashley looked him full in the face for a moment, and then gave his answer. "no, i'm not, but i wish to god i was!" he said. for in that love his life had done its uttermost; it would do no such good thing again. he had called ora's time his holiday time. it was over. the rare quality of its pleasure he would taste no more. bowdon nodded in understanding. "a wonderful creature!" he said, as he turned away. a wonderful creature! or, as babba flint had preferred to put it, "a good sight." yes, that must be the way to look at her, the right way to look at her existence, the truth about it. only when ashley remembered that little gesture of dumb protest, the truth seemed rather hard--and hard not for himself alone. if she sacrificed others, if her nature were shaped to that, was she not a sacrifice herself--sacrificed that beautiful things might be set before the eyes and in the hearts of men? let judgment then be gentle, and love unashamed. plymouth william brendon and son, limited printers * * * * * * transcriber's note: minor punctuation errors have been corrected. oe-ligatures have been replaced with oe. this text is otherwise as originally published. the purple parasol george barr mccutcheon the purple parasol young rossiter did not like the task. the more he thought of it as he whirled northward on the empire state express the more distasteful it seemed to grow. "hang it all," he thought, throwing down his magazine in disgust, "it's like police work. and heaven knows i haven't wanted to be a cop since we lived in newark twenty years ago. why the dickens did old wharton marry her? he's an old ass, and he's getting just what he might have expected. she's twenty-five and beautiful; he's seventy and a sight. i've a notion to chuck the whole affair and go back to the simple but virtuous tenderloin. it's not my sort, that's all, and i was an idiot for mixing in it. the firm served me a shabby trick when it sent me out to work up this case for wharton. it's a regular peeping tom job, and i don't like it." it will require but few words to explain sam rossiter's presence in the north-bound empire express, but it would take volumes to express his feelings on the subject in general. back in new york there lived godfrey wharton, millionaire and septuagenarian. for two years he had been husband to one of the prettiest, gayest young women in the city, and in the latter days of this responsibility he was not a happy man. his wife had fallen desperately, even conspicuously, in love with everett havens, the new leading man at one of the fashionable playhouses. the affair had been going on for weeks, and it had at last become the talk of the town. by "the town" is meant that vague, expansive thing known as the "four hundred." sam rossiter, two years out of yale, was an attachment to, but not a component part of, the four hundred. the whartons were of the inner circle. young rossiter was ambitious. he was, besides, keen, aggressive, and determined to make well for himself. entering the great law offices of grover & dickhut immediately after leaving college, he devoted himself assiduously to the career in prospect. he began by making its foundation as substantial as brains and energy would permit. so earnest, so successful was he that grover & dickhut regarded him as the most promising young man in new york. they predicted a great future for him, no small part of which was the ultimate alteration of an office shingle, the name of rossiter going up in gilt, after that of dickhut. and, above all, rossiter was a handsome, likable chap. tall, fair, sunny-hearted, well groomed, he was a fellow that both sexes liked without much effort. the wharton trouble was bound to prove startling any way one looked at it. the prominence of the family, the baldness of its skeleton, and the gleeful eagerness with which it danced into full view left but little for meddlers to covet. a crash was inevitable; it was the _clash_ that grover & dickhut were trying to avert. old wharton, worn to a slimmer frazzle than he had ever been before his luckless marriage, was determined to divorce his insolent younger half. it was to be done with as little noise as possible, more for his own sake than for hers. wharton was proud in, not of, his weakness. it became necessary to "shadow" the fair débutante into matrimony. after weeks of indecision mr. wharton finally arose and swore in accents terrible that she was going too far to be called back. he determined to push, not to pull, on the reins. grover & dickhut were commanded to get the "evidence"; he would pay. when he burst in upon them and cried in his cracked treble that "the devil's to pay," he did not mean to cast any aspersion upon the profession in general or particular. he was annoyed. "she's going away next week," he exclaimed, as if the lawyers were to blame for it. "well, and what of it?" asked mr. grover blandly. "up into the mountains," went on mr. wharton triumphantly. "is it against the law?" smiled the old lawyer. "confound the law! i don't object to her going up into the mountains for a rest, but--" "it's much too hot in town for her, i fancy." "how's that?" querulously. "but i've just heard that that scoundrel havens is going to the mountains also." "the same mountain?" "certainly. i have absolute proof of it. now, something has to be done!" and so it was that the promising young lawyer, samuel w. rossiter, jr., was sent northward into the adirondacks one hot summer day with instructions to be tactful but thorough. he had never seen mrs. wharton, nor had he seen havens. there was no time to look up these rather important details, for he was off to intercept her at the little station from which one drove by coach to the quiet summer hotel among the clouds. she was starting the same afternoon. he found himself wondering whether this petted butterfly of fashion had ever seen him, and, seeing him, had been sufficiently interested to inquire, "who is that tall fellow with the light hair?" it would be difficult to perform the duties assigned to him if either she or havens knew him for what he was. his pride would have been deeply wounded if he had known that grover & dickhut recommended him to wharton as "obscure." "they say she is a howling beauty as well as a swell," reflected rossiter, as the miles and minutes went swinging by. "and that's something to be thankful for. one likes novelty, especially if it's feminine. well, i'm out for the sole purpose of saving a million or so for old wharton, and to save as much of her reputation as i can besides. with the proof in hand the old duffer can scare her out of any claim against his bank account, and she shall have the absolute promise of 'no exposure' in return. isn't it lovely? well, here's albany. now for the dinky road up to fossingford station. i have an hour's wait here. she's coming on the afternoon train and gets to fossingford at eleven-ten to-night. that's a dickens of a time for a young woman to be arriving anywhere, to say nothing of fossingford." loafing about the depot at albany, rossiter kept a close lookout for mrs. wharton as he pictured her from the description he carried in his mind's eye. her venerable husband informed him that she was sure to wear a white shirt-waist, a gray skirt, and a knox sailor hat, because her maid had told him so in a huff. but he was to identify her chiefly by means of a handsome and oddly trimmed parasol of deep purple. wharton had every reason to suspect that it was a present from havens, and therefore to be carried more for sentiment than protection. a telegram awaited him at fossingford station. fossingford was so small and unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did not relate to the movement of railroad trains was an "occasion." everybody in town knew that a message had come for samuel rossiter, and everybody was at the depot to see that he got it. the station agent had inquired at the "eating-house" for the gentleman, and that was enough. with the eyes of a fossingford score or two upon him, rossiter read the despatch from grover & dickhut. "too bad, ain't it?" asked the agent, compassionately regarding the newcomer. evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing. "oh, i don't know," replied rossiter easily. but just the same he was troubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk in the shade of the building. the telegram read: "she left new york five-thirty this evening. stops over night albany. fossingford to-morrow morning. watch trains. purple parasol. sailor hat. gray travelling suit. "g. and d." it meant that he would be obliged to stay in fossingford all night--but where? a general but comprehensive glance did not reveal anything that looked like a hotel. he thought of going back to albany for the night, but it suddenly occurred to him that she might not stop in that city, after all. pulling his wits together, he saw things with a new clearness of vision. ostensibly she had announced her intention to spend the month at eagle nest, an obscure but delightful hotel in the hills; but did that really mean that she would go there? it was doubtless a ruse to throw the husband off the track. there were scores of places in the mountains, and it was more than probable that she would give eagle nest a wide berth. rossiter patted his bump of perceptiveness and smiled serenely until he came plump up against the realization that she might not come by way of fossingford at all, or, in any event, she might go whisking through to some station farther north. his speculations came to an end in the shape of a distressing resolution. he would remain in fossingford and watch the trains go by! after he had dashed through several early evening trains, the cheerful, philosophical smile of courage left his face and trouble stared from his eyes. he saw awkward prospects ahead. suppose she were to pass through on one of the late night trains! he could not rush through the sleepers, even though the trains stopped in fossingford for water. besides, she could not be identified by means of a gray suit, a sailor hat, and a purple parasol if they were tucked away in the berth. at eleven o'clock he was pacing the little depot platform, waiting for the eleven-ten train, the last he was to inspect for the night. he had eaten a scanty meal at the restaurant nearby, and was still mad about it. the station agent slept soundly at his post, and all the rest of the town had gone to bed. the train pulled in and out again, leaving him at the far end of the platform, mopping his harassed brow. he had visited the chair-cars and had seen no one answering the description. a half-dozen passengers huddled off and wandered away in the darkness. "i'll bet my head she's in one of those sleepers," he groaned, as he watched the lights on the rear coach fade away into the night. "it's all off till to-morrow, that's settled. my only hope is that she really stopped in albany. there's a train through here at three in the morning; but i'm not detective enough to unravel the mystery of any woman's berth. now, where the deuce am _i_ to sleep?" as he looked about dismally, disconsolately, his hands deep in his pockets, his straw hat pulled low over his sleepy eyes, the station agent came up to him with a knowing grin on his face. "'scuse me, boss, but she's come," he said, winking. "she? who?" "her. the young lady. sure! she's lookin' fer you over in the waitin'-room. you mus' 'a' missed her when she got off--thought she wasn't comin' up till to-morrer. mus' 'a' changed her mind. that's a woming all over, ain't it?" rossiter felt himself turn hot and cold. his head began to whirl and his courage went fluttering away. here was a queer complication. the quarry hunting for the sleuth, instead of the reverse. he fanned himself with his hat for one brief, uncertain moment, dazed beyond belief. then he resolutely strode over to face the situation, trusting to luck to keep him from blundering his game into her hands. just as he was about to put his foot upon the lamp-lit door-sill the solution struck him like a blow. she was expecting havens to meet her! there was but one woman in the room, and she was approaching the door with evident impatience as he entered. both stopped short, she with a look of surprise, which changed to annoyance and then crept into an nervous, apologetic little smile; he with an unsuppressed ejaculation. she wore a gray skirt, a white waist, and a sailor hat, and she was surpassingly good to look at even in the trying light from the overhead lamp. instinctively his eye swept over her. she carried on her arm the light gray jacket, and in one hand was the tightly rolled parasol of--he impertinently craned his neck to see--of purple! mr. rossiter was face to face with the woman he was to dog for a month, and he was flabbergasted. even as he stopped, puzzled, before her, contemplating retreat, she spoke to him. "did that man send you to me?" she asked nervously, looking through the door beyond and then through a window at his right, quite puzzled, he could see. "he did, and i was sure he was mistaken. i knew of no one in this god-forsaken place who could be asking for me," said he, collecting his wits carefully and herding them into that one sentence. "but perhaps i can help you. will you tell me whom i am to look for?" "it is strange he is not here," she said a little breathlessly. "i wired him just what train to expect me on." "your husband?" ventured he admirably. "oh, dear, no!" said she quickly. "i wish she'd wired me what train to expect her on," thought he grimly. "she doesn't know me. that's good. she was expecting havens and he's missed connections somehow," shot rapidly through his brain. at the same time he was thinking of her as the prettiest woman he had seen in all his life. then aloud: "i'll look on the platform. maybe he's lost in this great city. what name shall i call out?" "please don't call very loudly. you'll wake the dead," she said, with a pathetic smile. "it's awfully good of you. he may come at any minute, you know. his name is--is"--she hesitated for a second, and then went on determinedly--"dudley. tall, dark man. i don't know how i shall thank you. it's so very awkward." rossiter darted from her glorious but perplexed presence. he had never seen havens, but he was sure he could recognize an actor if he saw him in fossingford. and he would call him dudley, too. it would be wise. the search was fruitless. the only tall, dark object he saw was the mailcrane at the edge of the platform, but he facetiously asked if its name was dudley. receiving no answer, he turned back to cast additional woe into the heart of the pretty intriguer. she was standing in the door, despair in her eyes. somehow he was pleased because he had not found the wretch. she was so fair to look upon and so appealing in her distress. "you couldn't find him? what am i to do? oh, isn't it awful? he promised to be here." "perhaps he's at a hotel." "in fossingford?" in deep disgust. "there's no hotel here. he was to drive me to the home of a friend out in the country." rossiter leaned against the wall suddenly. there was a long silence. he could not find his tongue, but his eyes were burning deep into the plaintive blue ones that looked up into his face. "i'll ask the agent," he said at last. "ask him what?" she cried anxiously. "if he's been here. no, i'll ask if there's a place where you can sleep to-night. mr. dudley will surely turn up to-morrow." "but i couldn't sleep a wink. i feel like crying my eyes out," she wailed. "don't do that!" exclaimed he, in alarm. "i'll take another look outside." "please don't. he is not here. will you please tell me what i am to do?"--very much as if it was his business to provide for her in the hour of need. rossiter promptly awoke the agent and asked him where a room could be procured for the lady. doxie's boarding-house was the only place, according to the agent, and it was full to overflowing. besides, they would not "take in" strange women. "she can sleep here in the waiting-room," suggested the agent. "they'll let you sleep in the parlor over at doxie's, mister--maybe." rossiter did not have the heart to tell her all that the agent said. he merely announced that there was no hotel except the depot waiting-room. "by the way, does mr. dudley live out in the country?" he asked insidiously. she flushed and then looked at him narrowly. "no. he's visiting his uncle up here." "funny he missed you." "it's terribly annoying," she said coldly. then she walked away from him as if suddenly conscious that she should not be conversing with a good-looking stranger at such a time and place and under such peculiar circumstances. he withdrew to the platform and his own reflections. "he's an infernal cad for not meeting her," he found himself saying, her pretty, distressed face still before him. "i don't care a rap whether she's doing right or wrong--she's game. still, she's a blamed little fool to be travelling up here on such an outlandish train. so he's visiting an uncle, eh? then the chances are they're not going to eagle nest. lucky i waited here--i'd have lost them entirely if i'd gone back to albany. but where the deuce is she to sleep till morn--" he heard rapid footsteps behind him and turned to distinguish mrs. wharton as she approached dimly but gracefully. the air seemed full of her. "oh, mr.--mr.--" she was saying eagerly. "rollins." "isn't there a later train, mr. rollins?" "i'll ask the agent." "there's the flyer at three-thirty a. m.," responded the sleepy agent a minute later. "i'll just sit up and wait for it," she said coolly. "he has got the trains confused." "good heavens! till three-thirty?" "but my dear mr. rollins, you won't be obliged to sit up, you know. you're not expecting any one, are you?" "n-no, of course not." "by the way, why _are_ you staying up?" he was sure he detected alarm in the question. she was suspecting him! "i have nowhere to go, miss--mrs.--er--" she merely smiled and he said something under his breath. "i'm waiting for the eight o'clock train." "how lovely! what time will the three-thirty train get here, agent?" "at half-past three, i reckon. but she don't stop here!" "oh, goodness! can't you flag it--her, i mean?" "what's the use?" asked rossiter. "he's not coming on it, is he?" "that's so. he's coming in a buggy. you needn't mind flagging her, agent." "well, say, i'd like to lock up the place," grumbled the agent. "there's no more trains to-night but number seventeen, and she don't even whistle here. i can't set up here all night." "oh, you wouldn't lock me out in the night, would you?" she cried in such pretty despair that he faltered. "i got to git home to my wife. she's--" "that's all right, agent," broke in rossiter hastily. "i'll take your place as agent. leave the doors open and i'll go on watch. i have to stay up anyway." there was a long silence. he did not know whether she was freezing or warming toward him, because he dared not look into her eyes. "i don't know who you are," she said distinctly but plaintively. it was very dark out there on the platform and the night air was growing cold. "it is the misfortune of obscurity," he said mockingly. "i am a most humble wayfarer on his way to the high hills. if it will make you feel any more comfortable, madam, i will say that i don't know who you are. so, you see, we are in the same boat. you are waiting for a man and i am waiting for daylight. i sincerely trust you may not have as long to wait as i. believe me, i regard myself as a gentleman. you are quite as safe with me as you will be with the agent, or with mr.--mr. dudley, for that matter." "you may go home to your wife, mr. agent," she said promptly. "mr. rollins will let the trains through, i'm sure." the agent stalked away in the night and the diminutive station was left to the mercy of the wayfarers. "and now, mr. rollins, you may go over in that corner and stretch out on the bench. it will be springless, i know, but i fancy you can sleep. i will call you for the--for breakfast." "i'm hanged if you do. on the contrary, i'm going to do my best to fix a comfortable place for you to take a nap. i'll call you when mr. dudley comes." "it's most provoking of him," she said, as he began rummaging through his steamer trunk. "what are you doing?" "hunting out something to make over into a mattress. you don't mind napping on my clothes, do you? here's a soft suit of flannels, a heavy suit of cheviot, a dress suit, a spring coat, and a raincoat. i can rig up a downy couch in no time if--" "ridiculous! do you imagine that i'm going to sleep on your best clothes? i'm going to sit up." "you'll have to do as i say, madam, or be turned out of the hotel," said he, with an infectious grin. "but i insist upon your lying down. you have no reason for doing this for me. besides, i'm going to sit up. good-night!" "you are tired and ready to cry," he said, calmly going on with his preparations. she stood off defiantly and watched him pile his best clothes into a rather comfortable-looking heap on one of the long benches. "now, if you don't mind, i'll make a pillow of these negligée shirts. they're soft, you know." "stop! i refuse to accept your--" she was protesting. "do you want me to leave you here all alone?" he demanded. "with the country full of tramps and--" "don't! it's cowardly of you to frighten me. they say the railroads are swarming with tramps, too. won't you please go and see if mr. dudley is anywhere in sight?" "it was mean of me, i confess. please lie down. it's getting cold. pull this raincoat over yourself. i'll walk out and--" "oh, but you are a determined person. and very foolish, too. why should you lose a lot of sleep just for me when--?" "there is no reason why two men should fail you to-night, mrs.--miss--" "miss dering," she said, humbled. "when you choose to retire, miss dering, you will find your room quite ready," he said with fine gallantry, bowing low as he stood in the doorway. "i will be just outside on the platform, so don't be uneasy." he quickly faded into the night, leaving her standing there, petulant, furious, yet with admiration in her eyes. ten minutes later he heard her call. she was sitting on the edge of the improvised couch, smiling sweetly, even timidly. "it must be cold out there. you must wear this." she came toward him, the raincoat in one hand, the purple parasol in the other. he took the parasol only and departed without a word. she gasped and would have called after him, but there was no use. with a perplexed frown and smile she went slowly, dubiously toward the folded bed. rossiter smoked three cigars and walked two miles up and down the platform, swinging the parasol absent-mindedly, before he ventured to look inside the room again. in that time he had asked and answered many questions in his mind. he saw that it would be necessary to change his plans if he was to watch her successfully. she evidently gave out eagle nest to blind her husband. somehow he was forgetting that the task before him was disagreeable and undignified. what troubled him most was how to follow them if havens--or dudley--put in an appearance for the three-thirty train. he began to curse everett havens softly but potently. when he looked into the waiting-room she was sound asleep on the bench. it delighted him to see that she had taken him at his word and was lying upon his clothes. cautiously he took a seat on the door-sill. the night was as still as death and as lonesome as the grave. for half an hour he sat gazing upon the tired, pretty face and the lithe young figure of the sleeper. he found himself dreaming, although he was wide awake--never more so. it occurred to him that he would be immensely pleased to hear that havens's reason for failing her was due to an accident in which he had been killed. "those clothes will have to be pressed the first thing to-morrow," he said to himself, but without a trace of annoyance. "hang it all, she doesn't look like that sort of woman," his mind switched. "but just think of being tied up to an old crocodile like wharton! gee! one oughtn't to blame her!" then he went forth into the night once more and listened for the sound of buggy wheels. it was almost time for the arrival of the belated man from the country, and he was beginning to pray that he would not appear at all. it came to his mind that he should advise her to return to new york in the morning. at last his watch told him that the train was due to pass in five minutes. and still no buggy! good! he felt an exhilaration that threatened to break into song. softly he stole back into the waiting-room, prepared to awaken her before the train shot by. something told him that the rumble and roar would terrify her if she were asleep. going quite close to her he bent forward and looked long and sadly upon the perfect face. her hair was somewhat disarranged, her hat had a very hopeless tilt, her lashes swept low over the smooth cheek, but there was an almost imperceptible choke in her breathing. in her small white hand she clasped a handkerchief tightly, and--yes, he was sure of it--there were tear-stains beneath her lashes. there came to him the faint sob which lingers long in the breath of one who has cried herself to sleep. the spy passed his hand over his brow, sighed, shook his head and turned away irresolutely. he remembered that she was waiting for a man who was not her husband. far down the track a bright star came shooting toward fossingford. he knew it to be the headlight of the flyer. with a breath of relief he saw that he was the only human being on the platform. havens had failed again. this time he approached the recumbent one determinedly. she was awake the instant he touched her shoulder. "oh," she murmured, sitting erect and looking about, bewildered. "is it--has he--oh, you are still here? has he come?" "no, miss dering, he is not here," and added, under his breath, "damn him!" then aloud, "the train is coming." "and he didn't come?" she almost wailed. "i fancy you'd better try to sleep until morning. there's nothing to stay awake for," although it came with a pang. "absolutely nothing," she murmured, and his pride took a respectful tumble. as she began to rearrange her hair, rather clumsily spoiling a charming effect, he remonstrated. "don't bother about your hair." she looked at him in wonder for an instant, a little smile finally creeping to her lips. he felt that she understood something. "maybe he'll come after all," he added quickly. "what are you doing with my parasol?" she asked sleepily. "i'm carrying it to establish your identity with dudley if he happens to come. he'll recognize the purple parasol, you know." "oh, i see," she said dubiously. "he gave it to me for a birthday present." "i knew it," he muttered. "what?" "i mean i knew he'd recognize it," he explained. the flyer shot through fossingford at that juncture, a long line of roaring shadows. there was silence between them until the rumble was lost in the distance. "if you don't mind, i'd like to go out on the platform for awhile," she said finally, resignation in her eyes. "perhaps he's out there, wondering why the train didn't stop." "it's cold out there. just slip into my coat, miss dering." he held the raincoat for her, and she mechanically slipped her arms into the sleeves. she shivered, but smiled sweetly up at him. "thank you, mr. rollins, you are very thoughtful and very kind to me." they walked out into the darkness. after a turn or two in silence she took the arm he proffered. he admired the bravery with which she was trying to convince him that she was not so bitterly disappointed. when she finally spoke her voice was soft and cool, just as a woman's always is before the break. "he was to have taken me to his uncle's house, six miles up in the country. his aunt and a young lady from the south, with mr. dudley and me, are to go to eagle nest to-morrow for a month." "how very odd," he said with well-assumed surprise. "i, too, am going to eagle nest for a month or so." she stopped stock-still, and he could feel that she was staring at him hardly. "you are going there?" she half whispered. "they say it is a quiet, restful place," he said. "one reaches it by stage over-land, i believe." she was strangely silent during the remainder of the walk. somehow he felt amazingly sorry for her. "i hope i may see something of you while we are there," he said at last. "i imagine i couldn't help it if i were to try," she said. they were in the path of the light from the window, and he saw the strange little smile on her face. "i think i'll lie down again. won't you find a place to sleep, mr. rollins? i can't bear the thought of depriving you--" "i am the slave of your darkness," he said gravely. she left him, and he lit another cigar. daylight came at last to break up his thoughts, and then his tired eyes began to look for the man and buggy. fatigued and weary, he sat upon his steamer trunk, his back to the wall. there he fell sound asleep. he was awakened by some one shaking him gently by the shoulder. "you are a very sound sleeper, mr. rollins," said a familiar voice, but it was gay and sprightly. he looked up blankly, and it was a full half-minute before he could get his bearings. a young woman with a purple parasol stood beside him, laughing merrily, and at her side was a tall, dark, very good-looking young man. "i couldn't go without saying good-by to you, mr. rollins, and thanking you again for the care you have taken of me," she was saying. he finally saw the little gloved hand that was extended toward him. her companion was carrying her jacket and the little travelling-bag. "oh--er--good-by, and don't mention it," he stammered, struggling to his feet. "was i asleep?" "asleep at your post, sir. mr. dudley--oh, this is mr. dudley, mr. rollins--came in ten minutes ago and found--us--both--asleep." "isn't it lucky mr. dudley happens to be an honest man?" said rossiter, in a manner so strange that the smile froze on the face of the other man. the unhappy barrister caught the quick glance that passed between them, and was vaguely convinced that they had been discussing him while he slept. something whispered to him that they had guessed the nature of his business. "my telegram was not delivered to him until this morning. wasn't it provoking?" she was saying. "what time is it now?" asked rossiter. "half-past seven," responded dudley rather sharply. his black eyes were fastened steadily upon those of the questioner. "mr. van haltford's man came in and got miss dering's telegram yesterday, but it was not delivered to me until a neighbor came to the house with both the message and messenger in charge. joseph had drunk all the whisky in fossingford. "then there's no chance for me to get a drink, i suppose," said rossiter with a wry smile. "do you need one?" asked miss dering saucily. "i have a headache." "a pick-me-up is what you want," said dudley coldly. "my dear sir, i haven't been drunk," remonstrated rossiter sharply. his hearers laughed and he turned red but cold with resentment. "see, mr. rollins, i have smoothed out your clothes and folded them," she said, pointing to her one-time couch. "i couldn't pack them in your trunk because you were sitting on it. shall i help you now?" "no, i thank you," he said ungraciously. "i can toss 'em in any old way." he set about doing it without another word. his companions stood over near the window and conversed earnestly in words too low for him to distinguish. from the corner of his eye he could see that dudley's face was hard and uncompromising, while hers was eager and imploring. the man was stubbornly objecting to something, and she was just as decided in an opposite direction. "he's finding fault and she's trying to square it with him. oh, my beauties, you'll have a hard time to shake off one samuel rossiter. they're suspicious--or he is, at least. some one has tipped me off to them, i fancy." "i'm sorry they are so badly mussed, mr. rollins, but they did make a very comfortable bed," she said, walking over to him. her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were gleaming. "you are going to eagle nest to-day?" "just as soon as i can get a conveyance. there is a stage-coach at nine, miss dering." "we will have room for you on our break," she said simply. her eyes met his bravely and then wavered. rossiter's heart gave a mighty leap. "permit me to second miss dering's invitation," said dudley, coming over. the suggestion of a frown on his face made rossiter only too eager to accept the unexpected invitation. "my aunt and miss crozier are outside with the coachman. you can have your luggage sent over in the stage. it is fourteen miles by road, so we should be under way, mr. rollins." as rossiter followed them across the platform he was saying to himself: "well, the game's on. here's where i begin to earn my salary. i'll hang out my sign when i get back to new york: 'police spying. satisfaction guaranteed. references given.' hang it all, i hate to do this to her. she's an awfully good sort, and--and--but i don't like this damned havens!" almost before he knew it he was being presented to two handsome, fashionably dressed young women who sat together in the rear seat of the big mountain break. "every cloud has its silver lining," miss dering was saying. "let me present you to mr. dudley's aunt, mrs. van haltford, and to miss crozier, mr. rollins." in a perfect maze of emotions, he found himself bowing before the two ladies, who smiled distantly and uncertainly. dudley's aunt? that dashing young creature his aunt? rossiter was staggered by the boldness of the claim. he could scarce restrain the scornful, brutal laugh of derision at this ridiculous play upon his credulity. to his secret satisfaction he discovered that the entire party seemed nervous and ill at ease. there was a trace of confusion in their behavior. he heard miss dering explain that he was to accompany the party and he saw the poorly concealed look of disapproval and polite inquiry that went between the two ladies and dudley. there was nothing for it, however, now that miss dering had committed herself, and he was advised to look to his luggage without delay. he hurried into the station to arrange for the transportation of his trunk by stage, all the while smiling maliciously in his sleeve. looking surreptitiously from a window he saw the quartet, all of them now on the break, arguing earnestly over--him, he was sure. miss dering was plaintively facing the displeasure of the trio. the coachman's averted face wore a half-grin. the discussion ended abruptly as rossiter reappeared, but there was a coldness in the air that did not fail to impress him as portentous. "i'm the elephant on their hands--the proverbial hot coal," he thought wickedly. "well, they've got to bear it even if they can't grin." then aloud cheerily: "all aboard! we're off!" he took his seat beside the driver. the events of the ensuing week are best chronicled by the reproduction of rossiter's own diary or report, with liberties in the shape of an author's comments. thursday. "settled comfortably in eagle nest house. devilish rugged and out-of-the-way place. mrs. van haltford is called aunt josephine. she and miss debby crozier have rooms on the third floor. mine is next to theirs, havens's is next to mine, and mrs. wharton has two rooms beyond his. we are not unlike a big family party. they're rather nice to me. i go walking with aunt josephine. i don't understand why i'm sandwiched in between havens and aunt josephine. otherwise the arrangement is neat. there is a veranda outside our windows. we sit upon it. aunt josephine is a great bluff, but she's clever. she's never napping. i've tried to pump her. miss crozier is harmless. she doesn't care. havens never takes his eyes off mrs. w. when they are together. she looks at him a good bit, too. they don't pay much attention to me. aunt josephine's husband is very old and very busy. he can't take vacations. everybody went to bed early to-night. no evidence to-day." friday night. "havens and mrs. w. went hill-climbing this afternoon and were gone for an hour before i missed them. then i took aunt jo and debby out for a quick climb. confound aunt jo! she got tired in ten minutes and debby wouldn't go on without her. i think it was a put-up job. the others didn't return till after six. she asked me if i'd like to walk about the grounds after dinner. said i would. we did. havens went with us. couldn't shake him to save my life." saturday night. "i have to watch myself constantly to keep from calling her mrs. wharton. i believe writing her real name is bad policy. it makes me forget. after this i shall call her miss dering, and i'll speak of him as dudley. this morning he asked me to call him 'jim.' he calls me 'sam.' actors do get familiar. when she came downstairs to go driving with him this morning i'll swear she was the prettiest thing i ever saw. they took a lunch and were gone for hours. i'd like to punch his face. she was very quiet all evening, and i fancied she avoided me. i smelt liquor on his breath just before bedtime. "_one a. m._--i thought everybody had gone to bed, but they are out there on the veranda talking. just outside her windows. i distinctly heard him call her 'dearest.' something must have alarmed them, for they parted abruptly. he walked the veranda for an hour, all alone. plenty of evidence." sunday night. "for appearance's sake he took miss crozier for a walk to-day. i went to the chapel down the hill with miss dering and aunt josephine. aunt josephine put a ten-dollar bill in the box. thinks she's squaring herself with the lord, i suppose. miss dering was not at all talkative and gave every sign of being uncomfortable because he had the audacity to go walking with another girl. in the afternoon she complained of being ill and went to her room. later on she sent for dudley and mrs. van haltford. they were in her room all afternoon. i smoked on the terrace with debby. she is the most uninteresting girl i ever met. but she's on to their game. i know it because she forgot herself once, when i mentioned miss dering's illness, and said: 'poor girl! she is in a most trying position. don't you think mr. dudley is a splendid fellow?' i said that he was very good-looking, and she seemed to realize she had said something she ought not to have said and shut up. i'm sorry she's sick, though. i miss that parasol dreadfully. she always has it, and i can see her a mile away. usually he carries it, though. well, i suppose he has a right--as original owner. jim and i smoked together this evening, but he evidently smells a mouse. he did not talk much, and i caught him eying me strangely several times." monday night. "dudley has departed. i believe they are on to me. he went to boston this afternoon, and he actually was gruff with me just before leaving. the size of the matter is, some one has posted him, and they are all up to my game as a spy. i wish i were out of it. never was so ashamed of a thing in my life; don't feel like looking any one in the face. they've all been nice to me. but what's the difference? they're all interested. she went to the train with him and--the rest of us. i'll never forget how sad she looked as she held his hand and bade him good-by. i carried the parasol back to the hotel, and i know i hurt her feelings when i maliciously said that it would look well with a deep black border. she almost looked a hole through me. fine eyes. i don't know what is coming next. she is liable to slip out from under my eye at any time and fly away to meet him somewhere else. i telegraphed this message to grover & dickhut: "he has gone. she still here. what shall i do? "got this answer: "stay there and watch. they suspect you. don't let her get away. "but how the devil am i to watch day and night?" the next week was rather an uneventful one for rossiter. there was no sign of havens and no effort on her part to leave eagle nest. as the days went by he became more and more vigilant. in fact, his watch was incessant and very much of a personal one. he walked and drove with her, and he invented all sorts of excuses to avoid mrs. van haltford and miss crozier. the purple parasol and he had become almost inseparable friends. the fear that havens might return at any time kept him in a fever of anxiety and dread. now that he was beginning to know her for himself he could not endure the thought that she cared for another man. strange to say, he did not think of her husband. old wharton had completely faded from his mind; it was havens that he envied. he saw himself sinking into her net, falling before her wiles, but he did not rebel. he went to bed each night apprehensive that the next morning should find him alone and desolate at eagle nest, the bird flown. it hurt him to think that she would laugh over her feat of outwitting him. he was not guarding her for old wharton now; he was in his own employ. all this time he knew it was wrong, and that she was trifling with him while the other was away. yet he had eyes, ears, and a heart like all men, and they were for none save the pretty wife of godfrey wharton. he spoke to her on several occasions of dudley and gnashed his teeth when he saw a look of sadness, even longing, come into her dark eyes. at such times he was tempted to tell her that he knew all, to confound her by charging her with guilt. but he could not collect the courage. for some unaccountable reason he held his bitter tongue. and so it was that handsome sam rossiter, spy and good fellow, fell in love with a woman who had a very dark page in her history. she received mail, of course, daily, but he was not sneak enough to pry into its secrets, even had the chance presented itself. sometimes she tossed the letters away carelessly, but he observed that there were some which she guarded jealously. once he heard her tell aunt josephine that she had a letter from "jim." he began to discover that "jim" was a forbidden subject and that he was not discussed; at least, not in his presence. many times he saw the two women in earnest, rather cautious conversation, and instinctively felt that havens was the subject. mrs. wharton appeared piqued and discontented after these little talks. he made this entry in his diary one night, a week after havens went away: "i almost wish he'd come back and end the suspense. this thing is wearing on me. i was weighed to-day and i've lost ten pounds. mrs. van haltford says i look hungry and advises me to try salt-water air. i'm hanged if i don't give up the job this week. i don't like it, anyhow. it doesn't seem square to be down here enjoying her society, taking her walking and all that, and all the time hunting up something with which to ruin her forever. i'll stick the week out, but i'm not decided whether i'll produce any evidence against her if the wharton _vs._ wharton case ever does come to trial. i don't believe i could. i don't want to be a sneak." one day rossiter and the purple parasol escorted the pretty trifler over the valley to bald top, half a mile from the hotel. mrs. van haltford and miss crozier were to join them later and were to bring with them colonel deming and mr. vincent, two friends who had lately arrived. the hotel was rapidly filling with fashionable guests, and mrs. wharton had petulantly observed, a day or two before, that the place was getting crowded and she believed she would go away soon. on the way over she said to him: "i have about decided to go down to velvet springs for the rest of the month. don't you think it is getting rather crowded here?" "i have been pretty well satisfied," he replied, in an injured tone. "i don't see why you should want to leave here." "why should i stay if i am tired of the place?" she asked demurely, casting a roguish glance at his sombre face. he clenched the parasol and grated his teeth. "she's leading me on, confound her!" he thought. at the same time his head whirled and his heart beat a little faster. "you shouldn't," he said, "if you are tired. there's more of an attraction at velvet springs, i suppose." "have you been there?" "no." "you answered rather snappishly. have you a headache?" "pardon me; i didn't intend to answer snappishly, as you call it. i only wanted to be brief." "why?" "because i wanted to change the subject." "shall we talk of the weather?" "i suppose we may as well," he said resignedly. she was plainly laughing at him now. "look here," he said, stopping and looking into her eyes intently and somewhat fiercely, "why do you want to go to velvet springs?" "why should you care where i go?" she answered blithely, although her eyes wavered. "it's because you are unhappy here and because some one else is there. i'm not blind, mrs.--miss dering." "you have no right to talk to me in that manner, mr. rollins. come, we are to go back to the hotel at once," she said coldly. there was steel in her eyes. he met her contemptuous look for a moment and quailed. "i beg your pardon. i am a fool, but you have made me such," he said baldly. "i? i do not understand you," and he could not but admire the clever, innocent, widespread eyes. "you will understand me some day," he said, and to his amazement she flushed and looked away. they continued their walk, but there was a strange shyness in her manner that puzzled him. "when is dudley expected back here?" he asked abruptly. she started sharply and gave him a quick, searching look. there was a guilty expression in her eyes, and he muttered something ugly under his breath. "i do not know, mr. rollins," she answered. "when did you hear from him last?" he demanded half savagely. "i do not intend to be catechized by you, sir," she exclaimed, halting abruptly. "we shall go back. you are very ugly to-day and i am surprised." "i supposed you had letters from him every day," he went on ruthlessly. she gave him a look in which he saw pain and the shadow of tears, and then she turned and walked swiftly toward the hotel. his conscience smote him and he turned after her. for the next ten minutes he was on his knees, figuratively, pleading for forgiveness. at last she paused and smiled sweetly into his face. then she calmly turned and resumed the journey to bald top, saying demurely: "we have nearly a quarter of a mile to retrace, all because you were so hateful." "and you so obdurate," he added blissfully. he had tried to be severe and angry with her and had failed. that very night the expected came to pass. havens appeared on the scene, the same handsome, tragic-looking fellow, a trifle care-worn perhaps, but still--an evil genius. rossiter ran plump into him in the hallway and was speechless for a moment. he unconsciously shook hands with the new arrival, but his ears were ringing so with the thuds of his heart that he heard but few of the brisk words addressed to him. after the eager actor had left him standing humbly in the hall he managed to recall part of what had been said. he had come up on the express from boston and could stay but a day or two. did mr. rossiter know whether miss dering was in her room? the barrister also distinctly remembered that he did not ask for his aunt, which would have been the perfectly natural query. half an hour later havens was strolling about the grounds, under the lamp lights, in and out of dark nooks, and close beside him was a slim figure in white. their conversation was earnest, their manner secretive; that much the harassed rossiter could see from the balcony. his heart grew sore and he could almost feel the tears of disappointment surging to his eyes. a glance in his mirror had shown him a face haggard and drawn, eyes strange and bright. he had not slept well, he knew; he had worn himself out in this despicable watch; he had grown to care for the creature he had been hired to spy upon. no wonder he was haggard. now he was jealous--madly, fiendishly jealous. in his heart there was the savage desire to kill the other man and to denounce the woman. pacing the grounds about the hotel, he soon worked himself into a fever, devilish in its hotness. more than once he passed them, and it was all he could do to refrain from springing upon them. at length he did what most men do: he took a drink. whisky flew down his throat and to his brain. in his mind's eye he saw her in the other's arms--and he could bear it no longer! rushing to his room, he threw himself on the bed and cursed. "good heaven! i love her! i love her better than all the world! i can't stay here and see any more of it! by thunder, i'll go back to new york and they can go to the devil! so can old wharton! and so can grover & dickhut!" he leaped to his feet, dashed headlong to the telegraph office downstairs, and ten minutes later this message was flying to grover & dickhut: get some one else for this job. i'm done with it. coming home.--sam. "i'm coming on the first train, too," muttered the sender, as he hurried up-stairs. "i can pack my trunk for the night stage. i'd like to say good-by to her, but i can't--i couldn't stand it. what's the difference? she won't care whether i go or stay--rather have me go. if i were to meet her now i'd--yes, by george--kiss her! it's wrong to love her, but--" there was nothing dignified about the manner in which big sam rossiter packed his trunk. he fairly stamped the clothing into it and did a lot of other absurd things. when he finally locked it and yanked out his watch his brow was wet and he was trembling. it had taken just five minutes to do the packing. his hat was on the back of his head, his collar was melting, and his cigar was chewed to a pulp. cane and umbrella were yanked from behind the door and he was ready to fly. the umbrella made him think of a certain parasol, and his heart grew still and cold with the knowledge that he was never to carry it again. "i hope i don't meet any of 'em," he muttered, pulling himself together and rushing into the hall. a porter had already jerked his trunk down the stair steps. as he hastened after it he heard the swish of skirts and detected in the air a familiar odor, the subtle scent of a perfume that he could not forget were he to live a thousand years. the next moment she came swiftly around a corner in the hall, hurrying to her rooms. they met and both started in surprise, her eyes falling to his travelling-bag, and then lifting to his face in bewilderment. he checked his hurried flight and she came quite close to him. the lights in the hall were dim and the elevator car had dropped to regions below. "where are you going?" she asked in some agitation. "i am going back to new york," he answered, controlling himself with an effort. she was so beautiful, there in the dim hallway. "to-night?" she asked in very low tones. "in half an hour." "and were you going without saying good-by to--to us?" she went on rapidly. he looked steadily down into her solemn eyes for a moment and an expression of pain, of longing, came into his own. "it couldn't make any difference whether i said good-by to you, and it would have been hard," he replied unsteadily. "hard? i don't understand you," she said. "i didn't want to see you. yes, i hoped to get away before you knew anything about it. maybe it was cowardly, but it was the best way," he cried bitterly. "what do you mean?" she cried, and he detected alarm, confusion, guilt in her manner. "you know what i mean. i know everything--i knew it before i came here, before i saw you. it's why i am here, i'm ashamed to say. but, have no fear--have no fear! i've given up the job--the nasty job--and you can do as you please. the only trouble is that i have been caught in the web; i've been trapped myself. you've made me care for you. that's why i'm giving it all up. don't look so frightened--i'll promise to keep your secret." her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but no words came; she seemed to shrink from him as if he were the headsman and she his victim. "i'll do it, right or wrong!" he gasped suddenly. and in an instant his satchel clattered to the floor and his arms were straining the slight figure to his breast. burning lips met hers and sealed them tight. she shivered violently, struggled for an instant in his mad embrace, but made no outcry. gradually her free arm stole upward and around his neck and her lips responded to the passion in his. his kiss of ecstasy was returned. the thrill of joy that shot through him was almost overpowering. a dozen times he kissed her. unbelieving, he held her from him and looked hungrily into her eyes. they were wet with tears. "why do you go? i love you!" she whispered faintly. then came the revulsion. with an oath he threw her from him. her hands went to her temples and a moan escaped her lips. "bah!" he snarled. "get away from me! heaven forgive me for being as weak as i've been to-night!" "sam!" she wailed piteously. "don't tell me anything! don't try to explain! be honest with one man, at least!" "you must be insane!" she cried tremulously. "don't play innocent, madam. i _know_." in abject terror she shrank away from him. "but i have kissed you! if i live a thousand years i shall not forget its sweetness." he waved his hands frantically above her, grabbed up his suit-case and traps, and, with one last look at the petrified woman shrinking against the wall under the blasts of his vituperation, he dashed for the stairway. and so he left her, a forlorn, crushed figure. blindly he tore downstairs and to the counter. he hardly knew what he was doing as he drew forth his pocket-book to pay his account. "going away, mr. rollins?" inquired the clerk, glancing at the clock. it was eleven-twenty and the last stage-coach left for fossingford at eleven-thirty, in time to catch the seven o'clock down train. "certainly," was the excited answer. "a telegram came a few moments ago for you, sir, but i thought you were in bed," and the other tossed a little envelope out to him. mechanically rossiter tore it open. he was thinking of the cowering woman in the hallway and he was cursing himself for his brutality. he read the despatch with dizzy eyes and drooping jaw, once, twice, thrice. then he leaned heavily against the counter and a coldness assailed his heart, so bitter that he felt his blood freezing. it read: what have you been doing? the people you were sent to watch sailed for europe ten days ago. grover & dickhut. the paper fell from his trembling fingers, but he regained it, natural instinct inspiring a fear that the clerk would read it. "good lord!" he gasped. "bad news, mr. rollins?" asked the clerk sympathetically, but the stricken, bewildered man did not answer. what did it mean? a vast faintness attacked him as the truth began to penetrate. out of the whirling mystery came the astounding, ponderous realization that he had blundered, that he had wronged her, that he had accused her of--oh, that dear, stricken figure in the hallway above! he leaped to the staircase. three steps at a time he flew back to the scene of the miserable tragedy. what he thought, what he felt as he rushed into the hallway can only be imagined. she was gone--heartbroken, killed! and she had kissed him and said she loved him! a light shone through the transoms over the doors that led into her apartments. quaking with fear, he ran down the hall and beat a violent tattoo upon her parlor door. again he rapped, crazed by remorse, fear, love, pity, shame, and a hundred other emotions. "who is it?" came in stifled tones from within. "it is i--rossiter--i mean rollins! i must see you--now! for pity's sake, let me in!" "how dare you--" she began shrilly; but he was not to be denied. "if you don't open this door i'll kick it in!" he shouted. "i must see you!" after a moment the door flew open and he stood facing her. she was like a queen. her figure was as straight as an arrow, her eyes blazing. but there had been tears in them a moment before. "another insult!" she exclaimed, and the scorn in her voice was withering. he paused abashed, for the first time realizing that he had hurt her beyond reparation. his voice faltered and the tears flew to his eyes. "i don't know what to say to you. it has been a mistake--a frightful mistake--and i don't know whether you'll let me explain. when i got downstairs i found this telegram and--for heaven's sake, let me tell you the wretched story. don't turn away from me! you shall listen to me if i have to hold you!" his manner changed suddenly to the violent, imperious forcefulness of a man driven to the last resort. "must i call for help?" she cried, thoroughly alarmed, once more the weak woman, face to face, as she thought, with an insane man. "i love you better than my own life, and i've hurt you terribly. i'm not crazy, helen! but i've been a fool, and i'll go crazy if you don't give me a chance to explain." whether she gave the chance or no he took it, and from his eager, pleading lips raced the whole story of his connection with the wharton affair from first to last. he humbled himself, accused himself, ridiculed himself, and wound up by throwing himself upon her mercy, uttering protestations of the love which had really been his undoing. she heard him through without a word. the light in her eyes changed; the fear left them and the scorn fled. instead there grew, by stages, wonder, incredulity, wavering doubt and--joy. she understood him and she loved him! the awful horror of that meeting in the hallway was swept away like unto the transformation scene in the fairy spectacle. when he fell upon his knee and sought to clasp her fingers in his cold hand she smiled, and, stooping over, placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed him. what followed her kiss of forgiveness may be more easily imagined than told. "you see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for mrs. wharton," he said after awhile. "you had the gray jacket, the sailor hat, the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. and, besides all that, you were found red-handed in that ridiculous town of fossingford. why shouldn't i have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you? anybody who would get off of a night train in fossingford certainly ought to be ashamed of something." "but fossingford is on the map, isn't it? one has a perfect right to get off where she likes, hasn't she, provided it is on the map?" "not at all! that's what maps are for: to let you see where you don't get off." "but i was obliged to get off there. my ticket said 'fossingford,' and, besides, i was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. you had no right to jump at conclusions." "well, if you had not descended to earth at fossingford i wouldn't be in heaven at eagle nest. come to think of it, i believe you did quite the proper thing in getting off at fossingford--no matter what the hour." "you must remember always that i have not taken you to task for a most flagrant piece of--shall i say indiscretion?" "good heavens!" "you stopped off at fossingford for the sole purpose of seeing another woman." "that's all very fine, dear, but you'll admit that dudley was an excellent substitute for havens. can't you see how easy it was to be mistaken?" "i won't fall into easy submission. still, i believe i could recommend you as a detective. they usually do the most unheard of things--just as you have. poor jim dudley an actor! mistaken for such a man as you say havens is! it is even more ridiculous than that i should be mistaken for mrs. wharton." "say, i'd like to know something about dudley. it was his confounded devotion to you that helped matters along in my mind. what is he to you?" "he came here to-night to repeat a question that had been answered unalterably once before. jim dudley? have you never heard of james dudley, the man who owns all of those big mines in south america, the man who--" "who owns the yachts and automobiles and--and the railroad trains? is he the one? the man with the millions? good lord! and you could have had him instead of me? helen, i--i don't understand it. why didn't you take him?" she hesitated a moment before answering brightly: "perhaps it is because i have a fancy for the ridiculous." the end _milne's express series_ a desperate voyage [illustration: logo] _the express series_ _uniform with this volume_ i. the rome express by major arthur griffiths by the same author ii. a girl of grit john milne norfolk street, strand, london a desperate voyage by e. f. knight author of "the cruise of the falcon" "where three empires meet" etc. etc. john milne norfolk street, strand, london _all rights reserved_ a desperate voyage chapter i in carey street, chancery lane, on the ground floor of a huge block of new buildings facing the law courts, were the offices of messrs. peters and carew, solicitors and perpetual commissioners of oaths. such was the title of the firm as inscribed on the side of the entrance door in the middle of a long list of other names of solicitors, architects, and companies, whose offices were within. but the firm was now represented by mr. carew alone; for the senior partner, a steady-going old gentleman, who had made the business what it was, had been despatched by an attack of gout, two years back, to a land where there is no litigation. late one august evening mr. henry carew entered his office. his face was white and haggard, and he muttered to himself as he passed the door. he had all the appearance of a man who has been drinking heavily to drown some terrible worry. his clerks had gone; he went into his own private room and locked the door. he lit the gas, brought a pile of papers and letters out of a drawer, and, sitting down by the table, commenced to peruse them. as he did so, the lines about his face seemed to deepen, and beads of perspiration started to his forehead. it was for him an hour of agony. his sins had found him out, and the day of reckoning had arrived. one might have taken henry carew for a sailor, but he was very unlike the typical solicitor. he was a big, hearty man of thirty-five, with all a sailor's bluff manner and generous ways. his friends called him honest hal, and said that he was one of the best fellows that ever lived. we have it on the authority of that immortal adventuress, becky sharp, that it is easy to be virtuous on five thousand a year. had mr. carew enjoyed such an income, he would most probably have lived a blameless life and have acquired an estimable reputation; for he had no instinctive liking for crime; on the contrary, he loathed it. but one slight moral flaw in a man's nature--so slight that his best friends smile tolerantly at it--may, by force of circumstance, lead ultimately to his complete moral ruin. it is an old story, and has been the text of many a sermon. the trifling fault is often the germ of terrible crimes. carew's fault was one that is always easily condoned, so nearly akin is it to a virtue; these respectably connected vices are ever the most dangerous, like well-born swindlers. carew was a spendthrift. he was ostentatiously extravagant in many directions. he owned a smart schooner, which he navigated himself, being an excellent sailor, and the quantities of champagne consumed by his friends on board this vessel were prodigious. when his steady old partner died, carew began to neglect the business for his pleasures. soon his income was insufficient to meet his expenses. speculation on the stock exchange seemed to him to be a quicker road to fortune than a slow-going profession. so this man, morally weak though physically brave, not having the courage to curtail his extravagances, hurried blindly to his destruction. he gambled and lost all his own property; for ill-luck ever pursued him. even then it was not too late to redeem his position. but he was too great a coward to look his difficulties in the face; therefore, having the temptation to commit so terribly easy a crime ever before him in his office, he began--first, timidly, to a small extent; then wildly, in panic, in order to retrieve his losses--to speculate with the moneys entrusted to him by his clients. he pawned their securities; he forged their names; he plunged ever deeper into crime--and all in vain. when it was too late, he swore to himself, in the torments of his remorse, that if he could but once win back sufficient to replace the sums he had stolen, he would cut down all his expenses, forswear gambling and dishonesty, and stick to his profession. at last it came to this. he sold his yacht and everything else he possessed of value. he realised what remained of the securities under his charge, and then placed the entire sum as cover on a certain stock, the price of which, he was told, was certain to rise. it was the gambler's last despairing throw of the dice. the stock suddenly fell; settling day arrived, and his cover was swept away--he had lost all! so he sat in his office this night and faced the situation in an agony of spirit that was more than fear. for this was no unscrupulous, light-hearted villain. an accusing conscience was ever with him, and every fresh descent in crime meant for him a worse present hell of mental torture. he felt that it was idle to hope now, even for a short reprieve. clients were suspicious. in a day or two at most all must be known. disgrace and a felon's doom were staring him in the face. it would be impossible for him to raise even sufficient funds to escape from england to some country where extradition treaties were unknown. carew realised all this. he had forced himself to look through his papers and discover the total of his liabilities. it was a sum he could by no effort refund. he laughed aloud--a savage, discordant laugh, as might be that of some lost soul. "yes, it is all over," he thought; "i throw up the cards. but i will not endure the disgrace of a public trial, the ignominy of a convict's life; and after that to come out of jail with my soul eaten out by long years of penal servitude, with the brand of a felon on my name. oh no--not that! after all, a man has always one last privilege left him; he holds in his own hands the power of terminating his own miserable existence. yes; i will kill myself, and have done with it all!" in the contemplation of suicide he became calmer. now that he had determined on death, his terrible anxiety left him, and the heroism of despair supported him. "i feel a peace of mind at this moment such as has not come to me for many wretched months," he said to himself. "there is almost a pleasure in knowing that one has got to the bottom of one's cup of suffering, that there can be nothing worse to come." he meditated quietly for some time as to how he should take away his life. at last he came to a decision, and a strange smile lit up his face. "yes, that is an admirable plan; now for the means of carrying it out. first, i must have a sovereign or so. i can pawn my watch. now for the ballast." he glanced round the room. "yes, that will do." he rose and collected several heavy leaden paperweights from the different desks in the offices and put them into his pockets. "that will be sufficient. now i will go to brighton. it is a glorious evening. i will smell the sea-air once more. i will have a last dinner at an hotel; and then at night, when the tide is high, i will throw myself off the pier; this weight of lead will keep me down. and the next morning my creditors may seize my body: they are welcome to it." at that moment a loud knock came at the outer door. he turned pale and nearly fainted at the sound. was he to be balked of those last few hours of freedom which he had promised himself? were these the officers of justice who had come to apprehend him? once more the dew of agony burst out on his brow; he groaned aloud; then, summoning resolution, the desperate man approached the door. but it was only the postman, after all. "idiot that i am not to have known the knock! but my brain swims to-night. a letter for me. what is this?" he read the letter slowly through; then he put his hand to his forehead. a revulsion of feeling had suddenly come to him that confused and stunned him. "oh, merciful heaven!" he said, "is this but a cruel trick of fortune to tempt me with a vain hope? i had quite reconciled myself to death--and now this comes. perhaps it is but a short reprieve, and its price will be all that agonising suspense again. no, let me die; and yet"--he glanced at the letter again--"surely i have here a means of escape. if i can but collect my scattered wits and recover my cunning, i can save myself. i can live, but it will mean crime again--always crime! oh, is it worth it?" after a painful mental struggle, he came to a determination. "yes, i will live," he said. the letter was as follows:-- "dear carew,--you have often promised to cruise with me in my boat. i am off to-morrow for holland. can you join me? come and look me up to-night, and arrange it all.--yours sincerely, "arthur allen." chapter ii arthur allen, barrister-at-law, was of about the same age as his friend carew; a man possessed of private means sufficient for his needs, into whose chambers so few briefs found their way that he had for some years dispensed with the services of a clerk. but, as one would have surmised after glancing at the strong, intelligent face, he was a man by no means lacking in energy, and not of idle disposition: as a matter of fact, a scholar, and one who had taken high honours at his university, he still maintained his studious habits, and, having practically abandoned a profession that was uncongenial to him, he devoted himself to literary pursuits; and his thoughtful articles in the reviews and in the newspaper to which he was attached brought him in no insignificant addition to his income. no mere bookworm, he had been an athlete in his youth; but now his one outdoor form of amusement was the sailing of his little yacht, on which, always acting as his own skipper, he had taken many a delightful cruise in home and distant waters. he was an enthusiastic lover of the sea. this was the one taste he had in common with carew. it was at some yacht club, of which they were both members, that they had become acquainted. it was a lovely august evening. the windows of allen's bachelor chambers in the temple were open, and through them could be seen that fair oasis of london's desert of bricks and mortar, fountain court, with its stately buildings, ancient trees, and quiet garden with splashing fountains in its midst. nor was the view confined; for, beyond the chapel and the green, could be perceived the broad, gleaming thames, and the distant surrey shore, glorified by a faint mist; a peaceful, old-world spot, with a contemplative air about it, for it is haunted by the memories of much departed greatness. allen was reclining in a comfortable arm-chair, drawn up to the open window, in whose recesses geraniums bloomed, their vivid blossoms occasionally shaking beneath the breath of the soft south wind that had come directly from the cool river. he smoked his pipe as he looked out upon the sweet sunset scene, his mind happily occupied in planning his coming cruise, when his meditations were interrupted by a knock at the outer door. he rose to admit his visitor, opened the door, and there stood before him henry carew in serge suit and yachting cap, a small gladstone bag in his hand. "hallo, carew, old man! you have not been long replying to my letter. i was afraid you would have left the office before it reached you. come in." "are you alone?" inquired carew, in a low voice. "yes, quite alone. i am smoking a pipe of peace by myself. you have just come at the right time." they entered the room, and then, as the light of the sunset fell upon the solicitor's face, allen perceived its haggard expression. "how queer you look, carew!" he exclaimed. "are you ill?" "ill--no, not at all; but worried--worried almost out of my life," replied carew wildly, throwing himself into a chair, and putting his face between his hands. allen sat in a chair opposite to him, refilled and lit his pipe, and, as he smoked, gazed at his friend with feelings of perplexed compassion. "have a pipe, old fellow; there is nothing like a pipe for worry." "a pipe?" cried carew, with contemptuous bitterness. "no; but have you some brandy? give me some brandy." "certainly, carew," and the barrister produced a spirit-case, some glasses, and water. carew poured a quantity of spirit into a glass and drank it neat. he was usually a temperate man. "that is not the way to clear one's brain for confronting one's troubles," remarked allen. "no, you are right. it is foolish of me. allen, i have come to say that i shall be very glad to accompany you on your cruise." "i am delighted to hear that. a good blow in the north sea will do you good, if your mind is so upset." "allen," said carew, pulling himself together and speaking with more self-possession, "i wish i could speak to you of the business that is troubling me, but i am not at liberty to do so. it concerns others." "i don't want to know anything about it, old man; but i am sure you will soon get out of your trouble, whatever it is. with an easy conscience no man is miserable for long. and now that i have secured you as a hand, i have a sufficient crew. so we will start to-morrow morning. will you be ready by then?" "i am ready now. you see i have brought my baggage with me." "then, as we have to catch an early train to-morrow, you had better sleep to-night in my chambers; i can put you up. our destination is the dutch coast, old man, and we should have a jolly time of it. you have not yet seen my new boat, the _petrel_--a yawl of twenty-eight tons, yacht measurement; a splendid sea-boat. i would go anywhere in her. she is now lying off erith." carew had been listening attentively. "what crew do you carry?" he asked. "ah, let me tell you that you will have lots of work to do. we shall be but three all told. i have shipped one hand only--jim, the fisherman, who was with me last year. another friend was coming with me, but he has disappointed me." "for how long will you be away?" "about a fortnight. i have been a bit fagged of late, and want a holiday. i only made up my mind to take this cruise this afternoon. not a soul but yourself knows we are going." on hearing this a sigh of relief escaped carew. yes, if he were once on board the yacht all trace of him would be lost. he felt almost jubilant as he thought of it; the recent acute tension of his mind had left a sort of hysterical weakness behind, and he alternated easily between exultant hope and profoundest despair. he reflected that if he could but contrive to reach erith without being observed by any who knew him, he was safe, at anyrate for some time. but how to do so? it was possible that even already detectives had been set to watch his movements. he must take his chance of that, use all his wits, and incur no risk that could be avoided. fearing to show himself in the streets, more especially in the strand or fleet street, where so many would know him by sight at least, he suggested to allen that they should send to a neighbouring chop-house for their dinners, and remain quietly in the chambers, instead of dining, as was their wont, at a club. the barrister agreed to this, and therefore had no opportunity that night of meeting any of his friends, and he communicated to no one his intention of sailing on the morrow. he merely left a note for his housekeeper on his table, informing her that he would be out of town for a fortnight, and that his letters were not to be forwarded. * * * * * at an early hour on the following morning a cab was brought round to the door of the barrister's chambers, and the two friends drove off to charing cross station, arriving there but a few minutes before their train started. the chances of anyone who knew him recognising carew on the way were thus reduced to a minimum. at erith allen's man, jim, was awaiting them with the dinghy. he was a very broad-shouldered, florid-faced man of forty, with a protuberance in one cheek indicating the presence of a quid. he looked exactly what he was--a hardy, north-sea smackman. jim pulled them off to the yacht, and when the solicitor, who was thoroughly at home on a boat, a keen lover of the sea, with yachting as his one innocent pleasure, stood on the white deck, and, looking around, saw how glorious was that summer's day, beheld the river sparkling in the sunshine, thronged with stately ships and picturesque barges tacking up with the flood against the soft south-west wind, a delightful sense of freedom rushed upon him. oh, what a thing it was to have left behind him that accursed city, with its weariness, its anxieties, the endless jangles of the law, the feverish play, the guilt, the terrible dread of detection--to have left it for ever! "now, jim, off we go!" cried the skipper. the dinghy was lifted on board, the mainsail was hoisted, then the jib; the moorings were slipt, up went the foresail, and the yacht shot out into the stream; then, obedient to her rudder, bore away, and tore down the river before the freshening breeze on the top of the strong ebb tide. needless it is to describe that pleasant summer day's sail. allen was in the highest spirits, and for him the happy hours flew rapidly by. even carew, intoxicated with the pure air and sunshine, and the delightful sight of dancing waters, forgot his sin and misery, and felt almost light-hearted for the first time for months; and at last, when the yacht reached the broader water, thinking over his position, he gave a sigh of infinite relief. now, indeed, he was safe. no fugitive had ever left so little trace behind him. they were well outside the thames, in the east swin channel, before dark. the sun set in a golden haze, ominous of storm on the morrow, and then the wind dropped. the yacht sailed very slowly down the english coast during the night, the three men taking it in turn to steer and sleep. at sunrise they were off the naze, and the sky looked so stormy and the glass fell so rapidly that there was some discussion as to whether it would not be well to put in to harwich. but carew was so earnestly opposed to this that the owner decided to push on, and the vessel's head was turned seaward towards the mouth of the maas. the english coast loomed less and less distinct; but so light was the wind that it was not till midday that they lost all sight of the land. then the wind began to pipe up suddenly, and seeing nothing but stormy clouds and heaving water around him, carew's spirits rose wonderfully; a reaction of wild gaiety succeeded his anxiety. at four it was blowing so hard that they took two reefs in the mainsail and shifted jibs. shortly before sunset, carew was taking his turn at the tiller; the others were below. after a while the motion of the yacht became so violent that the owner came on deck to have a look round. "the wind has freshened a lot this last half-hour, and there's a nasty sea getting up," he said. "it will be blowing a gale of wind before the morning. well, we have a good craft under our feet." "she steers wonderfully easily," replied the solicitor. "she's a beautiful boat. i would not mind crossing the atlantic in her." "i should think not," said the proud owner. "but look at that vessel across your lee-bow, carew. what the dickens are they up to on board of her? she's yawing all over the place. first i thought she was on the port-tack; then she seemed as if she was in stays; and now--ah, i see it--she is hove-to." "she is a small brig," said carew. "get the glasses up and see what you can make of her." allen dived below, brought up the binoculars, and scanned the vessel. "by jove!" he cried, "she's in a nice mess. her bowsprit is carried away, her foretopmast too, and her jib's streaming away like a flag. hallo! and part of her stem and bulwarks have gone." "collision." it was jim's voice. he had just come on deck, and his quick eye at once realised the brig's mishap. then he looked at her intently for some moments, and spoke again, in eager tones for him-- "derelict." "so she is," cried allen. "we'll get out the boat and board her. do you think the sea is too high, jim?" jim said nothing. he was quite ready to risk his life in a cockle-shell in a heavy sea, as all fishermen of the doggerbank must be. he was not the man to refuse to do what his employer wished, unless the danger were very great indeed. he looked round at the sea, then nodded his head affirmatively. "i don't think it's safe," said carew. "in the first place, see how low that brig is in the water; she may go down at any moment, and the sea is very tricky to-day. i grant you it does not seem so very rough just now, but every half-hour or so there have been some rather dangerous rollers. one passed by us just before you came on deck." but allen's spirit of adventure was up. "oh, nonsense!" he cried; "i'm going to see what she is. she may be worth standing by for salvage. run down a bit nearer to her--that's it. now let's heave-to--so. now overboard with the dinghy, jim. you stay behind and mind the yacht, carew." jim and allen waited for a "smooth," seized the dinghy, dexterously launched her, and leaping in nimbly, pulled away from the yacht--a feat that looks easy on paper, but requires nerve and skill to perform in a heavy sea. "if you drift away too far, let draw your jib and sail up to us," shouted allen, as he went away. carew stood on the deck of the yacht, which now rose and fell on the seas with the easy motion of a vessel that is hove-to, and watched the tiny boat, so frail and yet so buoyant, so far safer than she seemed, as she leapt from wave to wave. the dinghy was close to the brig. in another moment the men would have boarded her, when carew perceived, to his horror, a huge roller coming up--a steep mass of water, with overhanging, breaking crest, such as are met with on the edge of shallows. it reached the yacht and hurled her high up; then dropped her again into the trough of the sea with a shock almost as violent as if she had struck a rock. the giant wave thundered by the sturdy little vessel without injuring her. but the dinghy--where was she? carew strained his eyes in her direction. first the boat was hidden from him by the intervening wave; then he saw her for a moment floating on the top of a sea, some forty yards away, bottom up. he thought, too, he could distinguish a man's head in the water near her. the derelict had disappeared. waterlogged as she was, it had only needed that last great sea to send her down bodily. but all this while his two companions were drowning. why did carew stand there idle? he was sailor enough to know his duty. he could have sailed the yacht close to the men, thrown a life-buoy to them, and have possibly succeeded in dragging them on board. he stood on the deck, as if dazed. had he lost his head for a time? he only hesitated for two or three seconds, but they were invaluable--then it was too late! a sudden squall of wind and rain swept down upon the sea, and all was obscured in a whirling smoke of spray and vapour. it was impossible to see even a few yards through it; and when the squall had passed, there were no men and no dinghy to be seen. the dark and stormy night settled down upon the waters, and henry carew was left alone in the middle of the north sea! chapter iii "am i a murderer?" so asked of his conscience, in fear and trembling, henry carew, as he stood alone upon the deck of the labouring vessel, surrounded by a waste of tumultuous waters. "not a murderer!" he cried aloud. "oh no, not that!" then he argued with himself. "had i done all that a man could, i think i should have been unable to save them. true, i lost my presence of mind. i did not stir a hand to help them; but that is not murder. poor allen! poor allen! but no; this is a morbid fancy. at least i am innocent of that crime." he looked round at the wild sea, invisible on that starless night save for the white foam that hissed on the tops of the waves. "and now to make the best of my position. how fortune has turned! i, who two days back was surrounded by dangers, have nothing to fear now." then he broke into a wild laugh, not of merriment or exultation, but a sort of hysterical effervescence that came of a mind that had long been tasked beyond its strength by violent emotions. but he fully realised what a great advantage the loss of his two companions signified for him. yes, even at that moment when he beheld them drowning before him, the profit their death would bring him had flashed across his brain. little wonder that he asked his conscience that terrible question, "am i a murderer?" how simple his course seemed now! it needed little thought to decide on it. he knew that allen was accustomed to undertake long cruises, and therefore would not be missed for some time. again, the barrister was somewhat careless in his correspondence; so the fact of his neglecting to write to his friends would surprise and alarm no one. how easy, then, for carew to impersonate him! he would sail the yacht into some dutch port--no very difficult task; and once there, he could rely on his wits to make the most of the opportunities chance should throw in his way. most probably he would sell the yacht and take a passage on some vessel bound for a south american harbour. like most educated fugitives from justice, he turned to the argentine republic as being the safest of sanctuaries. carew's eyes, accustomed to observe the signs of the weather, told him that the wind was likely to freshen; so he set about making himself as comfortable as possible for the night. he lowered the foresail, and still further reduced the mainsail by tricing up the tack. then, with jib-sheet hauled to windward and tiller lashed, the yacht lay hove-to. after watching her for a few minutes, carew saw that she was behaving admirably, and that he could with safety stay below the whole night if he chose, and leave the little vessel to take care of herself. "it will have to blow a good deal harder to hurt her," he thought; "it's only collision i have to be afraid of now. well, i can considerably lessen the chances of that." so he went below, found the side-lamps, lit them, and fastened them to the shrouds. so dark had become the night that nothing could be distinguished from the yacht's deck, save when, as she rolled from side to side, the port and starboard lights cast an alternate ruddy and sickly green glare on the foaming water. to be out in the north sea on so small a craft during a gale is terrifying in the extreme to one not inured to the sea; the roaring of the waves and the howling of the wind sound so much louder than on a larger vessel, and the quick, violent motion often confuses the brains even of sailors if they are accustomed only to big ships. but carew was, as allen had said, a smart man on a fore-an-after. he felt that, with this good boat under him, he was as safe as if he had been on shore. "she's snug enough," he said. "i'll go below and try to make out from the chart where i am; then i'll turn in and sleep--if i can." he looked at the chart, roughly calculated the distance the yacht had run since allen had taken his "departure" from the naze, and found that he was about half-way between the english and dutch coasts. "that is good," he thought; "i have no lee-shore near me; i have plenty of room. i'll just stay where i am, hove-to, till the wind moderates, then make sail for rotterdam." he lay down in his bunk and tried to sleep, but all in vain. his brain was too excited with thoughts of what had passed and what was still to happen. plans to secure his safety, and visions of possible accidents, passed through his mind, weaving themselves in delirious manner into long and complicated histories of his future life--some happy, some terrible with retributive calamity. unable to stay the feverish activity of his brain, he came on deck at frequent intervals to see that all was well. the vessel plunged and rolled throughout the night, her timbers groaning, and the wind shrieking through her rigging. but towards daybreak the gale began to moderate, and the glass rose slowly. carew saw that the bad weather was over and that the heavy sea would soon subside. on the shallow german ocean the sea rises quicker than elsewhere, and with its steep and breaking rollers is more perilous than can be experienced on any other of our home waters, as the fishermen of the doggerbank know to their cost. on the other hand, here it soon becomes smooth again as the wind drops. an hour or so after dawn the sky was almost cloudless, and only a fresh breeze was blowing. the waves, no longer dangerous, broke into white foam that sparkled in the sunshine. it was a day to gladden a sailor's heart. carew stood on deck, and under the joyous influences of that bright morning a calm fell on his soul, and his conscience ceased to trouble him. there is a sort of magnetic relation between a man and his surroundings. out at sea, far away from land, with nothing but pure air and pure water near, even a great villain is wont to forget that he himself is not pure as well. in london, as he walked through the crowded streets, carew knew that he was constantly jostling against men as bad as himself. in them he saw his own vices and crimes reflected as in a mirror, so that he could never put his guilt out of his mind. again, fearful as he had been lately that those around him suspected him, he was unable to feel, even for one delusive moment, the sense of innocence. but out here on the great sea, so far removed from human passion, with nothing to remind him of his offences, it was, on the contrary, difficult for him to realise what manner of man he was. he was conscious of what he imagined were virtuous impulses. he began to flatter himself that he was naturally a good man, that he was more sinned against than sinning, and that it was foolish of him to allow a sensitive conscience to torment him about occurrences, regrettable indeed, but the blame of which was scarcely his. the fact was that he mistook the joyous feelings inspired by a sunny day at sea for the reawakening of his better self--a frequent mistake that. his soul was in complete harmony with the nature around him; and nature, whatever her actions, knows nothing of crime or remorse. so henry carew, in no unhappy frame of mind, began to consider what he should do next; and as he pondered, all his pluck and energy returned to him. "in an hour or so," he said to himself, "the sea will have gone down still more; then i can get the vessel under way again. in the meantime, i will make a thorough inspection, and discover what my resources are; for i must have money, or the means of raising it." he went below, and after lighting a fire in the stove to boil some water for coffee, he looked round the walls of the cabin. among other valuables were a rifle, a revolver, a clock, and an aneroid; and allen's gold watch and chain were hanging on a nail. "i can raise fifty pounds on these to begin with," he thought; "and now to see what there is in the lockers and cupboards." he rummaged everywhere; but, with the exception of the sextant, there was no article of any value that could be easily sold. at last, in a small drawer, he found the barrister's money and papers. there were about twenty-five pounds in gold. there was also a cheque-book; and on turning over its pages, carew found that allen had made a note of the balance to his credit on the counterfoil of the last cheque he had drawn, showing that he had the sum of fifty pounds at his bank. then the solicitor glanced at the yacht's admiralty warrant, which authorised arthur allen to fly the blue ensign of her majesty's fleet on his yacht, the _petrel_, of sixteen tons register; a most valuable privilege, as carew knew, which would serve him as passport into whatever foreign port he should go. he was not altogether satisfied with the result of his search, and, as he sat on the bunk sipping his coffee, the more he thought of his prospects the more gloomy they appeared to him. he felt that it would be very hazardous to attempt selling the yacht in rotterdam. to do so would require time; and as it was the long vacation, and so many lawyers and others who knew him were taking their holidays, his recognition by someone in so favourite a haunt of tourists as the dutch city would be a highly probable event. he dared not risk that. he must not stay in holland a moment longer than was necessary. then what could he do with so small a fund at his disposal? his eye fell on the open drawer, and he rose to close it. he happened then to notice the barrister's diary among the papers, and though he did not imagine that there could be anything in it of the slightest interest to himself, he took it up in a casual way and opened it at the first page. suddenly the indifferent look vanished, he started visibly, and read with intense eagerness. "oh!" he cried, "now it is all plain sailing for me. i know what to do." a triumphant light came into his eyes, and then, putting away the diary, he ran on deck, let the foresheet draw, and as he steered the vessel on her course over the dancing waves, the expression of his face indicated a happy confidence in the future; all doubt and fear had fled. the first page of the diary was devoted to memoranda; and, among other things, the barrister had here written a list of the investments from which he derived his income. the bulk of these consisted of foreign bonds and other easily negotiable securities, which allen had deposited with his banker. it was the perusal of this list that had suggested to the quick and ingenious mind of the solicitor a scheme not difficult of execution, the very thought of which made his heart beat quick with anticipation. carew shrank from the peril of forging cheques or letters of instructions to allen's bankers; but now that he knew exactly how the barrister's account stood, a simpler and safer method of appropriating to himself a large proportion at least of the dead man's fortune occurred to him. said this accomplished scoundrel to himself: "i have here a stout, seaworthy boat, that can easily take me across the atlantic. i will ship a crew in rotterdam, and sail for buenos ayres. by selling the watch and chain and one or two other little things i shall have enough money to buy stores and pay all other expenses of the voyage. once in buenos ayres, i will go to the agent of the ---- bank. there is sure to be one. i will show him my papers. i will prove to his satisfaction that i am arthur allen, barrister-at-law, owner of the yacht _petrel_. i will explain that i have run short of money, and require a considerable sum at once. the agent will telegraph to the bank, learn that i have there securities to a large amount, and then he will be ready to advance to me as much as i want; and i will want a good deal. i will say that i am about to buy land, or tell some such plausible tale, get my money, and away. oh, most excellent plan! who on earth is likely to suspect that the yachting barrister is no other than henry carew, the defaulting solicitor?" he steered the vessel towards the dutch coast, and soon the wind fell so much that he was able to shake out all his reefs. at ten he passed through a large fleet of fishing boats that were riding to their nets. he hailed an english smack, asking her skipper if he could tell him his position. "you'll get hold of the land in an hour or so," shouted the man; "and, as you are going now, you'll about fetch goeree." carew, after consulting the chart, steered in a more northerly direction. at midday he saw the loom of the land ahead of him; so, as the sky was clear, he brought up the sextant and took an observation of the sun, thus ascertaining his exact position. "lucky it is that i taught myself navigation," he thought; "it will come in useful now." at last he could plainly distinguish the features of the coast, which was low and flat, with white sand-hills here and there that gleamed like snow in the sunshine. then he saw a steeple, a lighthouse, and a group of cottages, with bright red roofs, and he knew that he was off the village of scheveningen, which is a few miles to the north of the maas. sailing to the southward, he soon reached the mouth of the river, and at once some of the ever-watchful pilots pulled off to him in a small boat. carew hove the yacht to, and waited for them. the boat was soon alongside. four little old men, all fat and rosy, were in her. one who understood english well was the spokesman. standing up in the stern he shouted-- "captain, you want pilot, sar?" "yes; how much do you want to take me to rotterdam?" carew felt how necessary it was to husband his funds, and he suspected that dutch pilots consider a yacht fair prey for extortion. the man named an exorbitant sum. "nonsense! too much. i'll sail her in myself." "right, captain," replied the dutchman calmly; "that better for me and my mates. you try and go in alone, you sure to run ashore. then we help you off, and you give us plenty money for salvage instead of small pilot-fee." carew felt that it might happen as the old man had said. the maas is encumbered with shoals, and the navigation is difficult for a stranger. "now, how much you give me, captain?" the solicitor mentioned a moderate sum. "ah, you rich man with yacht to be hard on poor pilot! now, i pilot you for the middle price." "come on board, then," said carew. the pilot leapt on to the yacht's deck, and the other three pulled away in their boat. "now, captain. tide in river running strong, wind is light; so we want all sail, or else we no move. call up your hands and hoist topsail." "there are no hands below. i am alone," replied carew. "alone? what do you mean? you come from england all alone?" exclaimed the man in great astonishment. "yes; my crew got drunk and were insolent just before i sailed. they thought i could not do without them, and they knew i was in a hurry. but i put them all on shore without hesitation, and i have come across alone." "you a very mad englishman, but you a brave man. i never hear anything like that." "pilot," said carew, later on, as they were sailing up the river, "i don't want to be followed about rotterdam as if i were a curiosity; so i should like you not to mention the fact of my having sailed across the sea alone." "all right, captain; my mouth close." "i shall want a crew of two or three good, honest dutchmen, pilot. can you recommend me any men?" "this very night you shall have one--my cousin willem--a very good boy, captain." "and there is another thing, pilot. what sort of a berth are you going to put me in in rotterdam?" "i will moor you along the boompjees; nice quays them. plenty good schiedam shops on shore there. all yachts go there." "i thought so; that's why i asked. now, pilot, i do not want to be moored along the boompjees. take me to some quiet canal, out of the way; you understand--a place where no yachts or foreign vessels go." "ah, i know, captain, just the place: nothing but holland schuyts there; no yachts like it, no captains like it; i not think you will like it." "i will go there. but why don't you think i shall like it?" "you no have dutch nose; and that canal plenty smellful, captain." chapter iv a narrow canal that pierces an out-of-the-way corner of old rotterdam. mediæval houses--narrow, lofty, terminating in quaint, pointed gables--overhang the sluggish waters. it is only frequented by the picturesque native canal boats, with their lofty masts and varnished oak sides, so marvellously clean, for all their dirty work. in this quiet spot, with its old-world, decaying look, it is difficult to realise that close at hand are the busy quays of the boompjees, crowded with vessels from all parts of the world, noisy with the haste of modern commerce. it is a bit of rotterdam that does not change. the british tourist, unless he has lost himself, never explores the narrow alleys that lead down to the slimy water--a gloomy, dead quarter of the city, pervaded by a smell that is ancient and fish-like and something worse. it was a sultry august midday. no breath of air stirred the water of the canal, which seemed to be fermenting under the fierce sunshine, and foul gases bubbled up on its surface. only one of the many vessels moored along the quay flew a foreign flag. the blue ensign of great britain hung motionless from the mizzen of the yacht _petrel_. on the deck was a sturdy little man in baggy trousers, who, despite the languid influence of the day, was employed in polishing the brass-work on the vessel with an extraordinary energy. this was willem, the pilot's cousin, who had entered into carew's service, and who had, with dutch diligence, set himself the task of scrubbing the yacht up to his high standard of dutch smartness as quickly as possible. the owner--by right of undisputed possession--was below, looking over some charts of the south atlantic, which he had just purchased. the solicitor had been making all his preparations as rapidly but as quietly as possible. but little now remained to be done. so far, honest willem was the only hand he had engaged; but he knew that he could easily ship as many men as he needed at a moment's notice in so large a seaport as rotterdam. he told no one of his projected voyage across the atlantic, knowing that to do so would at once attract attention to him; and he naturally dreaded that publicity should be given to his doings. he showed himself in the streets as little as possible, and he always went forth to make his purchases in the early morning before english tourists were likely to be out of their beds. he had only been in port two days, but he was almost ready for sea. he had some tanks fitted into the cabin, so that he could carry sufficient water for a long voyage; he had filled all the lockers and bunks with a large quantity of tinned meats, biscuits, and other necessary stores; he had procured his charts; and all this had been done in the least conspicuous manner possible. though he had never before undertaken an ocean cruise of this magnitude, he knew what was requisite, and forgot nothing. there was no chronometer on board the yacht, and he could not afford to buy one; so, as his watch was not to be depended upon, he saw that he would have to navigate his vessel after the fashion of the good old days before chronometers were known. the ancient navigators carried with them their astrolabes--rough instruments, long since superseded by quadrants and sextants--which enabled them to find their latitude accurately enough. but having no timepieces, they were unable to ascertain their longitude by observation of the heavenly bodies, and had to rely on dead reckoning alone. so the mariner of old, after a long voyage across ocean currents of unknown speed and direction, was possibly many hundreds of miles out of his reckoning as regards longitude, though he knew his latitude to within a few miles. thus, supposing, for instance, he was bound for barbadoes, he would sail boldly on until, according to his calculations, he was some few days' journey to the eastward of his port. then he would steer for the exact latitude in which it lay, and follow that line of latitude till he reached his destination; which he was, of course, bound to do sooner or later. moreover, it was his invariable custom to heave his vessel to every night while running down the latitude; as otherwise he might pass by the island without seeing it in the darkness, and lose himself entirely. it was a slow method of navigation--not to say a risky one. but carew would not have to encounter so many difficulties as the sailors of old; for ocean currents are better understood in these days, and the opportunities of speaking vessels at sea and ascertaining the exact longitude from them are very frequent. carew had spent all the money he had found on board the yacht, and there were still some necessary purchases to be made. the most expensive of the articles yet to be bought was a dinghy, to replace the one that had been lost. this very morning he had found his way to the mont de piété and pawned everything he could well spare: allen's watch and chain, the rifle, and one of the two binocular glasses. with that easy forgetfulness which was an attribute of his conscience, he had by this time almost come to believe that the barrister's yacht and fortune were rightfully his. the sum he thus raised was not a large one; but he calculated that it would enable him to meet every expense, though he would have to put to sea almost penniless, if not quite so. while willem was still busy on deck a tall, good-looking gentleman, with an honest but shrewd eye and tawny beard, came along the quay and stood in front of the yacht, inspecting her critically for a few moments. "is the owner on board?" he inquired of the sailor in dutch. "the english captain is in his cabin, sir," replied the little man in a solemn, nasal drawl. "i should like to see him. will you give him my card?" willem, taking the card, descended to the cabin. "von man here for see you, captain," he said in his broken english. carew started. "a man to see me? what sort of man?" he asked. "him a gentleman man, for him has von tall black hat. here was his paper," and he handed carew the card. the solicitor felt the blood forsake his heart. some english acquaintance had found him out. he looked at the card with dread; then a sigh of relief escaped him; the name was certainly dutch--hoogendyk. carew went on deck and politely invited his visitor to come on board. mynheer hoogendyk stepped down from the quay, and introduced himself in excellent english. "i am a resident of rotterdam," he said, "and i am a leading member of our yacht club. i have come to inform you that, with your permission, we shall be highly delighted to make our english _confrère_ an honorary member of the club during his stay in our city." "i am very grateful to the club for the honour they confer upon me, and shall gladly avail myself of the privilege," replied the lawyer, who, as he spoke, made a resolve never to put his foot inside the club premises, but to ship his crew and sail from rotterdam without delay. it was dangerous for him to stay longer, now that his retreat had been discovered. "i only heard of you by accident yesterday," said the visitor, who, unlike most of his countrymen, was garrulous and inquisitive, though a good fellow. "why have you picked up a berth in this dirty, out-of-the-way hole?" "it is picturesque and quiet." "and filthy and unhealthy. we must move you to a better spot. there is a capital berth just in front of the english church. you'll see lots of your countrymen there. how many hands have you on board? i see you have shipped one dutchman." "my two men were drunken ruffians, and i discharged them." "i will undertake to get you a good crew of my countrymen if you like. i suppose you are going to cruise about our coasts. where are you going to from here?" "to amsterdam," replied carew, who was on tenterhooks of impatience. he felt how dangerous this man would be with his gossiping habits. "and now, sir," said mynheer hoogendyk, drawing out a pocket-book and pencil, "i will take your name and enter it on the club books." "here is my card." carew handed to him one of the barrister's cards. "'mr. arthur allen, fountain court, temple!'" read the visitor. "ah, you live in the temple! i know it well. are you a lawyer by chance?" "i am a barrister." "ah! how delightful! we are chips of the same block, mr. allen. i, too, am a barrister, in practice in rotterdam. both yachtsmen, both advocates, what a bond of friendship there should be between us! you must come and see my yacht--such a pretty little schuyt--and also our law courts." they sat together in the _petrel's_ cabin, and the dutch advocate commenced to question the solicitor on english law, comparing it with that in force in his own country. carew was hugely bored and weary of his visitor's chatter, but did his best to be civil. "and, by the way," cried the dutchman at last, "there is a trial now proceeding which i am sure would be of the greatest interest to you; for you say that the criminal law is your particular line." "what is it about?" asked the solicitor indifferently. "piracy: the seizure of a vessel and the murder of her officers by the crew." all carew's indifference vanished now. he let the cigar he was smoking drop from his fingers, and, turning his head, he looked at his visitor's face with a steady, fierce look, as of some wild beast that awaits the attack of another, and has strung all its nerves to resist its foe to the death. the dutchman, whose eyes were directed downwards at that moment, did not observe that look. the slumbering conscience had been awakened again with a rude start by those words. for a moment carew lost his head and fancied that this garrulous man was a police detective who knew everything and had been playing with his prisoner all this while. then he looked at his visitor's face again, and felt reassured, realising the absurdity of such a supposition. the advocate, quite unconscious of the perturbation he had caused, continued-- "yes, it was a terrible story. perhaps you remember reading in the papers some months ago of an act of piracy in the spanish main. a vessel trading from curaçoa under the dutch flag was seized by her crew--a lot of spanish and mulatto cut-throats. they murdered the captain, the mate, and a few honest dutch sailors who stood by their officers. then the mutineers sailed for puerto cabello, where, as usual, there was a civil war, with the intention of selling the vessel to the revolutionary party, which was in need of transports. when they arrived there the revolution was over; the government seized the vessel, but the ruffians contrived to escape up country." "i remember all that well," said carew. "the story made a great noise at the time." "now it happens," said the advocate, "that three of these ruffians shipped as sailors in a south american port on board of a vessel bound for rotterdam. one day a dutch sailor from curaçoa enters a drinking shop on the boompjees, and sees, sitting down at a table over a bottle of schiedam, three men whom he recognises as part of the crew of the ill-fated _vrouw elisa_. he calls in the police, and now these gentlemen are being tried for their lives." "to be hanged if found guilty, i suppose?" "i hope so; but i am afraid that they will be acquitted. everyone is morally sure of their guilt; but, unfortunately, the evidence for the prosecution has been so confused and contradictory that their identity has not been satisfactorily settled. the counsel for the defence is a very able fellow too." "what countrymen are they?" inquired carew. "two are spaniards and one is a frenchman. i think the frenchman was the ringleader of the mutineers, for he looks a clever rascal. and now, mr. allen, the trial will probably conclude this afternoon. the court is very crowded, but i can get you in. come along, and you will be able to compare the dutch and english criminal procedure." carew would have preferred to decline the invitation, but in ordinary politeness found it difficult to do so; and he accompanied the native lawyer--who undoubtedly possessed the gift of the gab, if no other qualifications for his profession--to the law courts. carew felt anything but easy in his mind as he walked through the main streets of the town, at this hour of the day crowded with a motley throng, including not a few of his own countrymen, bent on pleasure or business. pretending to listen to his companion's unceasing gossip, the solicitor looked anxiously about him as he went, fearing at each step to see some well-known face from fleet street. the glaring sunshine had rejoiced his soul when he was out on the lonely seas, but in the hives of his fellow-men he shrank from the all-searching light, and experienced guilt's instinct for safe obscurity. but he saw no one he knew on his way, and was much relieved when mr. hoogendyk procured for him, after some difficulty, a seat in a remote and dark corner of the court, where he could see and hear, himself unseen. carew soon became so interested in watching the faces of the three men who were being tried for their lives that, in spite of the advocate's whispered suggestions on the subject, he paid no attention to the procedure, and did not endeavour to compare the dutch and english legal systems. he took no interest in law now; he was indeed heartily sick of it, and hoped that he had washed his hands of it for ever. of the three men only one had a really unprepossessing and murderous countenance. a murderer looks much like any other man, though people who take their ideas from waxwork shows think otherwise. that this should be so is obvious enough. a few only of murderers have homicidal proclivities as a part of their nature, and these indeed may betray their character in their physiognomy. all the other passions and vices of disposition can, under certain circumstances, compel the man who has the greatest horror of bloodshed to kill a fellow-being. in the large majority of cases, murder is not a tendency but the result of other tendencies. but one of the three prisoners had indeed a villainous appearance. he was a big, clumsily built spaniard from the basque countries, with a heavy, animal face and an evil mouth, indicative of the stupid cruelty of some savage beast. the other spaniard was a short, stout man, with a jovial face and an enormous black moustache, which he twirled occasionally with a complete _nonchalance_. there was nothing of the murderer in his appearance. neither of these two men exhibited any signs of fear. the first faced death with the dogged pluck of an animal, the second with a somewhat higher sort of courage. the third man alone, the frenchman, showed that he was suffering the agonies of acute terror. the little spaniard, observing this, nodded to him now and then, smiling maliciously, and the big man scowled at him with surly contempt. the frenchman's face was quite white, and the perspiration poured down it in streams; his lips quivered, and, holding on to the rail of the dock with hands tightly clenched, he listened with intense attention to every word of judge or advocate. the features of this man, though distorted with fear, were delicate and refined. his handsome face was more like that of a provençal gentleman than of a rough sailor. he was a well-knit man of about thirty, with the blue-black hair of the south. over his fine and expressive eyes were bushy black brows, which almost met on his forehead, giving him a somewhat sinister appearance. carew found himself taking a strange, morbid interest in watching these three faces. in some way he identified himself with the prisoners. had not they committed a crime only in degree differing from his own? the day might come when he too would be tried for his life. he wondered whether he would then look like the dogged basque, the cowardly frenchman, or the other. he had always flattered himself that he did not fear death; but how difficult to know how he would face it until his time came! at last, amid complete silence, judgment was given. carew could not understand the words, but he knew their import-- "not guilty!" the spectators groaned and hissed when they heard this decision. the frenchman fell back fainting. the big spaniard glanced boldly round the court with a ferocious scowl, and he made an involuntary motion with his right hand, as if he held his knife in it and was longing to rip up a few of his enemies. the little man smiled, and bowed pleasantly to the court, after the manner of an actor who is acknowledging his tribute of applause. chapter v the attorney and carew left the court, the former volubly indignant at the miscarriage of justice, the latter moody and thoughtful. "and now," cried the hollander, "here we are at the best café in rotterdam. come in, and let us wash out the taste of crime with some beer." they sat down at one of the little round tables, and two tall glasses foaming at the brim were placed before them. "they have all the english papers here," said the advocate. "i will ask the waiter to bring you one." carew looked round the room, and suddenly his face paled, for he saw sitting at a table at some distance off a fellow-countryman, whom he recognised as a tobacconist in fleet street, a man who, no doubt, knew carew's name and profession well, for the solicitor had often made purchases at his shop. carew did not lose his presence of mind. the man was reading the _times_, and had, in all probability, not yet observed him. "mynheer hoogendyk," he said, "i am sorry that i must leave you now. i hope you will excuse me. i have an engagement, and in your agreeable company i had forgotten all about it." "you flatter me, sir," replied the advocate with a bow. "i trust that you will honour me by dining with me to-morrow at eight, your english hour, i believe, for that repast. my wife speaks english well, and will be delighted to see you." "i accept your invitation with the greatest pleasure, mynheer." then they rose to go, and carew contrived to keep his lively companion between him and the man from fleet street as they walked out of the café. the solicitor felt ill at ease until he had left behind this bright and crowded portion of the city, and was once again in the region of the gloomy and malodorous slums where the yacht was lying. he saw how necessary it was that he should leave rotterdam the next day if possible. it was no place for him. his recognition by some one or other must occur sooner or later if he stayed here. so, having dined in a dingy little hostelry on the quay opposite to the yacht, he visited some of the least-frequented streets, and purchased the few necessaries for the cruise which he had not already procured. he came across a fisherman on the canal who was willing to sell him a small, clumsy boat which could serve him as dinghy. after some bargaining in pantomime--for neither understood the other's tongue--carew secured this for the sum of three pounds. passing an apothecary's shop, it occurred to him that it would be well to take some of the more necessary medicines with him, seeing that he might be some months at sea without calling at any port. he entered the shop and proceeded to draw up a list of his requirements, to which, as an afterthought, he added some drugs in less common use. "these last are poisons," said the chemist in broken english. "i cannot supply you with these unless you are a doctor." carew, with bold invention, explained that he was the captain of a vessel, and as such was the ship's doctor, and had a right to any drugs he might choose to ask for; and he produced his admiralty warrant in proof of his statement. the man was puzzled, perused the warrant without understanding it, and at last, reluctantly waiving his scruples, gave the solicitor all that he required. his vessel was now completely fitted out; nothing was wanting but a crew, and here a difficulty presented itself. he felt that it was highly important that no one in rotterdam should know that he was sailing for buenos ayres, else the report that so small a yacht was about to undertake so long a voyage would spread rapidly, and would soon appear in the english papers. he wished it to be supposed that he was merely taking a few weeks' cruise in dutch waters. but then, how would his men take it were he only to divulge his destination to them when they were well out at sea? the probability was that they would refuse to obey his orders, and insist upon returning. professional sailors are not fond of ocean voyages in tiny craft. evidently his only plan was to prowl about the docks that night, select with care three likely-looking men for his purpose,--men without wives or ties of any sort,--bring them on board the yacht, offer them good pay, and at the last moment tell them where he was bound for. then, if they still consented to accompany him, he would sail away at once, allowing them no opportunity of gossiping with their friends on shore. willem, he knew, was not the man for him. the honest dutchman must be discharged at once on some pretext or other. carew sat on deck, pipe in mouth, meditating on these matters. he was alone on the yacht, for willem had gone off on leave for a few hours to visit some of his relatives. the sun was setting into a bank of rosy vapour that promised a continuance of fine weather. the hot day was closing with a sultry eve. on that quiet canal, and on the narrow quay beneath the lofty houses, there was no sound or sign of life. it was almost as if he were in the midst of some dead and long since deserted city. but of a sudden the peacefulness of that mediæval scene was rudely disturbed. first was heard a confused noise in the distance, as of angry human voices and the trampling of many wooden shoes. louder, nearer was the sound, and then carew perceived a man rush out upon the quay from a narrow alley, some hundred yards away, that led towards the principal docks. the man, who seemed frantic with terror, stood still for one brief moment, looked quickly around him, as if uncertain whither to hurry next: whether to plunge into the canal, or run along the quay to left or right. then arose a loud yell of many voices behind him, as of hounds that at last have caught a view of the hunted creature; and the man, hearing it, darted off again at full speed along the canal bank in the direction of the yacht. immediately afterwards there poured out of the alley a crowd of nearly a hundred men, women, and children, mostly of the lowest orders; denizens of the slums, though some were of a more respectable class; a crowd of hollanders who had lost all their native phlegm for the nonce; a crowd gesticulating, howling, execrating, thirsting for the blood of the man they were pursuing; mad and fierce as a mob of paris in revolutionary days when an aristocrat was scented by the sovereign people. the wretched man was hatless; his coat and half his shirt had been torn from his back; the blood was trickling down his face from the wounds on his head where the stones that had been hurled at him had hit. on he came, running wildly before them, his face livid, his mouth open, his teeth set, eyes starting from his head with mortal terror, panting as if his heart must burst, ready to fall with exhaustion, but still hurrying on for his dear life's sake. when he was close to the yacht his strength failed him; he stretched out his arms wildly, and staggered. with a yell of triumph the cruel crowd was on him. a man struck him over the head with a stick. then, with one last despairing effort, he threw himself from the quay on to the yacht's deck, and fell a helpless mass at carew's feet, clutching him by the legs, as if to implore his protection, but unable to speak or move. his pursuers stood on the quay above, muttering angrily to each other, but hesitated a moment or so before they ventured to board the yacht, each waiting for someone else to lead the way. those few moments saved the hunted man. "below there!" cried carew, pointing to the cabin. "quick, man, or you will be lost." seeing that the poor wretch was too exhausted to rise by himself, he seized him by the arm, thrust him down the cabin hatchway, closed the cover over him, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. it was all done in a few seconds, and then the solicitor turned round and stood calmly facing the mob. the people had not realised at first that carew was about to rob them of their victim. now that they did so, a howl of rage burst from them, and some shouted to him, what were evidently commands to give the man up to them, and menaces of what they would do if he refused, though he could not understand the words. one man began to clamber down to the yacht; but carew seized his leg and threw him on the quay again, not over-gently. "silence!" the solicitor called out, leaping back on the hatchway; and the dutchmen, impressed by the englishman's resolute bearing, paused and listened to what he had to say. "does anyone here understand english?" he asked. as might be expected from a crowd in a dutch city, several men cried out, "yes, englishman; yes, we know english." "then, what is all this disturbance about? are you all mad?" "we want dat man," replied a surly voice. "you can't have him." "den ve vill take him." "oh, will you?" carew drew from his pocket allen's revolver, which he always carried about with him now. "look you here, my friends; i don't want a row, but if any man tries to come on board my vessel without my permission i will shoot him." they were awed by the quiet determination of his manner, and felt that he would carry out his words. "does you know who you has down dere below?" asked the man who had spoken before. "i don't know, and i don't care; but he is not going to be murdered by you cowards on board my vessel. if he has committed some crime, call the police. i will deliver him over to them only." the passions of the mob had now cooled down considerably, and the men began to light their pipes, and looked once more the staid dutchmen they naturally were. at this juncture five or six of the sturdy rotterdam police arrived on the spot, and commenced to disperse the crowd so effectually that in a few minutes not a soul was left on the quay. one of the policemen, who understood a little english, came on board the yacht and inquired from carew how the disturbance had commenced. carew told him all that had occurred. "i should like to see the man," said the officer. they entered the cabin, and there, sitting in the corner of the bunk, trembling, haggard, his face still quite white, save where it was smeared with blood, was the french sailor who had that day been tried for murder on the high seas, and been acquitted. "i thought so," said the policeman. "it is the accused, baptiste liais. his case caused great excitement. the people are very bitter against him, for they all believe he was guilty. he is not safe in rotterdam. we must find a way of getting him out of the country." "you can leave him here for the present," said carew. "i will see that the poor wretch is safe for the night." "it is very generous of you, sir," exclaimed the astonished policeman; "but i think it is very unwise of you"-- "i am not afraid of him," interrupted carew, in peremptory tones. "leave him with me." the officer shrugged his shoulders. he had always been taught to believe that englishmen were eccentric creatures; so he went away and told his comrades that the owner of the yacht was a splendid specimen of the mad island race, and carew and the frenchman were left alone in the cabin facing one another. chapter vi for some few moments carew sat on the opposite bunk, watching the sailor's face musingly. then, rising, he addressed him in french. "i will fetch you a glass of rum. it will do you good." "i thank you much, sir," said the man, in the same language; "i should like it, for i still feel very faint." he drank a rather large dose of the spirit, and under its influence the colour quickly returned to his cheek, and the scared look left his face. "you can now go into the forecastle and wash yourself," said carew. "you will find a jersey and a coat hanging up there; put them on." these had belonged to the drowned sailor, jim. when the frenchman returned to the cabin cleansed of bloodstains and decently clothed, the solicitor was surprised to see what a respectable-looking fellow he was. he might well have been a gentleman from his appearance, and his hands, though brown and roughened by work, were small and finely shaped. "how do you feel now?" "thanks to you, sir, i am now quite myself again." after a pause, carew said, with a smile, "i never before saw such abject terror in a man's face as there was in yours when you were running down the quay." "that bloodthirsty _canaille_ was enough to inspire terror. ah, if i could but get hold of that man who hit me with the stick! it was horrible, to run down all those streets for life with that yelping pack after me. i had no chance with them, though i am a good runner; for so soon as the brutes wearied and lagged behind, fresh ones joined the crowd at every corner. ah, monsieur, i think you would have exhibited as much terror yourself." "not quite as much, i think," said carew quietly. "perhaps not, monsieur. i am brave enough in some ways--braver, perhaps, than you would be; but i have not that animal contempt for death that my comrade, el toro, for instance, possesses. delicate fibres suffer the most." "then you are hardly a fit person to be a ringleader of mutineers. murderers should have no nerves." baptiste liais was a very calm person when he was not in fear, and he had now entirely recovered his self-possession. he shrugged his shoulders, and replied carelessly, "there are assassins and assassins, monsieur. there is courage and courage. there is the blind bravery of the soldier, who, shrinking not from bloodshed, risks his life in battle; and there is the cool nerve of the educated man, who, in cold blood, removes with poison those who stand in his way. i suppose you allow that this last is also a species of courage?" "is that your sort of courage?" the frenchman shook his head in a deprecatory way, and exclaimed, in tones of playful remonstrance, as if he were only rebutting a charge of one of those offences which are tolerated, and even fashionable, "but, monsieur, monsieur! you speak of me as if i had been proved to be an assassin. you forget that i was acquitted." "you say that you are innocent?" "certainly. i am sure that i am a very inoffensive fellow." the man spoke with the quiet ease of one gentleman to another. it was plain that he had been used to decent society at some period of his life. "were you never on board the _vrouw elisa_?" "i had never heard of the vessel till they arrested me here." "and your companions, the two spaniards?" "as innocent as i am myself--no more, no less. but i see that you have some of that excellent english tobacco on the table. permit me to make myself a cigarette." "you are a cool fellow, baptiste liais. i can see that you are a man of education. you were not always a common sailor?" "your perception flatters me. you have divined the truth," said the frenchman, bowing. "i am a gentleman by birth and education. my family is one of the most ancient and respected of the provençal aristocracy. i need not tell you that the name i now go by is an assumed one. and i--well i, to be candid, am the scapegrace of the family." he rolled himself up a cigarette, lit it, and, looking up, his eyes met those of carew in the frankest way possible. and yet the solicitor had no doubt in his own mind that the man had committed the crimes imputed to him; and the frenchman, on his part, did not imagine for a moment that carew believed in his innocence. "i suppose you will now look out for another ship?" the solicitor said. "how can i do so in rotterdam? my face is known here. i am execrated--hunted down. no captain would ship me, no crew serve with me." "won't your consul assist you?" "i don't think so," replied the frenchman drily. neither spoke for some time; then carew said, "i realise your position, and am sorry for you. now supposing i were to ship you on board my yacht, i imagine that it would be a matter of indifference to you to what part of the world we sailed?" the frenchman looked curiously and keenly at carew out of the corners of his eyes. "i don't care a rap where i go to so long as i get out of this detestable rotterdam," he replied. "and your friends--would they come too?" "gladly. i will answer for them." "what sort of men are they?" "the little one, a galician from ferrol, is not at all a bad fellow, and he is an excellent sailor; but the big basque is a savage brute--one of such is enough on a vessel. however, he can't do much harm by himself, unless he makes the rest of your crew discontented. are they englishmen?" "i am alone. i have discharged my crew; and there would only be you three and myself on board." "that would be a sufficient number to navigate this little ship. do you really mean that you wish us to come with you?" "i do," replied carew, after a slight hesitation; and the frenchman eyed him with a not unnatural astonishment. the solicitor had rapidly surveyed the situation in all its bearings, and he had decided that it was his wisest and safest plan to engage these ruffians as his crew. morally weak, acutely fearful of disgrace, and cowardly of conscience as he was, carew had plenty of physical courage. he was not the least daunted by the idea of venturing across the wide ocean on a small yacht accompanied by these murderers. here was a crew ready to sail with him at a moment's notice and ask no questions. he felt that he ran but very little risk, after all; for these ruffians would gain nothing by murdering him. piracy, in the old sense of the term, is almost impossible in these days. these men by themselves could do nothing with the yacht; they could not take her into any civilised port and dispose of her; neither of them could impersonate an english barrister. the seizure of the _vrouw elisa_ was a very different matter; for the mutineers then knew that there was a revolutionary party ready to purchase the vessel they had stolen. again, he would make them acquainted with the fact that he was taking no money with him on the yacht; and he would promise to pay them, on their arrival at buenos ayres, a considerably larger sum than sailors ever receive for such a voyage. under these circumstances, it could not possibly be to their interest to do away with him. on the contrary, it would be to their manifest advantage to serve him faithfully. unless the men were absolute idiots, they would see all this; and he knew that the frenchman, at least, was far too intelligent a man to commit a senseless crime that could do him no good. so argued the solicitor; and there was yet another more subtle motive that urged him to engage these three men in preference to honest sailors--a motive of which he himself was only dimly conscious. when a man has a sentimental objection to being a villain, and yet is one, and has no intention of reforming, he likes his surroundings not to be of a sort to reproach him and remind him of his crimes. it is painful to him to associate with good men. he prefers to be in the company of the bad; in their presence he does not feel the shame of his wickedness. so this man, with his strangely complex mind and conflicting instincts, was glad to take unto himself men worse even than himself as his companions across the ocean. "and to what port did you say you were sailing?" asked the frenchman. "i will not tell you that until we are out at sea." "oh, very well," said the man, again casting a keen glance at carew's face, and smiling, as one who should say, "have you too your secret--have you too committed a crime? if so, there should at once be an agreeable bond of sympathy between us." "how soon do you sail, sir?" he asked. "if you are all on board to-night we will sail at daybreak. i am ready for sea. you need not trouble about getting an outfit, for i have plenty of clothes in the yacht for the lot of you." carew was thinking of the effects of allen and his man jim. "oh, that is excellent!" cried the frenchman. "and, excuse me, sir; what pay will you give us?--not that i wish to chaffer with one who has come to my rescue in so generous a manner." "and i do not wish to stint you," replied carew. "you, as mate, shall have seven pounds a month; your comrades five pounds a month each." "that will do very well; but i should like you not to let the others know that i am receiving a higher pay than they. they might be jealous--not to say dangerous," said the cunning fellow. "ha! what is that?" the frenchman started, gripped carew by the arm, and his cheeks again became white with fear. there was a sound of footsteps on the deck, and the next moment the tub-shaped willem entered the cabin. when he saw who was sitting opposite to his master he stood stock still, his jaw dropped, and an expression of extreme astonishment, which amounted to horror, settled on his stupid, honest face. "what is the matter with you, willem?" asked carew, knowing well what was about to happen. "this is the mate i have engaged for the yacht." "dat--dat man!" cried the dutchman, finding his voice with difficulty. "you know who dat man is?" "i do. he has just left the court-house. he was unjustly accused of murder, and has been found innocent." "vat--you take dat man for mate! oh, den i go--i go at vonce! i not stay on board vid dat man." the usually stolid dutchman trembled with excitement, and his broad face was scarlet with indignation. after a few minutes, finding that carew was obdurate and would insist on engaging the most loathed man in all rotterdam as mate, willem rolled up his scanty luggage into a bundle, demanded and received the few guilders that were owing to him, and hurried on shore, grumbling uncouth dutch oaths to himself as he went. then the frenchman, who had been observing the scene with a cynical smile, laughed bitterly. "had i been the fiend himself that fat idiot could not have been much more terrified at the sight of me. ah, how they love me--these worthy people of rotterdam!" for a moment there was a troubled look upon carew's face. with his usual inconsistency he half regretted, when it was too late, that honest willem had left him. it seemed to him that he had now broken the last tie between himself and the world of law-abiding men. he felt a vague sense of something lost to him for ever; as if his guardian angel, despairing of him, had forsaken him. but he quickly shook off the feeling as a foolish fancy, and turned his attention to the business he had on hand. "now, baptiste," he said, "we must find your two comrades. do you know where they are?" "i think i can find them. anticipating a separation, we arranged a rendezvous. but i dare not walk through the streets to look for them; i should be recognised and murdered." "nonsense! we will soon disguise you. shave off your moustache and put on a suit of clothes that i will lend you, and your own mother would not know you." the frenchman obeyed these instructions, and was so satisfied with the change effected in his appearance by a hairless lip and a suit of poor allen's clothes that he no longer hesitated to go forth in search of his two shipmates. left alone, carew pondered, with satisfaction, on his day's doings. all was going on well so far. "lucky it is for me," he thought, "that there is an admiralty warrant on the yacht. provided with that useful document, i sail under the blue ensign of her majesty's fleet, and can do pretty well what i like. no authorities in any port will trouble me in the least. i can avoid the formality of taking my crew before the consul to sign articles, and i will dispense with a bill of health from this port. i may get quarantine for a few days in consequence of this last omission; but what is that to the peril of informing our consul here of my destination? and, by the bye, i am engaged to dine with mynheer hoogendyk to-morrow. i am afraid i shall keep him waiting, and over the spoiling dinner his cook will lose her temper; for by that time i ought to be well out in the north sea." after about an hour's absence the frenchman returned, accompanied by the two spaniards. they entered the cabin, the little galician all smiles, the big basque awkward, vainly attempting not to scowl; but, do all he could, he still looked the brutal ruffian he was. "i have been very lucky," said liais. "i soon found our lost lambs." "have you explained my proposal to them?" carew asked. "i have, and they are quite content with the pay you offer. they don't care a straw where you take them to, so long as it is not to a spanish port. it seems that the lads are somewhat weary of their native land, and they tell me that they have some officious acquaintances among the spanish police whom they would prefer not to meet." "i understand. i shall not call at any spanish port; so they may set their minds at ease. and now i will inscribe your names in this book, if you please." he took allen's diary out of the drawer. "first of all, there is baptiste liais, mate." "no; put me down plain baptiste. my name is so well known now that i should like to leave half of it out." "very well," said carew, as he wrote. "and who is this big fellow?" "his name is juan silvas. but he, too, would rather be called by any other name, after the unpleasant publicity of the trial. his nickname among us is el toro--the bull--because of his goggle eyes, his bull-like features and strength, and his blind, bovine rage. put him down as juan toro." "good; it is done. and what is the other man's name?" "josé rodez, known among his intimates as el chico, or the little one." "then, following your system, i will inscribe him as josé chico. will that do?" "one name is as good as another," replied the frenchman; "but oh, _mon capitaine_, this has been a somewhat trying day for us, and we are all very hungry." "there is plenty of food on board. i will show you where to find it. give the lads some supper; then turn in, all of you. the tide is early, and we sail at daybreak." the next morning, just as the first slight murmuring sound arose from the big city, telling that the giant was awaking to its restless life, the canal lock was opened, and the yacht shot out into the tideway. carew, who had taken mental notes of the navigation when sailing up the maas, refused the assistance of a pilot, and took his vessel safely down the rapid river, across the shoals that encumber the estuary, and out into the open sea. the weather was splendid, and the wind favoured him, as it blew freshly from the south-east. then carew's pulse quickened; a wild exultation thrilled him, as the yacht, leaning well over to the steady wind, all her canvas set, rushed with pleasant sound through the smooth water. at that moment he felt happy, even proud of himself. he was safe at last, free from all anxiety. how fortune had befriended him! that fatal superstition in luck that comes to the criminal and the gambler possessed him. whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. "baptiste," he said, "i have heard it is a custom of spain for the captain of a vessel, as soon as she is well outside the harbour, to call all hands aft and serve round grog, so that they can drink to the prosperity of the voyage. fetch up some rum, and give each a glass." the frenchman obeyed the order. carew was steering at the time, and the men stood round him, glasses in hand, awaiting the toast. then the captain raised his glass in his disengaged hand, and called out in french-- "comrades, here's to a prosperous voyage--_to buenos ayres_!" when the men heard their destination they seemed dumb with surprise for a moment; then they raised a joyful shout. the prospect was evidently an agreeable one to them. "to buenos ayres," said the frenchman, bowing to carew with a knowing smile, "the land where there is no extradition." chapter vii it was mid-ocean, and no land was in sight. the glassily smooth surface of the sea was not broken by the faintest ripple, but it rose and fell slowly with the long, rhythmical swell of the atlantic. gentle now was the massive heaving of the giant's bosom, showing that he was slumbering only, and that the strong, fierce life was there, ready to be awakened at any moment to its energy of cruel destruction. though the swell must have been of considerable height, yet so gentle was the undulation that no motion whatever would have been perceptible to one on the deck of a vessel, unless he had observed how the horizon was withdrawn from his sight at regular intervals by the intervening hills of water, as the vessel softly glided down the easy slopes into the broad valleys between. the wind was quite still. the sky above was clear and of a deeper blue than is known in northern climes; but on the eastern horizon lay a long, low bank of very dark cloud, seeming almost black in contrast to the elsewhere dazzling glare. the sea, to one looking across it, would have appeared of a beautiful indigo tint; but if one gazed straight down into the water, it seemed opaque in the purple blackness of its profundity, as if the perpetual night that reigned in the mysterious depths below were sending its shadow upwards to the surface. yet so perfectly translucent was that ink-like water that any bright object, such as a plate, thrown into it would remain distinctly visible as it slowly descended--yes, even till it was so far down that it seemed no larger than a small coin. the yacht _petrel_ lay becalmed on the tropical sea. all her canvas had been lowered, and she floated idly, while the fierce, vertical sun was blistering the paint on her sides, and the melting pitch oozed from the seams of her decks. for thirteen days she had been drifting thus on a windless ocean, her crew languid and irritable from the stifling heat, which it is impossible to mitigate on a small craft, waiting for the breeze that never came. for thirteen days of unbearable calm, broken only by occasional brief squalls, accompanied by torrential downpour of rain, and thunder and lightning of appalling grandeur--squalls which raised the flagging hopes of the men for a space, and to which they hastily hoisted their canvas, that they might be carried out of this dismal tract of the ocean; but after they had been driven on their way a mile or two only, the wind would suddenly drop again, the dark clouds would clear away, and the sun would blaze down fiercer than ever out of the implacable sky. the _petrel_ had reached the region of the equatorial calms, the sultry doldrums dreaded by the sailor, that broad belt of sluggish sea that divides the tract of the north-east trade wind from that of the south-east. here the aërial currents neutralise each other and are at rest--a desolate, rainy ocean that lies under an almost stagnant atmosphere of steaming heat, where vessels have lain becalmed for wearisome week after week; even, in many cases, until the supply of fresh water had been exhausted and the men perished of thirst. and yet to the northward and to the southward the fresh trade winds blow perpetually in one direction, across vast stretches of ever-tossing waves. the voyage of the _petrel_ had been a very prosperous one up to this point. she had met with fair winds for the most part until she reached the limits of the north-east trades, which, blowing right aft, had carried her on her way at the rate of nearly two hundred miles a day. carew had sighted madeira and the westernmost islands of the cape verde archipelago; but as the yacht was well provided with provisions, he had not called at any port. after having been a little over a month at sea, he had entered the calm region about the equator, and here, as i have said, scarcely any progress was made for a fortnight. by this time the crew had settled down to the regular routine of ship-life, and carew was, on the whole, well satisfied with the men. the savagery of the big basque would occasionally assert itself, and he was ever ready to pick a quarrel with his mates. the only one on board whom el toro respected and feared was carew himself; for he felt that the englishman combined a physical courage, at least equal to his own, with a superior education; and the man who possesses these two qualities can always master a merely brute nature. el toro did not conceal his contempt for baptiste, who excelled him in mental ability alone; and again, he could not converse ten minutes with the little galician without an altercation arising; for the latter, who had all the pluck of his big comrade, was fond of wagging his sharp tongue, and could not refrain from malicious banter, despite the long sheath-knife which was always so ready to the basque's right hand. carew, who had quickly gauged the character of his companions, took el toro on his own watch, leaving el chico to the french mate. thus, as watch and watch was observed in the regular ship fashion--that is, one watch relieving the other every four hours--the cantankerous basque had but few opportunities of associating with the other men. but during the fortnight of calm the discipline of the yacht had been relaxed. as there was no need for it, the usual watches had not been set; and, after they had completed the small amount of necessary work each day, the men were allowed to employ the rest of the time much as they liked. a prolonged calm on the line is trying even to the most amiable tempers; so that it is not to be wondered at that, on one occasion, el toro, being modest as to his own powers of repartee, preferred to reply to a chaffing remark of el chico's with a practical retort in the shape of a vicious stab, which might easily have diminished the ship's company by one had not the quick-eyed little man, leaping nimbly backwards, escaped with a slight scratch on his arm. for this offence carew, knowing his man and how best to punish him, informed the basque that a fine of a fortnight's pay had been entered against his name in the log-book. it was nearly midday, and the heat of the still, moist air was intense. the french mate lay reclined under an awning on the after-deck, rolling up cigarette after cigarette, and smoking them with half-shut eyes as he dreamily meditated. in the bows, under an awning extemporised out of an old sail, were squatting the two spaniards, playing at _monte_ with a very dirty pack of cards. now and then would be heard the sonorous oaths of the basque, as he savagely reviled his bad luck, or the triumphant chuckle of el chico, whom fortune was favouring. these two had been gambling almost incessantly during the calm, for the money they were to receive from carew on their arrival at buenos ayres. the galician had already succeeded in winning el toro's pay for many weeks in advance. neither of the men could read or write, but they kept a tally of their debts of honour--over which there was much wrangling--by cutting notches on a beam in the forecastle. a few minutes before noon carew came on deck, sextant in hand, and the mate rose to his feet lazily. carew's face was now bronzed by the tropical sun, and was fuller than it had been two months back. the haggard expression, the restless anxiety of his eye, had gone. he looked like a man with the easiest of consciences. he glanced at the two card-players forward. "have you taken the precaution i ordered?" he asked the mate. "i have, captain; here they are," and baptiste produced two formidable knives from his pocket. since the incident i have mentioned, carew had instituted a rule, to the effect that the men should not play at cards or dice unless they had previously delivered their weapons to one of the two officers. el chico overheard the mate's reply. "ah, captain," he cried, "you'll have to hand both knives over to me at the end of this game. i shall have won everything el toro possesses in the world if my luck holds as it is doing now." "_caramba!_ it is too much; a plague on the cards!" cried the basque furiously, hurling the pack across the deck. "i'll have no more of them. if i have no knife, i have these hands," and he opened them out with a gesture of rage in front of the galician. "i could circle your little neck with these, and throttle you in half a minute, el chico." el chico said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders with a provoking coolness. "el toro, come aft," cried carew, who had acquired enough spanish to give his orders in that tongue; "come aft, and set up that mizzen rigging; it's as slack as possible." the wild beast acknowledged its master and proceeded to obey his orders in a surly fashion, even as caliban might have reluctantly carried out some behest of the superior intelligence that had enslaved him. "this calm seems as if it would never end," said carew to the mate. "it looks black yonder. another squall, i suppose. just enough to entice us to hoist our sails, and then to die away again." "i don't see anything like the trade-wind sky about," said baptiste, who had sailed the tropical seas before. carew took his midday observation of the sun; then, lowering his sextant, called out, "make it eight bells, baptiste," and went below to work out his position. he found that the _petrel_ had only travelled five miles in the last twenty-four hours. he was seventy miles north of the equator, and his longitude by dead-reckoning (he had, as has been explained, no chronometer on board) was about ° west, so that he was distant some five hundred miles from cape st. roque, the most easterly point of the new world. soon after noon the dark bank of cloud rose rapidly from the horizon and overspread the whole heavens; the rain began to pour down as it only can in these equatorial regions, and a fresh breeze from the south-east cooled the heated atmosphere. the sails were hoisted, and the yacht ran some two or three miles; then the hopeless calm fell again, and there was not a cloud to be seen in the blue vault above. the sails flapped to and fro with a loud noise as the vessel rolled in the swell which the breeze had left behind it. "oh, this accursed calm!" cried carew impatiently; "down with all your canvas again." the men obeyed, grumbling at their ill-luck, and then resumed their game of _monte_. in the afternoon the heat became more oppressive than ever, and it was impossible to stay below; so all hands remained under the awnings on deck. the mate, after pondering for some while, said to carew, "we shall run short of water if this continues much longer." "i have thought of that. we must serve out a smaller allowance." "buenos ayres is a long way off yet, captain. would it not be well to put into some brazilian port for water and vegetables? this heat is very trying on a small vessel like this. we shall have illness on board if we are not careful." "i do not wish to break the voyage anywhere, unless it is absolutely necessary," carew replied. "i know these countries," baptiste continued; "and there is one very good reason why you should call at some port on the way." "what is it?" "you have no bill of health with you. now in buenos ayres the authorities are very afraid of yellow fever, and if you arrive there with no papers to show where you are from, they will take it for granted that you have come from some infected port, and that you have probably lost some hands on the voyage and wish to conceal it. they would, therefore, put you in quarantine for who knows how long. they might, under the suspicious circumstances, refuse even to give you pratique at all, and send you off to sea again." "how will calling at a brazilian port remedy that?" "because in brazil they are not afraid of yellow fever, as they always have it there. at rio they won't trouble you at all, and your consul will give you a clean bill of health for buenos ayres. then, being satisfied that you have had no illness on board, the buenos ayres people will grant you pratique after, let us say, a quarantine of four days, even if yellow fever were raging at rio." "a queer plan to avoid quarantine for yellow jack by calling at the headquarters of the fever!" said carew; "but i see that you are right. i will put into rio." after a pause the frenchman said thoughtfully, "i shall be sorry to leave this vessel, sir. i suppose you still think of selling her in the river plate. i should like to continue the cruise for another year." "so should i, but i can't afford it. yachting is an expensive amusement." "oh, i don't know that. a cruise may be made to pay its way even in these days, especially if one carries a warrant from the admiralty of one's country like you do. the authorities are always civil to one who sails under the government blue ensign, and never trouble him with the tedious formalities the common merchantman is subjected to." "i don't know what you mean," said carew. "there is no money to be made now by legitimate trade at sea. besides, a yacht is not allowed to trade at all." "i said nothing about legitimate trade," said the frenchman quietly, as he rolled himself another cigarette. the eyes of the two men met, and they understood each other. the mate had never let drop so broad a hint before; but he knew that he was safe in doing so. there had existed for some time a sort of freemasonry of crime between himself and carew. they had been thrown altogether upon each other's society of late. both were educated men, and gentlemen by birth; both were shrewd readers of character; and it is so far easier for the bad than for the good man to recognise a kindred nature. carew did not exactly entertain a liking for his mate, but he found his companionship far pleasanter than that of any other man could have been. the frenchman's tolerant way of looking at crime was peculiarly gratifying to the ex-solicitor. it acted as a most soothing salve to his conscience. he liked to hear the man's cynical talk--the superficial philosophy with which he defended crime as being the least hypocritical way of obeying nature's law of the struggle for existence. the very presence of this villain seemed to exert a strange, magnetic influence on carew's pliable soul, lulling it into a fool's paradise. such an affinity for evil between two men who are much together will soon destroy any conscience that either of them may happen to possess. so carew, having become accustomed to an atmosphere of crime, no longer shrank from the thought of it, and, with an amused smile, replied to the mate's remark, "what piece of villainy are you going to suggest now, baptiste?" "i don't think you ought to use that word villainy," protested the frenchman, with an air of comic indignation. "as a matter of fact, i was not at that moment thinking of any one particular 'piece of villainy,' but vaguely of a great number of feasible schemes i know of for transferring the wickedly-earned riches of others into our own deserving pockets." "this is highly interesting," said carew, in a bantering tone. "explain one of these notable schemes of yours, baptiste." but the frenchman did not reply. he looked round the horizon with a puzzled expression, and, putting his hand to his ear, appeared to be listening intently. "hark, captain! what is that?" he cried. chapter viii carew listened, and heard a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder. "thunder out of a cloudless sky! that is strange." "that is no thunder, captain," said baptiste, with a scared look, "but what it is i know not." the sound became louder. it did not seem to be approaching from any direction, but to be everywhere--around, below, above--filling all space. then it swelled to a great roar, as of the rolling of thousands of drums. the air trembled at the sound, and the surface of the sea no longer reflected the blue sky above, but, appearing like a mirror over which one has breathed, vibrated into myriads of wrinkles and gyrating rings. soon the water began to be greatly disturbed, and raved and foamed about the vessel as if she were floating in a boiling caldron. then occurred an appalling prodigy. first, louder than loudest thunder, was heard a deafening explosion, and immediately the sea leapt up, not in waves, but in steep pyramids of water, piling itself up in domes, as if some mighty force were thrusting it up from below. the yacht pitched wildly into the confused whirl till she was nigh to break up with the violence of the shocks, and the water poured over her decks in masses, threatening to swamp her. hollow whirlpools opened out suddenly in front of her, seeking to engulf her: a fearful spectacle to behold, which might make even the bravest men go mad with fright. then came another explosion, and the superstitious spaniards, holding on to the rigging for dear life, shrieked with abject terror as they saw the limpid sea suddenly thicken and change its colour to a dark, sulphurous yellow. there was an odour of sulphur in the air, and the sun was shining through a sickly yellow haze. the crew, who would have done their duty with cool courage in a hurricane, were completely unnerved by this alarming portent. the two men forward thought that the fiend himself had opened hell under them to swallow up their sinful souls; they prayed and blasphemed in turns. the french mate, white to his lips and trembling, clutched the rigging, with his eyes closed. carew alone, though his cheeks were pale, was calm. holding on to the bulwark to prevent himself from being thrown overboard by the violent leaping of the yacht, he looked around him with a resolute expression. he would fight bravely for his life, but he had no fear of death. in the midst of this turmoil a strong wind suddenly arose. "hoist the foresail!" he shouted; but none of the terrified men obeyed the order. "cowardly idiots!" he cried, and scrambling forward as well as he could to the mast, he seized the fore-halyards and set the sail. then he returned to the tiller, after having been nearly washed overboard by a sea on the way, and steered the vessel dead before the wind. in ten minutes he had sailed, not without danger, outside the circle of raging water; and looking back he saw that the disturbance had already commenced to subside, and the loud roaring had lessened to a distant moaning. "_locos!_" he cried; "madmen, cowards, hoist the mainsail! are you women to be so scared by a slight _terremoto_?" "i didn't know that there were earthquakes in mid-ocean," said el toro, who was the first to recover somewhat from his fright. "but, captain, you are a curious one. i knew you feared no man; but, _caramba!_ it seems you don't fear the devil himself." "up mainsail," cried carew again, "and don't jabber, thou great coward! hurry up. we have a fair wind." the mate was now himself again. "aha! the _terremoto_ has brought us luck," he cried. "look yonder, captain," and he pointed to the east, where the sky had become suddenly covered with small fleecy clouds. "i know that sign--that is the trade wind." they put all sail on the vessel, and were soon bowling along before the ever-freshening wind. they had left behind them the dreary region of the doldrums, with its stifling heat, and the air above the dancing waves was cool and bracing. the mate, who was steering, began to chaff his companions. "say, el toro, you thought the authorities below had sent for you when you felt that trembling of the sea." "trembling?" replied the basque gruffly. "there was more trembling of thee than of the sea itself, thou white-gilled frenchman." "so there was," drawled the sarcastic el chico. "but let us remember that our mate is a man of education--of soul. his nerves are in harmony with nature. when nature is merry he is merry; when nature trembles; he trembles. but that is poetical sympathy, not fear, my friend el toro." and so these three reviled each other's cowardice, until carew, fearing bloodshed, called out, "now, then, stop that discussion, or all of you bring me your knives here." then this amiable crew smoked and sulked in silence for a while. shortly afterwards, carew was below studying a chart of the south atlantic. to him came down the mate, who looked over his shoulder and asked, "how far are we now from rio, sir?" "about sixteen hundred miles," was the reply. "that means a run of nine or ten days at the outside with this wind." "you are a man of great nerve," said the mate, filled with a genuine admiration. "i thought the bravest man would have lost his head in that horrid earthquake." carew laughed. "mine was only the courage of science at the best, baptiste. you see, the phenomenon did not take me by surprise. i half expected something of the sort." "indeed!" "oh, it is very simple. see here,"--he pointed to the chart,--"read that." the words, "volcanic region of the atlantic," were printed across a large tract of ocean in the vicinity of the equator. "now, if you will turn over the pages of the _south atlantic pilot directory_, you will read that this part of the atlantic is peculiarly subject to volcanic disturbance; so much so, that mariners are in this book warned on the subject. there are no soundings hereabouts with two thousand fathoms of line, and yet the disturbance is transmitted upwards through all those miles of water; so you can imagine the violent forces that are at work below us. it is rare that a vessel crosses this strange corner of the sea without experiencing some manifestation or other of this nature. sometimes it may be only a discoloration of the water that is noticed; sometimes a shock is felt as if the vessel had struck a rock, or she shivers till the masts are like to be thrown out of her. it is a region terrible to superstitious sailors; but i believe it is rare that a vessel has sustained any serious damage from these convulsions." "even if i had known all that i should have lost my nerve; for, say what you like, captain, our danger was a very real one. the _terremoto_ has done one good thing, anyhow: it has inspired el chico and el toro with an immense respect for your courage. we won't tell them that you were forewarned by the pilot book. you can do what you like with those men after this, captain allen. for the future they are your obedient slaves." the brave trade wind blew without intermission for ten days, and then carew, being in the latitude of rio de janeiro, steered due west for the land, which, according to his dead-reckoning, was not two hundred miles distant. it was night, and the wind having fallen light, the yacht made little progress. at midnight carew came on deck to relieve the mate. "look over there," said baptiste, pointing across the vessel's bows to the westward. "those are the lights of rio." "what! so soon?" cried carew; and turning his eyes in the indicated direction he perceived, not indeed the gleam of a lighthouse or other ordinary sign of approaching land, but an appearance as of a stormy dawn. high above the horizon hung masses of clouds whose lower surface was of a faint red, as if they were reflecting some immense conflagration too far away to be yet visible. "you cannot distinguish any other city in the world from such a distance," said the mate. "when you are one hundred miles--yes, and more than that--away, you can tell the position of rio de janeiro by the glare that hangs over it at night. the gaslights there are innumerable. i have heard that it is the best lighted city in the world, and i believe it. at midnight the streets are illuminated as if for a fête; and, what is more, all the roads and paths that lead out into the country and up to the tops of the mountains are better lit than any of the streets in your london. ah, the capital of the brazils is a wonderful place!" as carew discovered later on, baptiste had not exaggerated the facts. at daybreak carew was still on deck, being anxious to catch a first glimpse of the new world after so many weeks upon the desert seas. when the sun rose the blue sky was cloudless, but the western horizon was obscured by a white fog, which, baptiste said, nearly always hovered over this coast at early morning. of a sudden the upper portion of the mist lifted, and high above them there appeared, as if floating in mid-air, the summit of a huge mountain. it was of cubical shape, with perpendicular sides of bare, smooth stone, like the altar of some giant race--a marvellous sight to thus burst suddenly upon men who had for so long seen nothing but sky and water. "that is the gavia mountain," cried baptiste; "it lies to the left of the entrance of the bay of rio." then the morning breeze came down upon the land, and, as by enchantment, the mist vanished, and all the features of that wonderful coast were revealed to them. lofty mountains of the most fantastic forms rose sheer from the sea. some were great pyramids or peaks of ruddy granite gleaming like molten gold in the sunshine; others, sloping more gently, were covered with great forests of tropical vegetation. along the whole shore extended a white line of foam, where the atlantic swell, piled up by the fresh trade winds, perpetually thundered at the base of the cliffs. in places the ravines terminated in beautiful bays, where on beaches of silver sand the cocoa-nut trees waved their rustling branches. the tropical seas wash no lovelier a land than this; and at that moment, with the sun still low in the east, there were a softness and translucency in the gorgeous colouring that gave an unreal and fairy-like aspect to the scene. close under the conical mountain known as the sugar loaf a gorge opened out, and through this was seen the vast expanse of the bay of rio, which the old navigators, in their admiration for its beauty, likened unto the gates of heaven. the yacht crossed the tumbling waters on the bar, sailed through the majestic gates, and floated on the still, pale green water of the inland sea. the bay of rio is considered to be the fairest of all the harbours of the earth, and one who has seen it can well believe that it is so. imagine a vast lake, some eighty miles in circumference, surrounded by grand mountains, indented with many winding bays, and studded with islands of all sizes, on whose shores are many towns and villages, chief among which is the empire city of south america, the white rio de janeiro. a luxuriant vegetation comes down to the very edge of the water, even up to the streets of the city; the varied foliage of many species of palms, the luscious blades of the bananas, the spreading mangos, and bread-fruit trees giving a cool appearance to the torrid land. about a mile from the city of rio, at the entrance of the bay, is the fortified island of villegagnon. the yacht was sailing close under its shore, the mate steering. carew was gazing at the grand scenery around him with deep emotion. under the influence of this lovely nature, his thoughts became tender and pure; his soul was strangely subdued, and his mind sank into a happy reverie, such as good men who feel secure in their innocence are supposed alone to enjoy. the mate was watching carew's face; then he said, in a casual manner-- "i know this port pretty well, mr. allen, though i have only been here once before; and, by the way, i was sailing then in an english barque. let me see, what was the captain's name? captain grou--no, it was not that--garou--carou--oh yes, that was it--captain carou." carew started visibly and looked steadily into the mate's face, but he could read nothing in those impassive features. "it is but a coincidence," he said to himself. "it is impossible that baptiste can have discovered my real name. there are many carews in the world, after all." nevertheless, the sound of the name he had put away from him for ever disturbed him greatly. he was awakened from his pleasant reverie, and the beautiful scenery had no more delights for him. all the evil things which he had done and had yet to do were unpleasantly brought to his mind. now that he saw the great city before him, he shrank from the idea of mixing once more with his fellow-men. he wished he were out on the open sea again. "baptiste," he said, "i should like to bring up some way from the quays; it will be quieter." "certainly, captain. let us bring up here under villegagnon; it will be cooler and healthier than farther in. look yonder at the merchantman anchorage. i see the yellow flag flying from at least a dozen foremasts. the yellow fever is evidently playing mischief at present." baptiste had not been unobservant of carew's start and change of expression at the mention of his name. the wily frenchman had a game to play: he had put down his first card with a result that satisfied him. the anchor was let go under villegagnon and the sails were stowed; then baptiste, looking around him, happened to perceive a barque anchored about half a mile off. "ho, el toro," he cried; "look at that barque. is she not the very sister to the old _vrouw elisa_?" "baptiste," said carew sternly, "you told me that you had never been on board the _vrouw elisa_." the mate, not in the least disconcerted, laughed, and replied, "that does not prevent my knowing her by sight, surely, captain carou--i mean--how stupid of me!--captain allen." chapter ix shortly after the _petrel's_ anchor had been let go, under the island of villegagnon, a galley, manned by brawny blacks, came off to the yacht; a brazilian gentleman in uniform leapt on deck and introduced himself as the doctor of the port. on hearing that the vessel was an english yacht sailing under an admiralty flag he raised no difficulties, but granted carew pratique at once, despite the absence of a clean bill of health from rotterdam. when the health boat had gone off again, carew ordered the dinghy to be lowered. "i will go on shore at once, baptiste," he said. "i will call on the british consul, and ask him for a clean bill of health for buenos ayres. we won't stay longer than is necessary in this unhealthy place." "may i suggest," replied the mate, "that you should give the lads a few dollars of their pay, and allow them a run on shore to stretch their legs after having been cooped up so long in this little craft?" carew remembered the empty condition of the ship's treasury, and did not see his way to paying his crew any portion of their wages at present. "if they go on shore they will drink rum in the sun, and catch yellow jack," he said. "not they, sir. these are sober spaniards, and they are too acclimatised to run much risk of fever." "i'll think the matter over. but we'll leave the two men in charge this afternoon. you come on shore with me, baptiste. you know rio, and can show me the way about." so carew and the mate got into the dinghy, and the latter, taking the oars, pulled off towards the mole. they landed on a quay bordered by a negro market, where fish, fruit, rags, and all manner of odds and ends were sold by very fat negresses in huge yellow turbans; a filthy and malodorous spot. after leaving the dinghy in charge of a custom-house officer, they hustled their way through the jabbering crowd of blacks, and entered the chief streets of the city. baptiste, who evidently knew his way well, brought carew to the door of the british consulate. "i will leave you now, captain," he said, "to transact your business. let me have a dollar or so to amuse myself with, and i will meet you in an hour's time at the corner of the chief street, the rua ovidor, in front of the big jeweller's shop." carew gave him a ten-shilling piece--he only had two more in the world now--and they separated. having obtained a bill of health from the consul, carew strolled through the hot streets until the appointed time, when the mate, punctual to a minute, met him at the corner of the rua ovidor. "captain," said baptiste, "it is stifling in these streets. let us get on a tram and drive out of the town to the botanical gardens. it will be cooler there, and i wish to speak to you in a quiet place where there are no eavesdroppers about. i have made an important discovery since i left you." with a noise of jingling bells the mules carried them rapidly through the suburbs of the city; past fairy-like villas that seemed to be built of delicately tinted porcelain, surrounded by gardens that were paradises of exquisite plants, with cool fountains splashing under the feathery palms; past groves of marvellous trees that bore no leaves, but were covered instead with blossoms of purple and vivid crimson, so that the eye was pained by the excess of glory; past pleasant inlets of the great bay, where the tiny waves dashed on the white sands under the cocoa-nut trees; and around them rose the great amphitheatre of granite peaks and forest-clad mountains glowing under the cloudless sky. they reached the gate of the botanical gardens, and the mate led carew to an avenue of oreodoxas--the most majestic of the family of palms. these rose straight and smooth as marble columns to an immense height, and far overhead their graceful leaves met in regular arches, forming a great aisle as of a cathedral of giants. a solemn spot, fitted to exalt the soul of man and inspire lofty thoughts, but which baptiste, with an unconscious irony, had selected as a safe place to discuss with carew a scheme of detestable crime which his lust for gold had suggested to him. they sat down on a bench under the polished trunk of one of the huge palms. carew was silent. he was impressed by the marvellous nature around. everything was so unfamiliar to his senses. the rich colouring of the beautiful and sometimes grotesquely shaped vegetation, the birds of brilliant plumage that flashed by him, the metallic lustre and monstrous forms of the beetles and other insects, the shrieking of the paroquets, and other noises of the intense and teeming tropical life--all bewildered his brain. the very air, heavy with the pungent odours of many flowers, seemed intoxicating. he could scarcely realise that this was not all some fantastic dream. but baptiste, who had important business on hand, cared little for the wonders of nature. he rolled himself a cigarette, lit it, then, sprawling himself in a lazy fashion on the bench, commenced-- "the other day, captain, we were engaged in an interesting conversation, which was rather rudely disturbed by an earthquake. have you forgotten the subject of it?" "i remember that you were talking some nonsense about making yachting pay its expenses by smuggling, or something of the sort." "i said nothing about smuggling, captain, and i was not talking nonsense. i said that the master of a yacht sailing under government papers has many opportunities of putting gold into his pockets; that is, if his liver be sound and he is not troubled with a morbid conscience. now, i only left you for one hour, captain, and in that time i picked up all the news of the port by calling at one or two rum shops--old haunts of mine; and, as luck would have it, i have discovered an easy way for us all to make our fortunes." "silence, man!" angrily ejaculated carew. "i don't wish to hear your rascally plans. you mistake me; i am not one to seek a fortune by illicit methods." carew meant all he said. he intended to commit one more crime only--to telegraph in allen's name to the bank for the bulk of allen's property. after that, sick of sin, he would live an exemplary life, and appease conscience by good works in some far country. but he forgot that he who once starts to run down a steep hill cannot stop himself exactly when he wishes. "what virtue--what righteous indignation!" sneered the mate. "but, captain, you will have to listen to me. whether you wish it or no, you _shall_ make a fortune in the way i am going to suggest." there was a menace in the man's tone and a malicious twinkle in his eyes. carew looked at him. "explain yourself, if you please," he said coldly. "so i will," cried baptiste, with energy, abandoning his lazy drawl. then, throwing away his cigarette, he rose from his recumbent position and stood before carew, who still remained sitting on the bench. "do you think that i am blind--that i am an idiot, captain? do you imagine that i don't know who you are and what you have done,--with all your virtuous talk,--eh, mr. carew?" as he uttered these words rapidly the mate closely observed their effect upon the englishman, whose face turned ghastly white, and whose right hand stole round to his back. "no shooting, if you please," cried the frenchman, in a bantering tone. "don't draw that revolver. remember that there's a fine for carrying firearms in rio. coward though i may be, you don't frighten me here, captain. i know you dare not kill me on shore. the inquiry afterwards would be fatal to you. besides, you are wise enough to grasp quickly the fact that our interests are coincident. at sea it was otherwise. there i held my tongue. i was aware that you would have thrown me overboard some dark night had you guessed that i knew so much. here on shore i am safe." carew felt that he was in the man's power, and saw the futility of denial. "what do you know?" he asked, in a dry voice, bringing his hand in front of him again. "that your name is not allen, but carew." "what else?" "that you are impersonating a man whose property you have stolen." carew felt as if his heart had stopped; the tall palms swam around him. he closed his eyes, and was only conscious of the cataract of sound raised by the shrieking paroquets and the manifold hum of insects. it was only for a moment; then he recovered himself, and, opening his eyes, again saw before him the cynical face of the frenchman. "what else?" he asked, with a deep sigh. "surely that is enough, captain. but, in short, understand that i know all about you." "how have you learnt this?" "suffice it that i know it. i don't wish to spoil your little game, captain, but you must help me in mine. i will now sit down and silently smoke a cigarette, so that you can ponder a while on what i have said. i perceive that i have somewhat disturbed your mind. now, as violent emotions are very bad for the health in this hot climate, it will do you good to rest for a few minutes; for i have more exciting news to communicate." the frenchman resumed his former lazy position, and proceeded to smoke, as he smiled contentedly at his own reflections; while carew sat with knit brows, the perspiration streaming down his face, unable to collect his thoughts, but terribly conscious in a vague way that he could never extricate himself from the network of crime into which he had voluntarily thrown himself; that for him there was no hope of putting the past away; that one sin would lead irrevocably to another; that nemesis had made all his future life as one long chain of iniquity, even to the unknown dreadful end of it. the frenchman was very pleased with himself. he had succeeded beyond his expectations in gaining a hold over carew, whom he could now compel to subserve his purposes. the mate had played a bold game of "bluff"; he had made carew believe that he was acquainted with his history, whereas he knew nothing of it, possessed no proofs of what he had so boldly asserted, and had merely made an ingenious guess at the truth. at a very early stage of the voyage, baptiste had come to the conclusion that the conscience of the englishman was burdened with some crime, and that he was a fugitive from justice. a variety of circumstances had led him to this belief. that carew had shipped three men who were known to be murderers, and had sailed away with them across the ocean at a moment's notice, was in itself highly suspicious. so the wily frenchman, bethinking himself how useful it often is to know another man's disagreeable secrets, set himself to discover all he could of his employer's past. many a night, when it was carew's watch on deck, baptiste employed himself in rummaging the drawers and lockers of the saloon. for a long time he discovered nothing to his purpose; but he was patient and minute in his investigations, and at last he got on the right scent in the following wise. he found that the handwriting in the ship's log-book and on the agreements which the captain had drawn out for his crew was not in the least like that in the diary and in the cheque-book, in which entries had been inscribed at a date prior to the yacht's departure from rotterdam. thus it seemed highly probable to baptiste that his captain was not the mr. allen whom he professed to be, and whose name was on the ship's papers. if not mr. allen, then, who was he? baptiste searched diligently night after night without finding any clue to this; but at last one of those slight circumstances which seem to be arranged by providence to expose the crimes of the most clever and cautious villains, led the persevering frenchman to the knowledge he was seeking. baptiste was not a good english scholar; but he proceeded with infinite labour little by little to decipher allen's diary. a few days before reaching rio he came to the last page but one, and here he read the following entry: "wrote carew, asking him to come with me to holland." on the next page, under the date of august the th, was the final entry: "sail for holland with carew." "it is just possible," said baptiste to himself, "that this mysterious captain of mine is mr. carew. i have no reason to suppose that he is so, but the point is worth testing." the mate applied the test in the manner that has been described, when, on entering rio, he casually remarked that he had sailed into that harbour before under an english captain called carew. his employer's sudden start and evident perturbation on hearing this name mentioned convinced baptiste that he had hit the right nail on the head. the deduction from what he had discovered was natural enough. "if this is carew," he reasoned, "he must have stolen allen's yacht. he has in all probability committed other crimes; but this is enough for my purpose. i may be altogether wrong in my conjectures, but i think not. i will tax him boldly with this. if i have guessed his secret, i have the game in my own hands. if i prove to have been on the wrong scent, i shall have made an idiot of myself, but no great harm will have been done." so with a matchless effrontery the frenchman opened his game under the shade of the great palm trees with the success that has been seen. having smoked several cigarettes with an expression of great enjoyment, without speaking, baptiste turned to carew and said-- "you are looking pale, _mon capitaine_. it is dangerous to walk about on an empty stomach in this climate; the fever fiend is ever watching his opportunity. come with me. i will take you to a tavern i know of,--rough, but cheap and good,--and we will have something to eat. it is hours after our usual dinner-time. afterwards i will expound to you the excellent scheme that is in my head--a scheme that will make us all rich men." carew had by this time recovered his power for cool and rapid thought. he had been in vain cudgelling his brain to explain to himself in what possible way the mate had contrived to discover his secret. "baptiste," he said firmly, "before moving from here, i wish you to clearly understand that you are not going to be my master because you happen to know something about my affairs; so put aside at once that insolent and familiar manner. if you presume too much on your knowledge and make me desperate, it will be the worse for you. now tell me how have you acquired this knowledge?" the mate replied in his old respectful tones. "i know you too well to seek to be your master. but i would rather not answer your question at present, captain. i promise you, when you have helped me to carry out my plan, that i will tell you everything." "does anyone else know as much as yourself concerning me?" "not a single individual. have no fears on that score. no one suspects that you are other than you represent yourself to be. you are as secure from discovery as you were before i happened to learn the truth. i alone know what you are, and the price of my silence is a mere bagatelle. all i ask is that you benefit yourself and me by casting away from you some of your foolish scruples. where is the logic of going so far and no farther? you have committed great crimes for a trifle. a large fortune is now within your grasp; but one little sin more, and you will be rich. then you can afford to be virtuous for the rest of your life. you can endow churches; you can obtain absolution; you can--but i forget; you are a protestant, and so must patch your soul up in your own way." carew shuddered, not in fear of the man before him, but at the thought of the relentless fate that was pursuing him. it seemed to him that this unscrupulous villain was the instrument of an offended heaven, sent to hasten his destruction. it was vain for him to strive after repentance. a wild despair, a feeling of angry revolt against the powers of good, possessed him. what did it matter now? the man argued, in his reckless mood. destiny drove him to crime. why resist in agony? whatever new wickedness he should have to do, not his the fault, but that of this pitiless and unjust fate. "baptiste, what is this plan that you propose?" he asked. "let us dine before we talk business," replied the mate, rolling himself another cigarette. "i am as thirsty as an englishman and as hungry as a german." they entered a tram and drove back towards the city; but while they were yet in the suburbs, baptiste made a sign to carew to descend, and they walked, the mate leading the way, down a narrow street of negro shanties, each surrounded by its little provision ground of bananas, yams, and cassava. then they came to a very rough and disreputable neighbourhood, abounding in low grog shops, in which european sailors were courting yellow jack, by drinking poisonous rum. they reached a street which skirted the shores of the bay; and here, on the very edge of the water, there stood a stone house by itself. "that is the tavern i spoke of," said the mate. then assuming his usual bantering tone, "it is a queer place. it will interest you, as an english milord travelling for his pleasure and instruction, to observe the humours of the place. it is the resort of the greatest villains of rio--robbers, smugglers, and the like. the result is that it is an exceedingly quiet and respectable house. they dare not have rows in there; no drunkenness or thieving or kniving is allowed on those premises. men frequent this café when bent on business, not on pleasure." the interior of the house did not seem to be used for purposes of entertainment, for all the customers were congregated in a large arbour that lay against one side of the building, and faced the sea. they entered this arbour, and sat down at one of the bare deal tables, and the mate, calling one of the waiters, a very evil-looking mulatto with one eye, selected some of the dishes out of the bill of fare. the sun was setting, and the darkness came on with the suddenness of tropical latitudes. two negroes proceeded to light a number of venetian lanterns that festooned the café, and carew, while he waited for his dinner, gazed with amazement at the scene before him. a number of men were sitting at the tables, eating, drinking, and smoking. there were negroes, whites, and mulattos. they appeared to be of many nationalities. it would be almost impossible to see elsewhere a collection of more villainous faces. they sat for the most part in silence, as if avoiding each other's companionship; but at some of the tables were small groups, and here conversations were carried on in a low voice. there were no smiles to be seen; there was no noise; there were no signs of hilarity in all this assemblage. an atmosphere of gloom and fear seemed to pervade the place. occasionally one of these taciturn beings would glance suspiciously at the table where carew and the mate were sitting. guilt, dread, and hopelessness could be read on many a face. it might have been a supper of lost souls in the shades of hades, but then--and it was this that, by its mocking contrast, lent a strange horror to the scene, as if it were some fantastic and dreadful nightmare--the melancholy feast was taking place in a very paradise. the arbour was supported by lofty palms, and the sides of it were formed of a network of the most beautiful creepers, heavy with sweet blossoms and luscious fruits. the glittering sands of the seashore formed the floor. through the roof of feathery palm leaves the innumerable and brilliant stars of the southern hemisphere could be seen glowing out of the depths of night. a number of small tame birds of lovely red and yellow plumage fluttered about the arbour, and alighted on the tables in search of food. glow-worms and fireflies gleamed like diamonds among the foliage, and outside was heard the splashing of the tiny waves and the shrill cry of the cicala. the lavish tropical nature had made of this a fit palace for a fairy queen, and lo, it was a thieves' kitchen! chapter x having dined off some very greasy dishes served up with cassava or lentils, and seasoned with hot peppers in the brazilian fashion, carew and the mate lit their pipes, and the one-eyed negro brought them cups of black coffee and glasses of white native rum. the table at which they sat was at some distance from any other, so all risk of their conversation being overheard was obviated. "all these men are thieves, you say?" said carew, looking round at the strange assembly, on whose faces the venetian lanterns cast a ruddy glow. "yes, thieves and murderers, all of them," replied the mate, "but well-behaved, quiet folk, as you see. one is safer here than in some of the flash cafés in the main streets of rio." "they carry their characters on their faces. i only see one in the whole crowd whom i would not instinctively distrust. who is that tall, handsome old man with the long white hair and beard?" "that is our worthy host," said baptiste. "he looks like a mild, mediæval saint, but there is much blood on his hands. i must introduce him to you, for he is a celebrated character in his way." baptiste caught the old man's eye, and beckoned to him to approach the table. "good-evening to you, father luigi. i think you understand french?" the old man nodded an assent. "i don't suppose you remember me? i have not been here for a very long time." "i never forget a face that i have seen in my café," replied the host in french, with a strong italian accent. "this, luigi, is my present captain, an english milord, travelling in his yacht; and this, captain, is the once well-known roman brigand, luigi querini. oh, an awful cut-throat in his time, i assure you." querini shook his head sadly. "but not so now, signor. i am getting old. heigh-ho, but those were grand days we had in the abruzzi mountains before victor emmanuel's gendarmerie spoilt italy." "sit down and have a glass with us, luigi," said the mate. "_salud y pesetas_--health and dollars to you; that's an old river plate toast. luigi knows buenos ayres well, captain. he'll tell us all about it." "yes, i know it too well," said the old man. "i was a soldier of the argentine republic, and lived on mare's flesh on the indian frontier for four years." "what made you do that?" asked carew. "i see you are a stranger to south america, sir. understand, i was not a volunteer. i had a misfortune, and therefore was pressed into the army for punishment." "to have a misfortune is a pampas euphemism for having murdered a man," explained the mate. "there is, as you know, no capital punishment in the river plate," continued the italian; "if a man kills another the penalty is so many years' service in the army." "what a respectable army it must be," remarked carew. "it is so," said baptiste. "they are wise people, those argentines. if a man is addicted to homicide for his private ends, they turn him into a wholesale homicide for the public good. that may be called the homoeopathic treatment of murder; like curing like." carew laughed boisterously at the mate's witticism, and the silent men at the tables round, hating the sound of merriment, turned their faces towards him and scowled savagely. a species of intoxication had come to carew. the strange sights and strong emotions of the day, the grotesque contrast presented by this lovely bower of pure blossoms and the foul and evil men who sat beneath it, confused his brain. his surroundings seemed so fantastically inconsistent--so unreal--that he felt as if he were some irresponsible being in a land of dreams, that it mattered not what he did. he was filled with a reckless joviality. the mate had been watching him with his keen eyes. he knew what this exaltation of spirits indicated, and divined that the moment was opportune for the mooting of his diabolical scheme. in the present condition of his mental faculties, the captain's obstructive conscience would be partly paralysed, and he would be able to listen to the mate's proposals without overmuch shrinking horror. so the shrewd frenchman, losing no more time, hinted to the host that his presence at the table was no longer needed, and querini took himself off to hobnob with another acquaintance. baptiste then stretched out his legs and said-- "this is very comfortable after having been cramped up so long on board that little boat of yours; but i hope, sir, to see you captain of a much larger vessel in a week or so at the latest." "so we are coming to your wonderful scheme. let me hear all about it." "you remember, sir, that as we sailed into the bay this morning i pointed out a small barque to el toro, and remarked how much she resembled the old _vrouw elisa_." "i remember your words perfectly. you betrayed yourself." "intentionally, captain. we understand each other now; there are no secrets between us. away with hypocrisy! of course el toro, el chico, and myself formed part of the crew of the _vrouw elisa_. but it is unnecessary to recount to you our adventures on board that vessel." "they do not interest me." "i don't think you'd care to hear them," said baptiste, showing his white teeth with a grim smile. "well, to proceed. when you were at the consul's this morning, i entered a little drinking shop on the mole, and there i overheard some sailors speaking about their vessel, which i soon made out to be the barque lying near us under villegagnon, the one like the _vrouw elisa_. said one man to the other in french-- "'i suppose she's got the most valuable cargo on board of any vessel in rio.' "i pricked up my ears on hearing this. "'she'd be a fine prize for a pirate,' replied the other man. "'if there were pirates nowadays,' said the first. "feeling interested, i made inquiries about this vessel--waiter, stand off another few yards. i am talking over some private business with this gentleman." the negro, not unused to such commands, promptly removed himself. "i discovered that the barque comes from a little harbour down the coast, near santa catharina. it seems that some prospectors have discovered gold in the neighbouring mountains. the quartz is exceptionally rich; the cost of importing the necessary machinery would be great. they are consequently shipping a large quantity of this quarts to europe to be crushed. that barque, sailing under the french flag, is bound for swansea with a cargo of this: no ordinary auriferous quartz, let me tell you, but containing a hitherto unexampled percentage of gold. she has put in here for some slight repairs, and will sail in two days. the barque is a new vessel, and is worth a lot of money; but the value of the cargo is enormous. now, my little plan is that we four, the crew of the _petrel_, seize this vessel and make our fortunes." carew laughed scornfully. "idiot!" he said; "is this your precious scheme? i took you for too clever a man to talk such nonsense. even if we did succeed in seizing this vessel, what could we do with her? in what port could we dispose of her cargo? piracy is impossible in these days. don't you know that?" "who talked of piracy? surely, captain, you know me by this time. am i not a coward? am i one to commit a risky crime? i would break no law unless i felt that i was absolutely secure from detection; and when i do feel that, upon my soul, i don't know what villainy i would shrink from; for, as for conscience--bah! i have none. now please follow the outlines of my scheme. i will leave it to your ingenuity to fill up the details." carew, in his present mood, felt a reluctant admiration for the cool and cynical ruffian before him. "piracy, in the ordinary sense of the term, is of course out of date," continued the mate, as he sipped his fiery rum; "but the intelligent man adapts his method to the age he lives in. i will now tell you a little story. an english yacht, manned by four worthy fellows, sails out of rio one fine day. in the night, when she is some leagues from the land, a dreadful accident of some kind happens--say she runs into a large fragment of wreckage, and staves herself in. anyhow, she founders. happily, her crew have time to lower the boat, and getting into it they pull away, weeping to behold the vessel, that has been their home for so long, go down. but they feel happier and dry their eyes when their brave captain tells them that the yacht is well insured. providence assists them, for at daybreak they sight a french barque. they signal to her, are seen, are soon taken on board, and the barque resumes her voyage to europe. after some days our four shipwrecked mariners, who have been watching their opportunity, and who are well armed, surprise the crew, take possession of the vessel, sail her into the nearest port, and claim salvage for the derelict which they have had the luck to pick up; and their lives for the future are happy, wealthy, and respectable. do you follow my story, captain? hi! waiter, bring us some more rum and some bahia cigars." carew sat quite motionless for some time, looking downwards, so that baptiste could not see the expression of his face. the black brought the rum to the table and went away again. then carew raised his head. "i follow your story," he said, in a low, husky voice; "but you did not mention what became of the crew of the barque." "ah, yes! what did become of them?" exclaimed the mate in an airy way. "i forget. they were lost somehow, i imagine--were disposed of in some convenient fashion--who knows? but that is a detail." carew's face had turned fearfully white. "thou devil!" he cried passionately, between his set teeth. "not that--not that! speak no more of this. it is impossible." "understand me, captain," said the mate, abandoning his bantering tone for one of serious determination. "you are not going to have everything your own way. i must have money, and plenty of it. el chico and el toro must have money. join us in carrying out this scheme, and we will share the spoil between the four of us. if you don't agree to this, i will expose you at once, mr. carew, and you will know what a nasty hole a brazilian prison is. i am sorry to use this language, but business is business, captain." carew looked down again, and baptiste, furtively watching him, saw that his mouth was twitching and the perspiration breaking out on his forehead. the wretched man endeavoured to think his way out of the terrible dilemma before him. he had to choose between the commission of a crime more atrocious than any he had ever conceived, and a disgrace and punishment infinitely worse than death. he tried to realise his position, but his brain seemed numbed. the two alternatives kept crossing and recrossing his mind in rapid succession. he was conscious of them, but he could not reason upon them. he was incapable of consecutive thought for the time. suddenly a discordant brass band in a low dancing saloon hard by burst out into a triumphant march, as a prelude to the night's riot of drunken sailors. it was a fragment of some french opera-bouffe, suggestive of feverish joy heedless of the morrow, of mad and reckless orgie. the sound was in accord with the man's distracted state. it at once awoke his mind from its lethargy. a wild and fierce impulse rushed upon him. blindly he abandoned himself to what he considered to be his destiny, and a tempter seemed to whisper to him, "trust to your luck. see how luck has been with you so far. fortune will certainly find some way of relieving you of the crew of the barque, so that it will not be necessary for you to have their blood on your head. arthur allen stood in your path. he was removed from it; yet you were not his murderer. so will it be now. trust to chance." then carew looked up. his features were calm and rigid, but had a ghastly expression. he opened his mouth as if to speak, but appeared to be unable to articulate. he poured himself out a quantity of the white rum into a glass and swallowed it. "and the other two men?" he whispered hoarsely. baptiste understood his meaning. "el chico and el toro can be relied upon for this business. i know them," he said. the eyes of the two men met. there was a long pause. then carew muttered the two words-- "i consent!" chapter xi carew and the mate left the café, traversed the brilliantly lighted city, and returned to the yacht. at an early hour on the following morning, carew, too restless to sleep, came on deck. the sky was cloudless and the rising sun illumined the romantic scenery of the bay. a cool breeze blew seaward from the wooded mountains, odorous of spices and tropical blossoms. the sight of a world so glad and fair, so fresh and ever-young, might well make the saddest soul feel the joy of mere existence and look to life as a treasure worth the possessing. a few months before this carew had contemplated suicide--had regarded death as a welcome deliverance from his troubles. now it was otherwise; he set a value on his life. the causes of this change were commonplace enough, as are most of the motives that decide the momentous crises of a man's history. a healthy life in the open air at sea tends to develop the instinct of self-preservation and banishes morbid meditations. again, the longer one has been contesting some keen game of chance and skill, the more anxious one is to come off the victor. this man had been playing a clever and desperate game for freedom--which for him meant life--ever since he had left england. fortune had favoured him so long that he would not abandon hope and acknowledge defeat now. the ultimate victory had become so dear to him that he was not likely to be very squeamish as to the means he should employ to obtain it. so carew had hardened his heart, or rather, having resolved on a course of action, he closed the avenues of his mind to certain unpleasant thoughts on the future. not being as unscrupulous as his french associate, he found it necessary to employ an immense amount of self-deception. he allowed himself to drift, as it were, from one crime to another, trying to believe that his fate was compelling him; but he carefully avoided looking beyond the immediate present. he would not think of the far greater iniquities to which he was committing himself by the action he was now taking. he wilfully closed his eyes, and let the morrow take care of itself. when baptiste joined the captain on deck he was exceedingly surprised to find him in a cheerful mood, and anxious to arrange as quickly as possible the plan for the seizure of the barque. carew found a relief in the active employment of his brain, and he now exhibited considerable ingenuity. he described his views in detail to the mate, who looked with wonder at this inconsistent englishman, whose complex nature he felt that he was very far from understanding. with all his vacillation, when carew had made up his mind one way or the other, he acted promptly and with energy. "baptiste," he said, "in the first place, we ought to be armed. we all have knives, but there is only one revolver on board. i want you to take my watch and chain on shore, pawn or sell them, and buy three revolvers and some ammunition. you can take charge of your weapon at once, but i will keep those of the two men until the time comes." "that is right," said the mate; "those children are not to be trusted with firearms. the first time they played at _monte_ they would be scattering each other's brains over the cards. i know a slop shop where there are generally some good six-shooters on sale. i will barter your watch there." "also ascertain the hour of the barque's departure," said carew. "this is what i suggest. you know that the south-east trade wind does not blow home on this coast, but is deflected and becomes a north-east wind. in consequence of this, all vessels bound for europe from rio are obliged to take a long board of several hundreds of miles to the eastward before they fall in with the true trade wind, and go about on the other tack. thus we know the exact course the barque will take. she will sail away close-hauled on the port-tack. we will put to sea six hours before her, and await her some ten leagues from the land. do you understand?" "perfectly. i see you know what you are about, sir." "now call the crew aft," said carew, "and let us learn at once what they think of our proposal." baptiste raised the hatch of the forecastle and roused the men. they quickly tumbled on deck. "i am sorry to say, comrades, that you can't go on shore here," said the mate in spanish. they swore and grumbled in sonorous castilian phrases that had best be left untranslated. "now no insubordination," continued baptiste; "the captain would not deprive you of a day's holiday after so long a voyage unless he had urgent reasons for doing so." "reasons indeed!" muttered el toro. "he who wants reasons can always find them." "silence, you old calf! listen! we shall most probably sail to-day, for there is a treasure waiting for us outside." el chico pricked up his ears. "what! another _vrouw elisa_?" he asked. "something of the sort; but this is a safer scheme. our necks will not be in danger this time." "that's well for you, baptiste," exclaimed el toro, with his brutal laugh; "for your neck must be the most precious on this ship if we may judge from the value you set on it. ha! ha! i never shall forget your white face and your starting eyes in that dutch law court." "my neck supports a head of brains and not a pig's head like thine, with only three ideas in it--rum, grub, and tobacco," retorted the mate. "but no more nonsense; listen to me, men." then he briefly disclosed the plan. "bravo!" grunted el toro. "that sounds a likely bit of business. i will go and sharpen my knife at once. and so our english milord is a game-cock, after all, like the rest of us." "he is worth fifty of you," said baptiste. "he has the clever brains that can devise; and he is braver than you, el toro." "i acknowledge him to be my superior, even in courage. i have not forgotten how he defied the devil himself in the _terremoto_," replied the basque. baptiste turned to carew, and proceeded to speak in french. "the lads are ready to follow you anywhere, sir." "they did not seem at all surprised, and received your communication in a very matter-of-fact way," said carew. "they are accustomed to strange jobs of this kind. but i don't think they quite realise what a vast sum we are going to make. idiots! it would be a pity to give them too much. we must settle later on, captain, how to divide the spoil." "last night you said that it should be divided equally among us." "i spoke hastily. i don't think so now. you and i appreciate money and know how to use it. these pigs would squander it. we will give them just enough to keep their mouths shut. you and i will divide the bulk. if we fill their hands with bright gold pieces, the ignorant wretches will imagine that they have got an inexhaustible fortune, and they will go away perfectly satisfied. i know the animals." the mate, taking carew's watch and chain with him, rowed on shore in the dinghy, and returned in an hour with three revolvers, some cartridges, and a quantity of plantains, yams, and other vegetables. he leapt on deck. "captain," he cried, "there is not much time to be lost. i have learnt that _la bonne esperance_--that is the barque's name--will sail without fail this evening as soon as the land breeze springs up." "then we will get under way immediately after breakfast," said carew; "for the wind seems to be light outside, and we shall not travel fast." the land breeze, which blows all night at rio and refreshes the heated atmosphere, died away before the necessary preparations had been made on the yacht, and the usual calm succeeded it. so carew had to remain at anchor until midday, when the sea breeze, that prevails throughout the hottest hours of the day, sprang up; and all sail being hoisted, the _petrel_ tacked out of the bay. the yacht sailed out to sea, close-hauled on the port-tack; but the wind was very light, and she did not make more than two knots an hour. at sunset the land was still in sight, and carew took cross-bearings, so as to ascertain his exact position. throughout the night the navigation of the yacht was conducted with unusual care. the helmsman steered "full and by" with as much nicety as if he had been sailing a race. every few minutes the officer of the watch looked at the compass, in order to detect the slightest change in the direction of the wind. without these precautions it would have been impossible on the morrow to calculate with sufficient precision the track of the following barque. at daybreak carew made out that he was about forty miles from the land. "we have gone far enough, baptiste," he said. "the next thing is to calculate how much nearer this yacht sails to the wind than a clumsy, square-rigged vessel like _la bonne esperance_." "our steering has been so good," replied the mate, "that we must have been sailing at least a point and a half closer than the barque." "about that, i should say. we will run down to leeward some ten miles, and then, i think, we shall be lying right across her track." the sheets were eased off, and the vessel was steered at right angles to her former course. as the wind was stronger, she covered the ten miles in less than two hours. then carew gave the order to heave-to. while the yacht, her jib to windward, rose and fell on the ocean swell without making any progress, everything was got ready for the carrying out of their design. the dinghy was lowered; the men placed in it their baggage and some of the more portable valuables belonging to the yacht. carew put into the sternsheets a portmanteau containing, among other things, the ship's papers, allen's diary and cheque-book, the revolvers, and the drugs which he had purchased in rotterdam. carew himself undertook to scuttle the yacht. he cut away a portion of the panelling in the main cabin; then, having bored a large hole with an auger through the vessel's skin, he stopped it with a wooden plug. to this plug he attached a piece of strong cord, which he led up on deck through the skylight. the men stood by watching him. "you see, baptiste," he explained, "i have but to pull this cord, out comes the plug, and the vessel fills and sinks." "that is all very well so far," replied the mate; "but suppose you have pulled out your plug, and your vessel is three parts full, and the barque won't stop to pick us up,--anything is possible at sea; such inhumanity among sailors is not unknown,--what will you do then? how are you to get at that hole again to stop any more water coming in? a wise general secures his retreat, captain." "i have thought of all that, baptiste," said carew; "you have not seen half my arrangements yet. follow me into the after-cabin." baptiste obeyed. "now take up the flooring," continued the captain. when the boards were raised a long piece of lead piping was disclosed, which was connected with the end of one of the ship's two pumps. "cut that piping off as close as you can to the pump, and bring it on deck." this was done; then carew, to the astonishment of his crew, proceeded to bend the piping until it assumed the form of a lengthened u. putting a bung into one end of it he poured water into it from the other end until it was full. dipping the open end into the sea, he passed the other arm through one of the ports, so that it depended into the cabin below the level of the water-line. "hah! i see now; it is a syphon," exclaimed baptiste. "exactly so. now follow my plan. as soon as we sight the barque, i take the bung out of the inner arm of the syphon and allow the sea to pour in, until i bring the yacht down as near the water's edge as i safely can. then i haul my syphon on board again and so stop the flow. we hoist signals of distress. if _la bonne esperance_ won't pay any attention to us and sails by, all we have to do is to pump the water out of the yacht, and try our luck elsewhere. if the barque replies to our signals, and there can be no doubt about her intention to pick us up, i pull this cord, out comes the plug, in rushes the sea again, we jump into the dinghy, and as we are rowing off to the french vessel the old _petrel_ goes down. what do you think of that, baptiste?" "excellent--excellent!" exclaimed the mate. "and to avoid all chance of a hitch," continued carew, who was interested in his work, "i am going to scuttle the yacht in another place, and lead another cord from the second plug on to the deck. thus we will be doubly certain; for one plug may get jammed and refuse to come out, or a fish may get sucked into the hole and choke it. i have heard of such things happening." "you are a very clever man, captain. when you do start on a job you carry it out in a thorough manner. with your pluck and ingenuity you'd make a splendid pirate, were it not for your unfortunate scruples;" and the mate sighed regretfully when he thought of the useful talents wasted on this englishman. at midday carew took the latitude, and found that he had not misjudged his position. as the wind had not varied a quarter of a point since the yacht had sailed from rio, it was almost certain that the barque would pass within a mile or so. el chico, who had the keenest eyes of any on board, had been sent aloft to keep a good lookout for vessels. he sat on the crosstrees, and in the course of the day reported several craft, but none answered to the description of the french barque. much as carew had shrunk from the enterprise, he was now carried away by the excitement of the chase; and as the hours went by he became acutely anxious. he feared that he had sailed too far out to sea, and that the barque would pass him unobserved in the night. they waited in silence, staring eagerly across the expanse of glaring water. at last, at three o'clock in the afternoon, el chico called out-- "there is a barque yonder that looks something like her." "where away?" said baptiste. "she's coming up close-hauled on the port-tack." "has she brown topsides and some bright green about her figure-head?" "i can't make any colour out yet." then the mate went aloft with the binocular. after some minutes he scrambled down the rigging again. "hurrah!" he cried, with a triumphant glitter in his eyes. "we have her safe! that is _la belle esperance_!" "if we run a mile more to leeward we'll be right in her track," shouted el chico from aloft. all was now bustle on board the yacht. letting the foresheet draw, they ran before the wind for about a quarter of an hour; then, heaving-to again, the cork was taken out of the syphon, and the yacht began to fill gradually. the barque was still more than three miles off, so there was ample time to prepare everything. "now for the signals of distress," cried carew; "bring up the flags." the two flags of the international code--n and b--were hoisted to the gaff end, which indicate that a vessel is in need of assistance. "they won't be able to see that for some time yet," said baptiste. "your signal flags are too small." "then rig up the long-distance signal," cried carew. "it is a square flag at the masthead with something like a ball beneath it. hoist the large ensign, and fasten the life-buoy to the mast; that will look like a ball." the barque was now heading straight for the yacht. when she was about a mile off carew loaded the small brass signal gun and fired it. about a minute afterwards a wreath of smoke was seen to issue from the barque's side. then the report of a gun was heard. "we are safe now. they will pick us up," said carew. "hallo, there! inboard with that syphon at once, or the yacht will go down under our feet." the men had been watching the approaching barque so intently that they had not observed how low in the water their own vessel now was. the cabin was three parts full, and all the movable articles in it were afloat. the syphon was brought on board, and they waited yet a little longer before taking the final step; for the wind had fallen light again, and the barque was making but slow progress towards them. "up goes some bunting yonder," said el chico. carew looked through the telescope, and saw that the vessel had hoisted the signal h f, which signifies, "we are coming to your assistance." "now, then, all hands tumble into the dinghy," said carew, as, seizing the cords, he pulled both plugs out of the yacht's side. "good-bye, old _petrel_!" he cried, leaping into the boat after his men. "now, pull away, lads." carew's experience in scuttling vessels was naturally limited, so he had miscalculated the rapidity with which an already water-logged craft will go down if two large auger-holes are opened in her sides. the men had not pulled a couple of strokes before the yacht's bow rose suddenly, her stern dipped, and she sank with a gurgling sound. so near was the dinghy that she narrowly escaped being sucked into the vortex. they rested on their oars and gazed silently at the spot where the smart little yawl that had been their home for so long had floated but a moment before. then, as the water smoothed over her grave, they looked over the side of the dinghy and beheld a strange sight. with all her white sails set and her flags still flying, the _petrel_ went slowly down, with a gentle, oscillating movement, into the depths of that marvellously pellucid sea. two sharks accompanied her, swimming round and round her; one thrust his evil snout for a moment into the cabin hatchway, as if to see if there were men below. lower and lower the yacht descended into depths where the sharks could not support the increasing pressure of the water, so, deserting her, swam upwards; still lower, till she appeared no larger than a toy boat, and they could still distinguish her; still lower, and at last she disappeared into the blackness of the still, under ocean. chapter xii carew gazed silently downwards into the clear, dark sea for some moments after the yacht had sunk entirely out of sight; then, raising his head, he looked towards the barque, and saw that she was lying hove-to, with her mainyard laid aback, about a quarter of a mile distant. "pull away, lads," he said. "let us get on board the frenchman, and don't forget that we ran into a bit of wreckage last night and so sprang a leak. say as little more as you can help, and don't give conflicting accounts of our accident." they soon came alongside the vessel, and clambered on to her deck by a rope's end that was lowered to them. the captain of the barque gave the order to sling the dinghy on deck and square away again. this being done, he turned to carew and said in french, "i am very happy, sir, that i was so near at hand when your vessel sank. she went down very suddenly. pray what was the cause?" carew gave the very probable explanation of the mishap which had been decided on. "you must have run into that bit of wreckage with considerable force," said the captain. "what was it--a large spar?" "something of the sort, i imagine," replied carew; "but we could see nothing. it must have been floating just below the level of the water." "it is a lucky thing for you that this happened so near to the brazilian coast and in the track of shipping, instead of in the middle of the atlantic. you should have under-girded the vessel when you found that she had sprung so serious a leak." "so we did," broke in baptiste. "we got a jib under her bows. but it was no good. she was strained along her whole bilge. i wonder she did not fall to pieces." "let me introduce myself to you," said carew. "my name is allen. i was the owner of the unfortunate little yacht which is now so far below us. i think i recognise your vessel. were you not lying near us under villegagnon?" "that is quite right, sir, and i recognised your yacht as soon as i saw your signal of distress. my name is captain mourez, and this is the french barque _la bonne esperance_, bound for swansea. and now, sir, what would you like me to do with you and your crew? i see smoke ahead, which should come from some steamer bound for rio. shall i signal her and put you on board, or do you feel inclined to come on with us to swansea?" carew did not look in the captain's face, and his voice shook as he replied, "i should esteem it a great favour, captain mourez, if you would allow us to be your passengers as far as swansea. i will of course repay you for this when we reach england." "say nothing about that at present," replied the captain proudly. "you can do what you think proper when you reach port. a french sailor is always glad to assist other sailors in distress without the inducement of a reward for doing so." the boastful speech of the patriotic captain stated no more than the truth. french sailors rarely hesitate to risk their lives at sea in going to the rescue of their fellow-men; in this respect differing considerably from the mariners of some other european nations, who have acquired an unenviable notoriety for a selfish indifference to the sufferings of others. the captain looked from carew to baptiste. he could distinguish from the latter's accent and appearance that he was no common sailor. "this gentleman is your friend, i suppose?" he said. "my friend, and the mate of the yacht," replied carew. "i was my own captain." "i see that you are a genuine english yachtsman. but surely this is a french gentleman?" "no, captain mourez," broke in baptiste quickly; "i am an english subject, but i am a creole of the mauritius, and of french origin. permit me to introduce myself. my name is baptiste fortier." "very well," said the captain. "we can find room for your two men in the forecastle. you, mr. allen and mr. fortier, will occupy cabins aft. we have plenty to spare. come below and i will show you round." they entered the saloon--a spacious one for a vessel of her size. there were four cabins on each side of it. only two of these were occupied; one by the captain and another by his mate. two others were now placed at the disposal of carew and baptiste. the captain made his two guests sit down with him at the saloon table, and produced a bottle of bordeaux for their refreshment. the mate of _la belle esperance_ soon came below and joined the party. though no drunkard, he was never far away when there was a drawing of corks. his name was duval; he was a wiry, red-headed norman, somewhat hot-tempered, but very garrulous and merry. captain mourez was a tall, handsome man, with black hair and beard, a breton by birth, taciturn as a rule, but very courteous in his manners. while these four were sitting in the saloon talking over the wreck of the _petrel_, there was suddenly heard the sound of something falling heavily on the deck just overhead; then a cry and a scuffling of many feet. duval hurried on deck to learn what the noise signified. shortly afterwards he returned again. "it is that imbecile young apprentice, hallé, again. what an awkward cub it is! he has fallen from the mizzen rigging this time; not from a great height, luckily. he has not hurt himself seriously, but he seems rather sick and dizzy." the crew of the _petrel_ were soon at home on their new vessel. el toro and el chico were made much of by the kindly frenchmen in the forecastle. as luck would have it, none of the crew of the barque understood spanish; so the two spaniards, who knew no french, had not to reply to questions as to the details of the yacht's misadventure. el toro especially, whose dense head was entirely devoid of imagination, would have been certain to come to grief in attempting to lie in an ingenious and consistent manner. in the afternoon the loquacious norman mate insisted on taking carew and baptiste all over the vessel and showing them everything. he was gratified by the keen interest the two passengers seemed to take in his explanation. they listened attentively to all he said, for reasons of their own. they learnt that the vessel's company, officers included, numbered seventeen souls; that there was no second mate, but that the boatswain took the port watch and lived with the carpenter in the small deck-house. duval also took them into the forecastle, where some of the watch off duty were sleeping at the time. among them was the young apprentice who had fallen from the rigging. he was tossing about restlessly in his bunk, and his face was very flushed. baptiste as he passed by glanced casually at him, then scanned his face earnestly for some time. "come out of this," he said to carew. "it is too hot down here. let us go on deck." that evening the wind freshened considerably, and the barque, with yards braced up, was making good way through the water. carew, unable to sleep, came on deck shortly before midnight, and sat down in a dark, quiet corner to meditate. now that the excitement of the preliminary preparations was over, he began to realise to the full what was before him; and an intense abhorrence of the crime he had undertaken once more oppressed his soul. he could not retreat now. he must be the cause of the death of all these innocent men, who had come to the rescue of his life. if he spared them he would be carried on to england to pay the penalty of his offences. as he sat brooding thus miserably, a man walked towards him from the fore part of the ship. carew saw the red glow of his cigarette before he could distinguish the man in the darkness, and he knew that it was his evil genius. "baptiste, is that you?" "here i am, captain. a lovely night, is it not?" "sit down here," said carew, "and speak to me. no one can overhear us here, i think." "no; it will be all right if we do not raise our voices," replied baptiste, looking round. "how is this going to end?" whispered carew. "what do you mean, captain?" "how are we four to seize a vessel with a crew of seventeen strong men on board?" "strong men, indeed!" replied the frenchman. "they will be as weak as babies in a few days' time. by the way, i see that you did not omit to bring your medicine chest on board with you." carew shuddered. "poison!" he whispered, in a terrified voice. "do you mean that?" "why not, captain? it is a merciful and painless death if the right stuff is used." carew said nothing for some time. "whatever is done must be done soon," he muttered. "that is so, captain. this vessel must be ours while we are still in the trades and within a few days' run of a south american port. it will be difficult enough for four of us to work her, even in these calm waters. we must not postpone action till we get into the region of rougher weather." "oh, that this dreadful thing were not necessary!" carew groaned. "ah, sir, don't allow those fatal scruples of yours to torment you. if i had some of your courage, and you some of my philosophy, what a fine couple we should be! but as it is at present, i am the more useful man of the two, despite my physical cowardice. believe me, mr. carew, the ancient was right who said that to know oneself is the secret of happiness. if a man has a conscience at all, it ought to be a stable one that does not vary. you have got a set of moral principles of a sort, but you have not the slightest idea of what they are. one day you will commit an action with a light heart; on the morrow your remorse will madden you. such inconsistency means misery. know thyself. if you will have a code of ethics, know it and stick to it, and be happy. but now that you have gone so far, i recommend you to abjure conscience and moral principles, and substitute for them my beautifully simple code of ethics, which is summed up in three words--fear of consequences." "i wish, indeed, that i could do so, baptiste." "if you wish it, this satisfactory result will come in time. all changes in the moral sense are arrived at by wishing. _experto crede_, as they taught me in the _lycée_ at nimes." neither spoke for some time; then baptiste said-- "you were born under a lucky star, captain. i think that providence has found a way of sparing your sensitive conscience. she will do most of the killing for you." "what do you mean?" exclaimed carew. "hush! not so loud. you remember that a young man fell from the mizzen rigging while we were below drinking with the captain?" "yes." "he is our unconscious ally. he will kill off a good many of his comrades for us. but i will not mystify you any longer. why did he fall off the rigging--because he was awkward, as duval said? not a bit of it. he fell because he was dizzy. why was he dizzy? because he was ill. this afternoon, when i saw him first, i more than suspected that a fall could not account for all his symptoms. i have just examined him again. i know the signs well. he is in the first stage of _yellow fever_!" "yellow fever?" "yes, yellow fever has come to help us. the man has been very sick and is now delirious. the stupid captain has seen him, and puts it all down to his fall; says he must have injured his spine. how lucky for us was that fall! led off the scent by it, the idiots will not suspect what is the matter with the man until the _vomito negro_ declares itself. they have not separated him from the rest. he is now lying in his bunk in the forecastle. all the watch below are sleeping round him. it is a small forecastle, and the crew, imagining that fresh air is bad for a sick man, have closed the ports. it is stifling down there at present. it is a pest-house. all those men are breathing in contagion. do you know that it is the worst form of yellow fever that is now raging at rio--very contagious, very fatal? if it breaks out in a vessel like this it will spread like wildfire. man after man will fall sick and die." "ourselves included," said carew recklessly. "no, sir. we will take precautions in time. i have had the fever once, and am not likely to have it again. i have hinted the truth to el chico and el toro, and they have suddenly developed a hygienic craze for fresh air, and insist on sleeping on deck to-night, to the amazement of the french sailors. i would not like to insure the lives of the men who sleep in that forecastle; most of them are doomed by this time." carew felt his skin turn cold and tingle with horror as he listened to the frenchman's cold-blooded exultation in the dreadful prospect. "good-night, captain. i am going to turn in now; and, by the way, let me advise you to keep on deck in the cool wind as much as possible, and smoke perpetually. tobacco is a splendid disinfectant." chapter xiii on the day after the crew of the _petrel_ had been taken on board the barque the wind freshened and was so much to the south of east that the vessel was enabled to sail in a north-easterly direction, a course which would bring her to the vicinity of the trinidad and martin vas archipelago. when carew came on deck in the morning he found baptiste there before him. the provençal walked up to him jauntily, twirling his long black moustache, and looking jubilant. "i have seen young hallé again," he said, in a low voice. "he is very bad. the symptoms are unmistakable; but no one suspects the truth so far. two other men are complaining of headache." "let the accursed plague work its way," said carew gloomily, "but tell me nothing about it." "so be it, sir," said baptiste, with a shrug of his shoulders. the springing up of so favourable a wind put the captain of _la bonne esperance_ in a very contented frame of mind. in his delight he became more talkative than was his wont, and at frequent intervals during the day sought out carew in order to converse with him. carew, for his part, did his utmost--without appearing churlish--to avoid the company of captain mourez; for he recognised him as being a kind-hearted and an honest man. the captain observed his passenger's unsociable mood, and, attributing this to his sorrow at the loss of his yacht, endeavoured to cheer him with lively gossip, but produced the opposite result. nothing noteworthy occurred during the day; the wind held steady, and the vessel made good progress. at about ten o'clock that night, carew was sitting alone in the saloon, killing thought by reading a french novel which the captain had lent him, when mourez himself came in. his face bore a very anxious expression. "mr. allen," he said, "i am seriously alarmed about that man hallé. i fear that he has the fever." "the yellow fever?" exclaimed carew, not raising his eyes from his book. "it seems so to me; but i have never seen a case of yellow fever. do you mind coming with me to the forecastle and giving me your opinion?" "i will do so with pleasure," replied carew, rising from his seat; "but my opinion is not worth much." they entered the forecastle, which was dimly lighted by a small lantern. hallé was lying on his bunk, keeping up a constant delirious chatter. the other men, instead of sleeping soundly through their watch below after the manner of sailors, were sitting together in a group at the corner of the forecastle farthest removed from the sick man, looking scared and talking to each other in subdued voices. carew stood by hallé's bunk and looked at him. a change for the worse had recently come on. his face wore an expression of intense anxiety. his skin was wrinkled and of a dark yellow colour. the captain made a sign to carew, and they went on deck again. "i have never seen yellow fever," said the latter; "ask my mate, baptiste fortier, what he thinks about it; he has had the fever himself." thus did this strange man trifle with his conscience as usual, and attempt to shift the responsibility for the next step in the tragedy on to his companion. baptiste was found, and was sent into the forecastle. it would be quite useless to lie about the facts now, so, returning to where carew and mourez were standing, he said, "it is yellow fever. i am sure of it." on hearing this the captain began to pace up and down the deck in a state of great agitation, wringing his hands. "good heavens! this is a terrible affair," he cried. "for thirty hours hallé has been spreading contagion in the forecastle. who knows where this will end?" then captain mourez stood still, and after pondering a little while addressed carew. "i must at once convert some portion of the vessel into a hospital. the forecastle is no longer a fit place for the healthy men, so we will give it up to the sick. sir, we must pray for a fresh breeze to carry us quickly into northern latitudes, where the cold will kill the plague that has come to us." at that moment the boatswain came on to the quarter-deck, and mourez ordered him to call up the watch below. the men reached the deck with unusual promptitude. they were summoned aft, and the captain in a few words explained to them how matters stood, and exhorted them to be courageous as french sailors should be. he ordered them to rig up a large awning forward, under which the crew were to live so long as the vessel was in warm latitudes. he also instructed the boatswain to ventilate the forecastle as thoroughly as was possible by means of wind-sails, so that a cool temperature might be obtained for the sick men. on the following day two other men fell ill, and were admitted into the hospital. in the afternoon hallé died, and his body was immediately lowered into the sea. before sunset the loom of land was visible over the ship's bows. it was the desert island of trinidad, situated near latitude deg. south, about six hundred miles from the coast of brazil. and now a most unfortunate calamity befell the pestilence-stricken vessel. the wind completely died away, and she lay motionless on a sea of oily smoothness for three whole days. the vertical sun blazed down upon her out of the cloudless sky, and the intense sultriness of the atmosphere lowered the energies of those who were still in good health, and predisposed them to contagion, while it hurried on the fatal termination of the fever for the sick. a gloom fell on the ship's company. the men looked into each other's faces with helpless terror, for what could be done against this invisible foe? one after another sickened, died, and was lowered over the side in shotted shroud. baptiste and the two spaniards, though they considered themselves acclimatised to the tropics, and almost proof against contagion, shared the prevailing sense of terror. on the second day of the calm, the captain, who had doctored all the sick men to the best of his ability, was himself attacked by the fever. carew, who had some little knowledge of medicine, volunteered to take his place, and as the mate gratefully complied with his request, employed all his time in attending upon the patients in the forecastle and the captain in his cabin. on the third day of the calm the contagion seemed to have spent itself. no fresh cases were reported, and those who were lying sick became no worse. up to this date eight men out of the seventeen that composed the ship's company had died. among these were the boatswain and the ship's cook. it was necessary to appoint some other man to take charge of the port watch; so the mate, after consulting with carew, gave this post to baptiste, as being the best educated man on board. the provençal asked that the two spaniards should be put upon his watch. el chico, acting under baptiste's orders, offered to undertake the duties of ship's cook. on this morning, being the fifth since the _petrel's_ crew had been received on board, the mate came up to baptiste and made some remarks to him which set the wily ruffian thinking. duval had asked him whether he did not think the fever showed signs of abating. "it is impossible to say yet," replied baptiste. "yellow fever always comes in waves; it subsides and intensifies alternately." "you see, comrade," said duval, "that even if we include you four, we are now very short handed. if we lose a few more men, we cannot sail this barque to europe. i have decided to run back to rio as soon as a breeze springs up." when the mate left him, baptiste went in search of carew, and found him in the captain's cabin, watching the sick man, who was now lying insensible in the last stage of the fever. baptiste looked into the pain-distorted face. "he will go soon," he whispered to carew. carew nodded. "that was a clever idea of yours, sir," said the frenchman. "what idea?" "to constitute yourself ship's doctor." carew made no reply, but he understood what the remark signified. baptiste, however, had misjudged him. with his usual inconsistency in crime, far from availing himself of his opportunities to poison the men, he had, on the contrary, risked his life and done his utmost to save the captain and the others under his charge. he was happier and was pleased with himself while acting thus, though he was also glad to find that his patients died despite his efforts. he seemed to imagine that he was driving a bargain with avenging heaven--that he could set off his present righteous conduct against his other crimes. men who reason with the greatest clearness on all other matters, often become insanely illogical when a guilty conscience asks for soothing casuistry. "how are you treating him?" asked baptiste. "not in the way you are thinking of," carew replied, looking into the other's eyes. baptiste saw that he had been mistaken in his surmise, but said no more on the subject. carew's box of medicines was by his side. baptiste looked into it, and drew out a bottle. "this is not poison, is it?" he asked. "no; but if you took a good dose of it it would make you feel very ill." "what is a good dose of it?" "about ten drops; it is in a concentrated form." "that will answer my purpose, then," and baptiste put the bottle in his pocket. "and now, sir, i want some stuff that will prevent insomnia." the eyes of the two men met. carew asked no questions, but merely said, "take this bottle, then. half a teaspoonful is a large dose." "let us go into your cabin for a few minutes," said baptiste, glancing at mourez. "this man seems quite unconscious; but a man may hear as long as he has breath in him. i will not trust him." they crossed the saloon to carew's cabin. "well, what is it?" "the fever and the hot calm have done our work well while we have been standing by idle," said the frenchman; "but now the time has come for us to act. we must seize this vessel to-night. there is a look of wind in the sky now, and duval will set sail and make for rio as soon as a breeze springs up. we must wait no longer." "let it be to-night, then." "come on deck at ten o'clock this evening. bring the revolvers with you. leave all the rest to me. you dislike details, so i will arrange everything." carew bowed his head in assent, but said nothing. "you have two sick men in the forecastle, i think," said baptiste; "are they strong enough to make any resistance?" carew shook his head. "that is well. the captain will certainly not have much fight in him. so that leaves us only six healthy men to deal with; one on my watch, five on the other watch." the mate now went on deck, and carew returned to the captain's cabin. he found that brave sailor lying on his bed dead. "i am glad--for his sake and for mine," muttered the englishman to himself. chapter xiv it is no pleasant task to describe the events that now took place on the french barque. this is no tale of daring buccaneers, of exciting hand-to-hand combats of desperate men; but a narrative of cold-blooded and dastardly crime. now that the time for carrying out his devilish scheme had come, baptiste had taken the lead of the conspirators. being a pacific person who hated fighting and feared danger, he determined to omit no possible precaution to obviate the risk of failure. his brain, fertile of ingenious villainy, was not long in devising how to do this. in the first place, he instructed carew on no account to leave his cabin between eight and ten that evening. then he called aside the two spaniards and explained his plan to them. he gave el chico the first bottle which he had taken from carew's medicine chest, and directed him to mix a certain quantity of the contents with the soup he was about to make for the men's dinner--a quantity which he calculated would be insufficient to produce a pronounced taste in the soup, but sufficient to cause unpleasant sensations in those who partook of it. at eight bells that evening the port watch relieved the starboard. there was absolutely nothing for the men to do, as it was still a flat calm, and all the sails had been furled. duval had taken this precaution on the previous day, fearing that the fever might spread still further, and that he would not have enough hands left to shorten sail were a strong breeze to spring up suddenly. duval, however, insisted upon the watches being set and the discipline of the vessel being carried on as usual, more with the object of employing the men's time and distracting their attention from the horrors of the situation than for any other reason. when baptiste came aft to relieve duval, as officer of the watch, the latter said, "do you know if mr. allen is in his cabin, fortier? i wish to see him." "i think it would be better not to disturb him. he is quite worn out from want of sleep. he has sat up with poor mourez two nights in succession; and now that the captain is dead, and the other two sick men are getting better, he is having a long sleep." "are the other men getting better?" "so mr. allen thinks," replied baptiste. "with our brave captain's death the fever seems to have expended itself. we have no fresh cases to-day." "i am not sure of that," said duval gloomily. "i wished to see mr. allen in order to tell him that i, and no less than three of the other men, have been feeling very unwell for the last half-hour." the drugged soup had done its work. "indeed!" said baptiste. "and, now that i look at you, your cheeks are somewhat pale, sir. but we will not wake mr. allen; it is unnecessary. he left a bottle of medicine with me this afternoon. it is a powerful febrifuge, and he instructed me to give a dose to the sick men below, and to any others who should feel in any way indisposed. i think it would be a prudent course to serve some round to all hands. it can do no harm." duval approving of this measure, baptiste went into his cabin and brought out the bottle of opiate which carew had given him, and served out a very strong dose to duval, and to each of the four men on his watch. duval then retired to his cabin, and the men lay under the awning forward, all to sink, under the influence of the drug, into a heavy slumber, from which it would not be easy to wake them; while baptiste was left in charge of the deck, with the two spaniards and the remaining frenchman. "you feel all right, léon, i hope?" said baptiste to this man, a sturdy breton, who had not been affected by the drugged soup. "yes, thank you, sir," he replied; "there's nothing the matter with me." "won't you take a dose of the medicine as a precaution? prevention is better than cure." "not for me the filth. time enough for medicine when one is ill, and not much good it does then if we may judge from the results on this unhappy vessel." it was necessary for baptiste's purpose to get this man out of the way before anything could be done. first he thought of asking the spaniards to despatch him with their knives; but this might create a disturbance and awake the sleepers; so the cautious provençal waited until a safer plan should suggest itself. an hour of the watch had passed, and it was now nine o'clock. the sky became overcast, and a drizzling rain began to fall. "we shall have wind soon," said léon. "would it not be well to wake mr. duval?" "not for a few minutes," replied baptiste. "come, now; this damp is the very thing to bring on fever. we ought to take something to keep the enemy out. if you don't like medicine, what say you to a drop of genuine old cognac? i have some in my cabin." "that is more in my line," said the breton, smacking his lips; "a fig for your doctor's stuff, i say." "then follow me, but step quietly. mr. duval's cabin is next to mine. if he finds you drinking brandy aft, though it is only for medicinal purposes, you can guess what a row there will be." baptiste led the way to his cabin, and produced a bottle of brandy. he helped the man freely, but he did not attempt to drug the drink with the opiate, for its taste was too unmistakable. the brandy was strong, and even the breton's hard head soon succumbed to it. he began to exhibit signs of intoxication, and was chattering in a disconnected fashion, when baptiste suddenly rose from his seat and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "hush!" he whispered; "hush, you idiot! i hear mr. duval moving in his cabin; your noise has roused him. he will catch you if you don't hold your tongue. remain here while i get him out of the way, under some pretext or other. then i will return for you." baptiste darted through the cabin door, and locked it on the man within, who, after awaiting him for some time, helped himself to some more brandy, and at last fell into a drunken sleep on the bed. baptiste then entered carew's cabin, and found him sitting up, reading the french novel which captain mourez had lent him. "come along, sir; the time has arrived," said the provençal. "bring the revolvers with you, and first see that they are loaded. i don't suppose we shall have to use them, but _quien sabe?_ as the spaniards say." carew made no reply, but taking the pistols from the locker in which he kept them, he followed his accomplice on to the deck. as they walked towards the fore part of the vessel baptiste described his preparations for the _coup_. "the crew are at our mercy," he said; "duval in his cabin, and the four men of his watch under the awning forward, are sleeping the heavy sleep of opium. léon is a prisoner in my cabin, drunk or nearly so, in the company of an open bottle of brandy, and you say that the two sick men in the forecastle are too weak to move. now, first of all, we must deal with the four men under the awning, for they are the most dangerous." still carew said not a word. the two spaniards now joined them. baptiste looked round the horizon. "we shall have the wind down on us soon," he said; "we must do our work quickly." the rain was falling more heavily than before. the night was very dark, and there was not a star visible in the heavens. though as yet there was not a breath of wind, the ocean, as if in anticipation of its coming, was heaving in a long, high swell, and the vessel rolled uneasily, her spars groaning dismally aloft. baptiste took two of the revolvers from carew's hands and handed one to each of the spaniards. "don't use them, lads, unless it is absolutely necessary; we don't want noise. you have your knives," he whispered. "i have brought the bits of line you asked for," said el chico, producing several lengths of small-sized but very strong rope. "what do you intend to do, baptiste?" inquired carew, in a hoarse voice, speaking for the first time. "pinion those sleepers securely with these cords, fasten a weight to each man's leg, and heave them overboard," replied baptiste. "it would be easier to knife them as they lie there," muttered el toro, whose bloodthirsty instinct was up. "yes," sneered baptiste; "you love the sight of blood, you mad bull. you would like to have a brutal fight now. but that plan will not suit me. i am a man of peace; i hate unnecessary disturbance. now to work." then carew spoke firmly, once more asserting his right to command. "secure those men with the cords, but do not kill them. let them live till to-morrow. then i will decide what shall be done with them." "what absurd folly is this?" hissed the provençal savagely. "do you wish to endanger all our lives? they may free themselves in the night and retake the ship. no, they must die." "silence! you shall know that i am still your master. these men shall not die to-night," said carew resolutely. "this is too much," cried baptiste, with impatient fury. "i have arranged everything so well, and now you interfere to spoil all. curse that intermittent conscience of yours. it is like a geyser spouting out tepid water at intervals, and always at the most inopportune moment." "i will not discuss this with you," replied carew doggedly; "but you know me, you coward. if you kill one of these men without my orders, except in self-defence, you will have to deal with me--you understand?" the provençal did understand. he swore some horrible oaths to himself, and said-- "there is no time to argue now. we will humour your fancy. come on, el toro and el chico. let us tie those fellows up as quickly and as quietly as we can." the three men crept noiselessly to the awning beneath which the french sailors lay breathing stertorously under the stupefying influence of the strong narcotic. carew, meanwhile, stood outside under the rainy sky, motionless, taking no part in the proceedings, and at that moment wishing that the fever had seized him also and that he were dead and quit of it all. baptiste and the spaniards stooped over the sleeping men, and with the skill of sailors bound their limbs in such a manner that it was impossible for them to stir, far less to free themselves. in so complete a state of coma were they that the tension of the tightly drawn cords did not rouse them, though they murmured in their sleep. carew almost hoped that they would awake. if they defended themselves and were killed in the heat of a mortal struggle, it would not have seemed so horrible to him as this silent, passionless piece of villainy. when the men were all secured, baptiste said, "if you will stand by here and guard the prisoners, captain, we will go aft and see to the others." so leaving carew behind, baptiste and the two spaniards went to the other end of the vessel and entered the saloon. first they softly opened the door of baptiste's cabin, and there they found the breton sailor sleeping soundly, the half-empty brandy bottle by his side. the two spaniards held him while baptiste bound him firmly. it was not till the operation was concluded that he awoke. he opened his eyes and looked about him in a bewildered way for a few moments; then he tried to raise himself and could not; and, perceiving the cords that restrained him, he suddenly realised the situation, and called out at the top of his voice, "to the rescue! a mutiny! a mutiny!" "quick! away! leave him!" cried baptiste rapidly. "to duval's cabin, and secure him before this fellow's row wakes him. quick! quick!" they ran across the saloon and burst into the mate's cabin, the two spaniards leading the way; for baptiste, like a prudent general, gave his orders from the rear. there was a lamp burning in the cabin. duval, roused by the din, was sitting up in his bed, half awake, still confused by the heavy dose of opium that had been administered to him. just as the men violently swung the door open, léon again raised the shout of "a mutiny! a mutiny! mr. duval, defend yourself!" the norman heard that terrible cry, and all his senses returned to him in a moment. "grapple with him at once," cried baptiste. the two spaniards precipitated themselves upon him; but though not a big man, he was a strong and wiry one. leaping from his bunk he thrust the men aside, and seizing the only weapon within his reach, an iron water-can, he swung it round and brought it down on baptiste's skull. "oh, you treacherous wretch, take that!" he cried. the provençal's evil career would have been terminated there and then had it not been for el toro, who seized duval's arm and broke the force of the blow. as it was, the sharp edge of the can inflicted an ugly wound, and baptiste staggered back, the blood pouring all over his face. "kill him!" he hissed, sick and faint with pain and fear, but mad with rage. el toro needed no second bidding. he thrust his long knife quickly between the unfortunate man's ribs. duval uttered one groan, and fell to the ground dead. "that was deftly done," said the basque, wiping the blade. "ho! my little baptiste. how dost thou feel with that cracked pate of thine?" the provençal was sitting on a chest, his head in his hands, trembling with fear. "look at my head, good el toro, i beseech you," he cried. "see if it is a dangerous wound." "a mere scratch," replied the basque, after a cursory examination. "what a timorous woman thou art!" his comrades washed the wound and bandaged his head; then baptiste recovered his presence of mind, and gave his orders. "put the body over the side at once, but first fasten a weight on to it. it must not float about to tell tales to some passing vessel." when this had been done, he said, "now carry that noisy léon out of my cabin. take him forward to where the other prisoners are." the spaniards raised the helpless breton, who, understanding that there was no one to whom he could give the alarm by crying out, now resigned himself to his fate, and uttered not a word as they laid him by the side of his four comrades. "the vessel is ours!" baptiste called out in a loud voice when he approached carew. there was no further reason for the avoidance of noise. "i salute you, captain of _la bonne esperance_!" "but where is duval?" asked carew. "killed, captain; but in self-defence. look at my unfortunate head: that was his doing. had it not been for our brave el toro you would have lost your trusty mate." carew looked down at the five men lying on the deck. they were all awake now, the pain caused by the tightness of their ligatures having at last dispelled the lethargy of the drug. they realised all that had happened; they knew that they were doomed to die at the hands of this treacherous band. a lantern swung from the awning-pole above them, and by its dim light carew saw that their faces wore an expression of dogged resolution, which changed suddenly to one of loathing and contempt when their eyes met his. thus they stared at him in silence. he hastily turned his face away. "what next, captain? it must be done sooner or later. why not at once?" said baptiste. "take them into the forecastle for to-night. secure the two sick men as well," was the reply. "just heaven, what a cruel thing a british conscience is!" exclaimed baptiste, with a loud, scornful laugh. he was intoxicated with the successful issue of his scheme. "i, the man without scruples, would have mercifully killed these men outright. you, the man of conscience, shrink from doing so, but are willing to shut them up in the pestilential hole yonder, so that an agonising fever may kill them for you. do you really flatter yourself, oh, self-deceiver, that you in this way absolve your soul from the guilt?" "silence!" cried carew angrily. the man's words had hit the mark. some such vain idea had indeed crossed the warped mind. arguments of a like sophistical nature were always now vaguely occurring to him, and he took care not to reason them out, being conscious of the fallacy of them, yet cherishing them. a form of moral insanity this, and not an uncommon one. el chico, who was standing by, heard carew's last words. "do you want us to die of the fever too, captain?" he grumbled. "who's going to stand sentry over the prisoners in that poisonous forecastle?" carew saw the force of this objection. "then put them in a row along the bulwark and lash each one to a ring-bolt," he said. "that is a better plan," remarked baptiste; "we can thus keep our eyes on them without leaving the deck. el chico, you keep watch for two hours, while the rest of us sleep. we require rest after our exciting day's work; and as for me, that cut over the head makes me feel rather queer." "see, here comes the wind," cried carew. the clouds towards the east had opened out, revealing a patch of starry sky, and a light breeze had sprung up. "there won't be much of it," said baptiste, after he had scanned the heavens. "let us shake out the spanker and lie-to under that for the night. and to-morrow morning, captain, you must decide how you are going to rid us of these men. we are too few to work the vessel, and cannot be bothered with guarding prisoners to please you." chapter xv her capture having been effected, the barque lay hove-to under her spanker for the night. the south-east wind died away about midnight, and a light south-westerly breeze sprang up. a strong ocean current must have been setting from the same direction; for, though the islet of trinidad had been so far distant at sunset as to be barely visible, the sound of breakers roaring on a beach could be plainly distinguished towards the end of the middle watch. at daybreak carew was left alone in charge of the vessel, his three men being asleep under the awning. he paced the deck restlessly, his heart aching with despairing misery. the five prisoners, who were lashed along the foot of the port bulwarks, as if by one consent, observed a complete silence. they were too far apart to hold any communication with each other, and they knew how useless it would be to appeal to the mercy of the villains who had surprised them; but they all remained awake, watching intently for what they felt was not at all likely to occur--an opportunity to regain their freedom and fight for their lives. the rain had ceased, the clouds had cleared away, and out of the calm night gleamed the brilliant constellations of the southern hemisphere. there was a transparency, a depth in the heavens, such as is not apparent in northern latitudes. through the nearer archipelagos of stars one could perceive others farther back, and beyond these others; stars behind stars up inconceivable distances into the depths of space; so that they were so crowded together as to almost unite in forming one continuous sheet of silver light, save in one spot, where, amid that most luminous portion of the firmament known as magellan's cloud, there opened out, like to a black pit, a starless void, an infinite abyss of nothingness. there came a faint emerald light in the east, which quickly changed to the pale blue of the turquoise, and the stars faded away before the rapid dawn of the tropics. then carew saw, about ten miles off, standing out darkly between him and the sunrise, in sharp outline against the clear sky, the desert island of trinidad. it seemed to consist of a confused mass of barren mountains, most fantastic in their shape, falling everywhere precipitously into the ocean, and terminating in huge pinnacles of rock, the loftiest of which were crowned with wreaths of vapour. elsewhere there were no clouds visible in the heavens. as the sun rose higher, its rays illumined these rugged summits, and they glowed as with the dull red of molten iron; for this island is a burnt-out volcano, and a considerable portion of it has been calcined into brittle cinders of a ruddy colour. it being now broad daylight, baptiste woke up, and coming from under the awning gave himself a shake by way of making his toilet, glanced down the row of prisoners to satisfy himself that they were still safely secured, and then turned his face towards the dreary coast. "hallo!" he cried, "we have drifted a long way in the night. that is an ugly-looking place yonder, captain. we must not get too near those black rocks; so we had better wake up those sleepers, and get some canvas on the barque at once. i suppose the next thing to be done is to make sail for the nearest brazilian port." "no, baptiste, not yet," said carew; "i shall come to an anchor under that island, and wait there for a few days." "indeed! what for?" "i have various reasons. to begin with, look at the sky. there is every appearance of another long calm setting in. remember that we have yellow fever on board. if we land our prisoners to-day, we shall lessen our own risks of catching it." baptiste whistled softly to himself. carew stood before him, and looking steadily into his face, said, "baptiste, i have determined that no more blood shall be shed on this vessel. i intend to put these frenchmen ashore; then we will sail for brazil." "captain, we do not mind humouring your whims to a certain extent, but we are not going to put our necks in the noose to please you." "it is quite useless for you to attempt to dissuade me from my purpose. i have made up my mind," said carew doggedly. baptiste at once abandoned his threatening tone, and spoke in a respectful manner. "you have been very lucky so far; but don't be rash. remember that luck assists him who assists himself. consider how recklessly imprudent it would be to leave these men on the island. they would soon signal to a passing vessel, and be taken off; and pray, what then would our poor heads be worth?" "vessels constantly sight trinidad," replied carew, "but they never pass very near it. for the other side of the island is fringed with dangerous rocks far out to sea, as the chart will show you; and, since the prevailing wind hereabouts is south-east, a ship would give this side also a wide berth, for fear of being becalmed under the lee of the mountains. how could the men signal to a vessel miles out at sea?" "necessity finds a how. what is to prevent them from lighting a large fire?" "we will not leave them the means of lighting a fire." "they would soon discover the means. suppose, for instance, they picked up some empty bottle that had been washed on shore, they could use the bottom of it as a burning-glass. i have heard of such a thing being done." "i will not argue the question with you. those men shall be landed on that island; they shall not die on board this vessel." "even if i agreed to run so great a risk, i know that the other two would not. you do not want a civil war on board, do you, captain?" "i do not fear one. you cannot do without me, and you all know it. if you murdered me and took this vessel into port, do you imagine that the salvage would be handed over to you without demur, as it would be to me if i applied for it? grave suspicions would be raised, and there would be a minute investigation. those two idiots would contradict each other in their evidence. it would all end in one of you turning queen's evidence and the other two being hanged. is not that right?" "i cannot deny that there is reason in your remarks," said baptiste coolly. "now am i to understand that you wish these men to live?" "i repeat that they shall not die on board this vessel!" baptiste's keen eyes scanned carew's careworn face; then the provençal smiled, for he fancied that he now understood the working of the englishman's mind. "this clever idiot must be humoured," he said to himself. "this is a new 'fixed idea' of his. he shrinks from bloodshed; he will not sanction it. but if we take these men on shore for him, knock them on the head there without consulting him, and then return to him with some fine excuse about their having resisted us and so compelled us to kill them in self-defence--why, he will pretend to believe us; he will ask no questions, and be glad that the danger has been removed. i understand this strange man now." not exactly these ideas, but others somewhat similar to them, had indeed crossed carew's mind. he was quite aware that it would be the height of folly to leave the prisoners alive on the island, but he wished to postpone as long as possible the murder which he felt was inevitable, hoping that yellow fever or some other interposition of providence would solve the difficulty for him in the meanwhile. baptiste now roused the two spaniards, and sail was made as quickly as possible, so that an anchorage might be reached before the wind dropped, for there were sure signs of calm in the sky. being so few in number, they dared not put much sail on the vessel. as carew was unacquainted with the management of square-rigged craft, baptiste gave the orders. first the foretopmast staysail was set and the sheets hauled aft so as to pay off before the wind. then the two spaniards were sent aloft to loose the fore upper and lower topsails, while carew and baptiste squared the yards. after this the maintopsail was also set. "that will be enough canvas for her," said baptiste. "now, sir, if you'll take the wheel, we will get her all ready for coming to an anchor." so going forward the mate saw that an anchor was got over the bows and that a sufficient length of cable was ranged in front of the windlass. the vessel sailed slowly towards the island until midday, when the expected calm fell upon the sea. however, as the current was setting straight on shore, the barque drifted on till four o'clock in the afternoon, when she was about half a mile from the breakers, and the anchor was let go in twenty fathoms of water. the scene that lay before them as they approached was appalling in its grandeur. they could perceive no vegetation of any description on the lofty mountains, which rose almost perpendicularly from the sea-foam into a bank of dark clouds that had now gathered on the summit of the island. the fire-consumed crags were often of strange metallic colours,--red and green and coppery yellow,--which gave the scenery an unearthly appearance, but most of the island was of a dismal coal-black. some of the mountains seemed to have been shaken to pieces by the fires and earthquakes of volcanic action; for they sloped to the sea in huge landslips of black stones. gigantic basaltic columns many hundreds of feet in height descended into the waves along a considerable portion of this savage coast, a formidable wall that defied the mariner to land. in a few places only a narrow margin of shore divided the sea from the inaccessible cliffs, and this was encumbered with sharp coral and great boulders that had fallen from above. the barque was anchored off the entrance of a profound and most gloomy ravine, from which a stream of water fell as a cascade into the sea. the head of this ravine, high above, was lost in dense clouds. it looked like the road to some mysterious and unknown world. not only were the sights of this coast such as to terrify the imagination, but so likewise were the sounds. though this was the lee side of the island, and was protected from the high swell which, raised by the south-east trade wind, breaks so furiously on the back of trinidad, yet the sea rolled in very heavily with a stupendous roar that was echoed with dismal, hollow reverberations among the rocky ravines. after the breaking of a higher wave than usual, great masses of water would be dashed up the sides of a cliff to a great height. deep fiords opened out in places; but even these afforded no shelter. within them the sea raged as furiously as it did outside. this remote and rarely visited island was evidently a favourite breeding-place for several varieties of sea-birds. vast numbers flew through the rigging of the vessel, uttering savage cries. so unaccustomed were they to the sight of man that they showed no timidity, but rather indignation, at his invasion, and a disposition to drive him off again. many of them wheeled round the heads of the sailors with angry shrieks, approaching so near that they could easily have been caught with the hand. "i don't at all like the look of the island of trinidad," said baptiste. "it is the most inhospitable place i have ever seen. i am not surprised that no one cares to live here. how large is it?" "it is about fifteen miles round," carew replied. "the portuguese tried centuries ago to establish a settlement here, but they soon abandoned it. it is very barren, and so dangerous a surge breaks continually round every part of it that it is often impossible to effect a landing for weeks at a time." "it seems to me that it will be impossible to land to-day," said baptiste. carew went up into the maintop with a telescope, and after having closely examined the features of the shore, descended on deck again. "i thought i was right, baptiste. we are anchored off what the pilot-book calls the cascade, and i can see the landing-place described by former visitors to the island." "i can see nothing but a mass of foam. i can see nothing like a landing-place." "it is not visible from the deck. to the left of the cascade over there a long black rock stretches far out to sea beyond the breakers, forming a sort of natural pier. that is the easiest landing-place in the whole island. we will lower a boat at once, and put the prisoners on shore." baptiste again looked keenly into carew's face as he put the question. "do you wish us to release them when we have landed them, and allow them to run wild over those picturesque crags like a lot of goats--or what do you wish?" "let them have food before you take them off; and leave them, bound as they are now, on the beach for this night. to-morrow i will decide what is to be done with them." "it is always to-morrow with you, captain; but it matters not. we are becalmed, and are, therefore, not wasting time by this ridiculous trifling. it is a pity that there are no wild beasts on these desert islands who would kindly eat up these men for us in the night. they are becoming a nuisance." the spaniards grumbled a good deal when they heard that they were to take the prisoners alive on shore; but they did not dare to disobey carew. the two sick men, who were now recovering from the fever, were brought on deck, and they, together with the other prisoners, were lowered into one of the boats. all were still so securely bound that they could not move a limb. carew stayed on board the barque while his three men pulled off to the island. they reached the projecting rock, and found that its sides were perpendicular, so that the boat could be brought alongside. the prisoners were not landed without considerable difficulty, and even danger, for they had to be dragged quickly on shore at the moment when the boat rising to a wave had her gunwale on a level with the summit of this natural jetty, before she dropped down again into the trough between the seas. at last the disembarkation was safely effected, and the painter having been made fast to a large stone, the boat was left to tumble about against the rough side of the jetty, in imminent danger of staving herself in, while the prisoners were carried one by one up the rugged shore. then they laid the helpless men down. even the brutal spaniards, when they looked around them, were impressed by the weirdness of the scene. whenever the sides of the ravine or of the mountains were not too steep they were densely covered with trees, which had not been visible from the vessel's deck. now every one of these trees was dead; there was not a live one among them. they were of all sizes. some stood erect as they had grown, some lay prone on the rocks; but all had been dead for long ages. on all the skeleton branches of this forest of desolation were sitting large sea-birds of foul appearance, who raised discordant cries, as if to repel the intruders, and did not take to flight, but fought savagely with any of the men who came near to them. there was no live vegetation to be seen, with the exception of certain snake-like creepers, which clung to the surface of the ground, and which bore large seed-pods of vivid green--sinister and poisonous-looking plants, that seemed well suited to this forlorn region. it was a scene appalling to the imagination, and the whole of trinidad is of a like gloomy character. the same dead trees cover it throughout. it seems probable that at some remote period a terrific volcanic eruption destroyed every living thing on the island with its showers of poisonous ash; and where once rose from the tropical ocean a fair land, green with pleasant woods, is now a hideous wreck, more sterile than the desert itself. "it might be the gate of hell," said el toro in an awed voice, looking up the ravine. "now, comrades," cried baptiste, "there is no time to lose. i don't like to leave the boat long where she is. as our merciful skipper objects to bloodshed, we must lash our prisoners to these trees." "what are you going to do with us--kill us?" asked one of the captives gruffly. "no; we are going to leave you here, tied up," replied baptiste. "what! to starve to death?" "indeed i don't know," said baptiste, with a shrug of his shoulders. "this is not my doing. our captain is a cruel man. it seems that it amuses him to play with you poor fellows as a cat does with a mouse. this is his scheme, my children, not mine. i am merciful." the men were now secured to the dead trees, and the three villains were moving off to their boat when one of the frenchmen--the only one who did not meet his fate with fortitude, and who showed signs of the most abject terror--screamed out-- "oh, monsieur baptiste, let me go--let me go! i will join you. i will not betray you. i will help you work the ship. i will be your slave if you spare me!" his comrades reviled him for his cowardice, but he still continued his piteous entreaties. baptiste turned round and gazed with a sardonic smile into the man's white, fear-distorted face. he felt that this was very much the way he would behave himself in similar circumstances, but he did not spare his own faults in others; few men do. "so you would join us, would you? but how do i know if i can trust you, my friend? you may betray us when we get into port. will you give me a proof of your fidelity?" "i will give you any proof you wish," cried the wretched man, writhing in his bonds, but quite unable to move. "now, if i see you commit a far greater crime than any that i and my crew have committed, i shall know that you dare not tell tales. if i release you and give you a knife, will you kill all your comrades for me?" the man burst into hysterical tears. "yes!" he shrieked--"yes! anything for my life." baptiste laughed contemptuously. "miserable man! your answer is sufficient for me. we do not want such cowardly traitors among our crew. you shall stay here and die by the side of your braver comrades." baptiste and the two spaniards then hurried off to the boat, for the sun was just setting. they pulled off to the barque, and the mate reported to the captain what he had done. about an hour after their return--the night having settled down upon the ocean--carew was sitting by himself on the quarter-deck. the hollow roar of the waves upon the beach sounded louder than in the daytime, and the vessel rolled in the swell caused by the recoil of the distant rollers. all manner of strange and frightful noises came from the direction of the mysterious island. it seemed to carew that he heard groans and wails echoing among the ravines, but he put this down to his imagination--to the now greatly unstrung condition of his nerves. suddenly he started to his feet, his heart beating violently. what was that he heard? surely that last dreadful cry did not exist only in his fancy. "baptiste, come here!" he called out. the mate sauntered up. "listen!" whispered carew; "do you hear nothing?" "nothing but the noise of the breakers." once more arose that awful cry. it was as a shriek of unutterable despair and agony; faint, but easily to be distinguished when the lull came between one roller and another. "what is it?" baptiste himself turned white at the sound. "i know not; it makes one's blood run cold. see, they too have heard it." the spaniards came up. "oh, sir!" cried el toro, his voice indistinct with terror, "let us make sail at once and leave behind us this horrible place. hark! that cry again! it is as the shrieks of the doomed in hell. that island is the abode of evil spirits who are mocking us." "we cannot set sail in a flat calm. we must wait," said carew, in a low voice. they stood on the deck and listened in silence. for half an hour or more those appalling cries continued; then they died away, and nothing was heard but the roaring of the ocean upon an iron-bound coast. chapter xvi on the following day the fiery sun again blazed down upon the guilty ship out of a cloudless and windless sky. it seemed probable that one of those oppressive calms that are so frequent on this portion of the ocean would detain the barque for some days longer at her present anchorage. in the early morning, when the west side of the island was still plunged in shade, carew approached the mate, who was enjoying his matutinal cup of coffee and cigarette on the quarter-deck. "baptiste," he said, "i want a boat lowered; i am going on shore." "good, sir. how many of us do you wish to accompany you?" "thank you; i want none of you. put the yacht's dinghy over the side. she is the handiest boat on board; and i will pull off by myself." "that will not be safe," objected baptiste; "there is no place to beach a boat yonder, and she would smash up if you left her banging about alongside that rocky landing-place; we nearly lost the cutter in that way last night. if you desire to take a solitary promenade on that cheerful island, i will pull you off there myself in the dinghy, leave you, and return for you at any hour you mention." carew assented to this proposal, and prepared himself for the journey by placing his sheath-knife and loaded revolver in his belt. baptiste watched him curiously, and wondered whether this eccentric englishman had at last summoned up resolution, and was about to despatch the prisoners outright, as being a more merciful proceeding than allowing them to starve to death. baptiste ventured no remark on the subject, for he observed that his captain was in a taciturn and absent-minded mood; and there was a peculiar, far-off look in his eyes that the frenchman could not understand, not knowing that carew had been dosing himself for the last few days with laudanum from his medicine chest, in the vain hope that the drug might numb the tortures of his conscience. the dinghy was got overboard, and while carew sat in the sternsheets, baptiste took the oars and pulled leisurely across the smooth ocean swell. while they were yet half-way to the shore, the boat shot suddenly out of the fervent sunshine into the cool dark shadow cast by the lofty mountains. baptiste, feeling the rapid change, rested on his oars, and looked round towards the pile of barren hills. "ugh, what a horrid place!" he cried. "i have a sensation as if i were passing into the mouth of a tomb. i should not like to explore that island alone." "pull away!" said carew impatiently. "are you superstitious, like those two spanish brutes?" "superstition is not one of my failings, captain," replied the provençal, as he rowed on again; "but those dreadful cries we heard last night seem to be still ringing in my ears. i wonder what they could have been?" "when you have put me on shore," said carew, paying no heed to baptiste's words, "you can go back to the barque. i shall probably remain on the island three or four hours. then i will return to the landing-place, and stand on the end of it till you come off for me. so see that someone looks out for me with a telescope occasionally." "we won't keep you waiting, for i know that you will soon have had enough of trinidad. but perhaps monsieur has a scientific mind, and desires to study the botany, zoology, geology, and so forth, of the island?" carew made no reply to this. they came alongside the promontory of black coral, and found that the sea was not rolling in so heavily as on the previous day. the englishman landed without any difficulty. "good-bye, sir," baptiste called out. "you will find the prisoners behind the first big boulder up the ravine." then he pulled lazily back to the vessel. carew was now alone on the desert island with his captives. he looked to his knife and pistol to see that they were ready to his hand, and proceeded to clamber cautiously along the narrow, slippery ledge. at the farther end he found a loathsome monster standing in his way, seemingly quite indifferent to his approach; for it did not budge, but remained quite still, its ungainly form spread across the causeway, so that he had to step over it to pass by. carew had never before seen one of the species; but he recognised this as a tropical land-crab--one of a hideous race of crustacea that swarm on this island, sharing the possession of trinidad with the sea-birds and the snakes. in his present nervous state, carew was startled by the sight of this repulsive-looking creature. it must have extended two feet across from claw to claw. its colour was a bright saffron, and its grotesque features, which were turned towards the man, seemed to be fixed in a cynical grin. its cruel-looking yellow pincers, hard as steel, could have bitten through an inch board, and between them was clutched--carew sickened when he saw it--a fragment of the flesh of some animal. reaching the rugged shore, he found it covered with these land-crabs. they crawled over the rocks and the dead trees, and the air was full of a multitudinous crackling noise, produced by the small particles of stone dislodged by their motion--a sound as of a distant bonfire, or as of an army of locusts settling on a field of maize. on the evening before, when the men had landed, they had seen none of these creatures; now there were thousands of them on the mountain-side. but it is well known that land-crabs at certain periods of the year migrate in immense hosts from one district to another. even on the previous afternoon, when the coast was illumined by the full glory of the setting sun, baptiste and the two spaniards had been impressed by the desolate aspect before them. but now that a dark shadow was thrown over the chaotic masses of volcanic rock, the scenery was inexpressibly dreary and forbidding. had there been no signs of life on the land, it would have appeared less terrible than with that ghastly vegetation of dead trees and snake-like creepers, and the teeming generation of silent crabs and foul sea-birds perpetually raising their hoarse cries. carew looked round with the sense of vague terror that is experienced in a nightmare. he felt all the influence of this stern nature so hostile to the life of man. it seemed to him that at any moment some fearful cataclysm of the earth, or some unexampled calamity of any sort, might occur. it would not have appeared strange to him to behold a fire-breathing dragon or gigantic snake--such as are supposed to live in fable only--issue from that gloomy ravine. nothing could have appeared too strange to happen on this mysterious shore. the prisoners could not be seen from the landing-place, as the clump of trees to which they had been lashed was some little way up the ravine, and a huge boulder of black rock stood in front of it. carew heard no sound of voices as he approached. he considered it very unlikely that the men had succeeded in freeing themselves from their bonds; but, prepared for any emergency, he held his revolver in his hand and walked round the corner of the rock. he looked towards the clump of dead brown trees. his hand relaxed its grasp, and the revolver fell with a ringing sound on the rocks. he was struck motionless with a great horror. he stood fascinated, staring before him with wide-open eyes, unwincing. he would have given worlds to have closed his lids and shut out what he saw, but he could not. it was as if some irresistible power was holding him there, compelling him to look until every horrible detail of the scene should be burnt into his brain for ever. it was only for a few seconds, and then the spell was broken. he covered his face with his hands and staggered back. then turning from the sight, he rushed away, not caring whither, sobbing such sobs as the lost souls in hell may sob in their despair--a dreadful sobbing, that told of a hopeless agony too intense to be endured for long by weak human flesh. suddenly he stopped short, looked wildly round him, raised his hands towards the skies, and, uttering shrill shriek upon shriek, threw himself on the ground. he rolled down the steep incline for some way, cutting his hands and face with the sharp rocks, and when at last a projecting stone prevented his farther descent, he lay foaming at the mouth and writhing convulsively in an epileptic fit. * * * * * the tragic spectacle the man had suddenly come upon might indeed well have made him, the guilty cause of it, go mad with horror. the fearful cries that had been heard from the vessel were now explained. the voracious land-crabs had done his work. he had gazed upon his victims, and he felt that his limbs were paralysed; but his brain was intensely, unnaturally active. it seemed to him that a voice had said, "look, and grasp all that there is to see, and remember, before the relief of madness is allowed to thee. thou hast murdered sleep, and shalt never know peace again. for ever, in the worlds to come, the picture of this that thou hast done shall be branded on thy soul!" and he had been forced to look; not a detail of the horror was spared him. the surroundings of the scene, the weird black rocks, the gaunt dead trees, everything about the accursed spot entered into his brain. he even noticed with what callous indifference nature seemed to contemplate the hideous evidences of the crime. quite heedless, the huge crabs dragged their clumsy bodies slowly over the stones. the sea-birds fought noisily with each other for morsels of fish among the skeleton branches of the trees, careless of those ghastly relics of poor humanity beneath them. he felt how fitting a scene for such a tragedy was this doleful corner of the earth, this island that a malevolent fiend might have created, where nature had no beauty, no love, no pity, and where, like some foul witch, she could only conceive forms of life cruel and repulsive, and become a mother of monsters. * * * * * the sun was low in the heaven, and carew woke out of a profound slumber, weak, parched with thirst, his mind dazed. he raised himself on his elbow, and, looking round him, he found that he was lying on a beach of beautiful golden sand that fringed an extensive bay. from the sands there sloped up to a great height domes of loose stones of red volcanic formation, of all shapes and sizes, the débris of shattered mountains, and from the summits of these slopes there rose what the earthquakes had still left of the solid hills--dark red pinnacles: some squared like gigantic towers, others pointed like pyramids. the bay was enclosed by two huge buttresses of rock that stretched as rugged promontories far out into the ocean. there was no vegetation, not even a blade of grass, visible anywhere on this savage coast. looking seawards he saw that a vast number of black rocks, among which raged a furious surf, bordered the shore. beyond these were the outer reefs on which the sea broke heavily. and still farther out, on the horizon, rose three rocky islands of considerable size, glowing red as the sun's rays fell full upon them. carew could not imagine where he was and how he had reached this place. he tried to think. by degrees he called to mind the dreadful sight he had seen in the ravine; but he could remember nothing that had occurred since then. as the sun was to the back of the hills, he fancied that it was still early in the forenoon, and that he had wandered a short distance only from south west bay; though the presence of the distant islands and the different character of the coast perplexed him. but he could think of nothing at that moment except the satisfaction of the fearful thirst that was tormenting him. he rose to his feet, eager to reach the cascade as soon as possible. he felt that he should die if he could not procure water soon. but in which direction had he to go--to the left or to the right? he could not tell. then he saw his footprints on the soft sand, showing the way that he had come. he had but to follow them. dizzy and faint, and often stumbling, he wearily retraced his steps. the footprints led him along the shore to that extremity of the bay which would have been on the left hand of one looking seaward. reaching the promontory of rock he clambered to the summit of it; and then, to his dismay, he looked down upon another extensive bay, at the farther end of which was a mountain of square shape falling perpendicularly into the surf, and preventing all further progress in that direction. an ocean current must be perpetually setting into this bay, for he perceived that the shore was strewn with a prodigious quantity of wreckage. the spars and barrels were heaped up together in places. there were vessels lying crushed among the sharp rocks; others were sunk in the sand, their skeleton ribs alone showing; there were vessels of all sizes, and some of very antique construction--relics of disaster that had been collecting gradually on this desert coast unvisited by man through all the ages since european keels first clove the southern seas: a melancholy record of much suffering and the loss of many gallant men. then carew began to suspect the truth, and a great dread fell on him. lying down he placed a small stone on the edge of a shadow cast by a pointed rock, and watched it with a breathless suspense. yes, it was as he had feared. _the shadow was slowly lengthening!_ he laid his face on the ground and wept hysterically in his despair. the shadow was lengthening, therefore the sun was setting. it was setting inland over the mountains, and thus the sea was to the east of him. so--unconsciously, by what road he knew not--he must have traversed the whole island, and he was now on the coast the most remote from south west bay. the cascade, the water he was dying for, was miles away, beyond those great hills. he could never reach it in his present state. he was on the weather side of trinidad. those heavy breakers on the reefs were caused by the high swell of the south-east trades, and there on the horizon were the three islands of martin vas, twenty-five miles away. so he despaired and lay down on the rocks, and longed for the release of death. then he became delirious, and fancied that he was in fleet street again, and was going into a tavern with some comrades to drink a glass of wine. but once more the agony of thirst woke him to a consciousness of his position. he staggered to his feet, and ran on blindly a few yards; then he stumbled, and fell to his knees. ah! what was that gleaming so temptingly before him?--an illusion only to mock him into madness with its lying promise. he stretched his hand to it--touched it. he plunged his face into it. it was water--fresh water; a small pool left in a hollow of a rock by the last rains. it was nauseous to the taste, and heated by the tropical sun; but it was water, and infinitely more precious to him at that moment than all the gold quartz in his vessel's hold. he drank fiercely and long, before his craving was assuaged; then his senses returned to him, and, though still very weak, he felt capable of making an effort to save his life. he descended the farther side of the buttress of rock that divides the two bays, and again followed his footprints, which led him across the wreck-strewn sands to the entrance of a ravine that clove the mountains, and seemed to afford the only practicable pass across them. he looked upwards, and wondered how he could have possibly found his way with safety down that perilous place; for he supposed that he must have been in a trance-like condition when he made that journey, of which he was now so entirely oblivious. with great pain and labour he accomplished the difficult ascent. this ravine had the same character as most of those in trinidad. the bottom of it was encumbered with masses of fallen rock, among which stood the mysterious dead trees. here the foul sea-birds were very numerous. the air stank with the fish on which they fed; and as it was now the breeding season, the mothers were very fierce, and attacked carew with their wings and beaks as he advanced, so that he had to arm himself with a piece of wood, and fight his way through them. after much weary climbing, often in places where a false step would have meant death, he reached an elevated plateau covered with tree-ferns--the only vegetation on the island which was fair to the eye. crossing this plateau, he found himself on the summit of a precipitous cliff, and he looked down upon the ocean into which the sun was just setting. at his feet, far below, the barque lay at anchor. proceeding along the edge of the precipice, he came to the head of a ravine, which he knew must be the one from which the cascade falls into the sea. after clambering down a little way, he reached the source of the stream. the cool clear water rushed out with a pleasant sound from a hole in the rocks. here he lay down and drank greedily, for his throat was again parched with fever. feeling too exhausted to make any further exertion, and knowing that the darkness would soon render it impossible to continue the descent down those perilous slopes, he determined to pass the night where he was. lying on a narrow ledge of rock he fell into a profound sleep. after a while he dreamt a frightful dream. he thought that his victims had come to life again, and, having surprised him in his sleep, were holding him by his arms with a grip of iron, and were about to put him to the torture. he awoke with a start, and for a moment fancied that he saw their skeleton forms leaning over him in the starlight. but was it all a dream? what was that sensation of pain in his right arm, as if a vice were tightening upon it? he sprang to his feet, and with his arm dragged up a heavy weight that was clinging to it. shuddering with horror, he shook it violently from him, and a large land-crab fell with a crash on the stones. the wretched man looked round, and could distinguish in the dim light that the rocks were covered with the brutes. they had come out of their holes at sunset, and were about to devour him alive. he seized a large stone, and hurled it at one of them. it broke through the creature's armour and killed it. but the others paid no heed to the death of their fellow, and crawled on with a deliberate slowness. he pulled a branch off one of the dead trees, and with this he was able to thrust them away as they approached. he was obliged to keep watch and defend himself thus through all that long night. once or twice he dropped off asleep in sheer exhaustion, only to be awakened again a moment afterwards by the closing of sharp pincers on some portion of his body. it was a night the realities of which equalled in horror the worst illusions of a nightmare. several times he thought of throwing himself off the cliffs and putting an end to his misery, but still he clung to life, and fought for it, as men who value it the least always will when in the presence of a merely physical danger. at daybreak carew, his eyes bloodshot, his limbs shaking, having the appearance of one who is recovering from an attack of delirium tremens, descended the ravine as hastily as his weak condition permitted. he turned his head aside as he passed the fatal clump of trees. he reached the landing-place, and there found baptiste and el chico awaiting him with the cutter. carew stepped into the boat without saying a word. baptiste glanced at the haggard face of the captain, but made no remark on his altered appearance. he merely said, "we were anxious about you, so have been off here since daybreak waiting for you." carew looked inquiringly into the mate's face, but did not dare to utter the question that was on his lips. baptiste understood. "yes, i have seen it," he said, in a low voice. even that callous villain had been awed by the sight at the foot of the ravine. chapter xvii for two more days the barque lay becalmed off the desert island, but not one of the crew ventured on land again. the two spaniards shrunk with a superstitious terror from further contact with that accursed shore--that _costa maldita_, as they invariably spoke of it. carew's experiences on trinidad produced an ineffaceable impression on his mind. his melancholy deepened into a dull despair. he passed most of the day alone in his cabin, avoiding as much as possible even the sight of his companions. by means of ever-increasing doses of laudanum, the miserable man stupefied his brain into a lethargic condition, which was, however, frequently broken by frightful dreams when he was asleep, and by nervous seizures of acute and causeless terrors when he was awake. baptiste, observing these symptoms, began to fear for carew's reason, and tried in various ways to rouse him, but in vain. at last one morning a fresh south-east wind sprang up. carew did not even seem to notice the change, and he gave no orders to get under way. so baptiste approached him-- "the sooner we have the anchor up and are off the better, captain." carew assented in an apathetic way, and assisted the men in weighing the anchor and setting the sails; but he worked with a sullen silence, making no suggestions, leaving everything to baptiste. after paying the vessel off before the wind with the foretopmast staysail, they set the fore and main topsails, an amount of canvas which the prudent mate considered sufficient for a barque so undermanned. as soon as the last yard had been squared, and there was no more for him to do, carew again went into his cabin. a few minutes later baptiste followed him there. "sorry to disturb you, captain," he said, seeing the expression of annoyance on carew's face, and also noticing the bottle of laudanum standing on the table; "but now we are off, running merrily before the wind, away from that accursed island. if you please, what is our course--where are we bound for--and have you thought of a plausible explanation of how we picked up this derelict? rouse yourself, sir. think, act, and be a man again." carew had drunk a quantity of laudanum that morning, and he replied in a dreamy voice, as if he had lost all interest in life, and was heedless of the future-- "do what you like. i leave it all to you. i am unable to think." "sir, this is cowardly of you!" cried baptiste vehemently. "everything has gone so well with us thus far, and now you lose heart when an immense fortune is almost in our hands. remember what we have done for you, and do not risk all our lives by neglecting your duties to us." "what do i care for your lives?" replied carew with a bitter laugh, that had an insane ring in it. "what is it to me where we go, even if it be to the bottom? leave me." "good-bye, sir; i will take charge of the vessel until you come to your senses." as he spoke, baptiste contrived to slip the bottle of laudanum into his pocket unperceived by carew. the mate went on deck and threw the bottle into the sea. "that coward will go mad if he drugs himself much longer," he said to himself. "when he got on shore he would ruin us all in some silly fit of garrulous remorse. he would disburden his conscience and hang us in his present temper. he shall have no more laudanum. i must look after him and cure him before we get into port. if i cannot do so, well, then, he must die. a pity that; for he is useful, almost necessary, to us." baptiste consulted the chart, and determined to run for the port of bahia, which is about seven hundred miles to the north-west of trinidad. having quickly formed his plans, he carried them out with considerable cleverness. he collected a quantity of combustible matter, and proceeded to set fire to some of the storerooms and other portions of the vessel in such a way that he could always keep the fires under control and extinguish them at will. it was a hazardous undertaking, but he omitted no precaution; and after the vessel had been three days at sea, and was still three hundred miles from bahia, the effect he desired was satisfactorily produced. she appeared to have been ablaze almost from end to end, and so there was manifest a sufficient reason for the desertion of the crew at sea. the last spark having been extinguished, baptiste hove the vessel to while he completed his preparations. he lowered two of the boats into the sea and sank them. "and now," he asked himself, "what things are the crew likely to have taken with them in the boats? for we must preserve the verisimilitude. our story must be above suspicion; every circumstance must corroborate it." so he threw overboard a chronometer, a valuable sextant, a compass, and other articles which a captain deserting his ship would most certainly have carried away. the spaniards ridiculed this excess of caution. "thoughtless children!" baptiste explained; "it is most probable that there are people on shore who know exactly how many chronometers, compasses, and so on, were on board this vessel. these things will be counted up, and if none are missing, the minds of men will be puzzled at the strange conduct of the captain. now i do not want to puzzle people; very much otherwise, my imprudent children. for the same reason i am now going to burn the ship's papers. no captain ever leaves those behind him on a derelict." carew had watched these preparations listlessly, assisting when asked to do so, but still suggesting nothing. he never alluded to the loss of his bottle of laudanum, and very probably he knew that baptiste had taken it away. early on the sixth day of the voyage the brazilian coast was sighted, and the mate recognised the palm-clad hills that border the entrance to the reconcava of bahia--a beautiful inland sea, as extensive as that of rio de janeiro. and now baptiste, feeling how great a risk would be incurred by entering the port while the captain was in his present demented condition, dared not sail into the bay; and, after a consultation with the men, braced up the yards, and steered the vessel along the coast to the northward, with the intention of making pernambuco, which is nearly five hundred miles distant from bahia. by this a delay of about three days would be gained; and should carew not recover his senses in that time, he must be put out of the way. there was no help for it. but baptiste and the two spaniards knew well that if they went into port without the owner of the yacht, their tale would be received with suspicion. it would be necessary to account for his absence. their own histories would be closely inquired into; the well-elaborated scheme might end in failure after all. the gloom of the captain seemed to communicate itself to the crew. the usual cheeriness of sailors was altogether absent during the voyage. a vague foreboding of calamity oppressed the men; and on board that guilty ship all went about their work with dismal faces, never smiling, sullen and silent, suspicious of each other. on the second day, the vessel was slowly sailing up the coast near alagoas bay. baptiste was sitting on deck, rolling up and smoking his innumerable cigarettes as he contemplated the beautiful panorama that opened out before him--a land of forest-clad mountains and fertile valleys, down which broad rivers poured into the sea, while among the cocoa-nut groves upon the sandy beaches were the numerous bamboo villages of the negro fishermen. but baptiste, though gazing at it, was in no mood to admire beautiful scenery; he was looking forward with alarm to the perils before him. at last, after pondering over it for some while, he determined on a course of action. it was a desperate thing to do, but it would bring matters to a crisis at once. he threw away his cigarette, loaded his revolver and placed it in his breast, and then, with face pale with fear but determined in expression, he entered carew's cabin. the englishman was reading a book, or pretending to do so. baptiste took a seat in front of him, and commenced abruptly-- "do you wish to live, sir?" carew looked up. "why do you ask? if i wished to die, i could take away my life at any moment." "you will probably be saved that trouble. i will be perfectly frank with you, because i understand you. you see that we are afraid of going into port in your company. we think you are losing your senses, and we cannot allow a madman to rave our secrets in pernambuco. we wish you to live, because you might be very useful to us. but if, before we are in sight of port, you don't satisfy us that you are sane, by ridding yourself of your melancholia and taking an interest in this business, we shall be under the painful necessity of despatching you for our own protection. we will have to kill you, not in any ill-feeling, i assure you, but with real regret." baptiste had rightly imagined that this cool and almost ludicrously matter-of-fact way of broaching the subject was the best in the circumstances. carew first appeared to be lost in astonishment; then he smiled sadly, and said, "you are a strange man. you come here to tell me that i am mad, and that i must become sane in two days or die--is that it?" "i don't think that you are exactly mad, but"-- "i know what you mean," interrupted carew, "and you are right. i have been ill for several days; but i am not mad, as you will soon discover. i will allow that i might soon have become so had you not stolen my laudanum." from that moment carew changed his mode of life, and became much as he had been before his visit to the desert island. though melancholy in his manner and miserable in his mind, he shook off his lethargy, bestirred himself, took an interest once more in the working of the ship, and exhibited all his old ingenuity in improving upon baptiste's preparations for deceiving the authorities as to the fate of the barque. "talented and unfathomable being," exclaimed the frenchman admiringly, "what could we do without you?" * * * * * the voyage was over, and the _la bonne esperance_ was lying under the recife, that marvellous natural breakwater built by myriads of diminutive coral insects, which, running in a parallel line to the shore, forms the harbour of pernambuco. in front of her stretched the long and crowded quay, with its pleasant boulevard and lofty white houses. the barque had been an object of great interest to the people of pernambuco ever since the tug had towed her in from outside. the romantic story of the little english yacht that had foundered at sea, and of her shipwrecked crew, who had been so fortunate as to come across such a valuable prize, was on everybody's lips. the english residents had been profuse in their offers of hospitality to carew, but under the pretext of ill-health he refused all these; and as soon as he had handed over the barque to the proper authorities he hired a room in a french hotel on the quay, and lived there as quietly as possible with baptiste, while the spaniards were lodged in a neighbouring tavern. the torments of his accusing conscience having now subsided, life once more appeared of value to this mutable-minded man, and his anxiety and dread of discovery returned. it caused him great uneasiness to learn how long a time must elapse before the settlement of the salvage would be completed. he found that he might have to wait many months in pernambuco before receiving his share of the vessel's value. the barque had been in the recife for about three weeks when one morning a coasting steamer from rio entered the harbour. among her passengers was an englishman. when he stepped on shore he disregarded the importunate crowd of hotel touts, and handing his portmanteau to a black porter, said merely, "english consulate!" the negro understood, and led the way. the englishman found the consul in his office, asked if he could speak to him alone on urgent business, and was shown into a private room. he placed a letter in the consul's hands. "this," he said, "is from the british consul at rio. it will serve to introduce me." it was a somewhat lengthy letter, and as he read it an expression of extreme surprise came to the consul's face. "this is a most extraordinary story!" he exclaimed. "tell me what more you know of this man." the interview was a long one. at its termination the consul said:--"of course i can do nothing until an extradition warrant arrives from england. in the meanwhile, we must not rouse his suspicions. let him still consider himself safe. he applied to me for an advance of money yesterday; i will let him have it if he does not ask for too much. but he must not see you. i recommend you to go to caxanga--a pretty watering-place about half an hour from here by train. i will give you the name of a good hotel there. do not come into town unless i send for you. keep out of his way. i should like you to be here to-morrow morning at ten; for, shortly after that hour, his crew are going to make some depositions. i will conceal you in the next room in such a way that you can see them; for it will be well for you to know these men by sight. of course you will pass under an assumed name while you are here." "i will call myself john rudge," said the stranger. in spite of these precautions, the ever-watchful baptiste soon came to suspect that there was mischief brewing. one day that he accompanied carew to the consulate he at once observed that the consul's manner had undergone a change. there was a reserve and a lack of his usual heartiness in his greeting of carew. it was but a slight and involuntary change, and it escaped carew's notice. a few days after this, baptiste was sent to the consulate with a letter. as he came to the door john rudge was going out. the stranger seemed startled at finding himself thus suddenly face to face with the frenchman, and walked hastily away. "a trifling circumstance," said baptiste to himself; "but the lightest trifles show best the direction of the wind. why did that man start at seeing me? who is he?" a week passed, and baptiste saw no more of the stranger; but at last he came full upon him in front of the post-office. again rudge seemed as if he wished to avoid being seen by the frenchman, and turned his head aside as he passed. but baptiste was quick in resource. "stay a moment, if you please, sir," he called out in french; "i wish to speak to you." the englishman stood still. "pardon me for detaining you," continued baptiste, "but you understand french?" "i do." "ah, sir, what chance! i know not a word of this horrid portuguese tongue, and i wish to inquire at the post-office if there is a letter for me. would you oblige me by interpreting for me?" "i don't know portuguese myself; but the clerk in the post-office understands french." "thank you, sir. i am a stranger here, you see. i am one of the crew of _la bonne esperance_, the derelict. no doubt you have heard our story?" "oh yes, i know all about it. you were very fortunate. but excuse me, my friend; i am in great haste," and he hurried off. baptiste returned to the hotel and found carew. "captain," he asked, "have you committed some peccadillo in england on account of which they are likely to be hunting after you here?" "it is almost impossible that any enemies i may have can have traced me here." "all dead, i suppose," remarked baptiste coolly. then he proceeded to explain the reasons that had prompted his questions. "you are full of foolish fears, baptiste. i see nothing in all this." "ah, sir, i have lived for so many years in the midst of alarms that i perceive the first indications of danger. when i told this englishman that i was one of your crew, he exhibited no interest. he did not question me about our adventures, and make much of me, and take me into a café to give me drinks, as all the other englishmen in pernambuco do when they meet one of us heroes of the hour." "i do not see anything very alarming in his neglect to make a fuss over you." "i do, because i understand human nature. i see dangers ahead, and i intend to secure my retreat in case of disaster. i shall arrange how to slip away if necessary. i advise you to do the same, captain." "i have done so, baptiste." chapter xviii carew had been nearly six weeks in pernambuco, when a british mail steamer happened to land an english passenger, who at once called on the consul, and introduced himself to that functionary as mr. norton. he had that to say which considerably astonished the consul, and the result was that on the following morning a letter was brought to carew as he was sitting down to his breakfast at the hotel with baptiste. it was from the consul's clerk, and ran thus:--"_sir, will you kindly call here to-day? your business is practically settled._" "practically settled?" repeated baptiste, when he heard the contents. "those words have an unpleasant ring somehow. i know not why, but i cannot help fearing that something is wrong." "i too have my presentiments," said carew, "but i am prepared." at the appointed hour carew called at the consulate. he found the consul and lloyd's agent awaiting him in a room adjoining the principal office. there was a constraint in their manner, which he, watchful for the slightest suspicious indication, detected at once. they were as men who anticipated some momentous event, but who endeavoured to conceal their anxiety. the consul produced a document, and laid it on the desk. "read this over, please, mr. allen, and see that it is correct." carew glanced down it quickly with an eye trained to legal forms. "it is perfectly correct," he said. "i have a gentleman in the next room who will witness your signature to this statement," proceeded the consul. he opened the door, and mr. norton entered the room. the consciousness of impending peril came over carew's guilty soul, but he seized the pen, and in a firm hand wrote the signature, "arthur allen, barrister-at-law." mr. norton now approached the table. he took up the pen as if to sign his name, glanced at the document, and then, raising his head, looked carew full in the face. "i cannot witness this signature," he said. "it is a forgery!" there was a complete silence for a few moments; then carew, whose face was pale, but who betrayed no other signs of emotion, said quietly, "explain your strange words, sir." "it is no good; the game is up, mr. carew," replied norton. "i have a warrant for your arrest, and the police are at the door." "a trap has been laid for me, i see," said carew, as quietly as before. "this is one of the absurd mistakes you detectives so often make; but i will soon clear it up. of what am i accused?" carew was astonished at his own courage in the presence of this extreme disaster, or rather--for it can scarcely be called courage--at his indifference to his fate. he felt as if he were the spectator of a tragedy which was being played by other men, and in which he was not himself an actor--a common state of mind with men in utmost peril. "the charge with which i am immediately concerned," replied the detective, "and on account of which an extradition warrant has been issued, is the forgery of a client's name by the solicitor henry carew. in the meanwhile, look at these," and he threw on the table two photographs. carew took them up. one, he saw, was a portrait of arthur allen, his friend whom he left to drown in the north sea; the other was a photograph of himself which had been taken eight years back, when he was another man, when his conscience was still clear, and before his gambling losses had driven him from crime to crime; sin and suffering had yet drawn no lines on the face, the brow was free from care. he gazed gloomily at this presentment of what he had been and could never be again, and his mind wandered back with despairing regret to memories of guiltless days. "on the th of august last," continued the detective, "a solicitor, henry carew, absconded, disappeared, leaving no trace. for some time i, who was entrusted with the case, was altogether at fault; but at last, as often happens, a coincidence threw me on the scent. i came across an advertisement inserted in the papers by the relatives of a missing man, arthur allen. he had left his chambers on the th of august, and had not since been heard of. carew and allen thus disappeared from london on the same day, mark you; but there was no very remarkable coincidence in that fact. however, i happened to remember that, while searching the papers of carew to discover what were his habits, who were his acquaintances, and so forth, i had come across the name of this arthur allen, apparently a friend of carew's. the clue was worth following up. i soon ascertained that allen had that day sailed from the thames in his yacht; that his last known port of call was rotterdam. i went to rotterdam, and there, from a mr. hoogendyk and others, learnt that the man who called himself arthur allen had conducted himself in a somewhat curious manner for an english yachtsman, and had suddenly sailed from that port, bound no one knew whither, with a crew of spanish desperadoes." the detective now took the two photographs from the hand of carew, who was still gazing at them in a dazed way, apparently not listening to the words of his accuser. "i procured these," norton went on. "i brought them to mr. hoogendyk. first i showed him the portrait of arthur allen; he did not recognise it. then i gave him the portrait of henry carew. 'this, of course,' he at once said, 'is the photograph of mr. allen, the englishman who came here with the little yacht.' then i knew that i was on the right track. shortly afterwards, a paragraph which appeared in a london evening paper brought me promptly here, armed with an extradition warrant. i have the paragraph here. it is headed '_a strange story of the sea._' i will read it to you. '_a telegram from pernambuco states that a french barque, the_ la bonne esperance, _has been brought into that port a derelict. she was picked up by the crew of an english yacht, the_ petrel. _the_ petrel _had foundered in the south atlantic. mr. allen, the owner, and his three men took to the dinghy, and, after drifting for several days, encountered the deserted barque, which they sailed into pernambuco. the salvage is likely to far more than compensate mr. allen for the loss of his yacht._' that is all i need say at present." the consul spoke next. "there is a mr. rudge here, who has been in pernambuco for some weeks, who can also throw a light on this matter." the consul touched the bell, and the man who had assumed the name of rudge was shown into the room. he closed the door behind him, and stood with his back against it. "this gentleman," said the consul deliberately, "affirms that _he_ is arthur allen, the barrister, the owner of the lost yacht." all in the room now turned their eyes upon carew, to watch the effect upon him of this sudden presence. yes, it was indeed allen, though pale and thin, as if he had but just recovered from a sudden illness, that carew saw before him. and now this strange being, who had fallen into such depths of crime, and who yet loathed crime so intensely, behaved in the manner that might have been expected from him. the better man declared himself at last. on beholding this accuser, who had risen thus suddenly from the dead, he displayed no guilty terror. on the contrary, an expression of great relief, of joy, almost of triumph, lit up his face, and the lines of care faded away from it. they all watched him with wonder. then he spoke quietly, in tones that carried conviction. no one could doubt but that the words were from his heart. "yes, i am henry carew. i am guilty of all that i am accused of, and of more, and worse things. but i am glad, indeed glad--and little gladness has been my lot of late--to see you, arthur allen, standing there alive before me. there is one less crime on my soul. yes, i am now happy; happier than i deserve to be. i am quite ready to pay the penalty of my sins." there was a nobility in his countenance as he stood up erect, with none of the shrinking criminal about him. he felt as if he were out of the world already; he was free from petty fears now. then the consul, impressed by the man's manner, said, in an almost respectful tone, "it is better that you should go on board the english steamer at once. i have arranged everything." the detective whispered something into the consul's ear, and then slipped out of the room quietly. carew looked through the window at the fair tropical world without. he could see the busy quay, with its green trees waving in the fresh trade wind, and the breakers dashing upon the coral reef. beyond that, between the blue sea and the blue sky, there loomed a dark mass. carew knew that this was the vessel which was to be his prison, lying at anchor in the outer roads. he shivered; then turning to the consul said-- "grant me one last favour before i go: let me have paper and pen. i wish to write a letter." the consul hesitated. "give it to him," whispered allen, who had been eyeing carew intently; and carew rewarded him with a grateful look. the writing materials were put on the table. he sat before them with his back to the spectators, and as he held the pen in his right hand, he placed his left elbow upon the table, stooping over it, his face buried in the open palm as if he were meditating deeply what he should write. and so he remained for quite a minute without writing a word. once a slight tremor passed through his frame. after that he sat quite motionless. the detective again entered the room, followed by two officers of police. "come, sir," he said, "we must go now," and he put his hand lightly on carew's shoulder. as the hand touched him, carew's elbow slipped, his head dropped heavily upon the table, face downwards, and from his left hand, which had been over his mouth, there fell on the table, and rolled slowly across it, a small empty bottle. he was quite dead! he had found a use at last for the poisonous drug which the rotterdam chemist had grudgingly sold him. * * * * * "the prisoner has slipped away from us," said the detective; "but, after all, i am not sorry for it in a way, for there was good in the man." and so ended the misspent life of henry carew--a man by nature probably no worse than many of the most respectable-seeming among us. but he was morally timid; and such a one, however benevolent be his disposition, however opposed to vice be his inclinations, is the slave of circumstances, and is quite as likely to develop into a villain as a saint. a weak will is the devil's easiest prey. arthur allen's narrative will be given in his own words:-- "the last thing i remember, after jim and myself were capsized, is that i was holding on to the dinghy, and that i lashed myself to her with the painter. poor jim must have gone down at once. i don't remember seeing him after the boat turned over. the seas must have driven the sense out of me. i came to, days afterwards, in the cabin of a german barque. she had picked me up--still lashed to the dinghy--in an insensible condition. the barque was bound from hamburg to rio. my long exposure in the water brought on a serious and tedious illness. i was more dead than alive when i landed at rio, and was at once taken to the hospital. there the english consul called to see me, and behaved with great kindness. when i told him my story, and who i was, he said, 'a man of your name came here with a yacht a short time back--an eccentric man, for he only stopped two days here and was off again; so i did not see him.' i asked what the name of the yacht was. 'the _petrel_,' he replied. then, of course, the whole truth dawned upon me, and i satisfied the consul that someone had stolen my yacht and had assumed my name. the consul then advanced to me the money i required. i was still lying in the hospital when the news came to rio that the _petrel_ had been lost at sea, and that her crew had found a derelict, and sailed her into pernambuco. in spite of the doctor's warnings, i left the hospital, and hurried here at once. i was awaiting an extradition warrant from england, when mr. norton anticipated my own action, and arrived with a warrant that had been obtained on account of former felonies committed by carew." the true story of the french barque and her crew was never known. baptiste and the two spaniards took alarm and disappeared from pernambuco. not that they were in danger, for they were not implicated in the felonies which had been brought home to carew. but the guilty wretches knew not what would be discovered next, they so completely distrusted each other, each knowing that he himself would readily betray his comrades, either for a price or to secure his own safety. what ultimately happened to these three villains i do not know. baptiste being a criminal of the educated, cunning, and cowardly-cautious order, possibly enriched himself by iniquity for many years more, and, escaping his deserts in this world, may yet have died in his old age, a respected citizen in his native land. the other two more vulgar scoundrels were no doubt hanged, or stabbed in a brawl, or despatched in some such summary fashion sooner or later--a penalty for their crimes which seems light indeed to men of this brutal stamp, who consider a violent death as the most desirable and indeed only legitimate termination to existence. the end printed by morrison and gibb limited, edinburgh advertisements _the express series.--no. ii._ a girl of grit chapter i my american millions it was the middle of the night (as i thought) when savory--my man, my landlord, valet, and general factotum--came in and woke me. he gave me a letter, saying simply, "the gentleman's a-waiting, sir," and i read it twice, without understanding it in the very least. could it be a hoax? to satisfy myself, i sat up in bed, rubbed my astonished and still half-sleepy eyes, and read it again. it ran as follows:-- " , lincoln's inn, _july , -_. "gray & quinlan, solicitors. "dear sir,--it is our pleasing duty to inform you, at the request of our new york agents, messrs. smiddy & dann, of , chambers street, new york city, that they have now definitely and conclusively established your claim as the sole surviving relative and general heir-at-law of their late esteemed client, mr. aretas m'faught, of church place and fifth avenue, new york. "as the amount of your inheritance is very considerable, and is estimated approximately at between fourteen and fifteen millions of dollars, say three millions of sterling money, we have thought it right to apprise you of your good fortune without delay. our mr. richard quinlan will hand you this letter in person, and will be pleased to take your instructions.--we are, sir, your obedient servants, "gray & quinlan." "captain william aretas wood, d.s.o., , clarges street, piccadilly." "here, savory! who brought this? do you say he is waiting? i'll see him in half a minute;" and, sluicing my head in cold water, i put on a favourite old dressing-gown, and passed into the next room, followed by roy, my precious golden collie, who began at once to sniff suspiciously at my visitor's legs. i found there a prim little old-young gentleman, who scanned me curiously through his gold-rimmed pince-nez. although, no doubt, greatly surprised,--for he did not quite expect to see an arch-millionaire in an old ulster with a ragged collar of catskin, with damp, unkempt locks, and unshorn chin at that time of day,--he addressed me with much formality and respect. "i must apologise for this intrusion, captain wood--you _are_ captain wood?" "undoubtedly." "i am mr. quinlan, very much at your service. pardon me--is this your dog? is he quite to be trusted?" "perfectly, if you don't speak to him. lie down, roy. i fear i am very late--a ball last night. do you ever go to balls, mr. quinlan?" "not often, captain wood. but if i have come too early, i can call later on." "by no means. i am dying to hear more. but, first of all, this letter--it's all _bonâ fide_, i suppose?" "without question. it is from our firm. there can be no possible mistake. we have made it our business to verify all the facts--indeed, this is not the first we had heard of the affair, but we did not think it right to speak to you too soon. this morning, however, the mail has brought a full acknowledgment of your claims, so we came on at once to see you." "how did you find me out, pray?" "we have had our eye on you for some time past, captain wood," said the little lawyer smilingly. "while we were inquiring--you understand? we were anxious to do the best for you"-- "i'm sure i'm infinitely obliged to you. but still, i can't believe it, quite. i should like to be convinced of the reality of my good luck. you see, i haven't thoroughly taken it in." "read this letter from our new york agents, captain wood. it gives more details," and he handed me a type-written communication on two quarto sheets of tissue paper, also a number of cuttings from the new york press. the early part of the letter referred to the search and discovery of the heir-at-law (myself), and stated frankly that there could be no sort of doubt that my case was clear, and that they would be pleased, when called upon, to put me in full possession of my estate. from that they passed on to a brief enumeration of the assets, which comprised real estate in town lots, lands, houses; stocks, shares, well- _the express series--no. iii._ a desperate voyage chapter i in carey street, chancery lane, on the ground floor of a huge block of new buildings facing the law courts, were the offices of messrs. peters and carew, solicitors and perpetual commissioners of oaths. such was the title of the firm as inscribed on the side of the entrance door in the middle of a long list of other names of solicitors, architects, and companies, whose offices were within. but the firm was now represented by mr. carew alone; for the senior partner, a steady-going old gentleman, who had made the business what it was, had been despatched by an attack of gout, two years back, to a land where there is no litigation. late one august evening mr. henry carew entered his office. his face was white and haggard, and he muttered to himself as he passed the door. he had all the appearance of a man who has been drinking heavily to drown some terrible worry. his clerks had gone; he went into his own private room and locked the door. he lit the gas, brought a pile of papers and letters out of a drawer, and, sitting down by the table, commenced to peruse them. as he did so, the lines about his face seemed to deepen, and beads of perspiration started to his forehead. it was for him an hour of agony. his sins had found him out, and the day of reckoning had arrived. one might have taken henry carew for a sailor, but he was very unlike the typical solicitor. he was a big, hearty man of thirty-five, with all a sailor's bluff manner and generous ways. his friends called him honest hal, and said that he was one of the best fellows that ever lived. we have it on the authority of that immortal adventuress, becky sharp, that it is easy to be virtuous on five thousand a year. had mr. carew enjoyed such an income, he would most probably have lived a blameless life and have acquired an estimable reputation; for he had no instinctive liking for crime; on the contrary, he loathed it. but one slight moral flaw in a man's nature--so slight that his best friends smile tolerantly at it--may, by force of circumstance, lead ultimately to his complete moral ruin. it is an old story, and has been the text of many a sermon. the trifling fault is often the germ of terrible crimes. carew's fault was one that is always easily condoned, so nearly akin is it to a virtue; these respectably connected vices are ever the most dangerous, like well-born swindlers. carew was a spendthrift. he was ostentatiously extravagant in many directions. he owned a smart schooner, which he navigated himself, being an excellent sailor, and the quantities of champagne consumed by his friends on board this vessel were prodigious. when his steady old partner died, carew began to neglect the business for his pleasures. soon his income was insufficient to meet his expenses. speculation on the stock exchange seemed to him to be a quicker road to fortune than a slow-going profession. so this man, morally weak though physically brave, not having the courage to curtail his extravagances, hurried blindly to his destruction. he gambled and lost all his own property; for ill-luck ever pursued him. even then it was not too late to redeem his position. but he was too great a coward to look his difficulties in the face; therefore, having the temptation to commit so terribly easy a crime ever before him in his office, he began--first, timidly, to a small extent; then wildly, in panic, in order to retrieve his losses--to speculate with the moneys entrusted to him by his clients. he pawned their securities; he forged their names; he plunged ever deeper into crime--and all in vain. when it was too late, he swore to himself, in the torments of his remorse, that if he could but once win back sufficient to replace the sums he had stolen, he would cut down all his expenses, forswear gambling and dishonesty, and stick to his profession. at last it came to this. he sold his yacht and everything else he possessed of value. he realised what remained of the securities under his charge, and then placed the entire sum as cover on a certain stock, the price of which, he was told, was certain to rise. it was the gambler's last despairing throw of the dice. the stock suddenly fell; settling day arrived, and his cover was swept away--he had lost all! so he sat in his office this night and faced the situation in an agony of spirit that was more than fear. for this was no unscrupulous, light-hearted villain. an accusing conscience was ever with him, and every fresh descent in crime meant for him a worse present hell of mental torture. he felt that it was idle to hope now, even for a short reprieve. clients were suspicious. in a day or two at most all must be known. disgrace and a felon's doom were staring him in the face. it would be impossible for him to raise even sufficient funds to escape from england to some country where extradition treaties were unknown. carew realised all this. he had forced himself to look through his _autumn _ list of new & recent books published by john milne at norfolk street, strand, london the express series. this series is designed to meet the taste of readers who desire a swiftly-moving, well-written, dramatic tale, of moderate length, without superfluous descriptive or other literary "padding," but with continuity and action from the first page to the last. it contains only specially-written and selected stories, mostly by well-known writers, and each volume consists of about pages, crown vo. the first edition, for the library, is bound in red cloth, with gilt top, and published at s. d. the second and subsequent editions are issued in handy form for the pocket or the train, in stout cardboard covers, illustrated in colours, at s. _the following have been published:--_ i. the rome express. by major arthur griffiths. [_sixth edition_ ii. a girl of grit. by major arthur griffiths. [_just published._ iii. a desperate voyage. by e. f. knight. [_just published._ _current list._ a desperate voyage. a desperate voyage. by e. f. knight, author of "the cruise of the falcon," "where three empires meet," etc. a novel by the well-known _times_ war-correspondent and author, describing the escape of an absconding debtor from the river thames in a twenty-eight ton yawl, and his subsequent desperate experiences by sea and land in the south atlantic. pages, crown vo, red cloth gilt, gilt top, uniform with the above, s. d. a girl of grit. a girl of grit. by major arthur griffiths, author of "the rome express." an anglo-american story of a gigantic scheme of fraud and attempted abduction. pages, crown vo, red cloth gilt, gilt top, s. d. "if you wish for an exciting story--a story which will hold you fascinated for three pleasurable hours by the intricacies of a cleverly conceived plot, and the human interest of varied character--read major arthur griffiths' new book, 'a girl of grit.' the whole story of the pursuit of the rascal duke of buona mano and the rescue of captain wood in mid-atlantic carries you on with a rush through a series of dramatic scenes and thrilling adventures to a climax which is as novel as it is satisfactory. 'a girl of grit' is a better told story than even 'the rome express,' which is saying a good deal."--_daily mail._ the rome express. the rome express. by major arthur griffiths. a notable detective story of much ingenuity and interest. pages, crown vo, red cloth gilt, gilt top, library edition, s. d.; in coloured wrapper, sixth edition, s. "it is safe to say that the reader who glances at the first page of major arthur griffiths' detective story, 'the rome express,' will certainly not skip one single word until he reaches the end. 'who could have done the deed?' is the question which absorbs the reader from first to last, and in his eagerness to answer this question he will start on at least four different scents, confident each time that now he has the clue, but only to return baffled and bewildered again and again. it is general collingham whose shrewd wit first hits upon the right track, and puts to confusion all the theories and red-tapeism of the quai de l'horloge. but until the last chapter we are as much in the dark as any one of them; the mystery is inscrutable until it pleases the author to lift the veil and inform us that one of the passengers was requested to continue his journey in the direction of new caledonia, and that another was married at the british embassy to sabine, contessa di castagneto."--_daily telegraph._ "any reader who opens this book with the resolution that he will read a chapter of it and then resume his ordinary occupations, is likely to be surprised speedily out of such good intentions. the story grips you like a vice. there is not a superfluous word in the pages."--_sketch._ **_the next volume of the express series will be a story from the pen of mr. david christie murray, and others are in preparation._ the evolution of a wife. the evolution of a wife, a romance in six parts, by elizabeth holland. the life-story of marie de hauteville, a young girl of noble swiss family. it contains many charming pictures of conventual and village life in the bernese oberland, with a strong love interest of the non-modern school. pages, large crown vo, cloth, second edition, s. "there is an extraordinary genius in 'the evolution of a wife.' in calm and masterful handling, searching insight, and bold imaginative outlook, this romance ranks among the finest first books of all the novelists. in the delicate manner of flaubert, without comment, and with a powerful massing of scenes, the authoress advances to her climax; and one lays down the book feeling that certain impressions will not efface themselves."--_yorkshire post._ "marie is delightful, with her many lovers and the pathetic little vanities that make her innocence anything but insipid. she is absolutely realisable; and not she alone. the little swiss town and its inhabitants live at once in the reader's eye."--_saturday review._ "a remarkable story, alike in plot and character. it makes an impression that here and there reminds us of the art and the passion of charlotte brontë's works."--_scotsman._ the passion for romance. the passion for romance. by edgar jepson, author of "sibyl falcon." describes the remarkable love affairs of lord lisdor, a young and susceptible nobleman of wealth and leisure. pages, large crown vo, cloth, second edition, s. "'the passion for romance' is, at the least, recommended by that air of novelty so welcome to all, but to none more than to the professional novel-reader. the hero--the main feature of the story, as he has a right to be--is treated from a refreshingly new standpoint. he is a new sort of hero as well as a fresh specimen in individuals: neither villain, saint, nor martyr, but simply a possible human being with some strong characteristics. the vain quest and the yearning for fulfilment are told with delicacy of touch, some sense of humour, and absolutely without sickly sentiment or morbid passion. is not this enough to prove that we do not speak of the novel of the common or british type?"--_athenæum._ "it is a long time since we have had a new sensation in fiction. it has come at last. the author of 'the passion for romance' is a novelist with a style that is distinguished, and--rarissimus inter raros--mr. edgar jepson is also a writer who has something new to say. apart from the literary merit of the work, there is the story; and to say that there is nothing in fiction with which that may be compared is to acknowledge at once its originality."--_morning._ saint porth. saint porth. the wooing of dolly pentreath. by j. henry harris. a homely tale of life and love in a cornish village. pages, crown vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, s. "a cornish tale of remarkable picturesqueness, altogether natural and touching, full of quaint pictures of a marvellously decorative people."--_saturday review._ "written with singular sympathy, earnestness, and gentle humour. the scene is laid on the cornish coast, and mr. harris paints for us the splendours of that gorgeous seascape in the manner of one who feels to the full its peculiar fascination, and to whom the character of the dwellers on its shore appeals with a familiar charm. the delicate and precious aroma of romance perfumes every page of 'saint porth,' and lends to this homely, unpretentious tale a value and an interest that are too often lacking in novels of a more ambitious scope."--_speaker._ "of the many efforts which writers have made during recent years to portray various phases of cornish life, this, to our mind, represents one of the most successful."--_west briton._ "however crowded the novel market may be, there is always room for such refreshing little idylls as 'saint porth'--a simple tale, simply told in delightfully breezy style."--_birmingham gazette._ paradise row. paradise row, and some of its inhabitants. by w. j. wintle. a series of powerfully painted sketches of north country life. pages, crown vo, cloth, gilt top, s. d. "to adequately express the power and the pathos of these simply told sketches, is quite beyond the scope of a review, for they rouse all that is best and all that is most sacred in our common humanity, making us feel more than the grandest rhetoric could, the brotherhood of man. some of the characters are real heroes, and one rises from the perusal of the book with a greater respect for the men who devote their lives to christian work in the noisome dens of our populous places, and with a large hope for the ultimate redemption of mankind."--_north british daily mail._ "this is a volume of sketches of north country life, very vigorously drawn, and full of pathos well relieved with humour. it shows throughout a large power of sympathy and great breadth of thought."--_spectator._ "we commend this book as both literature and life. those who wish to know how the poor live and love cannot do better than read 'paradise row.'"--_methodist times._ "the work of a deep thinker and a cultured writer."--_black and white._ butterfly ballads. butterfly ballads and stories in rhyme. by helen atteridge. with sixty-five illustrations by gordon browne, louis wain, h. r. millar, and others. pages, foolscap to, designed cover, cloth gilt, gilt edges, s. d. "these real ballads are very clever indeed; we feel sure 'ethelinda gray' and 'the boy that went to sea' will live in the upper circles of juvenility for many a long day. 'the doll's dance' ought to be as widely read and as keenly appreciated as 'the butterfly's ball and the grasshopper's feast,' which was the delight of the children of fifty years ago. the illustrations are numerous and admirable."--_world._ "a delightful collection of stories in verse for little ones. it is exactly what it professes to be, and does not indulge in metaphysics for infants, and every little one who has the good fortune to have the volume given it will be happy for a long time."--_st. james's gazette._ "'butterfly ballads' are by no means inappropriately named. they are light and bright, and go fluttering along easily. the illustrations are specially clever; the dogs, the children, and the old folks are all full of character and spirit."--_times._ "will speedily be learned by heart, and repeated in the firelight to a breathless audience."--_lady._ the english stage. the english stage. being an account of the victorian drama, by augustin filon. translated from the french by frederic whyte, with an introduction by henry arthur jones. pages, demy vo, cloth, s. d. "this large and painstaking volume will certainly interest all who follow theatrical matters. we welcome it as an interesting and valuable record."--_times._ "that the writings of that acute french critic, m. filon, on 'the english stage' have been creditably translated and published in this country, is a subject of congratulation. the completeness with which this observer in a foreign land has mastered his subject is surprising, and adds much force to the penetrating and suggestive criticisms with which the book abounds. altogether the work, written as it is in spirited and captivating style, is one that can be perused with pleasure by all classes of readers."--_morning post._ "one of the most entertaining, appreciative, discriminating, and instructive of recent books upon the english stage."--_new york nation._ "no student of the theatre should miss reading 'the english stage,' and it should be bought, not borrowed from the library, for it is essentially a book to dip into again and again. it is full of interesting facts as to the recent history of the drama in this country."--_black and white._ verdi: man and musician. verdi: man and musician. his biography, with especial reference to his english experiences, by f. j. crowest, author of "the great tone poets." with photogravure frontispiece of verdi, and several full-page portraits. the only recent and authoritative english biography of the famous composer. pages, demy vo, cloth, s. d. "as the author of this highly interesting volume rightly says, verdi bibliography, particularly that in england, is not extensive, but he has made an important addition, a book that should be read by all admirers of the italian composer. it is enriched with several well-executed portraits, and is fully indexed."--_athenæum._ "a most interesting work. did space permit, we could quote at length from this delightful book; but as it is, we must leave it to the reader to pick and choose for himself."--_weekly sun._ "a book full of interest both to musicians and laymen, embellished with a speaking likeness of verdi as a frontispiece. a distinct and valuable addition to the scant verdi literature in this country."--_manchester courier._ "an excellently-written and faithfully-compiled history of the rise and progress of a great composer, studded with gems of anecdote, and teeming with an appreciation that will find an echo in the heart of every lover of opera who reads it."--_birmingham gazette._ [illustration: logo] memoirs of james robert hope-scott, volume ii memoirs of james robert hope-scott of abbotsford, d.c.l., q.c. late fellow of merton college, oxford _with selections from his correspondence_ by robert ornsby, m.a. professor of greek and latin literature in the catholic university of ireland; fellow of the royal university of ireland; late fellow of trin. coll. oxford in two volumes vol. ii. contents of the second volume. chapter xviii. , . mr. hope's pamphlet on the jerusalem bishopric--his value for the canon law--continued correspondence of mr. hope and mr. newman on the jerusalem bishopric--mr. newman's idea of a monastery--mr. newman writes from littlemore, april , --dr. pusey consults mr. hope on his letter to the archbishop of canterbury--dr. pusey and the jerusalem bishopric--letters of archdeacon manning, mr. w. palmer, sir john t. coleridge, sir f. palgrave, bishop philpotts, and count senfft, on mr. hope's pamphlet chapter xix. , . oxford commotions of - --mr. newman's retractation--correspondence of mr. newman and j. r. hope on the subject--mr. hope pleads for mr. macmullen--dr. pusey suspended for his sermon on the holy eucharist--seeks advice from mr. hope--mr. newman resigns st. mary's--correspondence of mr. newman and mr. hope on the 'lives of the english saints'--mr. ward's condemnation--mr. hope sees the 'shadow of the cross' through the press-- engaged with 'scripture prints,' 'pupilla oculi,' &c.--lady g. fullerton's recollections of j. r. hope--he proposes to make a retreat at littlemore chapter xx. , . mr. hope's tour on the continent in --visit to munich--dr. pusey's 'library of roman catholic works'--dr. pusey and the spiritual exercises-- his opinion of the discipline--mr. hope's visit to tetschen in --count leo thun and his friends--mr. hope's interview with prince metternich--the hon. sir r. gordon, ambassador at vienna--visit to prince palffy and to prince liechtenstein--the hungarian diet at presburg--letter of manzoni to j. r. hope--visit to rome--bishop grant and mr. hope--mr. hope resigns chancellorship of salisbury--dr. pusey and the stone altar case--mr. oakeley and mr. hope--scottish episcopalian church and its office--mr. gladstone endeavours to hold mr. hope back--proposes tour in ireland-- conversion of mr. newman--mr. hope on the essay on development--letter of mr. newman to j. r. hope from rome--reopening of correspondence with mr. newman chapter xxi. - . mr. hope's doubts of anglicanism--correspondence with mr. gladstone-- correspondence of j. r. hope and mr. gladstone continued--mr. gladstone advises active works of charity--bishop philpotts advises mr. hope to go into parliament--mr. hope and mr. gladstone in society--mr. hope on the church affairs of canada--dr. hampden, bishop of hereford--the troubles at leeds--mr. hope on the jewish question, &c.--the gorham case--the curzon street resolutions--the 'papal aggression' commotion--correspondence of mr. hope and mr. manning--their conversion--opinions of friends on mr. hope's conversion--mr. gladstone--father roothaan, f.g. soc. jes., to count senfft--dr. dollinger--mr. hope to mr. badeley--conversion of mr. w. palmer chapter xxii. - . review of mr. hope's professional career--his view of secular pursuits-- advice from archdeacon manning against overwork--early professional services to government--j. r. hope adopts the parliamentary bar--his elements of success--is made q.c.--difficulty about supremacy oath--mr. venables on mr. hope-scott as a pleader--recollections of mr. cameron--mr. hope-scott on his own profession--mr. hope-scott's professional day-- regular history of practice not feasible--specimens of cases: . the caledonian railway interposing a tunnel. . award by mr. hope-scott and r, stephenson. . mersey conservancy and docks bill, 'parliamentary hunting- day,' liverpool and manchester compared. . london, brighton, and south coast and the beckenham line. . scottish railways--an amalgamation case-- mr. hope-scott and mr. denison; honourable conduct of mr. hope-scott as a pleader. . dublin trunk connecting railway. . professional services of mr. hope-scott to eton--claims of clients on time--value of ten minutes-- conscientiousness--professional income--extra occupations--affection of mr. hope-scott for father newman--spirit in which he laboured chapter xxiii. - . mr. hope's engagement to charlotte lockhart--memorial of charlotte lockhart--their marriage--mr. lockhart's letter to mr. j. r. hope on his conversion--filial piety of mr. hope--conversion of lord and lady henry kerr--domestic life at abbotsford--visit of dr. newman to abbotsford in --birth of mary monica hope-scott--bishop grant on early education--mr. lockhart's home correspondence--death of walter lockhart scott--mr. hope takes the name of hope-scott--last illness and death of mr. lockhart-- death of lady hope--letter of lord dalhousie--mr. hope-scott purchases a highland estate--death of mrs. hope-scott and her two infants--letters of mr. hope-scott, in his affliction, to dr. newman and mr. gladstone--verses in --letter of dr. newman on receiving them chapter xxiv. - . mr. hope-scott's return to his profession--second marriage--lady victoria howard--mr. hope-scott at hyeres--portraits of mr. hope-scott-- miscellaneous recollections--mr. hope-scott in the highlands--ways of building--story of second-sight at lochshiel chapter xxv. - . visit of queen victoria to abbotsford in --mr. hope-scott's improvements at abbotsford--mr. hope-scott's polities--toryism in early life--constitutional conservatism--mr. hope-scott as an irish and a highland proprietor--correspondence on politics with mr. gladstone, and with lord henry kerr in --speech at arundel in chapter xxvi. - . religious life of mr. hope-scott--motives of conversion--acceptance of the dogma of infallibility--the 'angelus' on the committee-room stairs--faith in the real presence--books of devotion--the society of jesus--letter of mrs. bellasis--mr. hope-scott's manners--his generosity--courage in admonishing--habits of prayer--services to catholicity--remark of lord blachford--the catholic university of ireland--cardinal newman's dedication of his 'university sketches' to mr. hope-scott--aid in the achilli trial-- mr. badeley's speech--charitable bequests--westminster missions--repeal of titles act--statement of mr. hope-scott--letter to right hon. s. walpole-- correspondence with the duke of norfolk--scottish education bill, -- parliamentary committee on convents--services of mr. hope-scott to catholicity in legal advice to priests and convents--other charities in advice, &c.--private charities, their general character--probable amount of them--missions on the border--galashiels--abbotsford--letter of pere de ravignan, s.j.--kelso--letter of father taggart--burning of the church at kelso--charge of the lord justice-clerk--article from the 'scotsman '-- missions in the western highlands--moidart--mr. hope-scott's purchase of lochshiel--'road-making'--dr. newman's 'grammar of assent'--mr. hope- scott's kindness to his highland tenants--builds school and church at mingarry--church at glenuig--sells dorlin to lord howard of glossop--other scottish missions aided by mr. hope-scott--his irish tenantry--his charities at hyeres chapter xxvii. - . mr. hope-scott's speech on termination of guardianship to the duke of norfolk--failure in mr. hope-scott's health--exhaustion after a day's pleading--his neglect of exercise--death of mr. badeley--letter of dr. newman--last correspondence of mr. hope and the bishop of salisbury (hamilton)--dr. newman's friendship for mr. hope-scott and serjeant bellasis--mr. hope-scott proposes to retire--birth of james fitzalan hope-- death of lady victoria hope-scott--mr. hope-scott retires from his profession--edits abridgment of lockhart, which he dedicates to mr. gladstone--dr. newman on sir walter scott--visit of dr. newman to abbotsford in --mr. hope-scott's last illness--his faith and resignation--his death--benediction of the holy father--requiem mass for mr. hope-scott at the jesuit church, farm street--funeral ceremonies at st. margaret's, edinburgh--cardinal newman and mr. gladstone on mr. hope-scott appendix i. funeral sermon by his eminence cardinal newman, preached at the requiem mass for mr. hope-scott, at the church of the immaculate conception, farm street, may , appendix ii. words spoken in the chapel of the ursulines of jesus, st. margaret's convent, edinburgh, on the th day of may, , at the funeral of james robert hope-scott, q.c. by the rev. william j. amherst, s.j. appendix iii. the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p., to miss hope-scott [now the hon. mrs. maxwell scott] appendix iv. verses by j. r. hope-scott table of letters, etc. * * * * * memoirs of james robert hope-scott. * * * * * chapter xviii. - . mr. hope's pamphlet on the jerusalem bishopric--his value for the canon law--continued correspondence of mr. hope and mr. newman on the jerusalem bishopric--mr. newman's idea of a monastery--mr. newman writes from littlemore, april , --dr. pusey consults mr. hope on his letter to the archbishop of canterbury--dr. pusey and the jerusalem bishopric-- letters of archdeacon manning, mr. w. palmer, sir john t. coleridge, sir f. palgrave, bishop philpotts, and count senfft, on mr. hope's pamphlet. two days after the date of the letter to lady henry kerr, given in the preceding chapter (dec. , ), took place the publication of mr. hope's pamphlet on the anglo-prussian bishopric of jerusalem. it may be described as a learned and very closely reasoned argument against the measure; and a dry (even if correct) analysis of it would be of little biographical interest, especially as mr. hope's views on the question have already been abundantly illustrated from unpublished materials. i therefore refer those of my readers who wish for more extended information to the pamphlet itself, but shall quote from the postscript to the second edition [footnote: _the bishopric of the united church of england and ireland at jerusalem_, considered in a letter to a friend, by james r. hope, b.c.l., scholar of merton, and chancellor of the diocese of salisbury. second edition, revised, with a postscript. london: c.j. stewart. .] an eloquent passage on canon law, which is as characteristic of the writer as anything i have yet been able to produce, and exhibits, i think, in a striking manner how singularly this austere subject constituted at the time the poetry of his life, and how largely the conflict between the principles of catholic jurisprudence and anglicanism must have influenced the reflections which ended in his conversion. mr. hope here refers to some remarks on his pamphlet which had appeared in one by the rev. frederick denison maurice, entitled 'three letters to the rev. w. palmer, &c.' (rivington: ). _value of the science of canon law._ [mr. maurice] sets all lawyers at nought, and canonists he utterly despises. hastily, indeed, i think, and for the purpose of the moment only, can he have given way to such feelings, for he needs not that i should tell him that the church of christ rests not upon speculative truth alone, but upon the positive institutions of our lord and his apostles. surely, then, to trace those institutions from the lowest point at which they come into contact with human existence, up to the highest to which our eye can follow them, the point of union with the unseen world in which they take their rise, and from which they are the channels of grace and truth and authority to the souls of men--to trace, i say, the outward and the visible signs of sacraments, of polity, of discipline, up to the inward spiritual realities upon which they depend, which they impart and represent to faith, or shelter from profanation; to study the workings of the hidden life of the church by those developments which, in all ages and countries, have been its necessary modes of access to human feeling and apprehension; to systematise the end gained; to learn what is universal, what partial, what temporary, what eternal, what presently obligatory, and wherefore; surely a science such as this, so noble in its object, so important in its practical bearings upon the unity and purity of the church, and upon her relations to the temporal power, is not one of which mr. maurice would deliberately speak evil. yet this is the science of the canonist. [footnote: mr. hope's pamphlet on the _jerusalem bishopric_, nd ed., p. .] there are still portions of his correspondence with mr. newman, belonging to the same period and subject, which must not be withheld:-- _j. r. hope, esq. to the rev. j. h. newman._ stone buildings, lincoln's inn: december , . dear newman,--your speedy reply and return of my proofs was very kind. the _hard_ passages i did not know how to make easy, as they are pure law, so have left them.... i hear that the bishop of london refused a man orders last week on three points--eucharistic sacrifice in _any sense_, real presence in elements, grace in orders. the second point (being also the bishop of winchester's) i have illustrated in a note to my pamphlet (very briefly) by reference to augsburg confession. you see the young prince is to have a r. catholic sponsor on one hand, and the king of prussia on the other. this is a good balance, though the canon tolerates neither.... ever yours, j. k. hope. _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ my dear hope,--... you take the canons of as _legal authority_, i see. this has been a bone in my throat. i _wish_ them to show the animus of our church, but directly you make them authority, the unhappy ward is _ipso facto_ excommunicate for having been to oscott, until he repent of his wicked error. but there is no resisting law. palmer's 'aids to reflection' contain some very valuable documents. what the bishops are doing is most serious, as well as unjustifiable, as i think. really one does not know but they may meet in council and bring out some tests which will have the effect forthwith of precipitating us, and leaving the church clean protestant. pray, does a _majority_ bind in such a council? i mean in the way of canons. can a majority determine the doctrine of the church? if so, we had need look out for cheap lodgings.... ever yours, john h. newman. oriel college: december , . _j. r. hope, esq. to the rev. j. h. newman._ palace, salisbury: december , . dear newman,--i am again settled here for ten days or so.... as to the bishops meeting and making tests, they can _in law_ do nothing, except in convocation, with the presbyters and under licence of the crown. they may, however, as heads of dioceses, agree to enforce particular things, but there is not, i think, sufficient unity amongst them at present to allow of this. the jerusalem business i hope is yet to be of good service to us, by rallying men of various shades against it, and by making the bishops stand up against what cannot be called otherwise than usurpation of their rights by the archbishop and the bishop of london. the bishop of exeter, in acknowledging (to badeley) the receipt of my pamphlet, says:-- 'would that those who direct proceedings of this hazardous and most questionable character may take warning from the effects of their inconsiderateness on this occasion! i doubt whether any three bishops were consulted, or even informed, before the measure was completed.' this looks, i think, like action.... when i publish again, i should like to bring out more fully the bearing of the augsburg confession on the thirty-nine articles. i perhaps overrate the importance of this point, but it seems to me to put tract in great measure under the sanction of the archbishop and bishop of london. if you think of doing anything more about tract , perhaps (which would be far better) you would take this up. if not, do you think you could get any one to collect for me the sense of luther, melanchthon, &c., as to the meaning of the chief articles of the aug. conf. i have always understood consubstantiation to be properly held under that document, and, if so, the admission of it with our articles will appear to many people very awkward. you must not think me unreasonable for thinking that you can get this done for me (as you did the search about canons) at oxford. were our colleges what they ought to be, there would be in each a concurrence of labour whenever required, and i believe that you have men about you who have the feeling from which this (if ever it does) must spring. i am not without hope that some public move may be made about the bishopric. what say you to an address to the crown, praying it to license the discussion of it in convocation? i think some bishops and many clergy would join in this, and it would, i suppose, be very 'constitutional.' i have not, however, looked up the formal part yet. tell me what you think of the thing, and i will consider it further.... (signed) j. r. hope. _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ january , . my dear hope,--a happy new year to you and all of us--and, what is even more needed, to the english church. i am afraid of moving about convocation. not that we should not be in safer hands than in those of the bishops, but, though it restrained their acts, it would abridge our liberty. or it might formally recognise our protestantism. what can we hope from a body, the best members of which, as hook and palmer [of worcester coll.], defend and subscribe to the jerusalem fund...? therefore i do not like to be _responsible_ for helping to call into existence a body which may embarrass us more than we are at present. i think your [greek: topos] about the augsburg confession a very important one, and directly more men come back will set a friend to work upon it. i am almost in despair of keeping men together. the only possible way is a monastery. men want an outlet for their devotional and penitential feelings, and if we do not grant it, to a dead certainty they will go where they can find it. this is the beginning and the end of the matter. yet the clamour is so great, and will be so much greater, that if i persist, i expect (though i am not speaking from anything that has _occurred_) that i shall be stopped. not that i have any intention of doing more at present than laying the foundation of what may be. ... are we really to be beaten in this election [for the poetry professorship]? i will tell you a secret (if you care to know it) which not above three or four persons know. we have promises. is it then hopeless? ... i don't think our enemies would beat ; at least, it would be no triumph.... the bishop of exeter has for these eight years, ever since the commencement of the ecclesiastical commission, been biding his time, and the duke of wellington last spring disgusted him much. this both makes it likely that he will now move, and also diminishes the force of the very words you quote, for peradventure they are ordinary with him. i have good hopes that he will. ever yours, john h. newman. the experiment of offering to minds which had lost all sympathy with protestantism, yet were unable to close with rome, an imitation of the monastic life by way of shelter from the rude checks which their aspirations sustained in the world without, seems to have answered for a time, and possibly retarded for about three years that rush of conversion which made such an epoch in the history even of the church. this may be inferred from the next letter, written shortly after mr. newman and his disciples were regularly settled at littlemore. i am not aware what the report was which he so emphatically denies. _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ april , . _dabam è domo s. m. v. apud littlemore._ my dear hope,--does not this portentous date promise to outweigh any negative i can give to your question in the mind of the inquirer? for any one who could ask such a question would think such a dating equivalent to the answer. however, if i must answer in form, i believe it to be one great absurdity and untruth from beginning to end, though it is hard i must answer for _every_ hundred men in the _whole_ kingdom. negatives are dangerous: all i can say, however, is that i don't believe, or suspect, or fear any such occurrence, and look upon it as neither probable nor improbable, but simply untrue. we are all much quieter and more resigned than we were, and are remarkably desirous of building up a position, and proving that the english theory is tenable, or rather, the english state of things. if the bishops let us alone, the fever will subside. [after a few words on business] i wish you would say how you are. ever yours, john h. newman. early in came out dr. pusey's 'letter to the archbishop of canterbury on some circumstances connected with the present crisis in the church.' in the preparation of this important pamphlet dr. pusey sought the advice of mr. hope, and the letter in which he asked it must be placed before the reader as an evidence of the value attached to mr. hope's opinion in the counsels of the party. _the rev. dr. pusey to j. e. hope, esq._ my dear hope,--you will be surprised that i should consult you as a layman and a younger man as to a work on the religious state of things, but i do it on n.'s suggestion, as seeing and being able to judge of men's minds; and ye question is not as to _what_ is said, but whether it is expedient to say it, and for me; what will be its probable effect. the origin of it was my visit to addington last autumn: after my return harrison wrote me some long letters, recommending that one shd take occasion of ye bishops' charges, under wh people writhed so much, to make one's defence, show that one was not so unsound as one seemed, and plead for sympathy. [footnote: this fondness for the use of the indefinite pronoun very much characterised the puseyite dialect, as i have somewhere read that it did the jansenist. the _phase_ which it marked may he seen fully developed in the tract 'on reserve,' by isaac williams.] i was unwilling to leave what i was doing and put myself forward; but as h. told me that he had spoken on ye subject with ye abp, it seemed to come with his authority, so i set myself to it. it has been delayed until now, waiting in part for unpublished charges, and for ye documents about ye jerus. bpric. it is now about finished, and wd occupy about ten sheets; what i send is, then, not half. the object of ye analysis of the bishops' charges is to show that some do not object to our main principles, but to matters of detail; that others (as the bps of chester, winchester, calcutta) do not object to our principles at all, but to certain principles which they conceive to be ours. the effect of both, i hoped, wd be that our friends, who were fretted by these charges, wd see that neither we nor (wh alone signifies) catholic truth is condemned, that others mt be better disposed towards us, and that the hint mt be taken in some charges this year. anyhow, that there wd seem less of a consent of bishops agst us, i was rather sanguine about this part. then there follows something about the jerusalem bishopric and the east and lutheranism, my object being to say that things are safe so long as the bishops do not make any organic changes in our church, or she be committed to any wrong principle. i conclude with some pages meant incidentally to reassure persons about ourselves, and of our good hopes and confidence and love for our church. this i have been urged to do in some way or other by several, _e.g._ e. churton, confidence having been terribly shaken by golightly's wild sayings, and by the version put upon my own visits to ye convents. this i could do by implication without any formal profession. [illustration: private] newman was against it from the first; he thought h. wanted to commit me to say things which n. thought i could not say; in a word, to express h.'s own views. about this i did not feel any difficulty, for having put forth doctrinal statements in my two last letters, i did not feel called upon to do it again, and so i went on. n. now likes it much in itself; indeed, he tells me he likes it the best of anything which i have written, but does not feel his former opinion removed; but he wished me to take another opinion. people seem to like the notion. the only part about which i have any misgiving is in these first slips, lest the picture of the temptations to romanism should seem too strong; and yet, unless our bishops realise that this tendency has some deeper foundation than any writings of ours, what they will do will be in a wrong direction. for myself, of course, i do not care what people think of me; and, on the other hand, one does not like to waste what one has employed time upon; but i am quite willing to give it up and be still, if it seems best; of course, one should be very sorry to add to our confusions. no one has suggested the mere omission of ye romanist part. jelf only (who had seen that part only without some additions which i have since made, that i might not seem gratuitously to exalt rome to the disparagement of our own church) suggested that it be printed only to send to ye bishops. n. thinks this of no use. i have no other opinions. but i am entangling you with the opinions of others, when i meant to ask you yours simply. i know you will not mind ye trouble. yours affectionately, e. b. pusey. christ church: september . the romanist part, of course, has not ye abp's sanction, and it must be so expressed. in the date of the above letter 'september' is struck out; 'january' substituted, and ' ' added in mr. hope-scott's hand, i think. how this is to be explained i do not know, but dr. pusey can hardly have made such a clerical error. mr. hope-scott has endorsed the letter: 'i recommended publication, with some alterations and additions.--j. r. h.' whatever influence dr. pusey may at an earlier period have exercised on the religious views of mr. hope must have been a good deal shaken by his inclination in the first instance to favour the jerusalem bishopric, followed, indeed, by a disapproval, but one far short of the energy with which mr. hope himself combated the measure. _the rev. e.b. pusey to j.r. hope, esq._ my dear hope,--i thank you much for your 'letter,' which i had been looking for anxiously, but which by some mistake was not forwarded to me, so that i only saw it two days ago. it is very satisfactory to me; it seems quite to settle the point as to the duty of bp a. i was also very much cheered to see yr own more hopeful view of things in our church. i am a good deal discomforted by this visit of ye kg. of pr. it seems so natural for persons to wish that episcopacy shd be bestowed upon those who desire to receive; and people for ye most part have very little or no notion as to ye unsoundness even of the sounder part of ye g. divines. as far as i have heard of ye progress of truth there, the restoration of xty in some shape has been far more rapid than i anticipated or dared hope, the soundness of the restoration far less. yours affectionately, e. b. pusey. marine parade, brighton: january , . in another letter, dated sexagesima sunday [january ], , dr. pusey says:-- i do not know your [greek: topos] about ye augsburg conf. i have very little, next to nothing, about it. do not leave anything for me. each can do best what he feels most. i should be very sorry to take anything out of your hands; and altogether i can say ye less about this because, wretched as it would be that we should appear in ye e. connected with lutherans, i do not feel that it would introduce any organic change in us, and so cannot anticipate that it would. i see that the conf. of augs. does not express consubstantiation. art. x. may express catholic doctrine. i subjoin a few more letters from mr. hope's correspondence relating to his pamphlet on the jerusalem bishopric question, interesting as it is in itself, and forming so great a crisis in his religious history. _the ven. archdeacon manning [since cardinal archbishop of westminster] to j. r. hope, esq._ december , . my dear hope,--i have this moment ended your pamphlet, and will not wait for a cooler moment to thank you. i do so heartily. god grant we may be true and manly in affirming the broad rule of catholic order. i add my thanks to you in another shape. in your last three or four pages you and i were nearing each other's thoughts. it is refreshing to find an answer at a distance. forgive my long neglect of the enclosed paper, which after all bears only my name, and probably too late for use. ever yours, dear hope, most sincerely, h. e. manning. _the rev. william palmer (of magdalen college, oxford) to j. r. hope, esq._ mixbury, near brackley: december , . dear hope,--i am much obliged to you for sending me a copy of your letter, which i have read with the greatest pleasure.... i see that in the statement just published by authority, _no prussian_ documents are given. i think your letter will be a puzzling one; but the spirit of practical protestantism is subtle and versatile, and able to set aside everything--laws, principles, rubrics, and canons. else i do not see how the mischief which i apprehend could be realised. ever yours sincerely, w. palmer p.s.--i am glad you think my pamphlet may be useful. we have taken entirely different sides of the same subject; i the theoretical (as it seemed to me), and you the practical view of the question. _sir john taylor coleridge to j. r. hope, esq._ my dear hope,--many thanks for your letter, which i have read through with, i may say, a painful interest. of course, in a matter so difficult in itself, and so new, i must confess, to me, i do not take on me at once to pronounce that you are right, but i cannot at present find out where you are wrong; and i am the more inclined to think that you may be right because i see in the act just words enough to satisfy people rather precipitate that the prussian scheme might be carried through safely on them. 'spiritual jurisdiction,' 'over other protestant congregations,' would seem to ordinary minds enough--till it was further considered _how_ the english bishop was to work out the scheme by virtue of these words, and yet be consistent with his own engagements. i shall not be sorry, however, to find that you are answered; not that i wish to accomplish, or seem rather to accomplish _any_ end by a disorderly and indigested attempt at union; nor do i think _this_ thing of itself so important as many do: still it is one which very much arrests the imagination, and excites strong devotional feeling; and i rather looked on it as leading to more important matters with prussia itself. i cannot, too, help a little more personal feeling for the bishop than it fell within our plan to express--a good and pious man, i believe, but not by intellect or previous habits fitted to meet such emergencies as you place before him. very truly yours, j. t. coleridge. december , . montague place. _sir francis palgrave, k.h. to j. r. hope, esq._ rolls house: january , . my dear sir,--i ought before this to have thanked you for your kindness in sending me your most able letter, but i did not like to do so until i had read it with that attention which it deserves. it is difficult to understand how your arguments can possibly be shaken. the statute hen. viii. c. evidently relates only to such dispensations upon the suit or for the benefit of individuals as had been theretofore usually issued by the roman chancery, and to wrest it into the power of establishing an _uncanonical_ see appears a most bold attempt. nothing would more clearly show the true relation of the church of england to 'other protestant churches' than a reprint of the _whole_ proceedings of the convocations from william and mary to their extinction-- adding proper notes. yours ever truly, francis palgrave. _the right rev. dr. philpotts, bishop of exeter, to j. r. hope, esq._ bishopstowe, torquay: november , . my dear sir,--permit me to ask you whether you can receive and answer a case of ecclesiastical law? that you can answer it better than any other man i have no doubt; but can you receive the case _professionally_, so as to enable a bishop to show your opinion as his authority for action? i have never thanked you for your kindness in sending me a copy of the second edition of 'the bishopric of the u. c., &c., at jerusalem,' for i am ashamed to own i have never, till this day, read the new matter which it gives to us. accept now my hearty thanks for your kindness to me in sending to me a copy, and my still heartier acknowledgments of your invaluable service to the church in furnishing it with such a lesson. you have, of course, seen the 'alterius orbis papa's' letter of june to the king of prussia, and have, with me, wondered at the mixture of temerity and cowardice (which latter quality, by the way, is the rashest of all feelings) indicated in such a mode of escaping from the difficulties by which he was pressed. i grieve for this marvellous indiscretion. but i am amused by the bolder defiance of all consistency which is exhibited by his prime adviser, who, while he prompts his chief to trample rubrics, canons, statutes, under his feet, commands his own clergy to observe them 'with chinese exactness.' i went to your second edition, in order that i might find your promised remarks on the need in which the church stands of a church legislature. i have read them with great gratification, and implore your close attention to the subject. my clergy are, i believe, about to meet and to address me to urge on the archbishop their earnest desire of leave from the crown for convocation to consider the best means of altering its own constitution, or otherwise devising a new body empowered and fitted to act synodically. this is, at present, somewhat of a secret, but it will in a few days, i believe, transpire. from other quarters, i hear, similar proceedings may be expected. the bishop of llandaff tells me that he makes the necessity of a church legislature one topic in his charge. yours, my dear sir, most faithfully, h. exeter. [p.s.] pray tell me whether you think the argument in my charge on escott _v_. mastin is now tolerably effective? what 'oath of obedience' is the ordained german to take to the bishop? not canonical--that is plain. what oath can it be? of course, it will hardly be an absolute promise on oath to obey all commands. all _lawful_ commands would involve a question--what are lawful commands? who is to judge? what law is to be the rule? somebody named by the king is to attest for the candidates their qualification for the _pastoral office_; but the bishop is 'to convince himself of their qualifications for the _especial_ duties of their office, of the purity of their faith, and of their _desire to receive ordination_ at his hands!' what is meant by the clergyman's preparing candidates for confirmation in the _usual_ manner? usual _where_? in prussia or in england? have they baptised godfathers in prussia? if they have not, how can they be confirmed according to the liturgy of the u. c. of e. and i.? to these letters from such distinguished co-religionists of mr. hope's, all belonging, with various shades of difference, to his own religious party, i add a portion of one, bearing on the same subject, from a catholic and foreign friend of his who has been mentioned in a previous chapter,[footnote: vol. i. chap. xiii. p. .] count senfft-pilsach. the contrast will be interesting; and it is also interesting to record a specimen of an influence, no doubt beginning to be more and more felt, though years had to pass before the result was visible in action. count senfft, though an active diplomatist, a friend of metternich's, and quite in the great european world, was an example of the union, so often found in the lives of the saints, of deep retirement and devotion in the very thick of affairs; and we may be sure that his prayers for mr. hope were faithfully applied to assist his arguments. _count senfft-pilsach to j. r. hope, esq_. la haye: janvier, mon cher hope,-- ... j'ai lu avec un vif intérêt vos réflexions sur ce nouvel evêché de jérusalem, dont on paraît vouloir faire un lien entre l'Ã�glise anglicane et le protestantisme evangélique de prusse, en cherchant à vivifier les ossemens arides de celui-ci par une sorte de greffe de votre episcopat auquel nous contestons encore, comme question, la continuité de la succession apostolique. si on réussiroit dans ce projet, une partie de vos objections pourroient se résoudre. mais m. bunsen, l'artisan de la complication de cologne, n'a pas la main heureuse, et la fécondité de son génie, secondant son ardeur de courtisan, pourroit bien, en prétendant servir les tendances vagues de piété de son maître, embarquer celui-ci dans les plus graves difficultés en provoquant l'opposition des vieux protestans réunis aux rationalistes allemands. 'quid foditis vobis cisternas dissipatas?' o mon ami! comment s'arrêter à quelques abus plus apparens peut-être que réels, que l'Ã�glise supporte çà et là sans les autoriser, et ne pas reconnoître cette admirable unité de doctrine, cette continuité de la tradition, qui caractérise la cité bâtie sure la montagne, figure de la véritable Ã�glise selon l'Ã�vangile. certes ce n'est pas sous la domination de césar qu'on pourroit aller chercher l'Ã�pouse légitime de j. c. mais doit-on espérer la trouver dans la création combinée de la volonté tyrannique de henri viii. et de la politique d'elisabeth, tandis que la doctrine comme la discipline du concile de trente ne vous laisse rien à désirer, et conquiert déjà vos suffrages?... j'ose compter partant sur votre intérêt amical, et vous connoissez les sentimens sincères d'attachement et de respect avec lesquels je suis à jamais tout à vous, senfft. chapter xix. - . oxford commotions of - --mr. newman's retractation--correspondence of mr. newman and j. r. hope on the subject--mr. hope pleads for mr. macmullen--dr. pusey suspended for his sermon on the holy eucharist--seeks advice from mr. hope--mr. newman resigns st. mary's--correspondence of mr. newman and mr. hope on the 'lives of the english saints'--mr. ward's condemnation--mr. hope sees the 'shadow of the cross' through the press-- engaged with 'scripture prints,' 'pupilla oculi,' &c.--lady g. fullerton's recollections of j. r. hope--he proposes to make a retreat at littlemore. it results in general from the documents furnished in the preceding chapter, that mr. hope's confidence in the anglican church had sustained a severe shock by the jerusalem bishopric movement; and from about the year he seems to have thrown himself with increasing energy into his professional occupations, not certainly as becoming less religious (for his was a mind never tempted to the loss of faith), but as being deprived of that scope which his convictions had formerly presented to him in the pursuit of ecclesiastical objects. it seems probable, also, that the same cause was not unconnected with his entering, some years later, into the married life; the news of which step is known to have fallen like a knell on the minds of those who looked up to him and shared his religious feelings, as it appeared a sign that he no longer thought the ideal perfection presented by the celibate life--which he certainly contemplated in - --was congenial with the spirit of the church of england. that communion was now losing her hold upon him, though he still could not make up his mind to leave her, and might conceivably never have done so but for events which forced the change upon him at last. his professional career and his habits in domestic life will require to be separately described; for, though of course they proceeded simultaneously with a large part of that phase of his existence which is now before us, it would only confuse the reader to pass continually from one to the other. i propose, therefore, without any interruption that can be avoided, to go on with the history of his religious development up to the period of his conversion. the year , commencing, as we have seen, with the storms of the jerusalem bishopric movement and the poetry professorship contest, agitated also, towards the end of may, by a movement for the repeal of the statute of censure against dr. hampden, passed off, for the rest, quietly enough-- at least, mr. hope's correspondence shows little to the contrary; but was marked by much disturbance, commencing early with mr. newman's 'retractation,' which the great leader announced to mr. hope in the following letter a few days before that document appeared in the 'conservative journal:'-- _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ littlemore: in fest. conv. s. pauli, . my dear hope,--in return for your announcement of some change of purpose, i must tell you of one of my own, in a matter where i told you i was going to be very quiet. my conscience goaded me some two months since to an act which comes into effect, i believe, in the _conservative journal_ next saturday, viz. to eat a few dirty words of mine. i had intended it for a time of peace, the beginning of december, but against my will and power the operation has been delayed, and now, unluckily, falls upon the state of irritation and suspicion in good anglicans, which bernard smith's step [footnote: the conversion of the rev. bernard smith, fellow of magdalen college, oxford.] has occasioned. i had committed myself when all was quiet. the meeting of parliament will, i hope, divert attention. ever yrs, john h. newman. p.s.--i am publishing my univ. sermons. you got a headache for _one_-- it would be an act of gratitude to send you _all_. shall i do so? _j. r. hope, esq. to the rev. j. h. newman._ stone buildings, linc. inn: feast of purification [feb. ], ' . dear newman,--you will think me ungracious for having so long delayed my answer to your last, but i did not get hold of the _conservative journal_ till monday, and have been very busy since. perhaps you will like to know what effect your article has produced on me. simply this: it has convinced me that you are clearing your position of some popular protections which still surrounded it. beyond this i do not see. i mean it does not show me that, esoterically, you have made any great move, nor yet that, to the world at large, you are disposed to do more than say, 'do not cry me up as a champion against popery; for the rest, you may judge of me as you please.' people whom i have heard speak of it (few, perhaps, but fair samples) are rather puzzled than anything else. i give you this merely as gossip, and not as asking whether my construction is right, though if you think it material or useful to tell me, of course i shall be glad. i need not say that i shall be very thankful for a copy of your sermons-- that is, if you will write my name in it yourself; otherwise i will buy the book, for rivington's 'from the author' does not fix the stamp which i chiefly value. do you observe in the papers that sir r. p. is designing _great_ things for the church? it gives me some hopes that they will also be _good_, to see that gladstone is in his councils. we shall have much ado about the eccl. courts bill, which, i believe, is certainly to come on. i am in some hopes we may make it an instrument for drawing a line between us and the dissenters, but must not be sanguine. believe me, dear newman, ever yrs truly, james r. hope. rev. j. h. newman. mr. newman wrote in explanation as follows:-- _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ littlemore: february , . my dear hope,--it is amusing in me to talk of being tired of giving explanations, when i have neither given nor mean to give any; but so it is, whether my hand aches, or i am sick of the subject, i feel as if i have given a hundred. since you ask me, i will say, as far as i can collect my thoughts on an instant, that my reason for writing and publishing that notice was (but first i will observe that i do not wish it talked about, though it is not worth while going into the reasons why i did it in the way i have. i did it thus after a good deal of thought and fidget, and not seeing any better way, _i.e._ clearer of objections)--but my reason for the _thing_ was my long-continued feeling of the great inconsistency i was in of letting things stand in print against me which i did not hold, and which i could not but be contradicting by my acting every day of my life. and more especially (_i.e._ it came home to me most vividly in that particular way) i felt that i was _taking people_ in; that they thought me what i was not, and were trusting me when they should not, and this has been at times a very painful feeling indeed. i don't want to be trusted (perhaps you may think my fear, even before this affair, somewhat amusing); but so it was and is; people _won't_ believe i go as far as i do--they will cling to their hopes. and then, again, intimate friends have almost reproached me with 'paltering with them in a double sense, keeping the word of promise to their ear, to break it to their hope.' they have said that my words against rome often, when narrowly examined, were only what _i_ meant, but that the effect of them was what _others_ meant. i am not aware that i have any great motive for this paper beyond this--setting myself right, and wishing to be seen in my proper colours, and not unwilling to do such penance for wrong words as lies in the necessary criticism which such a retractation will involve on the part of friends and enemies; though, since nothing one does is without a meaning [that is, higher than one's own], things may come from it beyond my own meaning. thanks for ... the information from newspapers, which you give me, of our hopes from sir r. p., which i had not seen in them. by-the-bye, in the paper, for 'person's respect' near the end, read 'persons i respect;' and 'to the editor' is fudge. ever yours, j. h. newman. p.s.--thanks for your flattering answers about my book. it must go, however, from rivington's with 'from the author,' and i will add my own writing when we meet. since you have had a specimen of the book (dose?), i may add, in opposition to you, that it will be the best, not the most perfect, book i have done. i mean there is more to develop in it, though it is _im_perfect. [footnote: a week later (february , ) he writes to mr. hope: 'my university sermons are the least theological book i have published.'] the famous case of macmullen _versus_ hampden was disturbing the university for most of the latter half of the same year . i can only give a mere chronological outline of it, which may assist such readers as wish to pursue the subject in consulting other sources of information. the regius professor of divinity, dr. hampden, had refused to act as moderator in the schools, to enable the rev. e. g. macmullen, fellow of corpus christi college, to make his exercises for the degree of b.d. [mr. macmullen, it should be remarked, was a strong opponent of the project at that time before the university, mentioned a few pages back, to reverse the condemnation which had been passed on dr. hampden when he was first appointed regius professor of divinity.] mr. macmullen, on this refusal, brought an action into the vice-chancellor's court on may , , where, on june , dr. kenyon of all souls' presiding, mr. hope appeared for mr. macmullen, dr. twiss on the other side. dr. kenyon pronounced in his favour on certain amended articles. dr. twiss appealed to the delegates of congregation (none of them lawyers), who heard the appeal on november , sitting from ten in the morning till seven at night. mr. erle and dr. twiss both spoke against the articles, and were replied to by mr. hope. the court ultimately gave judgment against the articles, reversing dr. kenyon's decision, and gave costs against mr. macmullen. [footnote: for this outline of the proceedings in macmullen _v_. hampden, i am indebted to accurate memoranda kindly furnished me by mr. david lewis, late fellow of jesus college, oxford.] mr. badeley's bitter comment will amuse the reader: 'mischievous idiots! and so all the conclusive arguments you put before them, are set at nought, and the battle is to be fought again!' [footnote: mr. badeley to mr. hope, january , ] however, there was no further litigation, and in the end mr. macmullen succeeded in obtaining his degree, the old form of disputations for that purpose being restored, which has ever since been in force. it should be added that mr. hope's services in this case, undertaken amidst all the pressure of his ordinary legal work, were gratuitous. in the summer of took place another critical moment of the strife in dr. pusey's suspension from preaching, by sentence of the vice-chancellor's court, for his sermon 'on the holy eucharist a comfort to the penitent.' in the question of his appeal against this, which was matter of anxiety for more than a twelvemonth, it is almost needless to say that he sought the advice of mr. hope. the everett affair, on commemoration day (june ), will have its place in every chronicle of the movement. this was a protest on the part of members of the tractarian party against an honorary degree conferred in the teeth of a demand for scrutiny (which, however, it was asserted had not been heard in the din), on the american envoy, mr. everett, who was a unitarian. mr. hope, however, was not present; and i mention this only as one of the many signs of the times which were then rapidly accumulating. nor did he take any part in the opposition made in the following year to dr. symonds' election as vice-chancellor, though he was consulted, in the law of the case, with mr. badeley and dr. bayford. it ended in a crushing defeat of the tractarians, who were beaten by a majority of against . in september mr. newman resigned the vicarage of st. mary's. on this step mr. hope, writing to him on september , says that he had not differed from him about it, but, 'as to the general tendency of which you described the increase [mr. newman's expression (september ) was: 'the movement is going on so fast that some of the wheels are catching fire'], all i can do is to sit still and wait the issue.' the 'lives of the english saints' were at this time in preparation, the importance of which in the history of the movement is too well known from cardinal newman's 'apologia' and from other sources to require me to enlarge upon it. at length there was no disguise or reservation, but sympathy was openly avowed by members of the anglican church for the whole spirit hitherto associated with the idea of 'the corruptions of popery'--as monasticism, the continued exercise of miraculous power in the church, finally, the supremacy of the holy see. from a copious correspondence which followed between the two friends, i extract, as usual, such portions as will throw most light on the progressive change in mr. hope's religious convictions. his sense of prudence, and the bias derived from his particular legal studies, restrain, rather curiously, the inclination which his feelings in other directions show; but it is best to let him speak for himself:--_the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq_. littlemore: nov. , ' . my dear hope,--[after stating the perplexity he felt on the question of stopping the 'lives,' which appeared to present itself in consequence of an objection expressed by dr. pusey, in conversation with mr. hope, against the roman tone which had been manifested, mr. newman continues:] i did not explain to you sufficiently the state of mind of those who are in danger. i only spoke of those who are convinced that our church was external to the church catholic, though they felt it unsafe to trust their own private convictions. and you seemed to put the dilemma, 'either men are in doubt or not: if in doubt, they ought to be quiet; if not in doubt, how is it that they stay with us?' but there are two other states of mind which might be mentioned. . those who are unconsciously near rome, and whose _despair_ about our church, if anyhow caused, would at once develop into a state of conscious approximation and _quasi_-resolution to go over. . those who feel they can with a safe conscience remain with us, _while_ they are allowed to testify in behalf of catholicism, and to promote its interests; _i.e_. as if by such acts they were putting our church, or at least a portion of it, in which they are included, in the position of catechumens. they think they may stay, while they are moving themselves, others, nay, say the whole church, towards rome. is not this an intelligible ground? i should like your opinion of it.... ever yours sincerely, john h. newman. _j. r. hope, esq. to the rev. j. h. newman_. stone buildings, linc. inn: nov. , ' . dear newman,--... as to the roman leaning, no doubt your 'lives,' at least many of them, must evince it; no doubt also that, unless carefully managed, it will give offence. but may not caution obviate the latter? is it not possible to _commence_ by lives which will not at once bring the whole set into popular disrepute? the less palatable ones being kept for a more advanced stage. may it not also be provided that in an historical work, a purely historical character shall be given to what as matter of fact cannot be denied, and which can only be objected to when it is adopted by the writers as a matter of principle in which they themselves concur? to the asceticism, devotion, and anti-secular spirit of the english saints we are, under every point of view, entitled to refer; and if any part of these virtues was displayed in necessary relation to rome, or to roman institutions, this in a portraiture of their lives cannot be omitted, but certainly need not be canonised as amongst their merits. it seems to me possible simply to take the church of their times as _the_ church, without entering into the question whether any of the conditions under which it then existed are necessary for its existence now. and so their acts done in relation to the church of their day may be dwelt upon, while the further question whether the church of our day is capable of eliciting such acts may be left to the judgment of the reader. i am not sure that i have made myself intelligible in this, and still less whether it is worth your reading, but i fancied that you wished an opinion, and i give it, _valeat quantum_.... yrs ever truly, james r. hope. rev. j. h. newman. _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ littlemore: nov. , . my dear hope,-- ... you have not gone to the bottom of the difficulty. it is very easy to say, give facts without comment; but in the first place, what can be so dry as mere facts? the book won't sell, nor deserve to sell. it must be ethical; but to be ethical is merely to colour a narrative with one's own mind, and to give a _tone_ to it. now this is the difficulty, altering this or that passage, leaving out this or that expression, will not alter the case. i will not answer for being aware of the tone in myself. pusey put his finger on passages which i had not thought about. is he to be ever marking passages? if so, he has the real trouble of being editor, not i. _naturam expellas furca_, &c. is the pope's supremacy the only point on which no opinion is to be expressed? if so, why? it is not more against the articles to _desire_ it than to desire monachism. will it offend more than others? i will not limit certainly the degree of disgust which some people will feel towards it, but do they feel less towards the notion of monks, or, again, of miracles? now church history is made up of these three elements--miracles, monkery, popery. if any sympathetic feeling is expressed on behalf of the persons and events of church history, it is a feeling in favour of miracles, or monkery, or popery, one or all. it is quite a theory to talk of being ethical, yet not concur in these elements of the narrative--unless, indeed, one adopts milner's or neander's device of dropping part of the history, praising what one has a fancy for, and thus putting a theory and dream in the place of facts. but it is bad enough to be eclectic in _doctrine._ next it must be recollected how very much depends on the disposition, relative prominence, &c., of facts; it is quite impossible that a leaning to rome, a strong offensive leaning, should be hidden. and then still more it must be recollected that a _vast_ number of questions, and most important ones, are decided this way or that on antecedent probabilities, according to a person's views, _e.g._ the question between st. augustine and the british bishops--of easter--of king lucius, &c. &c. opinion comes in at every step of the history. from what i have said you will see that i consider it impossible to choose _easy_ 'lives' for the first of the series; there are none such, or if there be a few, when can i promise to have them ready? i suppose bede must be pretty easy. keble has it. i do not expect him to send it to me for several years, with his engagements. take missions, take bishops, the pope comes in everywhere. go to aldhelm and his schools; you have most strange miracles. try to retire into the country, you do but meet with hermits. no; miracles, monkery, popery, are too much for you, if you have any stomach.... the life p. looked at, st. stephen's, was taken as having hardly, if at all, any miracle in it. if he thinks it will give offence, doubtless the others will still more. you see, in saying all this i am not deciding the question whether the work is to be done _at all._ on that point i have had great doubt since p.'s objection. only to do it without offence is impossible, and the more so because, in parts at least, it is likely to be a very taking work.... and then so many 'lives' are in progress or preparation, that it is most unlikely the work will be stopped; others will conduct it instead of me who will go further; and though this is a bad reason for doing oneself what one feels a misgiving in doing, it is a good reason when one feels none at all.... if the plan is abandoned, this significant question will be, nay, is already asked--'what, then, cannot the anglican church bear the lives of her saints?' ever yrs, john h. newman. _j.r. hope, esq. to the rev. j.h. newman._ stone bdgs, linc. inn: nov. , ' . dear newman,--your last shows me plainly what i had not before understood, that the question of the 'lives' depends immediately upon that larger one which your previous letter had mooted, and that to solve it one must know more than i do of the conclusions at which you have arrived as to the claims of rome, and as to the mode, time, and circumstances in and under which those claims ought to be recognised. i feel therefore very incompetent to offer any further suggestion. when i last wrote i thought the questions separable, and meant that the roman parts of your histories should be treated dramatically (if i may so say), being represented really and faithfully, but only as the scenery in which the actors stood. your letter shows me that this cannot be, unless your writers have more self- command, and more disposition to exercise it than men in earnest can be expected to have. i must therefore ask, what is your general view as to rome? is union with it immediately _necessary_? or is it only _desirable_--under new circumstances and at some distant period? if the former, then one would think that the question should be openly and professedly discussed, the arguments given and the authorities stated. if the latter, i should imagine that much remains to be done, in the way of raising the general tone of our church in matters of faith and practice, before it can be fit to deal with such a question; and though you think monachism, miracles, and popery inseparably allied, yet i feel convinced that there are many minds prepared to consider the two former which have no disposition to the latter. on either view, then, i think that a work which is addressed only or principally to men's feelings would be mistimed--it would not convince of the necessity, and it would find but a small number of men disposed at present to give it their sympathy. there are, indeed, those other considerations which you mention respecting the minds which would find relief in being allowed to dwell upon the subject, and so might be the better persuaded to remain within our communion; but, on the other hand, there is the risk of provoking such conduct on the part of the bishops and others as would drive some out, and render the position of those who remained more difficult than ever. and surely it would be most unfair to take the measure of what the church of england allows on this or any other difficult point in theology from what might happen to be the view of men such as our present rulers, upon whom the whole question has come unawares, and whose prejudices upon this point in particular, backed by the secular policy of the state for years, would be pretty sure to lead them to some active, and probably united censure. i wish therefore, much, that minds of this class could be persuaded that it is not the church of england which they are testing, but a disorderly body which ten years ago did not know what it was, and is now only gradually becoming conscious; and that if they can satisfy themselves that the views they entertain are compatible with what they deem the true theory of the church of england, they would be content to hold them quietly for the present, and not risk themselves and others upon so doubtful a venture. this, i think, is all that i can say--being confessedly in the dark upon the most material points; but if you should think it useful either to myself or to others to give me a full statement you shall have my best judgment. your confidence i have no other claim upon than that which arises from my disposition to put confidence in you--to think that you know better than any one else the real difficulties of our present position, and that you can look at the remedy, however painful, firmly and practically. whatever, therefore, approves itself to you, i am anxious to know, as furnishing for myself, if not the best conclusion, yet the best hope of a conclusion--the best track into which to let my thoughts run. but beyond what you may think good for me in these respects i have no right to ask, and i do not ask for your thoughts. they probably would be above and beyond me, and the responsibility of knowing them would outweigh the use which i should be able to make of them. [footnote: to this letter of mr. hope's i do not find a reply of mr. newman's until november , when he apologises for having kept him in suspense, adding: 'so far from your not having written to the purpose, you laid down one proposition in which i quite acquiesce; that the subject of the supremacy of rome should be moved _argumentatively_, if at all. i felt i had gained something here, and rested upon it, and gave up answering you, as it turns out, selfishly.' at the end of the letter he says: 'as to myself, i don't like talking; when we meet we shall see how we feel about it.' his reserve may, i think, be safely accounted for by his great unwillingness that such a man as mr. hope should be swayed by him to an act to which, as yet, he himself did not feel himself called.] yrs ever truly, james r. hope. rev. j. h. newman. in a letter to mr. newman dated the following day, november , mr. hope criticises, on the side of caution, various passages in the 'life of st. stephen harding' (by mr. j. d. dalgairns, afterwards so well known as father dalgairns, of the london oratory), the first and most celebrated of the series, proofs of which mr. newman had sent to him for his opinion. these criticisms chiefly relate to expressions which might offend ordinary anglican readers, and which mr. hope proposed to soften. mr. newman in the end noted against almost all these expressions _stet_. he remarks to mr. hope (december ): 'it seemed to me that, considering the _tone_ of the whole composition, an alteration of the word (_e.g._) "merit" was like giving milk and water for a fit of the gout, while it destroyed its integrity, vigour--in a word, its go.' again: 'i am convinced that those passages are _not_ flying in people's faces, but are parts of a whole, and express ideas which cannot _otherwise_ be expressed.' these points were rather matter of prudence as viewed by mr. hope; on two others, touching the questions of 'exemptions' and 'impropriations,' mr. hope appears to have been himself unable to go along with the view of the writer of the 'life of st. stephen,' whom he considered to defend the _principles_ of exemption too far. mr. newman here conceded some alterations, which, however, i am unable to state, not having the proof before me, which mr. hope does not quote, but, as finally given, the passages referred to may be found in the 'life of st. stephen harding,' pp. - and . in the same letter of december mr. newman informs mr. hope that he had resolved on giving up the 'lives' as a series, and publishing such as were in type, or were written, as separate works. his comment on the motives which had led him to this decision is of great interest:-- i assure you, to find that the english church cannot bear the lives of her saints (for so i will maintain, in spite of gladstone, is the fact) does not tend to increase my faith and confidence in her. nor am i abandoning _publication_ because i abandon this particular measure. rather, i consider i have been silent now for several years on subjects of the day, and need not fear now to speak.... if these ['lives,' as separate works] gradually mount up to the fulness of such an idea as the 'lives of the saints' contemplated in process of time, well and good. he had said in a letter to mr. hope of december : 'g.'s remarks have shown me the _hopelessness_, by delay or any other means, of escaping the disapprobation of a number of persons whom i very much respect.' this was in reply to a letter of mr. hope's of the same day, which i found it difficult to introduce in its chronological order, and which may conveniently be placed here, as mr. hope in it clearly shows that his sympathies, notwithstanding his difficulties, went with the 'lives,' and, like himself, backs his moral support with open-handed liberality:-- _j. r. hope, esq. to the rev. j. h. newman._ dec. , ' . dear newman,--i enclose the proofs and gladstone's remarks. the great point made by him here, as elsewhere, at present, is non-estrangement from the existing ch. of e.; and in this many who are disposed to quarrel with the reformation are yet heartily disposed to join. in fact, i suppose it will shortly become, if it be not already, the symbol of a party. to that party i do not feel myself at all strongly drawn, and therefore do not sympathise in g.'s views about the _life_; but if his views be a fair representative of the best class of opinions such as i allude to, you may conclude that the high anglicans will be against you. of the middle and low there never, i suppose, was a doubt. for my own part, i read the sheets greedily, and felt that they took me back to subjects which were once much in my thoughts, and ought never to have got so far out of them as they have. nor was i at all put out by the general tone which seems to me inseparable from the subject; but here and there are passages which i think needlessly direct and pointed, so much so indeed as to appear, merely in point of composition, abrupt and wilful. these i think i could point out. g., you see, thinks his objections separable from the main design, which seems to me hardly possible--perhaps you will think the same of mine, but they relate only to isolated passages, and rather to giving them obliqueness than to changing them altogether. however, i do not mean to say that i could suggest anything which would obviate g[ladstone]'s difficulties, and these are, after all, your main subjects for consideration. what effect they will have upon you i cannot certainly conclude, but in case they should incline you either to delay or to total giving up, i have only to say that i shall be glad to contribute one or two hundred pounds towards defraying the expenses.... in fact, if upon any public eccl. grounds the work is to be delayed or not to go on, i cannot see that my money could be more fitly bestowed than in facilitating the arrangement. yours ever truly, james r. hope. rev. j. h. newman. no need was eventually found for the liberal offer with which the above letter concludes. the following letter, though rather a long one, is certainly not likely to fatigue the reader, and seems almost necessary to be given, in order to complete this part of my subject:-- _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq._ oriel college: dec. , . my dear hope,--you have not understood me about gladstone, doubtless through my own fault. the truth is, i am making a great concession--not to him, but to my respectful feelings towards him. i thought you could see it, and only feared you would think it greater than it really was. so i tried to put you on your guard. . i withdraw _my name_ from _any plan_. this is no slight thing. i have frequent letters from people i do not know on the subject of the lives of the saints, and doubt not it is raising much talk and interest. a name always gives point to an undertaking--considering my connection with the tracts of the times, it would especially to this. you yourself and badeley (whom, please, thank for some kind trouble he has been at about a book for me) said, 'delay the plan, _for_ you will be putting _yourself_ at the head of the extreme party--the b[ritish] c[ritic] having stopped:' now, i am more than _delaying_, i am withdrawing my name. i am sure this is a great thing, even though my initials occurred to this or that life. . i have given up continuity, and that certain and promised. pp. were to come out every month, and the work was to go on to the end, except as unforeseen accidents interfered (as they have). now we know how difficult it is to keep people up to their work. the work is now left to the unpledged zeal of individuals. and there will be nothing methodical or periodical in it to force itself upon people. i do consider, then, i have given up a very great deal. but what i have not given up is the _wish_ that the work should be done; only i have put it under great disadvantages--so great that i do not think it ever will be done--at the utmost fragments will be done--and that without method, precision, unity, and a name. and why have i done this? . sincerely because i thought both by heading it and by giving it system i should be administering a continual blister to the kind feelings towards me, and the conscientious views of persons i respect as i do g. i assure you it is no pleasant thing to me to lose their good opinion, tho' i can't expect much to keep it. . i fear to put up something the bishops may aim at. i may be charged at, as the tracts have been. then j. should be in a very false position. i must move forward or backward, and i dread compulsory moves. . what is the most immediate and practical point, i don't think i could get a publisher to take on him the _expense_ of a _series_, but few people would dread the risk of a single life of one or two hundred pages. accordingly, i think i shall publish the one of which you saw a bit at once, to see whether it sells. that i shall to a certain extent be connected with it, and that i shall aim at making it a series, is certain; and this, as i said, was my reason for warning you that i was not giving way to g. so fully as i appeared to be. ever yrs affly, j. h. newman. p.s.--... what set me most urgently on my present notice was that _i could not help it_. though i gave up my series, which i wished to do, _lives remained_, written or printed, or promised, _which would appear anyhow_, or scarcely could not. the great event connected with the movement in was the publication of ward's 'ideal of a christian church,' which at first caused less excitement than might have been expected, at least in london. thus mr. badeley writes to mr. hope (october ), 'ward's book passes very quietly here at present;' and again (november ), 'the book here makes very little noise.' but meanwhile the heads of houses were moving at oxford, and on february , , a memorable day, the book was condemned, and its author deprived of his degrees by the house of convocation. mr. hope was absent on the continent at the beginning of the strife, to which his letters do not contain much allusion. perhaps the same motives of caution upon which he objected to the 'strong meat' of the 'lives of the english saints' would have led him to similar views as to the extreme unreserve of the 'ideal.' when, however, the question of mr. ward's condemnation came on, he voted against it, as he was sure to have done if he voted at all. it is hardly necessary to remind the reader that on the same occasion it was proposed to pass a censure on no. ; but this was vetoed by the proctors, and consequently never came to the vote. i find the following draft of an address of thanks to the proctors in mr. gladstone's hand, and with the subjoined signatures and date in mr. hope's, among the hope-scott papers:-- we the u.s. m. of c., understanding that you have resolved to put your negative upon the proposal relating to the ninetieth tract in convocation on thursday, the th instant, beg leave to tender to you our cordial thanks for a determination which we consider to have been demanded by the principles of our academical constit^n. w. e. g. manning and self. feby. , ' . j. r. h. as far as regards mr. gladstone, this ought to be compared with a correspondence in the oakeley case, which will be found cited _infra_, p. . to the earlier part of the period now before us belongs some very kind service rendered by mr. hope to his dear friend the rev. w. adams, fellow of merton, and perpetual curate of st. peter's-in-the-east, oxford, in seeing through the press his celebrated allegory, 'the shadow of the cross,' on which there is a rather full correspondence extant ( - ), but of more special interest as connected with mr. adams' biography than his own, except so far as it proves the affectionate intimacy which subsisted between them. one letter of later date (december , ) is endorsed in mr. hope-scott's handwriting:--'william adams, r. i. p. sub 'umbra crucis.' j. r. h. s. .' the work was published for the christian knowledge society, of the committee of which mr. hope at the time was still a member. in connection with the same society mr. hope undertook a serial work, already alluded to (which was in course of publication in ), consisting of engravings from scripture subjects, in a high style of art, from the cartoons of raphael in the loggia of the vatican. mr. hope was strongly impressed with the utility of such a work for directing and elevating the taste of the humbler classes and of schools generally, and he expended large sums of money in bringing this out. it was published in numbers containing six plates each, under the superintendence of professor gruner, afterwards director of the department of engravings at the royal museum at dresden, and prepared by signor corsini, a distinguished roman draughtsman. mr. hope-scott, indeed, did not carry on the work after the first five numbers (a large and costly business, however), and it was completed by mr. gruner alone, who published it under the title of 'scripture prints from the frescoes of raphael in the vatican,' edited by louis gruner, &c. (london: houlston and wright, ). mr. hope-scott continued his benefactions to the society for the propagation of the gospel for several years later than the time now before us. i find a donation of _l_. under his name in the year . he had given _l_. in november to the college chapel at harrow weald. another undertaking of some importance in which he took great interest in those days, relating both to literature and religion, was the 'anglia christiana,' a series of the monuments of english history, which was publishing in - . only three volumes of it came out--'chronicon monasterii de bello' (battle abbey), giraldus cambrensis 'de institutione principis,' and 'liber eliensis.' mr. hope much wished to have had included in the list the work called 'pupilla oculi,' a treatise on moral theology by john de burgh, chancellor of the university of cambridge about the year , which was much in use among the clergy before the reformation. mr. david lewis, of jesus college (as a catholic so well known for his admirable translations of the works of st. john of the cross and of st. teresa), collated the text for him, but i believe it was never published. i find in the badeley correspondence a very interesting letter of mr. hope's dated february , , about the 'pupilla oculi,' its history and authority. the book had been cited by mr. badeley in the court of queen's bench, and by others in the house of lords, in the case of the queen v. willis. lord lyndhurst and some of the judges objected to its value as evidence on the ground of its contradicting the common law on the question of legitimation by subsequent marriage. mr. hope discusses the subject in a masterly style: i must refrain from quoting such merely antiquarian or legal matter for its own sake, yet will subjoin some paragraphs of the letter which illustrate the line taken by him as a lawyer at that time on the important point of the relations of church and state:-- there can be, i think, little doubt that in old times the distinction between church and state was one of jurisdictions rather than of laws. i mean that each was supposed to have its proper subject-matter of legislation as well as of judicial inquiry. where the subject-matter was conceded to the church altogether, there the church law prevailed absolutely; where the subject-matter was of mixed cognizance, there the church law was modified by the common or the statute law; where the subject was altogether lay, there both the laws and the tribunals of the church were silenced. when, therefore, we would ascertain whether the law of the church is to govern a given subject, we must first ascertain how far it was of the exclusive cognizance of the church; and, if we find that it was principally but not exclusively of ecclesiastical cognizance, how far the common law interfered to modify the ecclesiastical laws by which it was to be determined. now, in the case before us, this much, i think, must be admitted, viz. that marriage, as a sacrament, was exclusively subject to the ecclesiastical jurisdiction; and, therefore, that whatever view the common law might entertain as to the consequence to be attached to this or that form of it, the essence of the sacrament itself was determinable by the doctrine of the church, and by that alone. but if this was so, then whatever was accepted by the church of england as to the essence of marriage must necessarily be allowed to have been the common law upon that point, i.e. there could be no other law by which it could be decided. granting, therefore, that j. de burgh, or any other ecclesiastical writer, has laid down rules upon subjects of mixed jurisdiction which the common law disallows, it by no means follows that his authority is to be slighted where he speaks of matters that were exclusively ecclesiastical. indeed, the opposition of the common law upon given points, e.g. the legitimation by subsequent marriage, gives a pregnant meaning to its silence upon others. i find that in the autumn of that year ( ) mr. hope spent some time in making researches into the records at york connected with the law of marriage. in a letter to mr. badeley (september ) he says, 'at york i was successful in finding a variety of matrimonial causes, from a.d. downwards, which i think illustrate the right view of the question. the records there abound in well-preserved forms of proceeding, and it was with regret that i gave up further investigations. the labour, however, of reading and transcribing extracts was occasionally harder than suits holiday work.' in the same letter he speaks with much pleasure of a day spent at burton agnes with archdeacons e. wilberforce, manning, &c., and as particularly indebted to the archbishop of york and his family for the reception they gave him. the correspondence, indeed, affords a gracious epistle from the archbishop himself (then nearly eighty-six years of age) to mr. hope, dated trentham, september , , in which, after expressing his high satisfaction at some legal advice which he had received from him, he goes on to say:-- i have only to add that nothing could gratify us more than your having occasion--and the sooner the better--to refer again to the york archives for any purpose whatever; 'provided always, and be it hereby enacted, that such reference be had during the period of the archbishop's annual residence at bishopthorpe.' ever truly yrs, e. ebor. it may here be permitted me to quote a few lines from memoranda about mr. hope, kindly written at the request of one of his nearest relatives by a lady whose genius as well as catholic feeling especially fitted her to preserve those traces which i am sure no reader would wish should be allowed to fade away. they afford at once a proof that when doubts as to his religious position were approaching their most painful stage, he never allowed them to interfere with those duties of religion which are binding on all intellectual states alike, and they present a glimpse both of his appearance and manner at that date which will greatly assist the reader in forming an idea of him. i think it was in that i first saw your dear brother in margaret street chapel, the favourite place of worship of the puseyites in those days, and noticed him and his friend mr. badeley walking away together, and was more struck with his appearance than with that of any other person i have ever seen before or since.... it is only in pictures that i have ever seen anything equalling, and never anything surpassing, what was, at the time i am speaking of, the ideal beauty of his face and figure. during the next two years i used often to see him at margaret street chapel, and i may say that his recollection in prayer and unaffected devotion made a strong impression upon me. having been very little in england since my childhood, it was quite a new thing to me to see a layman in the anglican church so devout, but without a tinge of fanaticism or apparent excitement. in i made acquaintance with mr. hope, and met him occasionally in society. he was all that his appearance would have led one to expect; the charm of his manner enhanced the effect of his conversational powers. [footnote: lady georgiana fullerton to lady henry kerr, may [ ].] i have not found any record of mr. hope's personal religious state about that time, like the diaries of his earlier manhood. he writes, however, to mr. newman on march , (from lincoln's inn): 'if i can manage it, i should much like to spend passion week at or near oxford. could you let me into the guest-chamber at littlemore?' mr. newman (march ) writes in reply that the guest-chamber was quite at his service, but adds: 'pray do not fancy us in such a state that we can profess a retreat, or any one here able to conduct one.' in another letter mr. newman acknowledges 'a splendid benefaction' of mr. hope's to the house of littlemore. chapter xx. - . mr. hope's tour on the continent in --visit to munich--dr. pusey's 'library of roman catholic works'--dr. pusey and the spiritual exercises-- his opinion of the discipline--mr. hope's visit to tetschen in --count leo thun and his friends--mr. hope's interview with prince metternich--the hon. sir r. gordon, ambassador at vienna--visit to prince palffy and to prince lichtenstein--the hungarian diet at presburg--letter of manzoni to j. r. hope--visit to rome--bishop grant and mr. hope--mr. hope resigns chancellorship of salisbury--dr. pusey and the stone altar case--mr. oakeley and mr. hope--scottish episcopalian church and its office--mr. gladstone endeavours to hold mr. hope back--proposes tour in ireland-- conversion of mr. newman--mr. hope on the essay on development--letter of mr. newman to j. r. hope from rome--reopening of correspondence with mr. newman. at the end of august or beginning of september mr. hope set out for a tour on the continent, accompanied by mr. badeley. of the earlier days of it i have no information, but they parted at heidelberg about september , mr. badeley for the rhine country and belgium, mr. hope for munich. by this time, as has already been evident, he was deeply engaged in professional pursuits, and his health had begun to suffer from his unremitting labours. several passages might be quoted from the letters of his intimate friends, showing the anxiety they felt on the subject. some real relaxation, however, had at last become necessary; and it would appear that he rather wished to leave the turmoil of the movement, as well as business, behind him. in a letter of mr. badeley's to him, dated brussels, september , the following sentence occurs:--'if you like to see what is going on in this [the affair of opposing dr. symonds' election as vice-chancellor at oxford] and in church matters, i will send you the "english churchman;" but as you said "no," when we parted, i forbear to forward any papers till further orders.' afterwards, however, 'after all,' he asks mr. badeley to send it. on his way to munich, mr. hope stopped at augsburg, where 'of course he visited butsch the bookseller,' buys a copy of the 'summa divi thomae aquinatis,' and sees _some_ good books which he did not want. at munich, where he arrived on september , rooms were provided for him at the austrian legation by the kindness of his friend count senfft. these particulars i take from a letter of his to mr. badeley, dated munich, september , and subjoin some further details in full:-- d[öllinger] is, i think, remarkably well, and i am more struck with him than ever. i found him already deep in ward's book, with which he is much struck. i have already had some interesting conversation with him, and anticipate more. he is rector elect of the university, and highly spoken of by all i see. my new acquaintances consist of the papal nuntius viale, a very striking person, professor walther, the canonist, and some intelligent bavarians. i am to visit görres this evening.... there is an english service here very decently and nicely performed by mr. de coetlogon, a man in scotch orders, and the chapel is a modest but respectable room.... i ask hard questions upon marriage, and receive very doubtful answers; but i am resolved, if possible, to get some definite information from the best sources in germany. the following letter, connected with this tour of mr. hope's, is also very instructive as to a particular phase of the movement:-- _the rev. dr. pusey to j. r. hope, esq._ my dear hope,--i have no news as yet to communicate to you, except that some few are taking up ye matter of ye v. c. in rt earnest, and so i suppose it will be a pitched battle, and we shall win at last, even if but a handful as yet. i have or commissions for you, wh will not occupy your time, and wh will, i hope, be a subject of interest to you. it is for my little library of r. c. works. the perplexity is to find out ye best books upon difft subjects, for i cannot read all. the general class is, as you know, ascetic books, books of guidance, wh shall give people knowledge of self, enable us to guide consciences, build people up in ye higher life, force them to mental prayer, or give them subjects of meditation in it, the spiritual life, xtian perfection, holy performance of ordinary actions, love of god, or any xtian graces in detail, devotions, books on holy seasons--in a word, anything in practical theology in its widest range, or, again, cases of conscience. i have learnt more or less as to french & spanish, & some latin works, but of italian i know those only of scupoli, and of german absolutely nothing. the only books i have seen are some sermons by sailer, wh, altho' clear and energetic, contain nothing wh one did not know before; they have nothing to build people up with. i shd be glad also of any information on a subject wh i know drew yr thoughts when you were last abroad--the system as to retreats. i saw a book,' manuale dell' esercitatori,' but i shd be very glad of any information or any guidance. if it wd not occupy you too much, i shd be much obliged to you to procure on my account any practical works wh mt be recommended. perhaps also dr. döllinger could give you some information as to s. ignatius loyola, 'exercitia spiritualia,' for they seem to have been so often re-moulded, that there is some difficulty to ascertain ( ) what is ye genuine form, or at least to obtain a copy, ( ) whether any other re- casting of it be found easier to use. i trust these inquiries will not be so much an encumbrance to you, as lead you to happy subjects and more acquaintance with happy-making books. god bless you ever. yrs affectionately, e. b. pusey. christ church: september , . [p.s.] there is yet a subject on wh i shd like to know more, if you fall in with persons who have ye guidance of consciences,--what penances they employ for persons whose temptations are almost entirely spiritual, of delicate frames often, and who wish to be led on to perfection. i see in a spiritual writer that even for such, corporal severities are not to be neglected, but so many of them are unsafe. i suspect ye 'discipline' to be one of ye safest, and with internal humiliation the best.... cd you procure and send me one by b.? what was described to me was of a very sacred character; cords, each with knots, in memory of ye wounds of our lord.... i shd be glad to know also whether there were any cases in wh it is unsafe, e.g. in a nervous person. on october mr. hope left munich to pay a visit at tetschen, the seat of his friends the thun family (described vol. i. p. ), taking ratisbon and other places in his way. at tetschen, where he stayed from october to , he found a sad blank in the recent death of the countess thun. from an interesting letter to lady hope (dated vienna, october , ) which furnishes these dates, i transcribe also the following particulars:-- countess anna is still in very uncertain health.... the count himself seems to have rallied lately, but it will be long before he gets over his loss. the second daughter, countess inza, seems to be now the stay of the family. of the sons, only francis, the eldest, was at home. he is devoted to art, and has besides abundance of business in the management of the estates which his father has made over to him, and with various charitable societies at prague, in which he and his family are interested. from tetschen i went to prague, with count joseph thun, a cousin, with his wife and two sons. at prague i spent sunday, monday, and tuesday, in constant admiration of the town, to which i did not do justice when i was last there. it is really beautiful, and, out of italy, i think edinburgh alone equal to it, of all the towns which i have seen. with tetschen for summer, and prague for winter, i think the thuns have two as charming residences as could be found. on tuesday evening [oct. ] i left for königsgrätz, a provincial town, where leo thun, the youngest, is officially employed. he is a noble fellow, and has devoted himself for years to the details of business, with a view to becoming useful to bohemia, to which he is very much attached. he is also prominent among the revivers of the bohemian language and literature, which is sclavonic, and has thus become well known in germany, as well as in hungary and other countries where there are sclavonic tribes. the movement is in a political sense important, as well as influential upon manners and modes of thinking, and it has already excited a good deal of discussion and some animosity. it would take too much time, however, to explain what i have learnt of its bearings. with leo i spent two very agreeable days, and have had much to talk about, as i had not seen him since i was last in bohemia. i was introduced to the _notables_ of the place, his _chef_ and the commander of the garrison (an old irish officer of the name of fitzgerald), and saw his mode of life, which to a man with plenty of employment must be convenient, though not very amusing. from königsgrätz i started on thursday night, and arrived here [vienna] on saturday week, the th [oct.], and took up my abode at the same inn with fritz thun, the diplomat, who was here on his way from turin, which he has now left for prague. you will remember how pleasant a person he is, and will be glad to hear that his professional prospects are excellent, as he is in high favour with prince metternich, to whom he was strongly recommended by schwartzenberg, his last _chef_. one of my first acts was to call on sir r. gordon [the british ambassador], who has been _most_ kind, giving me dinner as often as i can go to him, and assisting me in everything. on the evening of my arrival he took me to prince metternich, when i had the honour of a conversation with the great man. george was remembered by him and his daughter, and by the countess zichy, the princess's mother, and i was very kindly received by them all. palmerston was expected here, and the prince told sir r. gordon that, if he came, i should be invited to meet him at dinner; but unluckily he has changed his plans, so that i shall not see him and metternich together, which would have been a great sight. i gave sir robert your good account of lady alicia,[footnote: sister of the earl of aberdeen and of sir r. gordon, died .] and beg that you will in return tell her that sir r. is very flourishing, and that in my opinion he is a very magnificent ambassador, and, what is better, a very kind one. his establishment is admirably _monté_, and i found in françois a friend of the hope family in general. george's letters of introduction i duly received. schwartzenberg is not here, but i have seen esterhazy, who has asked me to his country place, about three hours' drive from vienna.... besides the people i have named, i have seen others, to whom i get access through count senfft, among whom is the dowager duchess of anhalt-cöthen, a natural sister of the king of prussia, and a clever woman.... your affect. son, james r. hope. mr. hope was unable to accept the invitation of prince esterhazy, in consequence of an engagement to visit another hungarian magnate, prince palffy. the latter visit, with various other interesting details, is recorded in the following letter:-- _j. r. hope, esq., to edward l. badeley, esq._ vienna: nov. , . dear badeley,--[after giving some account of his visit at tetschen, mr. hope goes on to mention his interview with prince metternich.] prince metternich honoured me with a conversation of some ten minutes or so, and which would probably have been both longer and more interesting but for the intrusion of a german who chose to thrust himself upon us. he spoke of some points of commercial and manufacturing interest, and pleased me very much by the simplicity of his manner. by means of letters which count senfft gave me i have also become acquainted with several of the persons who are known as active friends of the r. c. _high_ church party; but i do not know very much of them, and of the vienna clergy nothing at all.... on sunday, the th [oct.], i started for my promised visit to prince palffy at malatzka, and arrived there in a few hours. the house resembles most of those one sees abroad, built round a court, with long passages, white exterior, &c., and, as the country round it is very flat and sandy, it cannot be called a very interesting place. it was, however, my first resting-place in hungary, and as such, an object of curiosity to me. besides which, i found in it a hearty welcome, and a large family party, which gave me a good idea of the society of the upper class. the prince is an extensive landowner, holding it all in his own hands (as is generally if not universally the case, both in bohemia and hungary), and working it by the tributary labour of the peasants, who, besides a small money payment, contribute labour for a certain number of days in each year. with the obligation of this quittance, the latter class hold in fee the cottages and plots of land which they occupy, and appear to be a thriving and comfortable race. they are, however, exclusively the tax-payers, as the nobles are still free from all imposts. an effort has indeed been made lately, which has partially succeeded, to tax the nobles; and it is probable that amid the numerous reforms of the hungarian diet, this will eventually be fully carried out. our mode of life at malatzka was to rise when we chose, breakfast in our own rooms, to meet at half-past twelve for luncheon, then to go out, and to dine at six, and to spend the evening in the drawing-room. coursing, a badger-hunt, and an expedition to a property of the prince's at the foot of the carpathians, constituted my out-of-door amusements; and of these, the last at least was very interesting. i saw an immense tract of wood and pasture, a herd of wild oxen, sheep innumerable, a curious stalactite grotto, and an hungarian farmhouse. from malatzka i went, furnished with letters, to the seat of prince liechtenstein in moravia--eisgrüb. he is one of the richest men in the austrian dominions, having possessions in moravia, bohemia, and hungary, and several houses in vienna. a great sportsman, and in this point, at least, a great imitator of english manners. the house at which i was is a summer residence, with very fine pleasure-grounds, park, &c.; but he has an autumn château not far off, which i also visited, and which is a fine specimen of foreign country architecture. everything about him seemed to teem with expense and luxury, which, although probably not greater than what is to be found in the residences of english noblemen, appears greater from its contrast with the rudeness and simplicity of the general condition of the country. these great nobles seem, in fact, to combine the most striking points of barbarism and civilisation, and to turn them both to their enjoyment. i stayed only one day at eisgrüb, though i had pressing invitations to remain longer; but i was anxious to go to presburg to see the diet, and so returned to malatzka, which i left again the next morning, saturday, nd nov., for the seat of the hungarian parliament. at presburg i spent four days. the place itself is uninteresting, though there are points of beauty about it; but it contains at this moment some of the most turbulent politicians in the world; and their movements are of considerable importance as well to the twelve million souls who constitute the population of hungary, as to the integrity of the austrian empire. i should write a book were i to tell you all i have heard from different quarters upon this question; but this much seems certain--that hungary is in a state of violent transition, and that in a few years its internal condition and perhaps its relations to the austrian monarchy will have undergone a complete revolution. sir r. gordon gave me a letter to an englishman who is employed by the british embassy to attend the sittings of the diet; and by his kindness i was enabled to make acquaintance with many of the most distinguished men. i was also present at several debates in the two chambers of the diet, and though (the language being hungarian) i could not understand a word, yet it was most interesting to watch the proceedings of this magyar parliament, in which freedom of speech exists as fully as in any assembly in the world. the members all attend in hungarian costume, which, on common occasions, consists of a laced surtout coat, a cap, and a sword. they speak from their places and without notes. each member may speak as often as he pleases, and some take advantage of the privilege to a somewhat formidable extent. there seemed to be much fluency and not a little action; but the management of the voice was bad, and energy seemed to pass at once into violence. though party runs high, organisation is very little understood, and business is transacted both slowly and with very uncertain results. they have the misfortune of all foreign constitutional states, that of desiring to imitate england, i.e. to do in a few years, and designedly, what the accidents of centuries have produced with us. there is, however, no lack either of talent or courage, and one governing mind might make hungary a nation. it is immensely rich in natural productions, and wants only a market to have a great trade. this they are well disposed to establish with england, and i hope they may succeed; but austria has interests which i fear may render this difficult. in both chambers the clergy are represented: in that of the magnates by the bishops; in the lower house by deputies of the chapters. to the primate i was introduced at one of his public entertainments. he is said to have or , _l_. per ann., and his personal carriage as well as his establishment are quite becoming his station. i made acquaintance also with the archbishop of erlau, a poet and a man of taste and learning, but victim to the tic douloureux. lastly, with the bishop of csanad (mgr. lonowics), who has charmed me. he is well read, in english as well as other literature and history, and is as kind-hearted and christian a man as i ever met with. indeed, i shall be tempted to visit hungary again, if it is only to spend a day or two with him. in the meantime we have established a mutual book- relation. he is to send me works on hungarian ecclesiastical law, addressed to stewart, and i have promised to send him some things which i beg you will at once see to. [mr. hope mentions winkle's 'cathedrals;' ward's 'ideal;' newman's last vol. of 'sermons;' the 'life of st. stephen;' oakeley's 'life of st. austin;' and his own pamphlet 'on the jerusalem bishopric.'] yours ever truly, james r. hope. on november we find mr. hope at milan, where he mentions having seen his old acquaintances, manzoni and vitali. the following letter will show how much he had impressed the former, brief as their communications had been:-- _alessandro manzoni to j. r. hope, esq._ milan: mai, . monsieur et respectable ami,--je profite de l'occasion que me présente mon ancien et intime ami, m. le baron trechi, pour me rappeler à votre bon souvenir.... agréez mes remercîments bien vifs et bien sincères pour les _scripture prints_ que mr. lewis gruner a bien voulu me remettre de votre part. si le nom du peintre n'y était pas, je suis sûr qu'en les voyant, je me serais écrié: ah! raphael. c'est tout ce qu'un homme n'ayant, malheureusement, aucune connaissance de l'art, peut vous dire pour vous rendre compte de l'impression que lui a faite la copie. je ne vous charge de rien pour m. gladstone, parce que je me donne la satisfaction de lui écrire par cette même occasion. j'espère que nous le reverrons bientôt au ministère. n'allez pas me demander si je suis anglais pour dire: nous; car je vous répondrais que _homo sum; humani nihil a me alienum puto_; et qu'il n'y a rien d'_humanius_ que d'aimer à voir le pouvoir uni à la confiance; je ne dis pas: à de hautes facultés; car, malheureusement, le cas est moins rare. [after giving his friend an account of a great family affliction he had sustained in the loss of a beloved daughter, the writer goes on to say:] je ne crains pas de vous importuner en vous parlant ainsi de ce qui me touche si profondément: je sais la part que vous prenez à tout ce qui est douleur et confiance en dieu, par jésus christ. je n'ai pas craint non plus de vous choquer en vous écrivant avec un ton si familier, et comme il conviendrait à une ancienne connaissance; car il me semble que nous le sommes; l'affection et l'estime de ma part et une grande bonté de la vôtre, ont bien pu suppléer le temps. permettez-moi d'espérer que le bonheur que j'ai de vous connaître n'aura pas été un accident dans une vie, et que des causes plus heureuses que d'autrefois vous ramèneront bientôt encore dans ce pays; et, en attendant, veuillez me garder une petite place dans votre faveur, comme vous êtes toujours vivant dans le mien. je suis, avec la plus affectueuse considération, votre dévoué serviteur et ami, alexandre manzoni. mr. hope proceeded from milan to florence and rome. almost the only letter referring to this visit to rome that has come before me is one written to mr. badeley on december . it contains very little of importance. much of it is taken up with an account of sir william follett, then at rome, and verging towards his end, of whom mr. hope had seen a great deal. other friends named are mr. and mrs. vivian, and mr. waterton. from the latter, mr. hope had 'an interesting account of tickell's reception into the church of rome at bruges. he was himself present, and very much struck by t.'s devout and humble behaviour.' 'of the roman clergy,' mr. hope remarks, 'i have seen little, and have indeed almost given up my inquiries among them.' he mentions in the same letter that he intended leaving rome on january or , 'and to speed homewards _viâ_ leghorn, genoa, marseilles, and paris.' amidst all this apparent coldness, and in spite of all the expressions of disappointment with rome that have appeared thus far, [footnote: on the cause of this dissatisfaction an intimate friend of his has observed: 'for myself i think the real and sufficient reason of his disappointment with rome was, that the roman authorities naturally and reasonably would not open to a protestant. they would fear their information would be used against them. they could not know his honesty of purpose.'] it is clear that the secret influence and spirit of the place were working their effect on his mind. a great proof of this will be given further on, in a letter of the père roothaan's to a friend relative to mr. hope's conversion. a sentence from a letter of mr. hope's about two years afterwards is here in point. 'your impression of rome (he writes to mr. badeley, october , ) appears to be similar to that of most who see it for the first time; but it grows upon one, and the recollection will be deeper than the present feeling.' there is a pleasing note to mr. hope, dated december , , from mgr. grant, then rector of the english college at rome, and afterwards the well- known bishop of southwark, one of the most beloved and venerated friends of his catholic period. it merely gives information to assist him in visiting st. john lateran's, and promises to send an order for st. peter's. it concludes characteristically: 'i shall be too happy to serve you whenever i can be useful. although you do not think so, you will find that _little people_ are not without some use; and, in the hope that you will allow me an opportunity of proving that i am in the right, i remain, with many thanks for your kindness, &c.,--thomas grant.' i may here also give a short letter of bishop grant's, of later date, illustrating their friendship, and including some traces of its beginning at rome:-- _the right rev. dr. grant, bishop of southwark, to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ june , . my dear mr. hope-scott,--the _frescoes_ have arrived, and i hasten to thank you for a gift, valuable in itself, but most dear to me, because it will ever remind me of the beginning of that friendship which has always been so pleasing to me, and which forms one of the consolations that are allowed to me in the midst of the weighty duties of my present state-- duties which i little expected when we quarrelled peacefully about swiss guards and troops of soldiers lining st. peter's on grand days. when you next visit the churches and antiquities of rome, mary monica will catch up the ardour that will then probably have gone by for you and myself, and will wonder why you care so little for them; and if i am with you i fear i shall be more tempted to tell her of the quiet rooms in via della croce, when i first knew her father, than of the arch of drusus, or other pagan monuments that once entertained our attention. yours very sincerely, â�  thomas grant. mr. hope-scott had a high admiration for this saintly bishop, and used to speak of him as '_the_ bishop,' always meaning by that bishop grant. early in , and not many weeks after his return to england, mr. hope resigned his chancellorship of salisbury. it can scarcely be doubted that misgivings as to his religious position, more apparent perhaps to us now than they then were even to himself, were among his leading motives for taking this important step; although the immense accumulation of his business before the parliamentary committees must have rendered it difficult for him, even with his talents, to hold with it an appointment like that in such times; and feelings of friendship for his successor, the present sir robert phillimore, may also have influenced him. the date of the resignation was feb. . the judgment of sir herbert jenner fust in the celebrated 'stone altar case,' by which wooden altars only were permitted, was a severe discouragement to the tractarian party, being felt to interfere with the idea of sacrifice. from the following passage of a letter (undated) of dr. pusey's to mr. hope, it appears that he (mr. hope) had endeavoured to take a more favourable view. the letter probably belongs to feb. or march . i do not know whether the opinion you give is as to law previous to sir h. j. f.'s decision, and as a ground of appeal against it, or as to what would still be allowed. would his judgment preclude our having a stone slab, either upon stone pedestals or a wooden panelled altar? i have comforted others with the same topic you mention, that wooden tables are altars by virtue of ye sacrifice, and so that this decision really alters nothing. still, it does seemingly, and was intended to discountenance the doctrine.... it must be confessed, too, that this decision of sir h. j. f. is a defeat--only an outward one, and availing nothing while truth spreads within. still it is well to neutralise the sentence as much as we can. ever yrs affectly, e. b. pusey. notwithstanding this, mr. hope is remembered, after the adverse decision, to have despondingly asked, 'where is the use of fighting for the shell when we have lost the kernel?' among the other agitations of that time was the prosecution instituted in the court of arches by dr. blomfield, bishop of london, against the rev. frederick oakeley (the late canon) for views which he had expressed about the blessed sacrament. canon oakeley, in a conversation i had with him in , gave me the following information as to the part taken by mr. hope as his friend and adviser in this case, and general recollections of him. he had resolved to let the case go by default, partly because he felt convinced that it was sure to be decided in favour of the bishop, as those cases always were; partly because he disliked a subject like the blessed sacrament to be bandied about by the lawyers in that way. mr. hope, on the other hand, urged him to place himself in the hands of counsel, and thought a good case might be made by reference to books on canon law and roman writers of the moderate school (gallican), showing that, in point of fact, the holding of 'all roman doctrine' (thus interpreted) was compatible with the doctrine of the church of england. [footnote: _thus interpreted_, observe. mr. newman himself, in a letter to mr. hope, dated littlemore, may , , says: 'you are quite right in saying i do not take ward and oakeley's grounds that all roman doctrine may be held in our church, and that _as_ roman i have always and everywhere resisted it.'] the principle on which he went was the approximation made out by sancta clara and in tract . mr. hope had more hopes of the house of lords than of the court of arches, and wished mr. oakeley to appeal to the former. if he was afraid of the expenses, he said they would manage all that for him. [footnote: mr. hope had formed a committee (in conjunction with serjeant bellasis, mr. badeley, and mr. j. d. chambers) in order to raise contributions to meet mr. oakeley's expenses. i find an exchange of notes dated march , , between mr. hope and mr. gladstone on this matter. mr. hope encloses a circular, and invites mr. gladstone to contribute, remarking 'as the process must throw light upon many collateral points, i amongst others am much interested in its being well conducted. i am, moreover, as a friend of o.'s, anxious that he should have fair play....this looks like the beginning of the end.' mr. gladstone, in reply, alludes to doubts he had had whether he could subscribe _in re_ ward. 'although i am far from having (upon a slight consideration as yet, for i have been very busy with other matters) found them conclusive; for i think we are going to try questions of academical right, and even of general justice.' he therefore declines subscribing in mr. oakeley's case, promising to give mr. hope his reasons whenever they should meet.]he added, however, 'but i think you are inclined to go over to the church of rome; and if that is the case, it is useless to proceed.' mr. hope at that time (said the canon) was a staunch anglican. he did not, however, see more of him than of any other member of his congregation perhaps once in three months. after mr. oakeley had become a catholic, mr. hope once asked him to breakfast, which he accepted rather hesitatingly. at that time he (mr. oakeley) thought less favourably of protestants than he did now, and hinted that he must take a line in conversation that might not be acceptable. mr. hope said they need not talk of that, let him come. at this breakfast mr. hope mentioned that he had been lately at rome (he could allude to no other visit than that of - ), where he had seen a procession of the pope in the _sedia gestatoria_, and thought how much better it would have been if he had walked in the procession like any other bishop--that was the line he took. [i ought to add that, later in my conversation with him, canon oakeley seemed rather to hesitate whether it was mr. hope or some one else who made this observation about the pope's procession, but in the end he appeared to feel satisfied that it was mr. hope.] in the same troubled spring of a movement was going on to assimilate the office of the scottish episcopalian church to that of the english. dean ramsay of edinburgh had asked mr. hope for a legal opinion on a case in which he was concerned bearing on this. mr. hope, in a letter to him dated april , declines to meddle with the question, and adds:-- i can hardly tell you how much i deprecate any steps which may tend to diminish the authority of the _native_ office; how entirely i dissent from any plans of further assimilation to the foreign english church. indeed, the consequences of such schemes at this moment would in my opinion be most disastrous. some letters of great interest with reference to mr. hope's religious position at this period occur in the gladstone correspondence. mr. gladstone, being now thoroughly aware that his friend was entertaining serious doubts as to the catholicity of the church of england, writes him a very long and deeply considered letter, appealing in the first place to a promise of co-operation which mr. hope had made him in the earlier days of their friendship, and placing before him, with all the power and eloquence of which he is so great a master, what he regarded as the most unanswerable arguments for remaining in the anglican communion. from this letter i quote the following passages as strictly biographical:-- _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. m. hope, esq._ carlton house terrace: thursday night, may , ' . _private._ my dear hope,--in you lent me that generous and powerful aid in the preparation of my book for the press, to which i owe it that the defects and faults of the work fell short of absolutely disqualifying it for its purpose. from that time i began to form not only high but definite anticipations of the services which you would render to the church in the deep and searching processes through which she has passed and yet has to pass. these anticipations, however, did not rest only upon my own wishes, or on the hopes which benefits already received might have led me to form. in the commencement of , in the very room where we talked to-night, you voluntarily and somewhat solemnly tendered to me the assurance that you would at all times be ready to co-operate with me in furtherance of the welfare of the church, and you placed no limit upon the extent of such co- operation. i had no title to expect and had not expected a promise so heart-stirring, but i set upon it a value scarcely to be described, and it ever after entered as an element of the first importance into all my views of the future course of public affairs in their bearing upon religion. [footnote: with this may be compared mr. hope's letter to mr. gladstone of october , , given in chapter ix. (vol. i.).] * * * * * if the time shall ever come (which i look upon as extremely uncertain, but i think if it comes at all it will be before the lapse of many years) when i am called upon to use any of those opportunities [the writer had just spoken of 'the great opportunities, the gigantic opportunities of good or evil to the church which the course of events seems (humanly speaking) certain to open up'], it would be my duty to look to you for aid, under the promise to which i have referred, unless in the meantime you shall as deliberately and solemnly withdraw that promise as you first made it. i will not describe at length how your withdrawal of it would increase that sense of desolation which, as matters now stand, often approaches to being intolerable. i only speak of it as a matter of fact, and i am anxious you should know that i look to it as one of the very weightiest kind, under a title which you have given me. you would of course cancel it upon the conviction that it involved sin upon your part: with anything less than that conviction i do not expect that you will cancel it; and i am, on the contrary, persuaded that you will struggle against pain, depression, disgust, and even against doubt touching the very root of our position, for the fulfilment of any actual _duties_ which the post you actually occupy in the church of god, taken in connection with your faculties and attainments, may assign to you. you have given me lessons that i have taken thankfully. believe i do it in the payment of a debt, if i tell you that your mind and intellect, to which i look up with reverence under a consciousness of immense inferiority, are much under the dominion, whether it be known or not known to yourself, of an agency lower than their own, more blind, more variable, more difficult to call inwardly to account and make to answer for itself--the agency, i mean, of painful and disheartening impressions--impressions which have an unhappy and powerful tendency to realise the very worst of what they picture. of this fact i have repeatedly noted the signs in you. i should have been glad to have got your advice on some points connected with the maynooth question on monday next, but i will not introduce here any demand upon your kindness; the claims of this letter on your attention, be they great or small, and you are their only judge, rest upon wholly different grounds. god bless and guide you, and prosper the work of your hands. ever your aff'te friend, w. e. gladstone. j. r. hope, esq. the friends both being in london at the time, the correspondence gives no further light at this point. in july mr. gladstone proposed to mr. hope that they two should go on a tour in ireland together. the invitation must be given in his own words:-- _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. r. hope, esq._ c. h. terrace: july , . my dear hope,--ireland is likely to find this country and parliament so much employment for years to come, that i feel rather oppressively an obligation to try and see it with my own eyes instead of using those of other people, according to the limited measure of my means. now your company would be so very valuable as well as agreeable to me, that i am desirous to know whether you are at all inclined to entertain the idea of devoting the month of september, after the meeting in edinburgh, to a working tour in ireland with me--eschewing all grandeur, and taking little account even of scenery, compared with the purpose of looking from close quarters at the institutions for religion and education of the country, and at the character of the people. it seems ridiculous to talk of supplying the defects of second-hand information by so short a trip; but though a longer time would be much better, yet even a very contracted one does much when it is added to an habitual though indirect knowledge. believe me your attached friend, w. e. gladstone. it is much to be regretted that this tour was not accomplished, but various engagements prevented mr. hope's accepting the invitation: he spent that part of the vacation in scotland, and mr. gladstone on the continent. shortly after the date of the preceding letter mr. gladstone appears to have suggested to mr. hope the idea of his joining some association for active charity, which is partly illustrated by a correspondence which i shall presently quote; but mr. hope (august ) writes:-- as to the guild or confraternity, i am not at this moment prepared to join it. my reasons are various, but i have not had leisure to think them out. when i have revolved the matter further, perhaps i may trouble you again upon it. on october , , mr. newman was received into the catholic church, and mr. hope writes to him on the th:-- i was so fully prepared that the event fell lightly on my mind, but the feeling of separation has since grown upon me painfully. the effect which, i think i told you, it would have upon my conduct, is that of forcing me to a deliberate inquiry; but i feel most unfit for it, and look with anxiety to your book as my guide. i hope to be at oxford early next week, and trust to see you. meantime, if it be anything to you to know that all my personal feelings towards you remain unaltered, or rather, are deepened, that much i can sincerely say. on december he speaks of his own joining the roman catholic church as 'what may eventually happen,' adding: 'but i feel that i have yet much before me, both in moral and intellectual exertion, ere i can hope for a conclusion. meantime i beg your prayers.' on december he gives his impressions of newman's 'essay on development,' so eagerly expected:-- i have read your book _once_ through. to apprehend it fully will require one, if not two more perusals. the effect produced upon me as yet is that of perplexity at seeing how wide a range of thought appears to be required for the discussion. i had thought that the principles which i already acknowledge would, upon a careful application, suffice for the solution of the difficulties; but you have taken me into a region less familiar to me, and the extent of which makes me feel helpless and discouraged. it may be worth mentioning that soon after the 'essay on development' came out, mr. hope asked a friend at dinner across the table (the anecdote was given me by the latter), 'have you read the "extravagant of john"?' to understand this, the unlearned reader must be told that certain celebrated constitutions, decreed by pope john xxii., are called by canonists the 'extravagantes joannis.' the play on the word was one which would be relished by mr. hope's friend, who was almost as great a student of the canon law as himself. his meaning, however, may have been that he thought mr. newman had taken up a view outside of the received system. in the two letters i have just quoted mr. hope enters, like a kind friend and adviser, into mr. newman's plans in the early days of his conversion, but an interruption of the correspondence seems to have followed on mr. newman's going to rome, where he was from autumn, , to the beginning of . it is probable, indeed, that it was the consciousness of his own affection for mr. newman, and of mr. newman's influence over him, that led mr. hope to abstain, during that long interval, from intercourse with a friend whom he regarded with such deep respect and admiration. there is, however, a letter of mr. newman's from rome in the interval, which will be read with great interest, both for his own history and for the light, yet thrilling touch of spiritual kindness which it conveys towards the end. it contains, too, a line explaining his own silence. _the rev. j. h. newman to j. r. hope, esq_. (private.) collegio di prop.: feb. , ' . my dear hope,--i have been writing so very, very much lately, that now that i want to tell you something my hand is so tired that i can hardly write a word. we are to be oratorians. mgr. brunelli went to the pope about it the day before yesterday, my birthday. the pope took up the plan most warmly, as had mgr. b., to whom we had mentioned it a month back. mgr. had returned my paper, in which i drew out my plan, saying, 'mi piace immensamente,' and repeated several times that the plan was 'ben ideata.' they have from the first been as kind to us as possible, and are ever willing to do anything for us. i have ever been thinking of you, and you must have thought my silence almost unkind, but i waited to tell you something which would be real news. it is _no_ secret that we are to be oratorians, but matters of detail being uncertain, you had better keep it to yourself. the pope wishes us to come here, as many as can, form a house under an experienced oratorian father, go through a novitiate, and return. of course they will hasten us back as soon as [they] can, but that will depend on our progress. i _suppose_ we shall set up in birmingham... you are not likely to know the very jesuits of propaganda. we are very fortunate in them. the rector (padre bresciani) is a man of great delicacy and real kindness; our confessor, father ripetti, is one of the most excellent persons we have fallen in with, tho' i can't describe him to you in a few words. another person we got on uncommonly with was ghianda at milan. bellasis will have told you about him. we owed a great deal to you there, and did not forget you, my dear hope. let me say it, o that god would give you the gift of faith! forgive me for this. i know you will. it is of no use my plaguing you with many words. i want you for the church in england, and the church for you. but i must do my own work in my own place, and leave everything else to that inscrutable will which we can but adore;... well, our lot is fixed. what will come to it i know not. don't think me ambitious. i am not. i have no views. it will be enough for me if i get into some active work, and save my own soul.... my affectionate remembrances to badeley.... ever y'rs affectionately, john h. newman. i find, towards the end of , a very interesting exchange of letters between dr. newman and mr. hope, which may conveniently be given here, though chronologically they ought to come later. i first give a letter needed to explain them:-- _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to the rev. stuart bathurst._ abbotsford: nov. , ' . dear bathurst,--your kind letter needed no apologies; and for your prayers and good thoughts for me i thank you much. may they of god be blessed to me in clearer light as well as in a purer conscience! as yet i do not see my way as you have done yours, but i pray that i may not long remain in such doubt as i now have. from our address i conclude that you are with newman. tell him with my kind regards that i hope he has not forgotten me. i have very often thought of him, and have sometimes been near writing to him, but have had nothing definite to say. i have read his last lectures, and wish they were extended to a review of doctrine, and the difficulties which beset it to an anglican. let me hear from you when you have time, and believe me, my dear bathurst, yours ever aff'tly, james r. hope. the rev. s. bathurst. _the very rev. dr. newman to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ oratory, birmingham: nov. , . my dear hope,--it is with the greatest pleasure i have just read the letter which you wrote to bathurst, and which he has forwarded to me.... i now fully see ... that your silence has arisen merely from the difficulty of writing to one in another communion, and the irksomeness and indolence (if you will let me so speak) we all feel in doing what is difficult, what may be misconceived, and what can scarcely have object or use. i know perfectly well, my dear hope, your great moral and intellectual qualities, and will not cease to pray that the grace of god may give you the obedience of faith, and use them as his instruments. for myself, i say it from my heart, i have not had a single doubt, or temptation to doubt, ever since i became a catholic. i believe this to be the case with most men--it certainly is so with those with whom i am in habits of intimacy. my great temptation is to be at _peace_, and let things go on as they will, and not trouble myself about others. this being the case, your recommendation that i should 'take a review of doctrine, and of the difficulties which beset it to an anglican,' is anything but welcome, and makes me smile. surely, enough has been written--all the writing in the world would not destroy the necessity of faith. if all were now made clear to reason, where would be the exercise of faith? the single question is, whether _enough_ has not been done to _reduce_ the difficulties so far as to hinder them absolutely blocking up the way, or excluding those direct and large arguments on which the reasonableness of faith is built. ever yours affectionately, john h. newman. _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to the very rev. dr. newman._ abbotsford: nov. , ' . dear newman,--the receipt of your letter gave me sincere pleasure. it renews a correspondence which i value very highly, and which my own stupidity had interrupted. offence i had never taken, but causes such as you describe much better than i could have done were the occasion of my silence. you may now find that you have brought more trouble on yourself, for there are many things on which i should like to ask you questions, and i know that your time is already much engaged. however, at present my chief object is to assure you how very glad i am again to write to you, as the friend whom i almost fear i had thrown away. whatever occurs, do not let us be again estranged. it is not easy, as one gets older, to form new friendships of any kind, and least of all such as i have always considered yours.... ever, dear newman, yours affectionately james r. hope. _the very rev. dr. newman to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ oratory, birmingham: november , . my dear hope,--i write a line to thank you for your letter, and to say how glad i shall be to hear from you, as you half propose, whether or not i am able to say anything to your satisfaction, which would be a greater and different pleasure. it makes me smile to hear you talk of getting older. what must i feel, whose life is gone ere it is well begun? ever yours affectionately, john h. newman, congr. orat. chapter xxi. - . mr. hope's doubts of anglicanism--correspondence with mr. gladstone-- correspondence of j. r. hope and mr. gladstone continued--mr. gladstone advises active works of charity--bishop philpotts advises mr. hope to go into parliament--mr. hope and mr. gladstone in society--mr. hope on the church affairs of canada--dr. hampden, bishop of hereford--the troubles at leeds--mr. hope on the jewish question, &c.--the gorham case--the curzon street resolutions--the 'papal aggression' commotion--correspondence of mr. hope and mr. manning--their conversion--opinions of friends on mr. hope's conversion--mr. gladstone--father roothaan, f.g. soc. jes., to count senfft--dr. döllinger--mr. hope to mr. badeley--conversion of mr. w. palmer. to return to the gladstone correspondence which we quitted some pages back. in a letter dated baden-baden, october , , mr. gladstone, after mentioning his having been at munich, where, through an introduction from mr. hope, he had made the acquaintance of dr. döllinger, criticises at some length möhler's 'symbolik,' which he had been reading on mr. hope's recommendation. i must quote the conclusion of the letter in his own words:-- no religion and no politics until we meet, and that more than ever uncertain. hard terms, my dear hope; do not complain if i devote to them the scraps or ends of my fourth page. but now let me rebuke myself, and say, no levity about great and solemn things. there are degrees of pressure from within that it is impossible to resist. the church in which our lot has been cast has come to the birth, and the question is, will she have strength to bring forth? i am persuaded it is written in god's decrees that she shall; and that after deep repentance and deep suffering a high and peculiar part remains for her in healing the wounds of christendom. [nor] is there any man, i cannot be silent, whose portion in her work is more clearly marked out for him than yours. but you have, if not your revenge, your security. i must keep my word. god bless and guide you. yours affectionately, w. e. g. the following letter is deeply interesting:-- _j. r. hope, esq. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ charles street, mayfair: december , . dear gladstone,--i return döllinger's letter, which i had intended to give you last night. the debate has cost me a headache, besides the regrets i almost always feel after having engaged in theological discussions. a sense of my own ignorance and prejudices should teach me to be more moderate in expressing, as well as more cautious in forming opinions; but it is my nature to require some broad view for my guidance, and since anglicanism has lost this aspect to me, i am restless and ill at ease. i know well, however, that i have not deserved by my life that i should be without great struggle in my belief, and this ought to teach me to do more and say less. i must therefore try more and more to be fit for the truth, wherever it may lie, and in this i hope for your prayers. yours affectionately, james r. hope. _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. r. hope, esq._ c. h. terrace: dec. , nd sunday in advent, . my dear hope,--i need hardly tell you i am deeply moved by your note, and your asking my prayers. i trust you give what you ask. as for them you have long had them; in private and in public, and in the hour of holy communion. but you must not look for anything from them; only they cannot do any harm. under the merciful dispensation of the gospel, while the prayer of the righteous availeth much, the petition of the unworthy does not return in evils on the head of those for whom it is offered. your speaking of yourself in low terms is the greatest kindness to me. it is with such things before my eyes that i learn in some measure by comparison my own true position.... [mr. gladstone goes on to controvert his friend's desire for 'broad views,' on the principles of butler, and proceeds] now let me use a friend's liberty on a point of practice. do you not so far place yourself in rather a false position by withdrawing in so considerable a degree from those active external duties in which you were so conspicuous? is rest in that department really favourable to religious inquiry? you said to me you preferred at this time selecting temporal works: are we not in this difficulty, that temporal works, so far as mere money is concerned, are nowadays relatively overdone? but if you mean temporal works otherwise than in money, i would to god we could join hands upon a subject of the kind which interested you much two years ago. and now i am going to speak of what concerns myself more than you, as needing it more. the desire we then both felt passed off, as far as i am concerned, into a plan of asking only a donation and subscription. now it is very difficult to satisfy the demands of duty to the poor by money alone. on the other hand, it is extremely hard for me (and i suppose possibly for you) to give them much in the shape of time and thought, for both with me are already tasked up to and beyond their powers, and by matters which i cannot displace. i much wish we could execute some plan which, without demanding much time, would entail the discharge of some humble and humbling offices.... if you thought with me--and i do not see why you should not, except that to assume the reverse is paying myself a compliment--let us go to work, as in the young days of the college plan, but with a more direct and less ambitious purpose.... in answer give me advice and help if you can; and when we meet to talk of these things, it will be more refreshing than metaphysical or semi-metaphysical argument. all that part of my note which refers to questions internal to yourself is not meant to be answered except in your own breast. and now may the lord grant that, as heretofore, so ever we may walk in his holy house as friends, and know how good a thing it is to dwell together in unity! but at all events may he, as he surely will, compass you about with his presence and by his holy angels, and cause you to awake up after his likeness, and to be satisfied with it! ... ever your affectionate friend, w. e. gladstone. j. r. hope, esq. the above letter appears to throw a light upon mr. hope's views of action at that time (it was a year of approaching the acme of his professional energies) which i have not met with elsewhere. those views he did not see his way to give up, notwithstanding the representations so kindly urged by his friend. it will have been remarked that mr. gladstone did not expect any answer, in the ordinary sense of the word, to the most serious part of his letter, and in his reply (december ), which is merely a note, mr. hope simply says:-- many, many thanks for your letter, which i received this morning. i will think it over, and particularly as regards the engagement in some temporal almsdeed. i see, however, many obstacles in my own way, both from health and occupation. after this, though the two friends continued still to correspond, yet the letters are of comparatively little moment, the subject nearest to the hearts of both being of necessity suppressed, or almost so; topics once of common interest, such as trinity college (now near its opening) [footnote: see vol. i. (ch. xiv. p. ).] and church legislation, having of course lost their attractions for mr. hope. in the autumn of there was an interchange of visits between rankeillour [footnote: rankeillour, a family seat near cupar, in fifeshire, which mr. hope with his sister-in-law, lady frances hope, had rented the previous year, , from his brother, mr. g. w. hope, of luffness, and which was theirs and lady hope's joint home when in scotland, until mr. hope's marriage in .] and fasque, and kind and friendly offices and family sympathies went on as of old. yet, if the _idem sentire de republicâ_ was long ago recognised as a condition of intimate friendship, how much more is the observation true of the _idem sentire de ecclesiâ_! the following letter, addressed to mr, hope early in by dr. philpotts, will show what powerful influences were still at work to gain or recover mr. hope's services to anglicanism in political life:-- _the right rev. dr. philpotts, bishop of exeter, to j. r. hope, esq._ bishopstowe: feb., . my dear sir,--... the miserable state of political matters makes me earnestly wish (which i fear you do not) that you may soon be in parliament. it is manifest that we are approaching a most important crisis. to give any rational ground of hope (humanly speaking) of a favourable issue, it is most necessary that there should be an accession of high- principled talent and power of speaking to the honest party. you would carry this, and, forgive my adding, _ought_ to carry it if a fit opportunity be presented to you. i say not this with any imagination that the objects of political ambition have any attraction to you, but because i think you would (with god's blessing) be a tower of strength to all the best institutions and interests of the country. _hactenùs hæc._ yours most faithfully, h. exeter. 'henry of exeter,' in a conversation with lady henry kerr in those days, once said that he considered three men as those to whom the country had chiefly to look in the coming time: manning in the church, gladstone in the state, and mr. hope in the law. the bishop was, i believe, thought rather apt to indulge in what were called 'philpottic flourishes,' but the above letter shows his deliberate opinion of mr. hope, which is quite borne out by the rest of his correspondence. he constantly asks his counsel on church affairs and church legislation, till his conversion was approaching; and even long after it, i find him in , when about to appeal to the house of lords from a decision in the courts below, asking mr. hope's assistance in these terms: 'i venture to have recourse to you--as one whose skill and ability, knowledge--as well as your kindness often experienced--makes me estimate more highly than any other.... i am _very anxious_ to obtain your powerful advocacy before the lords. is this contrary to your usage? [footnote: right rev. dr. philpotts to j. r. hope-scott, february , .] in a letter, now before me, from a member of the legal profession and a protestant, the writer, referring to some occasion in early days on which he had met mr. hope and mr. gladstone together in society, remarks: 'they were constantly discussing important questions. i am sure that, if a stranger had come in, and heard that one of them would be premier, he would have selected [mr. hope] as the superior of the two. and i always thought that his abilities and character fitted him for the highest positions in the country. but his aims were for eminence in a still higher sphere, and he readily abandoned the road to worldly distinctions when he thought that his duty towards god required the sacrifice.' of course i only quote this as evidence of the impression which mr. hope had made on an individual observer, [footnote: it is perfectly just.--_w. e. g._] not as instituting any comparison, which would be wholly out of place. the following letter is more of ecclesiastical and legal than personal interest. it is in reply to a line from mr. gladstone, asking his advice:-- _j. r. hope, esq. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ charles street: wednesday evening, march , ' . dear gladstone,--i had some hopes of being able to call on you this morning, but was disappointed. with regard to the canadian archbishopric, if you have seen what i wrote about a bishopric in the same colony you will have got the historical view which i was then induced to take. i am convinced that the parties to the treaty of paris and the framers of the first act contemplated a roman church with an anglican supremacy of the crown. their successors did not understand this, and proceeded upon the theory of toleration--thereby at once yielding the power of direct interference and refusing direct establishment. but in fact the r. c. church is established, and consequently rome has the advantage both of establishment and complete independence. i am not the man to say that the latter ought to be infringed, but i think it right to draw your attention to the departure from the original idea of the position of the r. c. church in canada. as matters now stand i think lord stanley had no option, and could only be neutral; but the original theory of royal supremacy having failed (as was natural), a concordat alone can decide the relations of church and state in that quarter. the question of precedence is certainly not in itself sufficient to decide the conduct of government, but it presents a difficulty; and the more difficulties there are, the more needs of a complete solution. it seems to me, therefore, that you must either follow lord stanley in his neutrality, and leave the consequences to chance, or at once originate a communication with the holy see; and for the latter purposes i think canada affords as fair an occasion as it is possible to find. yours ever truly, james r. hope. right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. in the same year, , the appointment of dr. hampden to the see of hereford was 'a heavy blow and great discouragement' to the tractarian party; but the correspondence does not throw much light on the subject as far as regards mr. hope. he must have felt his profession sucking him in like a vortex, from which it is wonderful how he could grasp the catholic faith in the end. many of his friends were now doing so, but he still held back. the following sentences from a letter he wrote to father newman, then (april , ) contemplating his departure for rome, will show something of mr. hope's then position--anglican ideas not so vanished that they might not possibly have been, at least in imagination, renewed--catholic ideas not yet distinctly written in their place. i can construe the obscure wish with which your letter concludes. i join heartily in desiring _some_ termination to my present doubts; but whether in the direction you would think right, or by a return to anglicanism, is the question. i am astonished to find how resolute keble is in maintaining his present position. others, also, of more earnestness and better knowledge than myself, are recoiling--and this troubles me, for i cannot but look around for authority. to his own family he became more and more reserved on the subject, and showed unwillingness that difficulties should be touched; for, great as was his wish that the church of england should assert herself catholic, he dreaded, on good grounds, that if awakened from her slumbers, the only effect would be that she would use her giant strength against her friends as well as enemies, hit them knocks, and then relapse into repose. unable even yet to make up his mind whether those of his friends who had joined the church of rome had done right or wrong, materially, at all events, he remained an anglican. such a state of mind necessarily varied, if not from day to day, at least at longer intervals. at the close of came the troubles at st. saviour's, leeds, a stronghold of the section peculiarly under dr. pusey's influence, which encountered the opposition of the old tractarianism, or rather church-of-englandism of dr. hook. they ended in some important conversions, but, as affecting mr. hope, seem scarcely to require to be dwelt on. in may i find him exerting himself in favour of mr. gladstone's candidature for the university of oxford. on december he writes (from rankeillour) to mr. gladstone on the question of jewish emancipation as follows:-- on the jewish question my bigotry makes me liberal. to symbolise the christianity of the house of commons in its present form is to substitute a new church and creed for the old catholic one; and as this is delusive, i would do nothing to countenance it. better have the legislature declared what it really is--not professedly christian, and then let the church claim those rights and that independence which nothing but the pretence of christianity can entitle the legislature to withhold from it. in this view the emancipation of the jews must tend to that of the church, and at any rate a 'sham' will be discarded. however, i am not disposed to press my views on this or similar points. i have withdrawn from church politics, and never had to do with any others. how long this peaceful disposition may last i know not, but my station in life does not seem to me to require that i should meddle. for this reason, if for no other, you may be sure i do not regret having lost the honour of being armour-bearer to the bishop of exeter in the hampden strife. that appointment, however, is certainly bad enough. mr. hope was now, in the ordinary sense of the word, 'settled in life' (he married in august of that year, ); but the great happiness he found in this change of condition was no talisman that could ward off the question which still imperiously demanded a solution; and perhaps scarce a month passed in these times without some new event arising to bring it more forcibly upon minds that had once been fairly within its influence. mr. hope's style in writing to mr. badeley on the hampden affair, under date january , , shows in some degree a renewed interest, but with symptoms, like the passage last quoted, of passing off into liberalism. i am right glad that you have got your rule, and have good hopes that you will make it absolute.... when the argument is resumed pray remember my favourite plan of establishing the old ecclesiastical law as the common law of england before the reformation, and requiring evidence of a direct statutory repeal. reid writes me that there is a fund for the expense of the opposition. if so i shall be happy to contribute, for i feel very strongly (not about dr. hampden, though i do feel as to him, but) about this violent piece of erastianism, such as no christian community ought to endure. following this, for about two years, the church of england was convulsed with the gorham case. this, too, has passed into the history of anglicanism. it will be sufficient to remind the reader that dr. philpotts, the bishop of exeter, had refused to institute the rev. g. c. gorham to the vicarage of brampford speke, because he denied the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, mr. gorham sued the bishop in the court of arches, but judgment was given by sir h. j. fust against the plaintiff, who then appealed to the crown, and the result was that the judicial committee of the privy council, on march , , reversed sir h. j. fust's judgment, and held that mr. gorham's doctrine was not repugnant to that of the church of england. on march a meeting was held at mr. hope's house in curzon street by several leading men of the tractarian party--the number, i believe, was fourteen--including mr. hope himself, archdeacon manning, archdeacon kobert wilberforce, and mr. badeley--to consider the effect of this sentence on the church of england. certain resolutions were passed and signed, and afterwards circulated in a somewhat modified form. the document, as finally issued, is to be found in more publications than one, and may be referred to in mr. kirwan browne's 'annals of the tractarian movement,' rd edition, p. . its main significance is contained in resolutions and , which are given as follows, in a printed copy now before me:-- . that inasmuch as the faith is one, and rests upon one principle of authority, the conscious, wilful, and deliberate abandonment of the essential meaning of an article of the creed destroys the divine foundation upon which alone the entire faith is propounded by the church. . that any portion of the church which does so abandon the essential meaning of an article of the creed, forfeits not only the catholic doctrine in that article, but also the office and authority to witness and teach as a member of the universal church. it is easy to see that these apparently strong declarations afforded a loophole for the escape of moderates; but mr. manning and his friends, as the result proved, were prepared to act upon them in their original and unqualified form; for all the four i have named, with two others, eventually became catholics. the rest of those present at the curzon street meeting remained protestants. as for mr. hope, the year rolled round, and he was still externally where he was; but the following allusion, in a letter of his to mr. gladstone, dated abbotsford, september , , to some recent conversions, must have made it evident that his own was drawing very near:-- i have heard a good deal on the ----'s: it is attributed more immediately to her--but however brought about, i cannot think hardly of it. rather, i feel as if those were to be congratulated who have already done that which _intellectually_, and to a great extent _morally_, i feel persuaded should be done. yrs. ever affectionately, james r. hope. the memorable 'papal aggression' excitement, which arose in england in november , is believed to have been what finally brought mr. hope to the conclusion, or rather, to action upon the conclusion, to which he had been so long tending. some time after this, when, in conversation, mr. lockhart asked him how it was possible he could have attributed such weight to so slight a reason, mr. hope replied to the effect that mr. lockhart would easily understand that the last link in a chain of argument on which action depends, needs not in appearance be the strongest. he spoke of his conversion as of a veil falling from his eyes. [footnote: a correspondence of this period of mr. hope's with the present cardinal newman (very important as far as it goes) has been given in some previous pages (pp. - ).] the same influence is visible in the letter in which mr. manning (since the cardinal archbishop of westminster) announced to mr. hope his resignation of the archdeaconry of chichester. _the rev. h. e. manning to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ lavington: nov. , . my dear hope,--your last letter was a help to me, for i began to feel as if every man had gone to his own house and left the matter.... since then events have driven me to a decision. this anti-popery cry has seized my brethren, and they asked me to be convened. i must either resign at once, or convene them ministerially and express my dissent, the reasons of which would involve my resignation. i went to the bishop and said this, and tendered my resignation. he was very kind, and wished me to take time, but i have written and made it final.... i should be glad if we might keep together; and whatever must be done, do it with a calm and deliberateness which shall give testimony that it is not done in lightness. ever affectionately yours, h. e. m. mr. manning was considerably mr. hope's senior, [footnote: four years exactly. he was born july , . the same also was mr. hope's birthday.] but they had been brother-fellows of merton college, and were now intimate friends, passing through the same stages of conversion, each having great confidence in the logical powers and in the earnestness of the other in applying them. either at that time, or very soon afterwards, mr. manning became the guest of mr. hope at his house in curzon street; and here he used to receive the many converts and half-converts who flocked to consult him in their difficulties during that period of transition, when such an unexampled rush seemed to be making into the net of the fisherman. mr. hope's letters to cardinal manning were unfortunately destroyed about three years ago, but the other side of the correspondence is still represented by a small collection of letters of great interest. mr. hope, i think, had made up his mind at abbotsford, and on his arrival in london announced it to his mother; but it is certain that immediately before taking the final step he and mr. manning went over the whole ground again together, to satisfy themselves that there was no flaw or mistake in the argument and conclusion. _the rev. henry e. manning to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ _private_. cadogan place: december , . my dear hope,--i feel with you that the argument is complete. for a long time i nevertheless felt a fear lest i should be doing an act morally wrong. this fear has passed away, because the church of england has revealed itself in a way to make me fear more on the other side. it remains, therefore, as an act of the will. but this i suppose it must be. and in making it i am helped by the fact that to remain under our changed or revealed circumstances would also be an act of the will, and that not in conformity with, but in opposition to intellectual real conviction; and the intellect is god's gift, and our instrument in attaining knowledge of his will.... it would be to me a very great happiness if we could act together, and our names go together in the first publication of the fact.... the subject which has brought me to my present convictions is the perpetual office of the church, under divine guidance, in expounding the truth and deciding controversies. and the book which forced this on me was melchior canus' 'loci theologici.' it is a long book, but so orderly that you may get the whole outline with ease. möhler's _symbolik_ you know. but, after all, holy scripture comes to me in a new light, as ephes. iv. - , which seems to preclude the notion of a divisible unity: which is, in fact, arianism in the matter of the church. i entirely feel what you say of the alternative. it is either rome or licence of thought and will.... believe me always affectionately yours, h. e. manning. the following extract from a letter of mr. hope's to the rev. robert campbell [since also a catholic], dated 'abbotsford, september , ,' affords additional and important light on the motives of his own conversion:-- you seem to think that the present condition of the church of england has been the cause of my conversion. that it has contributed thereto i am far from denying, but it has done so by way of evidence only; of evidence, the chain of which reaches up to the reformation, and confirms by outward proofs those conclusions which h. scripture and reason forced upon me as to the character of the original act of separation. this distinction i am anxious should be observed, for the neglect of it has led some to suppose that recent converts have, from disgust or other causes, deserted a true church in her time of need, whereas, for one, i can safely say that i left her because i was convinced that she never, from the reformation downwards, had been a true church. pray excuse this digression, which i do not mean by way of controversy, but merely of explanation. j. r. h. on _passion sunday_, april , , mr. hope, and at the same time with him mr. manning, were received into the catholic church at farm street by the rev. father j. brownbill, s.j. i must not withhold from the reader a note, written the next day, and one or two passages from later letters of mr. manning's referring to the same subject. _the rev. henry e. manning to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ queen street: april , . my dear hope,--will you accept this copy of the book you saw in my room yesterday [the 'paradisus animae'], in memory of passion sunday, and its gift of grace to us? it is the most perfect book of devotion i know. let me ask one thing. i read it through, one page at least a day, between jan. and aug. , , marking where i left off with the dates. it seemed to give me a new science, with order and harmony and details as of devotion issuing from and returning into dogma. could you burden yourself with the same resolution? if so, do it for my sake, and remember me when you do it.... i feel as if i had no desire unfulfilled, but to persevere in what god has given me for his son's sake. believe me, my dear hope, always affectionately yours, h. e. m. _queen st.: oct._ , .--... i am once more in my old quarters. they bring back strange remembrances. what revolutions have passed since we started from this room that saturday morning! and how blessed an end! as the soul said to dante. 'e da martirio venni a questa pace.'... you do not need that i should say how sensibly i remember all your sympathy, which was the only human help in the time when we two went together through the trial, which to be known must be endured. _rome: march_ , ...--how this time reminds me of last year! on passion sunday i shall be in retreat. 'stantes erant pedes nostri,' [footnote: these words were written in a copy of the _speculum vitae sacerdotalis_, given by j. r. hope to h. e. manning in april . [note by his eminence cardinal manning.]] and we made no mistake in our long reckoning, though we feared it up to the last opening of fr. b.'s door. h. e. m. the superficial impression which many of his friends had of mr. hope's conversion at the time will be illustrated by the following remarks, one of them made to me in conversation with a view to this memoir: 'mr. hope was a man with two lives: one, that of a lawyer; the other, that of a pious christian, who said his prayers, and did not give much thought to controversy. he would be rather influenced by patent facts. he was not at all moving with the stream, and rather laughed at x. with his "narrow views." he was a strong anglican, an adherent of _learned_ anglicanism. his conversion took _catholics_ by surprise, who were not aware how far he went.' the feeling in society as to his change was marked by a tone of much greater consideration than was commonly displayed in such cases, of which proof is given in an interesting letter which i have quoted in a former page. 'as far as i know' (writes lady georgiana fullerton) 'there was no attempt made, in mr. hope's case, to trace that act to any of the causes which, in almost every other instance, were supposed to account for conversions to catholicism. the frankness of his nature, his well-known good sense, the sound clearness of his judgment, so unmistakably evinced in his profession, precluded the possibility of attributing his adoption of the catholic faith to weakness of mind, duplicity, sentiment, eccentricity, or excitability.' i reserve what may be called the domestic side of this crowning event of mr. hope's religious life to a future chapter. the following is the letter alluded to by mr. gladstone in his letter to miss hope-scott, given in appendix iii., and on which he wrote the words '_quis desiderio_.' [footnote: let me balance mr. gladstone's _quis desiderio_ with a note written by père roothaan, father-general of the jesuits, to count senfft, on hearing of mr. hope's conversion:-- 'plurimam salutem nostro c. de senfft, qui procul dubio maxima cum congratulatione accepit notitiam de conversione ad rel. cath. praeclari dni. hope, anglicani, quem ipse comes monachio romam venientem mihi commendaverat. ipsum tunc et iterum et tertio romam intra hos tres annos venientem videram saepius, et semper vicinior mihi visus fuerat regno dei. nuper tandem cessit gratiae. alleluja!'--given in a letter of count senfft's to mr. hope-scott, dated innsbruck: juin, .] _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ curzon street: june , ' . my dear gladstone,--i am very much obliged for the book which you have sent me, but still more for the few words and figures which you have placed upon the title-page. the day of the month in your own handwriting will be a record between us that the words of affection which you have written were used by you after the period at which the great change of my life took place. to grudge any sacrifice which that change entails would be to undervalue its paramount blessedness, but, as far as regrets are compatible with extreme thankfulness, i do and must regret any estrangement from you-- you with whom i have trod so large a portion of the way which has led me to peace; you, who are 'ex voto' at least in that catholic church which to me has become a practical reality, admitting of no doubt; you, who have so many better claims to the merciful guidance of almighty god than myself. it is most comforting, then, to me to know by your own hand that on the th june, , the personal feelings so long cherished have been, not only acknowledged by yourself, but expressed to me--i do not ask more just now--it would be painful to you; nay, it would be hardly possible for either of us to attempt (except under one condition, for which i daily pray) the restoration of entire intimacy at present; but neither do i despair under any circumstances that it will yet be restored. remember me most kindly to mrs. gladstone, and believe me, yours as ever most affectionately, james r. hope. the right hon. w. e. gladstone, &c. &c. the subjoined reply of mr. gladstone to this beautiful letter, which he has mournfully called 'the epitaph of our friendship,' is certainly a noble and a tender one. the very depth of feeling which he shows at his friend's refusal of what he considers 'the high vocation' before him, is, however, only a proof of that spiritual chasm which mr. hope more unflinchingly surveyed. after this date the correspondence soon flags, and at length sustains an interruption of years. it was practically resumed towards the close of mr. hope's life, and affords one more letter of great interest, in which mr. hope explains his own political views. this i shall give as we proceed. _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ carlton gardens: june , . my dear hope,--upon the point most prominently put in your welcome letter i will only say you have not misconstrued me. affection which is fed by intercourse, and above all by co-operation for sacred ends, has little need of verbal expression, but such expression is deeply ennobling when active relations have changed. it is no matter of merit to me to feel strongly on the subject of that change. it may be little better than pure selfishness. i have too good reason to know what this year has cost me; and so little hope have i that the places now vacant can be filled up for me, that the marked character of these events in reference to myself rather teaches me this lesson--the work to which i had aspired is reserved for other and better men. and if that be the divine will, i so entirely recognise its fitness that the grief would so far be small to me were i alone concerned. the pain, the wonder, and the mystery is this--that you should have refused the higher vocation you had before you. the same words, and all the same words, i should use of manning too. forgive me for giving utterance to what i believe myself to see and know; i will not proceed a step further in that direction. there is one word, and one only in your letter that i do not interpret closely. separated we are, but i hope and think not yet estranged. were i more estranged i should bear the separation better. if estrangement is to come i know not, but it will only be, i think, from causes the operation of which is still in its infancy--causes not affecting me. why should i be estranged from you? i honour you even in what i think your error; why, then, should my feelings to you alter in anything else? it seems to me as though, in these fearful times, events were more and more growing too large for our puny grasp, and that we should the more look for and trust the divine purpose in them when we find they have wholly passed beyond the reach and measure of our own. 'the lord is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before him.' the very afflictions of the present time are a sign of joy to follow. thy kingdom come, thy will be done, is still our prayer in common: the same prayer, in the same sense; and a prayer which absorbs every other. that is for the future: for the present we have to endure, to trust, and to pray that each day may bring its strength with its burden, and its lamp for its gloom. ever yours with unaltered affection, w. e. gladstone. j. r. hope, esq. the following letter, written on the same occasion by another celebrated person, will be read with a very painful interest:-- _the rev. dr. döllinger to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ munich: april , . my dear sir,--allow me to express the sincere delight which i have felt and am still feeling at the intelligence which has reached me of your having entered the pale of the church. this is indeed 'a consummation devoutly wished' ever since i had the good luck of making your acquaintance. how often when with you did the words rise to my lips: _talis cum sis, utinam noster esses!_ i knew well enough that in voto you belonged already to the one true church, but i could not but feel some anxiety in reflecting that in a matter of such paramount importance those who don't move forward must needs after a certain time go backward. then came the news of your marriage, and i don't know what put the foolish idea into my head that you would probably get connected with the 'quarterly review' and its principles, and that thereby a new barrier would interpose itself between you and the church, and that perhaps your feelings for your friends in germany would not remain the same. happily these _umbrae pallentes_ have now vanished, and i trust we will make the ties of friendship closer and stronger by establishing between us a community and exchange of prayers. i can but too well imagine how severe the trials must be to which you are now exposed--especially in the present ferment, when a vein of bitterness has been opened in england which will not close so soon, and when the hoarse voice of religious acrimony is filling the atmosphere with its dismal sounds. with the peculiar gentleness of your disposition you will have to encounter the fierce attacks of the [greek: ellaenes], as well as of the [greek: hioudaioi], i mean of those to whom the church is a [greek: skandalon], as well as of those to whom it is [greek: moria]. i can only pray for you, and trust that he who has given you the first victory of faith will also give you _robur et aes triplex circa pectus_, for less will scarcely do.... yours entirely and unalterably, j. doellinger. mr. james r. hope, queen's counsel. i have not met with any later correspondence of dr. döllinger's with mr. hope-scott than this, excepting a mere note. he visited abbotsford in . there is a letter of count leo thun's to mr. hope (dated wien, den . juli ), in which, after expressing the joy he had felt at the news of his having become a catholic, he remarks, 'i know how slowly, and on what sure foundations the decision came to maturity in your soul.' two letters of mr. hope's to mr. badeley, though not coincident in point of time with the event before us, contain passages so closely connected with it as to find their place here. though mr. badeley's anglicanism was scarce hanging by a thread, he held out for a time, but became a catholic previously to july , . _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to e. badeley, esq._ abbotsford: oct. , ' . dear b.,-- ... as for you, i hold your intellect to be catholic. you cannot help it, but your habits of feeling will give you, as they gave me, more trouble than your reason. how can it be otherwise, considering how many years of training in one posture we both of us underwent? but i pray and hope for you, and that speedily, that freedom of life and limb which has been vouchsafed to me. freedom indeed it is, for it is to breathe in all its fulness the grace and mercy of god's kingdom, instead of tasting it through the narrow lattices of texts and controversies. to believe christ present in the eucharist, and not adore him--not pray him to tarry with us and bless us. to hold the communion of saints, and yet refuse to call upon all saints--living and departed, to intercede for us with the great head of the body in which we all are members. to accept a primacy in st. peter, and yet hold it immaterial to the organisation of the church. to acknowledge one church, and then divide the unity into fragments. to attribute to the church the power of the keys, and then deny the force of her indulgences while admitting her absolutions. to approve confession, and practically set it aside. to do and hold these and many other contradictions--what is it but to submit the mind to the fetters of a tradition which, if once made to reason, must destroy itself?... yrs ever affly, james r. hope. abbotsford: july , . dear badeley,--i received your most kind letter yesterday. i well knew that i should hear from you, for you are an accurate observer of my birthdays-- not one for many years having escaped you. this one does indeed deserve notice in one sense, as being the first on which you and i could salute each other as catholics. may god grant that this his great gift may be fruitful to us both! forty years of my life are already gone--of yours, more. let us try to make the best of what may still remain. we have now all the helps which christ's death provided for us, and all the responsibilities which come with them. 'deus, in adjutorium meum intende. domine, ad adjuvandum me festina!... yrs most affly, james r. hope. e. badeley, esq. to the above correspondence, the following scrap from a letter of mr. david lewis, congratulating mr. hope on his conversion, may form an appropriate _pendant_, as showing mr. hope's influence in the catholic direction previously to that event: 'i may add that i owe in part my own conversion to conversation with you, which turned me to a course of reading the end of which i did not expect. it is therefore no small joy to me to see you in the same harbour of refuge' (may , ). some years later (in spring, ) it was a subject of intense joy to mr. hope-scott when the news came from rome that william palmer had been received into the church by father passaglia. chapter xxii. - . review of mr. hope's professional career--his view of secular pursuits-- advice from archdeacon manning against overwork--early professional services to government--j. k. hope adopts the parliamentary bar--his elements of success--is made q.c.--difficulty about supremacy oath--mr. venables on mr. hope-scott as a pleader--recollections of mr. cameron--mr. hope-scott on his own profession--mr. hope-scott's professional day-- regular history of practice not feasible--specimens of cases: . the caledonian railway interposing a tunnel. . award by mr. hope-scott and r. stephenson. . mersey conservancy and docks bill, 'parliamentary hunting- day,' liverpool and manchester compared. . london, brighton, and south coast and the beckenham line. . scottish railways--an amalgamation case-- mr. hope-scott and mr. denison; honourable conduct of mr. hope-scott as a pleader. . dublin trunk connecting railway. . professional services of mr. hope-scott to eton--claims of clients on time--value of ten minutes-- conscientiousness--professional income--extra occupations--affection of mr. hope-scott for father newman--spirit in which he laboured. on taking the step of which i have just related the history, mr. hope had not to encounter the usual array of external ills that assail the convert's life. although he was now a catholic, his eloquence had lost none of its magic, and railway directors were not very likely to indulge their bigotry at the expense of their dividends. he lost not, i suppose, a single retainer, and his practice at the bar went on as before. his conversion, however, affords us a convenient point at which to turn aside and review his professional career, contrasting so singularly with what the ordinary observer would have anticipated for him under such a condition. we are so much accustomed to associate religious doubts or convictions with an unworldliness which is rarely visible where great worldly success is attained, that on leaving the cloisters of oxford, and entering with him the committee-rooms of the houses of parliament, we seem to behold the curtain raised all at once, and the same actor appearing in a totally new character, with hardly a feature left that can identify him with the previous representation. he was, indeed, himself not insensible to this contrast, and had early marked off from purely secular pursuits that choice and precious portion of his time which could be reserved for higher objects. an interesting passage in a letter of his to mr. gladstone (dated from lincoln's inn, june , ) will illustrate this feeling by a phrase which i italicise, as i believe he was fond of using it: 'my reason for staying in town is to read ecclesiastical law, and to prepare (if so be) for election committees. _the former branch i reckon my flower-garden, the latter my cabbage- field.'_ [footnote: see letter of mr. gladstone to miss hope-scott, appendix iii.] when anglicanism and its institutions had broken down under him, and others not as yet come in their place, he sought in the purely temporal works of his calling perhaps a refuge from doubts, certainly a means of sanctification; and either alternative explains the issue. a religious mind could never succeed in silencing religious difficulty by earthly pursuits, but in whatever measure it sought to sanctify the latter, would be led onwards to the faith. the following passage from a letter of the then archdeacon manning (now cardinal archbishop of westminster) to mr. hope (dated dec. , ) will show that this ardent and restless application to his profession was watched at the time by mr. hope's friends with some degree of anxiety and surprise. the kind and wise admonitions it conveys, only distantly indeed bearing on the religious side of the question, many may read with much profit:-- as a bystander i see you working too much, and looking at times overwrought; and i ask myself, what is this man's aim? it must needs be something very high and far off to need all this unremitting tension of mind. i do much wish to see you more relaxed, and with more play. i know it is a more difficult attainment to be able both to work intensely and to relax thoroughly. but without it a man deteriorates. he becomes a keen, case-hardened tool, and no man. our friends the germans are not far wrong when they talk about developing what is universal in man, i.e. his humanity, which is a whole, and must be unfolded as a whole to be perfect, or even to approximate perfection. you will burn this if i go on, so i will leave you to lancilotti. believe me ever yours affectly, h. e. manning. the field finally adopted by mr. hope was the _parliamentary bar_, at which, as we have seen, he had practised to a certain extent from the first, though with considerable interruption from the legal and financial affairs of his college and the sarum chancery, as well as other weighty business, including in services rendered as counsel to the government in the preparation of the foreign marriages bill; in of the consular jurisdiction bill, the report which he furnished on which, to be seen in the parliamentary records, would alone have been sufficient to have made a great reputation in that particular line; and in - he was engaged by government in the matter of the franco-mexican arbitration to prepare a report on some points in dispute between france and mexico, which had been submitted to the arbitration of great britain. i presume that his retainers in these cases would be principally due to the fact that his brother, mr. george w. hope, was now a member of the government as under secretary of state for the colonies in sir robert peel's administration. but the 'fame' that had already gone abroad regarding him, particularly for his learning in all matters that touched ecclesiastical law, would have been sure, independently of private interest, to have brought him early into prominence. the ecclesiastical courts bill in engaged much of his attention, and his share in the legal business connected with troubles of that year at oxford has been noticed in its place. on october , , he took his degree of d.c.l. at oxford. in , at the suggestion of the bishop of london (right rev. dr. blomfield), he was accepted by the lord chancellor as one of the persons to consider the chapter on offences against religion and the church in the proposed code of criminal law. in a short, time, however, his practice seems to have merged in the department with which his name is principally connected, that of railway pleading. this branch of the profession, though affording little or no scope for those powers of oratory which his first speech before the lords showed that he possessed, nor yet opening those avenues to power and fame which usually tempt minds of his class, were undoubtedly highly lucrative, and by this time mr. hope's charities must have nearly exhausted his modest patrimony. it had also one great advantage, in its business being principally confined to the parliamentary session, thus leaving him free to travel six months in the year. i have seen it stated that in conversation with a friend he gave this as his chief reason for adopting it. he may have said so half in jest; but there can, i believe, be little doubt that a far deeper reason was that the parliamentary bar was likely to present fewer cases of difficulty in point of conscience than he would have had to encounter in the common law courts. it is needless to mention, except for the sake of the few persons who may not happen to have even that superficial acquaintance with the subject which newspaper reading can supply, that advocates practising at the parliamentary bar are engaged in pleading for or against the private bills referred to committees of parliament, relating, for example, to railways, canals, docks, gas-works, and the like. these are each referred to a committee of five, supposed to represent the whole house; witnesses of course are examined, and counsel heard on behalf of the companies or individuals concerned. to plead before a tribunal of such a nature and on such interests evidently demands qualifications of a special kind. mr. hope possessed some external ones which are by no means unimportant. his noble presence, in the first place, gave him a great advantage; and a known name and known antecedents like his were also additional recommendations of great value. then came his tact, clearness of intellect, memory for names and details, his moral qualities, especially his perfect sense of honour, which gained him the ear of the committees, and, what is still more difficult, enabled him to keep it. mr. hope then very early attained to the front rank in his profession, and on the retirement of mr. charles austin, q.c. ( ), and the deaths of sergeant wrangham (_d_. march ) and mr. john c. talbot, q.c. (_d_. ), may be said to have had no rival in reputation or practice until the present sir e. b. denison 'gradually began to compete with him on not unequal terms.' mr. st. george burke, q.c., mr. merewether, q.c., and mr. rodwell, q.c., were other contemporaries of his, who all had a large practice and great reputation, but were, i believe, as seldom as possible pitted against mr. hope-scott. early in mr. hope received a patent of precedence, entitling him to rank with her majesty's counsel; and in april of that year attended the levee as q.c. it was at his own request that the dignity of the silk gown was conferred upon him in this form; and his reason was a conscientious difficulty about taking the oath of supremacy so far as it denied the papal authority, ecclesiastical or civil, as existing _de facto et de jure_ in the realm. he states his difficulty in a letter to mr. badeley (february , ), as follows:-- that the pope _does_ exercise jurisdiction in this country is notorious; and that he ought to do so over r. catholics seems to be admitted by the present state of the law as to that church. the oath, then, cannot be taken as it was originally meant, and the only sense in which i think it can be accepted is, that the pope has not, nor without consent of the legislature ought to have, an external coercive power over the queen's subjects. but this compromise did not satisfy him, and he therefore refused the silk gown, except under the conditions previously stated, which did not require him to take the oath of supremacy at all. his request for the patent of precedence, and his reasons for wishing it, were conveyed through a legal friend to the then lord chancellor, lord cottenham, who made no difficulty whatever in granting it. the following anecdote will amuse the reader. when the chancellor had to report to the premier (lord john russell) the various appointments he had made, lord john asked lord cottenham why he had given mr. hope-scott a patent of precedence instead of making him a q.c. on the chancellor's replying that he had done it because of mr. hope-scott's scruples about the oath, lord john exclaimed, 'that's more than i would have done.' such illustrations of mr. hope-scott's professional success as i have been able to collect, either from oral sources or correspondence, may fitly be introduced by a valuable paper on his characteristics as an advocate by mr. g. s. venables, q.c. it is obviously drawn up with great care and reflection by a skilled observer, who had the best opportunities for arriving at a correct judgment. i omit the two opening paragraphs, the principal facts contained in which have been given in a former page. criticism on mr. hope-scott's characteristics as a pleader. by g. s. venables, esq., q.c. the bar is exempt from envy of merited success, and mr. hope-scott's undisputed pre-eminence never provoked a feeling of personal jealousy. though he cultivated little intimacy with his professional associates, his courtesy and good humour never failed; and he showed due appreciation of the services a leader requires from his junior colleagues. his singularly attractive appearance produced its natural effect in conciliating those around him, and the pleasant and cheerful manner which nevertheless repelled familiarity tended to make him generally popular. the most remarkable forensic qualities of mr. hope-scott were facility, prudence, and grace of language and manner. the subtlety of his intellect, if it had been ostentatiously displayed, might perhaps have impaired the confidence which he had the art of inspiring. inexperienced members of the tribunals before which he practised were tempted to forget that he was an advocate, while they listened to the perspicuous statements which led up with apparent absence of design to a carefully premeditated conclusion. it could never be suspected from his manner that he was constantly supporting a paradox, or that he anticipated defeat. when he had occasion in successive contests to maintain opposite propositions, it seemed that the circumstances of the case, not the position of the advocate, had been changed. in parliamentary practice there is no room for the more ambitious kinds of eloquence, nor can it be known whether mr. hope-scott would have been capable of elevated declamation. [footnote: of the latter, however, two or three specimens are given in this memoir. see vol. i. (pp. , ), vol. ii. (pp. - ).] in dealing with questions of fact, of expediency, of equitable policy, and of complicated agreement, he has probably never been excelled. his lucid arrangement of topics, his pure polished style, and his appearance of dispassionate conviction secured the pleased attention of his audience. the more tedious parts of his argument or narrative were from time to time relieved by touches of the playfulness which is more popular than humour; but the colleagues and opponents who thoroughly understood his object, knew that it was pursued with undeviating constancy of purpose. in the lightest of his speeches there was neither carelessness nor vacillation. less finished advocates turn aside to indulge themselves in playing with an illustration or a favourite proposition, at the risk of betraying the distinction between their own natural train of thought and their immediate argument. mr. hope-scott was too consummate an artist to be tempted into irrelevance or digression. his success would not have been less complete if his practice had required him to trace the fine analogies and close deductions of law. his intellect was admirably adapted to the comparison of precedents and to the application of legal principles. his acuteness was at the same time comprehensive and minute, and he delighted in finding appropriate expression for the nicest distinctions. when he had sometimes occasion to spend hours in contesting the clauses of a bill, he had a surprising faculty of averting the weariness which is ordinarily inseparable from the prolonged discussion of details. professional associates, who willingly recognised his general superiority, sometimes confessed that in the most irksome of their contests they were placed at an exceptional disadvantage in comparison of mr. hope-scott's felicitous adroitness. he excelled in dealing with skilled witnesses, who were themselves from the nature of the case supplementary advocates. the object of cross-examination, where there is little serious dispute as to the facts, is to draw from the mouth of a hostile witness the other half of the story. an accurate memory, stored by abundant experience, enabled mr. hope-scott to recall the history of every railway company, the expressed opinions of general managers, and the characteristics and theories of engineers. the wariest veterans needed all their caution to anticipate the design of the friendly conversation which gradually tempted them to damaging admissions. he was slow to resort to harder modes of attack, of which he was at the same time fully capable. every facility was offered to a candid and confiding witness, and there was still greater satisfaction in baffling the vigilance of an adversary who was on his guard against an attack from a different quarter. a hostile witness, after an encounter with mr. hope-scott, sometimes found that his answers formed a plausible argument in favour of the proposition he had intended to confute. his perplexity must have been increased when he afterwards heard his own statements reproduced in the speech of the opposing counsel. almost the only point in which mr. hope-scott could be charged with a want of caution consisted in his frequent affirmation of certain general opinions, such as the common and questionable doctrine that competition cannot last where combination is possible. an advocate who is changing his clients is ill-advised in hampering himself with the enumeration of maxims which may from time to time be quoted against him. in such cases mr. hope-scott almost converted a self-imposed difficulty into an additional resource. with marvellous ingenuity he proved that any competition scheme which he happened to support formed an exception to the rule which he carefully reasserted; and unsophisticated hearers admired the consistency with general principles which was found not to be incompatible with immediate expediency. it is almost superfluous to say that mr. hope-scott never exceeded the legitimate bounds of forensic debate. all litigated questions, and especially this species of private legislation, have two sides, and it is the business of an advocate to present in the most favourable light the cause which he is retained to defend. deliberate sophistry is as culpable as false relations of fact; but completeness or judicial impartiality belongs to the tribunal, and not to the representative of the litigant. when all moral scruples have been allowed their full weight, the qualifications of a great advocate are almost exclusively intellectual. it is to this part of mr. hope-scott's character that i have strictly endeavoured to confine myself. it is probable that an attempt to analyse a distinct personal impression may have produced but a vague result. i have little doubt that, although mr. hope-scott was almost unequalled in professional ability, his real life lay outside his occupation as an advocate. the grounds of the affection and admiration with which he is remembered by his family and his nearest friends have but a remote connection with the faculties and accomplishments which i have endeavoured to describe. another friend (mr. h. l. cameron), who had continual opportunities, from about the year , of observing mr. hope-scott's character in its professional aspect, furnishes some very interesting reminiscences, on a part of which, however, it may be worth while to observe that the versatility and pliability of intellect which the writer so well describes in mr. hope-scott is no doubt more or less common to every great barrister, and is a habit to which all who are actively engaged in the profession are obliged to train their minds as they can. still, it is equally certain that mr. hope-scott possessed this faculty in an uncommon degree; and, in order to form a complete idea of him as he appeared in the eyes of his contemporaries, as well as to understand the relations of one part of his character to another, it is necessary to draw these features in considerable detail. after noticing particularly a very pleasing trait in mr. hope-scott's demeanour as a leading counsel, shown in the kindness and tact with which, in consultation, he took care to prevent the inexperience or ignorance of his juniors being made apparent, and sought rather to ask them questions on points which they were likely to know something about, mr. cameron continues as follows:-- recollections of mr. h.l. cameron. what made mr. hope-scott so much loved by all who were brought into contact with him was his great amiability, thorough kindness of heart: his care was always not to hurt or wound another's feelings; and even in the heat of debate, and under great provocation, i never heard him utter an unkind word, or put a harsh construction on the conduct of any one, even an adversary. as regards his talents, they are so universally known and admitted, that i can say very little you have not heard already. westminster has rarely-- never certainly in later years--heard such an advocate. the secret of his great success at the bar, beyond his intellectual power, lay, i think, in a peculiar charm and fascination of manner--a manner which could invest the driest and most technical matters with interest, and compelled the attention of the hearers to the subject under discussion. the melody of his voice was, to me, one of his greatest attractions. then, again, what a noble presence! and that goes a long way at the bar. i can look back, and see now, as he used to walk into his room to attend some consultation, how vigorous, handsome, and stately he always appeared, bringing the force of his powerful intellect at once to bear upon the subject under consideration, doing all in such a genial manner, without any attempt at showing his mental superiority to those around him. in those busy times he would perhaps be engaged in twenty different cases on the same day; the competition to engage him was most keen: it was almost the first thing one thought about when clients came to consult upon a new scheme. he would go from one committee to another, by some extraordinary means always being at the place where he was most needed. it was marvellous how he kept all these matters distinct in his brain; he was never in confusion or at fault. in one room he would open a case, say an improvement bill, with a brilliant speech setting forth all its merits, a speech which would probably immediately impress the committee and carry the case, whatever after arguments might be urged against it, or speeches made by other counsel. then he would go into another room, and cross-examine a skilled witness in a railway case, showing his intimate knowledge of engineering, and beating the witness perhaps on his own ground. then he would take an irish case, or a gas and water bill, or landowner's case, whose property was about to be intersected, a ratepayer's, a carrier's, each case being thoroughly gone into, and thoroughly mastered and understood. after all this, and late in the day, when any one else would have felt fatigued and exhausted, in mind at any rate, if not in body, he would go into a room where an inquiry had been going on perhaps for weeks, and reply on the whole evidence. those who know what labour this entails can alone appreciate such a capability. no one at the bar whom i have ever heard reasoned with such perfect lucidity. he would explain a case which his client the solicitor would have wrapped up in fifty or sixty brief sheets, and involved in as much obscurity as it were well possible, to a committee in a few minutes; and i have often thought his clients never understood their own cases until he had explained them. it was wonderful how he could make a committee (sometimes composed of by no means the highest specimens of mankind) understand a case; and his persuasive power with those tribunals was also marvellous. one word more on his character in his business life, and that is as to his entire conscientiousness. no case did he ever consider insignificant or beneath his notice. he gave the same attention to the humblest client that he would to a duke. he never left anything he had to do _half_ done: his work was thorough, complete, good. time, which he considered his client's, was never wasted; and to enable him to get through his work he would rise at four or five o'clock in the morning, and he would be engaged either getting up a case, attending consultations, or in committee until five or six o'clock in the evening. his life was an exact fulfilment of that precept, 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' [footnote: mr. h.l. cameron. letter to miss hope, october , .] to what has now been expressed by critics so competent, i shall add the only passage which i have been able to discover, in which mr. hope-scott has left on record any opinion relating to himself in connection with his professional experience in an intellectual point of view. in pleading before the select committee of the lords, on behalf of eton college, on the public school bill of , after stating his objection to the notion of such subjects as natural philosophy playing so very large a part in early education as some persons would have them do, he goes on to say:-- i, if i may venture here to speak of myself, have observed enough in a life which has been tolerably devoted to business to know this, that the possession of knowledge upon any one subject is worthless compared to the possession of a power of using it when you have got it. my lords, in my profession, though not in my part of it, there are many men who will take up a patent case, or a mining case, without the slightest previous knowledge of the natural sciences relating to it, and who will make statements to a jury which the scientific men at hand will stand aghast at; what does that mean? it means that they have been so trained in the acquisition of knowledge when presented to them, that it becomes to them a mere matter of get-up, in many instances, to acquire an amount of knowledge which would absolutely electrify many a learned society. [footnote: _min. evid. sel. com. public sch. b._ p. .] notwithstanding the qualification under which mr. hope-scott here speaks, it will be seen from a case i shall presently cite (the 'caledonian railway,' p. ) that he describes a faculty he was of course aware that he himself possessed. he said, i believe, in conversation, that there was hardly any subject which he had not had occasion to look up in his profession, and this was one of the reasons which made him so fond of it. it will perhaps give pleasure to those whose affection for mr. hope-scott's memory has suggested this record, if i note down some particulars of his daily round of occupations during the most active period of his life, principally supplied me (with other interesting details) by the kindness of mr. john q. dunn, who, from the year until the end, was mr. hope- scott's confidential clerk, continually about him in the most unreserved trust, made out his daily _agenda_, and was intimately acquainted with all his habits and ways. mr. hope-scott rose early, between five and six o'clock, made his coffee, and then went through his devotions, a black ebony crucifix, with the figure of our lord in brass, on the table before him. wherever he went he had this carried with him. [footnote: this particular crucifix, however, was only used by mr. hope-scott after his first wife's death. it was the one which she held in her hands when dying.] his next employment was his brief, which he read with great rapidity, [footnote: 'bellasis says you never read even a brief, but divine its contents in half the time required.'--bishop grant to mr. hope-scott, november , .] making notes as he went on. this lasted till about eight, when he dressed and breakfasted. he then drove from his private residence, or from norfolk house, to attend consultations in chambers at . . each consultation lasted five or ten minutes, sometimes fifteen, never more, until eleven o'clock, not a minute being wasted. public business then commenced, in the lords at eleven, in the commons at twelve. his papers having been taken over to the various committee-rooms, he would go from room to room, making a speech here, or cross-examining witnesses there, as the occasion might require, throughout the day. he was always cool and business-like, never in the slightest degree flurried. this, which was only due to his immense self-control, made people _imagine_ that the work was excessively easy to him. business before the committees lasted till four, when the bags were collected (which were a porter's load); and in chambers another series of cases ensued, from four to five or six. in the intervals of business he would dictate, with surprising exactness and calmness, letters on his private affairs, such as the management of his highland estate--minute directions for painting outhouses it might be, or the like small matters. at six he went home in a cab, tired and exhausted; dinner followed, after which he invariably went to sleep for two hours, waking up about ten, when he read his prayers. he commonly slept sound, and got up next morning bright and fresh. clients sometimes came as early as six or seven, and had undivided attention for three-quarters of an hour: these audiences amounted, in fact, to fresh verbal briefs, but were never charged for, as the arrangement was made for his own convenience. on first undertaking to write this memoir, the idea naturally suggested itself whether it might not be possible to give something like a connected history of mr. hope-scott's practice at the bar, especially considering the great social interest of the whole subject of railway construction in these countries, of which it really forms part. but i was assured by those thoroughly conversant with the matter, that such a task was not to be thought of. legal arguments, occupying many hours for days together, however extraordinary they no doubt were as efforts of talent, and however important to those concerned at the time, who, perhaps, might be seen expecting, with white faces, the long-pending decision of committees for or against them, cannot, after the lapse of a generation, nay, after a far shorter interval than that, be even understood without an amount of labour which few would be inclined to devote to them. it may, indeed, be said that railway law is the creation of such great advocates as mr. hope-scott, who reigned supreme in their own province at the time of its formation; and no doubt suggestions of counsel may have been adopted into law. but how to assign to each his share in the mighty structure? or guess to whom any particular change may have been due? it would at all events be the office, not of the biographer, but of the historian of jurisprudence. i shall nevertheless so far venture to deviate from the advice to which i have referred as to notice five or six cases, not as being in every instance of special and remembered celebrity, but merely as specimens of the kind of practice in which mr. hope was engaged. two of these will also give me the opportunity of quoting some clever articles from the contemporary newspaper press, serving to show what the opinion about mr. hope-scott was at the time, as the criticisms of his professional friends already given convey to us a distinct idea of the impression which he produced on his brethren of the bar. i take first a case in which the caledonian railway company were concerned, as it is very clearly and concisely explained by mr. hercules robertson (better known as lord benholme, his title as lord of session), one of the counsel associated in it with mr. hope-scott, in a letter which has been kindly communicated to me:-- . _the caledonian railway_.--'we were associated together as counsel for the caledonian railway company in supporting several important bills upon parliamentary committees, involving difficulties of no ordinary magnitude. one very important object that company had to attain was leave to alter their entrance into glasgow by lowering their access by many feet of perpendicular elevation. their bill proposed to effect this by a tunnel which had to be interposed between the canal above, on the surface, and the edinburgh and glasgow railway beneath. our tunnel had to pass between these hostile undertakings just at the point where the former of these lay above the other with a very scanty space between. the difficulty was to induce the committee to believe that the thing was possible--that it was in the power of engineering to thread a way for the caledonian railway so as not to bring down the water of the canal on the one hand, or to break into the other railway by destroying its roof on the other. mr. hope-scott had a power of persuasion that owed its efficacy not more to his commanding talents than to his straightforward ways and his honest and candid manner, which seemed to afford a satisfactory pledge that he would not seriously and anxiously advocate anything that was not true and possible. by his powerful assistance the caledonian company carried their bill, and in the course of the proceedings i had a full opportunity of estimating the elements of success in mr. hope-scott's career which made him one of the most popular of parliamentary counsel. i need hardly say that his kindness and courtesy to myself were all that i could expect or wish from one with whom i was otherwise so closely connected.--h. j. rorbetson.' . _award by mr. hope-scott and mr. r. stephenson_.--in mr. hope- scott was associated with mr. robert stephenson, the celebrated engineer, in making an important award upon certain questions in difference between the london and north-western and north staffordshire railway companies. this document, dated october , , appears in the newspapers of the day; but either to quote from or analyse it would not be of the slightest interest to my readers. a letter of mr. r. stephenson's to mr. hope-scott on some private business of later date is of more value for our purposes as showing the opinion which this great engineer had formed of mr. hope-scott in his own field, and also that these two remarkable men were by that time on the terms of intimacy that might be expected where minds of such calibre, and so capable of understanding each other, met in the conduct of affairs. _robert stephenson, esq., c.e. to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ great george street: feb. . my dear hope-scott,--i have a sketch, in hand for your bridge. your specification is excellent. i know what you want exactly. if i had not finished my engineering career, i should certainly have been jealous of your powers of specification. i do not know that it is sufficient to base a contract upon that would hold water in law; nevertheless, it is sufficient for me. i cannot offhand state the cost; but when the sketch and estimate are made, you shall see them; and if the cost exceeds your views, there will be no harm done; on the contrary, i shall have had the pleasure of scheming a little for you by way of pastime. yours faithfully, egbert stephenson. james hope-scott, esq. . the mersey conservancy and docks bill.--the speeches delivered by mr. hope-scott in this case (june and , ) on behalf of the corporation of liverpool against the mersey docks and conservancy bill, were considered as among his greatest forensic efforts. his engagement in it was originally due to an accident, the brief having been given in the first instance to mr. plunkett, in whose chambers, as already mentioned. mr. hope had been a pupil. mr. plunkett having been prevented by illness from taking the brief, it was placed in the hands of mr. hope-scott, who made a brilliant use of the opportunity. to place the reader in possession of the main question, it may be sufficient to state that the object of the bill was to consolidate the liverpool and birkenhead docks into one estate, so as to vest the whole superintendence of the mersey in one body, principally elected by the docks ratepayers for the time being. this was felt by the corporation of liverpool as an unjust interference with their local rights, and the case is argued by mr. hope-scott (when he comes upon general grounds) as one in which the commercial was being sacrificed to the jealousy of the manufacturing interest, and the principle of local government to that of centralisation. the reasonings as to matters of fact and business which make up the great bulk of these speeches are quite outside of our range, which can only deal with that which is more popular and rhetorical. two specimens in the latter style i venture to quote--one of them appearing an excellent example of the genial humour he knew so well how to throw around the driest of arguments; the other a highly coloured view of the history and position of liverpool in the commercial world, and of the danger of disturbing it in obedience to the clamour of its manufacturing rivals. the treatment of the subject rather reminds us of burke's manner, and it is easy to see that mr. hope-scott's own political feelings, always constitutionally conservative, would here assist his eloquence, as, in a far higher degree, the same sympathies had added splendour to his early display before the house of lords. in the case before us it is hardly necessary to say that millions of money were concerned. an exciting scene is remembered in connection with it, the secretary of the birkenhead docks fainting away during the proceedings. mr. hope-scott is _said_ to have received a fee of , _l_.; but a friend, likely to be well informed, thinks this is a fable. the parliamentary hunting-day: a change of mount. [after describing the provisions of an earlier centralising scheme proposed by government in , mr. hope-scott proceeds:] well, sir, all this set the game fairly afoot; and such a day's sport could hardly have been anticipated since the days when-- earl percy of northumberland a vow to god did make, his pleasure in the scottish woods three summers' days to take. the queen herself had not indeed made a vow, but had announced the hunting from the throne. the royal commissioners had driven the whole country for game, and there was a large field, nearly all the counties of england being interested spectators; the hounds in good condition--very skilful whips-- everything seemed to promise a fine day's sport: and what would have been the issue is not very easy to foresee, had it not been for what i may be allowed to term (pursuing the metaphor) the very unfortunate riding of the gentleman who, upon that occasion, acted as huntsman. it appears from his own statement at the outset that he had very little previous acquaintance with the country; but he went off with very considerable confidence upon 'the shipping interest,' and there seemed to be every prospect of his having a pleasant ride; but as he got along, he seems to have found the ground deeper and the fences stiffer than he had reckoned upon, and, moreover, that 'the shipping interest' had been a good deal exhausted in the service of the department before. so about the middle of the day (it is more easy to give a description of personal events in the form of analogy than from direct representation)-- about the middle of the day he seems to have changed his mount; and when he was next seen he was going at a tremendous rate across country, firmly seated upon the 'natural rights of man.' as you may suppose, he very soon made up for lost ground upon so splendid a creature. but the difficulties began when he came up with the hunt; for the horse in question is a desperate puller, very awkward to manage in old enclosures, and not at all accustomed to hunt with any regular pack, least of all with her majesty's hounds. the consequence was what might have been expected. he was hardly up with the hounds when he was in the middle of them, rode over half the pack, and headed the whole; and so there was nothing for it but for the master of the hounds to call them off, and declare he would not hunt that country again until he had had a further survey made of it. now i have endeavoured to give, in as gentle a manner as i can, an account of that which caused the principal disaster on this famous sporting day. it was stated that further information was necessary. but another member of the government described the difficulty in a good deal broader terms. mr. labouchere declared that 'the sons of zeruiah had been too strong for them.' however that may be, a select committee was appointed. [footnote: _report: mersey conservancy and docks_, westminster, , p. .] comparison of liverpool with manchester. what has made liverpool? manchester says it has made liverpool. sir, the east and west indies, america and africa and australia have made liverpool, just as they have made manchester. we know that for a long time that western side of the kingdom was far behind the eastern portions of it; that it had no wool trade, which was the old staple of the country; that south lancashire was covered with forests; that in edward the second's time there was but one poor fulling-mill in manchester: and what has been the eventual result? after long waiting, after long delays, a new continent in the far west, and a new british empire founded in the far east, have come to the relief of that portion of the country; that, concurrently with the development of that system, a brindley, a watt, an arkwright, a george stephenson arose. and so it is that liverpool became what it is; and so it is that manchester became what it is. but who was watching this great design of providence in its small beginning? who was fostering the trade? who was promoting the internal communications with manchester? who was spending money and giving land for the benefit of the infant trade? it was the corporation of liverpool.... where was representation and taxation then, sir?... you cannot have it till the port is made. you cannot have it till the risk has been run, till the ratepayers have been created. then, no doubt, you may turn round upon the body who have made the port, made the ratepayers, made them what they are; and you may insist upon dethroning them from that position which they have occupied, at so much risk and so much labour, up to the time when the full development of the trade takes place. now, sir, that is the case with liverpool. it is the case with nearly all the remarkable ports of this kingdom. and then, forsooth, when all this has been done, and when liverpool has nursed from its infancy the rising trade of the mersey, watched it, developed it into a system which is unequalled, i venture to say, in the habitable world, we are to have gentlemen from manchester coming down upon us to tell us that the true nostrum to make a port is taxation and representation, and to turn out those who, before there was any trade to tax, taxed themselves in order to create it. * * * * * apart from the great western company's intervention this is a case of manchester against liverpool; in other words, it is a struggle between a manufacturing and a commercial interest. now, sir, what is called the balance of power in the british constitution, meaning as it does the equipoise caused by conflicting interests and passions, is a principle which is not confined to constitutional forms, but works out throughout the whole body of society; and we find a gradual tendency in latter days to conflicts between classes, and classes which were before allied together against other classes. we know the distinctions between land and trade, speaking generally, and the conflicts which have ensued. in these latter days we have had trade subdivided into manufactures and commerce.... what you are asked to do now is to humble a commercial interest at the instance of a manufacturing interest.... there can be no doubt, sir, that if we contrast the habits of mind of different classes, commercial pursuits give a different tone and a different feeling. i am not saying it is better, i am not saying it is worse--that is not my question--but a different tone and feeling from what manufacturing pursuits do. i will not even analyse the cause of it; but i may state this much, that commerce has that which manufacture has not. it has its traditions and its history upon a higher and very different footing: it has even its romance and its poetry. a profession exercised within a port which is associated with such names as those of tyre, of byzantium, of venice, of genoa, of the hanse towns, and many of the chief cities of history, may be said to have some liberal features which i do not say are beneficial; i am merely saying that they are different from those which arise out of the associations of manufacture. images of greatness and of splendour are connected with the one much more than with the other, and the term 'merchant princes' is a term which neither historians nor orators would treat as otherwise than properly applied to many of the chief men of the cities which i have named in former days, and many of the chief men of the cities with which we are now dealing. moreover commerce brings the parties engaged in it into connection and contact with almost the whole known world. liverpool is not the liverpool of lancashire only, or of cheshire only, or of england only; liverpool is the liverpool of india, of china, of africa, of north and south america, of australia--the liverpool of the whole habitable globe; and she has her features of distinction; she has her habits of thought and feeling, her traditions of mind fostered by influences such as these. there she sits upon the mersey, a sort of queen of the seas; and manchester, her sister, looks at her and loves her not. _she_ too is great, and _she_ too is powerful--but she is not liverpool, and she cannot become liverpool. at liverpool she is lost in the throng of nations and the multitude of commerce; she is merely one of the many customers of the port. well, as she cannot equal liverpool, what is the next thing? it is to pull down liverpool; to make liverpool, forsooth, the piraeus of such an athens as manchester! that, sir, will suit her purpose, but will it suit yours?... no commercial interests can act, sir, more than any other interests, without some local association, without some united home, such as is afforded in the constitution of our own port.... to found upon injustice, and to proceed by agitation, to put down a rival whom they cannot help admiring though they cannot love--that, sir, is a process neither worthy of them nor likely to accord with the views of the constitutional politician, who is willing indeed that, according to the natural force of circumstances and the development of time, every interest should acquire its legitimate position in the balance of power under the constitution, but who certainly would not lend his aid to destroy by anticipation and violently any of those great commercial landmarks which remain--and long may they remain--in this country, standing monuments of the past, and affording in the present working of different political passions and interests a counterpoise, the loss of which would soon be felt, and would lead every one to regret the legislation which had converted this bill into an act. (pp. , , - .) . _the l. b. & s. c. company--the beckenham line_.--in this great case mr. hope-scott was retained by the london, brighton, and south coast railway company to oppose a bill by which it had been sought to construct a new and rival line by beckenham, and, with his usual address, succeeded in turning it out. the question was one of considerable local importance, and on its decision a clever article appeared in the 'west sussex gazette,' written by the editor of that paper, the late mr. william woods mitchell, in whose sudden death in the public press of england lost a most able and talented journalist, who (i may remark in passing) had as considerable a share as any one in carrying the principle of unstamped newspapers. his description of mr. hope-scott's style of pleading is interesting, as conveying the impressions of a very sharp-sighted spectator, and, so to speak, placing before our bodily vision what such refined criticism as that of mr. venables has addressed rather to the eye of the mind. to one of an impulsive temperament mr. hope-scott's unconcern and _sang- froid_ is perfectly irritating. it is amazing how he remembers minute points and names. from the highest questions of policy down to mr. ellis's cow and ladder case he was 'up' in detail, never lost for a word, and not to be astonished at anything. if the house of commons were on fire he would ask the committee simply if he should continue until the fire had reached the room, or adjourn on the arrival of the engines. whilst he delivers his speech he is keeping up a little cross-fire with the clerks behind, who scratch out the evidences and papers as he requires them. now he will drink from the water-glass, now take a pinch of snuff, then look at his notes, or make an observation to some one; but still the smooth thread of his speech goes on to the committee: but it is smooth, and says as plainly as possible, 'my dear friend, i am not to be hurried, understand that if you please.' when, however, mr. scott has a joke against his learned friend he looks round, and his dark eyes twinkle out the joke most expressively.... there was a slight twinkle as he said to the committee, 'now i come to the question of gradients.' it was amusing to see the five m.p.s twist in their chairs, and how readily the chairman told mr. scott the committee required to hear nothing further about gradients. had the question of gradients been entered upon, one might have travelled to brighton and back ere it was concluded. mr. hope-scott had the advantage of a good case, and he 'improved the occasion.' he further had the advantage of the three shrewd gentlemen at his elbow, messrs. faithfull, slight, and hawkins, who allowed no point to slumber. the great features in favour of the brighton company were--first, that their line was acknowledged by all to be well connected; secondly, that parliament had never granted a competing line of as palpable a character as the beckenham; thirdly, that it had been shown by a committee of inquiry that competing lines invariably combine to the detriment of the public; and lastly, that the opposition line was not a _bonâ fide_ scheme, and not required for the traffic of the district. mr. denison replied at a disadvantage. [the chairman announced:] 'the committee are unanimous in their decision that the preamble of the bill has _not_ been proved.' the b. and s. c. has won the race. another victory for _scott's lot!_ [footnote: _scott's lot_. there was a celebrated trainer of the day, named scott; and this expression was very familiar in the records of the turf.] the beckenham project thrown out. [footnote: _west sussex gazette_, june , .] the same writer (i have been told) also remarked that mr. hope-scott succeeded with the committee by making an exceedingly clear _statement_ of the case, thereby making them think that they knew something about it--and that was half the battle. when it was over, mr. hope-scott observed to a friend, 'it is very likely i shall hear of that again; and very probably i shall be on the other side.' in fact, the affair got mixed up with the south-eastern, from which company mr. hope-scott received a prior retainer, and carried the beckenham line against the l. and b. on that occasion he met the probable production by the opposing counsel of the statement from his previous speech by showing that circumstances alter cases, and that two or three years make a great difference. these latter particulars, however, i only give as conversational. to prevent any adverse impressions which might be given by such random talk, i would remark in passing, that a case like the foregoing is not a question of right or wrong, truth or falsehood, but of a balance of _expediency_, which it is a counsel's business in each instance to state, though certainly not to _overstate_. further on (p. ) the reader will find evidence of mr. hope-scott's resolute conscientiousness in the matter of fees. . _scottish railways: an amalgamation case_.--a bill for the amalgamation of certain scottish railways was one of the great cases in which mr. hope-scott was concerned in the parliamentary session of . a correspondent of the 'dundee advertiser' takes occasion from it to contribute to that journal a sketch of mr. hope-scott's personal history and professional career, with sundry comments on his style as an advocate. from this article i shall quote so much as refers in general to the scottish part of his practice, and particularly to the case above mentioned. it will be perceived that the writer takes a comparatively disparaging view of mr. hope-scott's manner of pleading; but this only shows the coarse drawing which those who write for the people often fall into, like artists whose pictures are to be seen from a great distance. for convenience of arrangement i make a transposition in the passage which i now place before the reader. mr. hope-scott in pleading his cases has a peculiarly easy style of speech, which can hardly be called oratory, because it would be ridiculous to waste high oratory on a railway or a waterworks bill. but he has an apparently inexhaustible flow of language in every case he takes up, and every point of every case. he has little gesture, but is graceful in all his movements. he fastens on every point, however small--not a single feature escapes him; and he covers it up so completely with a cloud of specious but clever words, that a parliamentary committee, composed as it is of private gentlemen, are almost necessarily led captive, and compelled to view the point as represented by him. it was eminently so in the amalgamation case. the specious excuses for unmitigated selfishness there put forth were poured into the ears of the committee with such an air of innocent candour, and with such a clever copiousness, that the committee was, as it were, flooded and overwhelmed by his quiet eloquence; and though mr. denison with the keen two-edged sword of his logic cut through and through the watery flood in every case, it was just like cutting water, which immediately closed the moment the instrument was withdrawn. i am not doing mr. scott injustice when i say that in the amalgamation case his tact was at least in as much demand as his ability, and that for downright argument his speeches could not for one moment be compared to those of mr. denison. but having a bad case to begin with, and having to make a selfish arrangement between two railway companies appear a great public advantage, he certainly, by his quiet skilful touches, turned black into white before the committee with remarkable neatness. his reply on the whole case was another flood of rosewater eloquence, which rose gently over all the points in mr. denison's speech, and concealed if it did not remove them. it was like the tide rising and covering a rock which could only be removed by blasting. mr. denison has the keen logical faculty which enables him to bore his way through the hardest argument, and blast it remorselessly and effectually as the gunpowder the rock. mr. scott, again, prefers to chip the face of the rock, to trim it into shape, to cover it over with soil, and to conceal its hard and rocky appearance under the guise of a flower-garden, through which any one may walk. and with ordinary men this style of thing is very popular. i do not mean that mr. scott is incapable of higher things. far from it. i believe that had he to plead before a judge few could be more logical and powerful than he; but it is a remarkable evidence of the 'scottishness' of his character, if i may coin a phrase, that when he has to plead before a committee of private gentlemen who have to be 'managed,' he should deliberately select a lower style of treatment for his subjects. * * * * * from his birth and social position, his mixing with the noblest and best society in the land, and his versatility and quick perceptive powers, mr. hope-scott is so thoroughly master of the art of pleasing that a committee cannot fail to be ingratiated by him; and is certainly never offended, as he is gentlemanly and amiable to a fault. his temper is unruffled, and his speeches brimful of quick wit and humour; and when a strong-minded committee has to decide against him, so much has he succeeded in ingratiating himself with them that it is almost with a feeling of personal pain the decision is given. i remember seeing the chairman of one of the committees look distinctly sheepish as he gave his decision against mr. scott, and could not help thinking how much humbug there was in this system of parliamentary committees altogether. * * * * * mr. hope-scott has had a great deal to do in regard to dundee and district business in parliament. he represented the harbour trustees when they obtained their original act, and he has had a hand in forwarding or opposing most of the railways in the district. he was employed by mr. kerr at the formation of the scottish midland; and i may mention that he was also employed in regard to the original forfar and laurencekirk line. in his conduct of the latter case a characteristic incident occurred which shows the highly honourable nature of the man. it was at the time of the railway mania, when fancy fees were being given to counsel, and when some counsel were altogether exorbitant in their demands. mr. hope-scott was to have replied on behalf of the forfar and laurencekirk line, but intimated that he would not have time to do so, he being engaged on some other case. it was supposed, as fancy fees were being freely offered to secure attendance, that mr. scott was dissatisfied with his, and accordingly an extra fee of guineas was sent to him along with a brief and a request that he would appear and make the reply. mr. scott sent back the brief and the cheque to the agents, with a note stating his regret that they should have supposed him capable of such a thing, also stating that he feared he would not have time to make the reply; but requesting that w. kerr, of dundee, should be asked to visit him and prepare him for the case, that he might be able to plead it if he did find time. this was done; he did find the time, he pleaded the case, but would not finger the extra fee! how different this conduct from that of some of the notorious counsel of those days, who, after being engaged in a case, sometimes stood out for their , -guinea fees being doubled before they would go on with it!' [footnote: i have heard of even a stronger case at that period than those alluded to by this writer--of a brief of _l_. being returned by the counsel and agents backwards and forwards till it reached , _l_.] ('dundee advertiser,' july , .) . _dublin trunk connecting railway_.--this was a case of some interest in or , when schemes were in agitation for the connection of lines and the construction of one great central station for dublin. seven bills had been proposed, two of which their supporters had great hopes of carrying: the dublin trunk connecting line few had thought would pass, when mr. hope-scott went into the committee-room one afternoon, examined some witnesses, and made a speech which carried all before it; and, to the astonishment of all, the bill passed. the project, indeed, was never realised, but all agreed that mr. hope-scott's single speech before the committee had snatched the affair from the hands of all the other competing parties. . his professional services to his old college of eton in one important case (the public schools bill of ) have already been more than once referred to. [footnote: see vol. i. p. , and the present vol. ii. p. .] but he similarly assisted eton on other occasions also. one of these was a contest it had with the _great western railway company_ in , and which did not terminate in complete success; but his exertions (which were gratuitous) called forth a most emphatic expression of thanks in an address to him from the head-master (dr. hawtrey) and from the whole body of the masters. they say:-- it would indeed have been impossible by any such payment to have diminished our debt. for we feel that you spoke as if you had a common interest in our cause, and the advocate was lost in the friend. nothing was wanting in our defence which the most judicious eloquence, combined with the sincerest regard for eton, could supply:-- si pergama dextra defendi possent, etiam hâc defensa fuissent. but if the great object of our wishes could not be obtained against an opposition so powerful, restrictions have been imposed on the direction of the great western line, which would not have been granted but for the earnestness of your address to the committee; and whatever alleviations there may be to the evils which we expected, we shall owe them entirely to your advocacy. i have little to add to what has now been brought together, yet a few scraps may still interest the reader. mr. hope's first general retainers (as already stated) date in ; but by the time he retired he was standing counsel to nearly every system of railways in the united kingdom (not, however, to the great western, though he pleaded for them whenever he could--that is, when not opposed by other railways for which he was retained). with the london and north-western he was an especial favourite. it is believed that on his retirement his general retainers amounted to nearly one hundred--an extraordinary number; among which are included those given by the corporations of london, edinburgh, dublin, liverpool, and others. there was, in fact, during his last years, constant wrangling among clients to secure his services. the cry always was 'get hope-scott.' that there may have been jealousy on the part of some as to the distribution of time so precious, may easily be supposed. i find a hint of this in a book of much local interest, but which probably few of my readers have met with, 'the larchfield diary: extracts from the diary of the late mr. mewburn, first railway solicitor. london: simpkin and marshall [ ].' under the year mr. mewburn says (adding a tart comment):-- the london and north-western railway company had, in the session of , twenty-five bills in parliament, all which they gave to mr. hope-scott as their leader, and he was paid fees amounting to , _l_., although he was rarely in the committee-room during the progress of the bills.-- 'larchfield diary,' p. . as to this, it must be observed that the companies engaged mr. hope-scott's services with the perfect knowledge beforehand that the demands on his time were such as to render it extremely doubtful whether he could afford more than a very small share of it to the given case. they wished for his name if nothing else could be had; and, above all, to hinder its appearing on the opposite side. it was also felt that his powers were such, that a very little interference or suggestion on his part was very likely to effect all they wished. people said, 'if he can only give us ten minutes, it will _direct_ us. we don't want the chief to draw his sword--he will win the battle with the glance of his eye.' in reference to one case i have described (no. ) a client exclaimed, 'even in ten minutes he put all to rights. we should have gone to pieces but for those ten minutes.' one is reminded of the exclamation of the old highlander who had survived killiecrankie: 'o for one hour of dundee!' with these facts before us, and the astonishing unanimity of the best informed witnesses, as to mr. hope- scott's straightforwardness and high sense of honour, i think mr. mewburn's objection is sufficiently answered. a remark, however, may be added, which i find in an able article in the 'scotsman' (may , ): 'often unable to attend his examination of minor witnesses, mr. hope-scott nevertheless took care to possess himself of everything material in their evidence by careful reading of the short-hand writers' notes, and he always contrived to be at hand when the examination of an important witness might be expected to prove the turning-point in his case.' the same writer goes on to say:-- mr. hope-scott was not classed as a legal scholar, nor did his branch of the profession, which was the making, not the interpreting of laws, demand that accomplishment. his power lay, first, in a strong common sense and in a practical mind; next, in a degree of tact amounting to instinct, by which he seemed to read the minds of those before whom he was pleading, and steered his course and pitched his tone accordingly; and lastly, in being in all respects a thorough gentleman, knowing how to deal with gentlemen.... though sincere and zealous in [religious] matters, mr. hope- scott never, in his intercourse with the world and with men of hostile beliefs, showed the least drop of bitterness, or fell away in the smallest degree from that geniality of spirit which marked his whole character, and that courtesy of manner which made all intercourse with him, even in hard and anxious matters of business, a pleasure, not only for the moment, but for memory. the following anecdote will serve to show that mr. hope-scott was not the man to abuse the power which of course he well knew that he possessed, of 'making the worse seem the better cause.' once when engaged in consultation with a certain great advocate, they both agreed that they had not a leg to stand upon. ---- said that he would speak, and did deliver a speech which was anything but law. mr. hope-scott being then called, bowed, and said that he had nothing to add to the speech of his learned friend. 'how could you leave me like that?' asked the other. 'you had already said,' replied mr. hope-scott, 'that you had no case.' in his latter years mr. hope-scott was thought to have become rather imperious in his style of pleading before the parliamentary committees: i mention this, not to pass over an impression which probably was but incidental. of an opposite and very beautiful trait see an example in mr. gladstone's 'letter' (appendix iii.). it is obvious that mr. hope-scott's professional emoluments must have been, as i have already said in general, very great. notwithstanding his generosity and forbearance, it was no more possible for him, with his talents and surroundings, to avoid earning a splendid income than (as clarendon says of the duke of buckingham) for a healthy man to sit in the sun and not grow warm. into the details of his professional success in this point of view i must refrain from entering. although, considering the great historical interest of the era of 'the railway mania,' the question of the fees earned by a great advocate of that period can hardly be considered one of merely trivial curiosity, still, the etiquette and let me add the just etiquette, of the profession would forbid the use of information, without which no really satisfactory outline of this branch of my subject could be placed before the reader, least of all by a writer not himself a member of the profession. the popular notion of it must, i suppose, have appeared not infrequently in the newspapers of the day--an example may be found at p. of this volume--and but very recently a similar guess appeared in a literary organ of more permanent character. but to correct or to criticise such vague statements on more certain knowledge, even if i possessed it, is what can hardly be here expected. indeed, i ought rather to ask pardon for mistakes almost certainly incident to what i have already attempted. in concluding the present subject i may remark that mr. hope-scott's professional labours by no means represent the whole work of his life. nominally, he was supposed to be free for about half the year, but in reality this vacant time was almost filled up by other work of a business nature undertaken out of kindness to friends or relations--precisely what the old romans called _officia_. such was the charge of the great norfolk estates, and of the long-contested shrewsbury property; [footnote: bertram talbot, last earl of shrewsbury of the catholic branch, had bequeathed considerable property to lord edmund howard (brother-in-law to mr. hope-scott), on condition of his assuming the name of talbot. his right to make this bequest was disputed by his successor, and a protracted litigation ensued in and the next few years, throughout which mr. hope-scott acted as friend and adviser of the howards, to whom he was guardian. the importance of this _cause célèbre_ here consists chiefly in the self-sacrificing labours by which mr. hope-scott succeeded in saving something for his relative out of the wreck, when to rescue the whole proved to be hopeless. i am not aware that it need be concealed that he had a very strong opinion against the justice of the decision.] such was another trust, on a considerable scale, for connections of his family in yorkshire, involving, like the former, a great deal of travelling, for he was not satisfied with merely looking at things through other people's eyes. such, too, his guardianship of his elder brother's eight children [footnote: mr. george w. hope died on october , --a great sorrow to mr. hope-scott, to whom for years, in the earlier part of his career, his house had been a home, and who regarded him throughout with deep affection.] for about ten years before his death. a fourth may be added, that of the family of mr. laing, solicitor at jedburgh, a convert who died young, requesting mr. hope to protect the interest of his seven children. a fifth, too--the guardianship of the children of his old legal tutor, mr. plunkett. the four first-mentioned guardianships occupied mr. hope till nearly the end of his life. and, on the top of all this, add a most voluminous correspondence, in which his advice was required on important subjects by important persons--and often on subjects which were to them of importance, by very much humbler persons too. of the spirit in which he laboured, the following passage of a letter of his to father (now cardinal) newman gives an idea. like some other letters i have quoted, it almost supplies the absence of a religious diary of the period. it is an answer to a letter of dr. newman's, presently to be given (p. ). _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the very rev. dr. newman._ abbotsford: dec. , . dear father newman,--... and now a word about yourself. i do not like your croaking. you have done more in your time than most men, and have never been idle. as to the way in which you have done it i shall say nothing. you may think you might have done it better. i remember that you once told me that 'there was nothing we might not have done better'--and this was to comfort me; and it did, for it brought each particular failure under a general law of infirmity, and so quieted while it humbled me. and then as to the future: what is appointed for you to do you will have time for--what is not, you need have no concern about. there! i have written a sermon. very impudent i know it is; but when the mind gets out of joint a child may sometimes restore it by telling us some simple thing which we perhaps have taught it. pat your child then on the head, and bid him go to play, while you brace yourself up and work on, not as if you must do some particular work _before_ you die, but as if you must do your best _till_ you die. 'alas! alas! how much could i say of my past, were i to compare it with yours! and my future--how shall i secure it better than you can yours? but i must not abuse the opportunity you have given me.... with all good wishes of this and every season, yours very affectionately, james r. hope-scott. the very rev. dr. newman, birmingham. chapter xxiii. - . mr. hope's engagement to charlotte lockhart--memorial of charlotte lockhart--their marriage--mr. lockhart's letter to mr. j. r. hope on his conversion--filial piety of mr. hope--conversion of lord and lady henry kerr--domestic life at abbotsford--visit of dr. newman to abbotsford in --birth of mary monica hope-scott--bishop grant on early education--mr. lockhart's home correspondence--death of walter lockhart scott--mr. hope takes the name of hope-scott--last illness and death of mr. lockhart--death of lady hope--letter of lord dalhousie--mr. hope-scott purchases a highland estate--death of mrs. hope-scott and her two infants--letters of mr. hope- scott, in his affliction, to dr. newman and mr. gladstone--verses in -- letter of dr. newman on receiving them. this biography here reaches the point where the history of mr. hope's marriage may fitly be placed before the reader. it was an event which, as i have already hinted, may very probably have been connected, like his eager pursuit of the bar, with the break-down of his early ideas as to the church of england. yet, viewed merely in its worldly aspects, the step was one which could have caused no surprise, the time for it having fully arrived, as he was now thirty-five, in a conspicuous position in society, and making a splendid income. the lady of his choice was charlotte harriet jane lockhart, daughter of john gibson lockhart, and granddaughter of sir walter scott. it was through lady davy that mr. hope had made mr. lockhart's acquaintance; and thus what appeared a very meaningless episode in his juvenile years materially affected his destiny in life. in a letter of july , , to his sister, lady henry kerr, he speaks as follows of the important step in life he had decided upon, and of the character of his betrothed:-- i have for a long time contemplated the possibility of marriage, and had resolved that, all things considered, it might, under god's blessing, be the best course which i could pursue. it was not, however, till i had made acquaintance with charlotte lockhart that i was satisfied i should find a person who in all respects would suit me. this a general knowledge of her character (which is easily known) convinced me of, and i then proceeded rapidly, and, as far as i can judge, am not mistaken in my choice. she is not yet twenty, but has lived much alone; much also with people older than herself, and people of high mental cultivation. she has also had the discipline of depending on those habits of her father which are inseparable from a literary and, in some degree, secluded life. in short, she has had much to form her, and with great simplicity of character, and unbounded cheerfulness, she combines far more thought than is usual at her age. having no mother and few connections, she is the more likely to become entirely one of us; which i value, not only on my own account, but for the sake of my mother, to whom i am sure she will be a very daughter. i have said more to you about her than i have written to any one else, for i distrust marriage puffs, and desire that people may judge for themselves.... you may be assured that i look upon marriage in a very serious light; and i pray god heartily that it may be to us, whether in joy or sorrow, the means of mutual improvement, so that, when the account is rendered, each may show some good work done for the other. yours affectionately, james r. hope. a little expedition which ensued on the engagement was long remembered as affording a very bright passage in their lives. with lady davy as kind chaperon, mr. hope and his betrothed visited his brother-in-law and sister, lord and lady henry kerr, at the rectory of dittisham, near dartmouth, that the future sisters might become acquainted. the exquisite beauty of the scenery about the dart, the splendour of the weather, and the charm of the moment, altogether made this a time of happiness not to be forgotten by any of those who shared in it. to the outline conveyed in mr. hope's letter i shall add a few traits obtained from other sources, and thus complete, as far as possible, the image they present. charlotte lockhart is described as a very attractive person, with a graceful figure, a sweet and expressive face, brown eyes of great brilliance, and a beautifully shaped head: the chin indeed was heavy, but even this added to the interest of the face by its striking resemblance to the same feature in her great ancestor, sir walter scott. a dearly cherished portrait of her at abbotsford shows all that sweetness we should expect, yet it is at the same time full of character and decision. her style of dress was marked by singular simplicity; and, unless to please her husband, or when society required it, she rarely wore ornaments. she was of a bright and cheerful nature, at first sight extremely open, but with that reserve which so often shows itself, on further acquaintance, in minds of unusual thoughtfulness and depth. there was something especially interesting in her manner--a mixture of shyness and diffidence with self-reliance and decisiveness, quite peculiar to herself. her look, 'brimful of everything,' seemed to win sympathy and to command respect. without marked accomplishments, unless that of singing most sweetly, with a good taste and natural power that were always evident, she had a passion for books, about which, however, she was particularly silent, as she dreaded anything like pretensions to literature. her talent and quickness made everything easy to her, and she seemed to get through all she had to do with great facility. but this was much assisted by an extraordinary gift of order and method, which enabled her, without consulting her watch, to fix the instant when the time had arrived, for example, for prayers, so that her friends would say they felt sure she carried a clock in her head. punctual to a minute, she seemed never to lose a moment. she governed herself by a rule of life, drawn up for her by bishop grant (and afterwards by cardinal manning), memoranda of which were found in her prayer-book. notwithstanding ill-health, she almost always commenced her devotions, even if unable to rise early, at six in the morning, and observed a perfect system in the round of her daily duties. she was never idle, and nothing that might be called her recreations was allowed to be decided by the wish of the moment, but was all settled beforehand--the time to be allotted, for instance, to a carriage drive, or to visiting. mr. hope-scott himself said of her, that if she lay down on the sofa in the afternoon to enjoy a few hours of dante or tasso, you might be sure that every note had been answered, every account set down and carefully backed up, every domestic matter thoroughly arranged. as lady davy expressed it, 'she was a very busy little housewife, putting order into every department.' of the usual lady's industry of needlework, plain or fancy, she got through an amazing quantity; but she was also, in her early years, of great use to her father, whose companion she had been in a literary life of great loneliness, by relieving him of much of his correspondence. the same diligent and endearing aid she afterwards rendered to her husband in all his harassing overwork. her great love and admiration for him, combined with her own natural reserve, made her somewhat disinclined to go into society; and in his compulsory absences, at which she was never heard to murmur, she could be happy for weeks together, with her child, in a comparatively solitary life at abbotsford. yet she was also quite able to appreciate society, and is described by her friends as a delightful companion, hardly ever talking of herself, and always charitable in talking of others. though placed in the state of riches, and having unlimited permission from her husband to spend as much as she pleased, she was notwithstanding never wasteful, but governed her household expenditure with the prudence of an upright and well-regulated mind, taking the greatest pains that all around her should have strict justice. she spent nothing needlessly upon herself, but gave largely, and in the most self-denying manner, for charitable purposes, especially the orphanage under the sisters at norwood, which she appears to have constantly endeavoured to follow in spirit, making her inner life, as far as possible, that of a religious. she is remembered to have disposed of, for the sake of the norwood orphanage, a precious ornament, given her by her husband, which had belonged to the empress josephine; but a portion was reserved for a lady altar in the church of st. mary and st. andrew, galashiels. when in london, it was her delight to visit st. george's hospital, where her attendance was efficient and regular, so long as she was able to render it. mr. hope and charlotte lockhart were married at the parish church of marylebone on august , , his brother-in-law, lord henry kerr, officiating; and after the wedding he took his bride to the duke of buccleuch's house at richmond, which had been lent to them for the honeymoon. the autumn was spent at rankeillour, and the winter at lady hope's in charles street. in mr. hope rented abbotsford from his brother-in-law, walter lockhart scott, and removed thither in august of that year. on the death of the latter, in , he became its possessor in right of his wife, and for the remainder of his days made it his principal residence. mr. hope's conversion, as we have seen, took place before easter in . to his wife, the surrender of united prayer (of all trials the severest on both sides) was a sore distress: but the perception of truth is always aided by consistency, at whatever sacrifice; she had read and thought much on the controversy, and by whitsuntide had followed her husband into the true fold. mr. lockhart regarded his son-in-law's conversion as a grief and a humiliation; but, nevertheless, the nobleness of his nature, and the deep regard he always felt for his virtues, prevailed without an effort. his letter on that occasion does himself as much honour as it does to mr. hope. _j. g. lockhart, esq. to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ s[ussex] p[lace]: april , . my dear hope,--i thank you sincerely for your kind letter. i had clung to the hope that you would not finally leave the church of england; but am not so presumptuous as to say a word more on that step as respects yourself, who have not certainly assumed so heavy a responsibility without much study and reflection. as concerns others, i am thoroughly aware that they may count upon any mitigation which the purest intentions and the most generous and tender feelings on your part can bring. and i trust that this, the only part of your conduct that has given me pain, need not, now or ever, disturb the confidence in which it has of late been a principal consolation to me to live with my son-in-law. ever affectionately yours, j. g. lockhart. that incipient leaning to catholicity which is so observable among the literary men of the later georgian era, especially of the school of sir walter scott, was probably not wanting in mr. lockhart. at rome he seems to have chiefly lived among catholics; and quite in keeping with this view is an anecdote i have heard, of his observing to mr. hope, when once at mayence they were watching the crowd streaming out of the cathedral, 'i must say this looks very like reality.' this was in the course of a visit they made to germany in , when mrs. hope was staying at kreuznach for her health. as for lady hope, her decidedly protestant principles caused her to feel profound distress when her son became a catholic. she anxiously sought to know what roman catholics really believed, and whether they worshipped the blessed virgin or not. her son wrote her the following beautiful letter the christmas eve after his conversion:-- _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to his mother, the hon. lady hope._ abbotsford: dec. , ' . dearest mamma,--... writing on christmas eve, i cannot forbear, dearest mamma, from wishing you the blessings of this season, although i feel that in doing so i must necessarily cause painful thoughts; but amongst these, i trust, you will never admit any which imply that my love for you has diminished, or that i profess a religion which does not enforce and cherish the feelings of duty and affection which i owe to you. that i have often been wanting in my conduct towards you i well know and sincerely regret; but i can safely say that you have been throughout my life, to me, as you are still, an object of love, respect, and gratitude such as i scarcely have elsewhere in the world. take then, dearest mamma, your son's christmas prayers. they are addressed to the god who gave you to me, and whom i thank heartily for the gift; and if i believe that his will has been manifested otherwise than you see it in some things, remember that this does not extend to the precepts of love and charity, or alter one tittle of my obligation and desire to be and to show myself to be your most affectionate son, james r. hope. in the course of mr. hope's brother-in-law and sister, lord and lady henry kerr, were received into the catholic church. they ultimately settled near abbotsford, at huntley-burn, a name familiar to all who have read lockhart's 'life of scott,' which afforded more frequent opportunities for the intimate and affectionate intercourse which existed between the families. mr. hope's other immediate relatives, however unable they might be to sympathise with his change, retained their love and admiration for him undiminished. writing from luffness to mr. badeley (jan. , ), he says: 'here there has been no controversy, it being agreed that we shall not _talk_.... we meet everywhere so much kindness now, that we can make no pretence to confessorship.' his life as a catholic, now that he had once found anchorage in the faith, passed in unbroken peace of mind, in wonderful contrast to the storms of which we have been so long telling, that swept over him before he reached this haven. the years immediately succeeding mr. hope's marriage with charlotte lockhart were probably the happiest of his life. he was then most buoyant, most in health, most himself, and at the height of his intellectual powers. his improving and practical hand was soon felt wherever he resided. he did much for rankeillour, but for abbotsford wonders. the place had been greatly neglected, the trees unthinned, and everything needing a restoration. he added a new wing to the house, formed a terrace, and constructed an ingenious arrangement of access by which the tourists might be admitted to satisfy their curiosity, while some sort of protection was afforded to the domestic privacy of the inmates. [footnote: particulars of some of the improvements will be given later on. the new house at abbotsford was begun about , and completed and furnished in .] what he did for the church i shall tell by-and-by. [footnote: see chapter xxvi.] at both rankeillour and abbotsford mr. hope maintained a graceful hospitality, in every way befitting his position. a letter which has been communicated to me from a lady (now a nun) who was on a visit at abbotsford during the autumn and winter of , gives a very pleasing and distinct idea of the domestic life there during that brief period of happiness, which, however (as we shall see presently), was already chequered by sorrow destined in the divine providence to become yet deeper and sadder. to this letter i am indebted for the following particulars, which i have ventured slightly to rearrange, yet keeping as closely as possible to the words of the writer:-- the impression left by that most interesting and charming family could never be effaced from my mind. it always seemed to me the most perfect type of a really christian household, such as i never saw in the world before or since. a religious atmosphere pervaded the whole house, and not only the guests, but the servants must, it seems to me, have felt its influence. but, apart from that, there was so much genial hospitality, and every one was made to feel so completely at his ease. mr. hope-scott was the _beau idéal_ of an english gentleman, and a model catholic devoted to the service of the church, doing all the good that lay in his power, far and near. there was a quiet dignity about him, and at the same time he was full of gentle mirth, full of kindness and consideration for others; and for every one with whom he came in contact, high and low, rich and poor, there was a kind word or a generous act. among all the guests of this happy interval, [footnote: lord and lady arundel and their family, count thun, lady davy, lady lothian, lord traquair, bishop carruthers, mr. badeley, &c.] none were more joyfully welcomed than dr. newman, who spent above five weeks at abbotsford during the winter of - , though a much longer visit had earnestly been wished for by his kind host. it was a visit memorable in many ways, and at a memorable time of the cardinal's life, the year of the first achilli trial (this took place june - ), in which mr. hope, though not one of his advocates, had rendered the most efficient help to the illustrious defendant by his counsel and support. the catholic university of ireland, as will be seen from the following letter, was also then preparing, for which its first legislator had turned to mr. hope as among the most trusted of his advisers. _j. r. hope, esq., q.c. to the very rev. dr. newman._ calverly terrace, tunbridge wells: october , ' . dear newman,--i am much grieved by the account of your health which you send. do, i entreat you, take _rest_ at once--and by rest i understand, and i suspect from dr. murray (?), total removal from work and change of scene. we hope to go to abbotsford early next month. we have a chapel in the house, but no chaplain. you would confer on us the greatest pleasure, and would at the same time secure your doctor's object, if you would come down there and spend with us the three or four months which will elapse before our return to town. you can say mass at your own hour, observe your own ways in everything, and feel all the time, i hope, perfectly at home. do, pray, seriously think of this. as to the university question which you put to me, i can give no reference here; and i suspect my view is rather historical than in the way of strict definition. in england public teaching in the schools preceded all the colleges, and the latter provided the training which the university did not undertake. in scotland and in most places abroad there are no colleges in our english sense, and public teaching is the essence of their systems. perhaps by looking into athy wood you may find passages to refer to, but i would rather rest upon the general statement of their origin. there are some derivations ascribed to the word _universitas_ as relating to universal knowledge, but i doubt them. wife and child well. yrs affly, james r. hope. i subjoin a few lines from dr. newman's answer to this invitation (which at first he was unable to accept):-- it would be a great pleasure to spend some time with you, and then i have ever had the extremest sympathy for walter scott, that it would delight me to see his place. when he was dying i was saying prayers (whatever they were worth) for him continually, thinking of keble's words, 'think on the minstrel as ye kneel.' (dr. newman to j. r. h. from edgbaston, birmingham, oct. , ' .) not less interesting is a letter in which he recalls this visit, years after. writing to mr. hope-scott on christmas eve, [compare p. ], dr. newman says:-- i am glad to call to mind and commemorate by a letter the pleasant days i passed in the north this time five years. five years has a melancholy sound to me now, for it is like a passing-bell, knolling away time. i hope it is not wrong to say that the passage of time is now sad to me as well as awful, because it brings before me how much i ought to have done, how much i have to do, and how little time i have to do it in.... i wonder whether badeley is with you? what a strange thing life is! we see each other as through the peep-holes of a show. when had i last a peep at him or you? at abbotsford one blessing was still wanting to the completion of domestic happiness. it may be assumed that, after successes so brilliant, mr. hope could not but desire to found a family which should continue, in his own line, names so famous as those which he inherited and represented; but this was long withheld. his first child, a boy, was still-born ( ); the next, after an interval of four years (october , , feast of the guardian angels), was a daughter, mary monica (now the hon. mrs. maxwell-scott), named after a favourite saint of his; and several years more elapsed before the birth of another son. a passage from one of bishop grant's letters to mr. hope will be read with interest at this point, both for the characteristic piety and for the intimacy of their friendship to which it witnesses:-- _the right rev. dr. grant, bishop of southwark, to j. r. hope, esq., q.c._ dec. , . my dear mr. hope,--... as you will have more opportunities at abbotsford than you will perhaps find in london, it may be well to tell you that the italian nurses begin almost before children know how to use their eyes, to make them notice prints or statues of our dear mother and of the saints. this helps their imagination, such as it is; and, after all, when we know how some babes notice their parents and nurses, there is every reason why we should accustom them to notice holy things. and, as they begin to talk, it is right to follow the rule which st. augustine says his mother had, of constantly letting the sacred names drop, so that the great doctor says she completely destroyed his relish for all oratory from which those sweet names were absent. may the blessings of christmas fall abundantly on all at abbotsford! yours very affectionately, thomas grant. mr. hope's domestic circle at this time included mr. lockhart, who, though not yet a very old man, was verging towards the close of a literary life of great toil. he was much with his son-in-law and daughter in scotland and in london, and they sometimes stayed with him in sussex place. at length he had his books taken down to abbotsford, where they still are, in a room called the lockhart library. when absent, he wrote almost daily either to his daughter or to mr. hope; and the collection of his letters, still preserved, affords a most amusing record, sparkling with genial sarcasm, of whatever was going on around him in london society. there is endless talk and incident, floating in that society, which never finds its way into print, or not till after the lapse of many years; and such is precisely the material of this home correspondence of mr. lockhart's. it would be perhaps difficult to name letters with which they can be accurately classed. i do not forget horace walpole, and swift's 'journal to stella.' but lockhart's wit was more playful and more natural. the great charm of his letters is, that he thought, so far, of nothing but simply to relate what was likely to amuse his daughter, whether the matter in itself was of the least consequence or not. such, however, were not the only topics of which he had to tell. mr. lockhart, who, with his somewhat haughty self-possession, might have been described, as the late lord aberdeen was, by one who knew him well, as 'possessing a heart of fire in a form of ice,' had yet a deeply felt but secret sorrow, with which even his resolution could hardly cope. if i do not disguise that for years he had much to vex him in the wild ways of a son whom he yet never ceased to love, it is only because otherwise i could convey little idea of the unreserved manner in which that lofty spirit could turn for consolation, in letter after letter, to mr. hope, or to his daughter, never failing to find all the comfort with which a wise head and a kind heart can reward a confidence so pathetic. mr. hope's conduct, all through these trials, was indeed forbearing and generous to such a degree as would make it a great example to all who have to sustain crosses of that kind. but enough, perhaps, has been said on the subject. in a severe illness of his brother-in-law at norwich afforded another of those occasions in which he displayed that zeal and helpfulness in ministering to the sick, of which there are so many instances in his life. walter lockhart scott died at versailles on january , . [footnote: walter lockhart scott and charlotte (wife of mr. hope-scott) were the last survivors of the children of mr. lockhart and sophia, daughter of sir walter scott. the eldest son, though very short-lived, is well remembered as 'hugh littlejohn,' to whom the _tales of my grandfather_ were dedicated.] mr. hope then assumed the name of hope- scott, by which i shall henceforth speak of him. it was on the occasion of her brother's death that bishop grant addressed the following beautiful letter to mrs. hope-scott:-- _the right rev. dr. grant, bishop of southwark, to mrs. hope-scott_. january [ ]. my dear mrs. hope,--although there is no artistic merit in the enclosed, i hope you will allow me to send it on account of the meditation which it suggests, how our dear lord had the thought of his sufferings present to his mind in early childhood--indeed, from the first moment of his earthly existence. this thought may help to strengthen us when we reflect that he has not given us the foretaste of our sorrow, but has allowed us to grow up without any anticipation of distinct sorrow and suffering; and, for the first years, without any thought of their coming at all. when affliction comes at last in all its real bitterness, we can lighten it by uniting it to his sorrow, and by asking him to remember his promise of making it easy to us. i should not have troubled you so soon if it had not occurred to me that the days which follow the announcement of a cause of grief are often more trying than the commencement of them, and that during them the need of consolation may be more felt. i do not know why i should intrude my poor sympathy upon you, but when we have shared in joy it seems ungrateful not to be willing to have a part in sadness, and therefore i hope you will excuse me.... yours very respectfully, thomas grant. mr. lockhart never got over the death of his last-remaining son. his health began to fail; he went to rome for change of climate; came back worse, and soon after went down to his half-brother's at milton-lockhart. thither mr. and mrs. hope-scott went to see him, and entreated him to come to abbotsford. he at first decidedly refused, and his will was a strong one; but some time after, when the house was full of catholic guests, he suddenly announced that he wished to go immediately to abbotsford. he arrived there, hardly able to get out of his carriage, and it was at once perceived that he was a dying man. he desired to drive about and take leave of various places, displaying, however, a sort of stoical fortitude, and never making a direct allusion to what was impending. to save him fatigue, it was important he should have his room near the library, but he shrank from accepting the dining-room (where sir walter scott had died), and it required all mr. hope-scott's peculiar tact and kindness to induce him to establish himself in the breakfast-room close by. there he remained until the end. yet he would not suffer any one to nurse him, till, one night, he fell down on the floor, and, after that, offered no further opposition. father lockhart, a distant cousin, was now telegraphed for, from whom, during mr. lockharts's stay in rome, he had received much kind attention, for which he was always grateful. he did not object to his kinsman's presence, though a priest; and yielded also when asked to allow his daughter to say a few prayers by his bedside. mr. hope-scott, in the meantime, was absent on business, but returned home one or two days before the end, which came suddenly. he and mrs. hope-scott were quickly called in, and found miss lockhart (affectionately called in the family 'cousin kate') reading the prayers for the dying. mr. lockhart died on november , , and was buried at dryburgh abbey, beside his father-in-law sir walter scott. the insertion of these particulars, which are of personal interest to many of my readers, will perhaps be justified by their close association with the subject of this memoir. after little more than a twelvemonth mr. hope-scott had the sorrow to lose his mother. lady hope died rather suddenly on december , , in consequence, it was thought, of injuries she had sustained from an accidental fall in the crystal palace a few days before. in writing to acquaint mr. gladstone with this sad event (december ) [footnote: lady frances hope also died within a week after, on december , .] mr. hope- scott says:-- to you and mrs. gladstone, who knew her, i may confidently say that i believe a kinder, more generous and self-denying nature has seldom existed. to us, her children, her life has been one of overflowing affection and care; but many, many besides her immediate relations have known her almost as a mother, and will feel the closing of her house as if they had lost a home. the following letter, written from india on the same occasion, is in every way deeply interesting:-- _the marquis of dalhousie to g. w. hope, esq._ gov't house: feb. , . it was very kind of you, my dear george, to think of me, far away, when your heart must have been so sore. but, indeed, your kindness was not thrown away, or your considerate thoughtfulness misplaced. even jim and yourself have not grieved with more heartfelt sorrow for that dear life that has been lost than i have in my banishment. thirty years have gone since your mother began to show to me the tenderness of an _own_ mother. i loved her dearly--she loved me, and loved what i loved. in the prospect of a return which has few charms for me the thought of finding lady hope good, kind, gracious, motherly, as she always was for me, was one of the few thoughts on which i dwelt, and to which i returned with real pleasure, and now it is all gone; and you would think it exaggerated if i said how deeply it depresses me to feel that it is so. give my love to jim, and to your sister too. i see her boy goes to madras. i had hoped to see him here, if only for a week. in three weeks i am deposed. i have no wish to see england; but nevertheless i am, dear george, yours most sincerely, dalhousie. the winter which followed mr. lockhart's death at abbotsford was a mournful one. mrs. hope-scott had been deeply attached to her father. she had shared his griefs, as we have seen. her earlier years had been somewhat lonely; her disposition, with all its reserve, was excessively sensitive and excitable, and a change of scene had doubtless begun to be felt necessary, when mr. hope-scott bought a highland estate, situated at lochshiel, on the west coast of inverness-shire, north of loch sunart, and nearly opposite skye. the history of the purchase of this property, and of all that mr. hope-scott did for it as a catholic proprietor, is very interesting and curious, but involves so much detail, that i reserve most of it for a future chapter. he built a residence there, dorlin house, a massive, comfortable mansion, practically of his own designing, abounding in long corridors, to enable the ladies and children to have exercise under shelter in the rainy highland climate, and various little contrivances showing that few things were too minute for his attention. here, as everywhere, he used a kindly and noble hospitality. much of the charm of the place consisted in its remoteness and solitude, which caused just sufficient difficulty in obtaining supplies to afford matter of amusement. the post also came in and out only three times a week, and the nearest doctor was twelve miles off. all this, however, is now considerably changed by the greater vicinity of railways. a few lines from a letter of mr. hope-scott's to dr. newman, dated 'lochshiel, strontian, n.b., september , ,' will give a better notion of its surroundings than i can offer:-- we are here on the sea-shore, with wild rocks, lakes, and rivers near us, an aboriginal catholic population, a priest in the house, and a chapel within yards. we hope badeley may turn up to-day, but are in doubt whether he will be as happy here as in paper buildings. the first necessaries of life sometimes threaten to fail us, and we have to lay in stores as if we were going on a sea voyage. at this moment we are in doubt about a cargo of flour from glasgow, and our coal-ship has been long due. what badeley will say to oat-cakes and turf fires remains to be seen. on christmas eve of the following year ( ) dr. newman writes to mr. hope-scott, in a letter i have already quoted from (p. ):-- i was rejoiced to hear so good an account of your health, and of all your party. i suppose you are full of plans about your new property and your old. your sister tells me you have got into your new wing at abbotsford. as for the faraway region of which i have not yet learned the name, i suppose you are building there either a fortress against evil times, or a new town and port for happy times. have you yet found gold on your estate? for that seems the fashion. mr. hope-scott did not indeed find gold at dorlin, but he spent a great deal over it, which he was sometimes tempted to regret; but, on the whole, thought that the outlay had been devoted to legitimate objects, and that, as an experiment, it had succeeded. he built two chapels on this property, at mingarry (our lady of the angels) and at glenuig (st. agnes); and his letters are full of unconscious proof how the interests of catholicity were always in his mind. a long wished-for event had lately thrown a bright gleam of sunshine over the house. on june , , mrs. hope-scott gave birth to a son and heir, walter michael, which was cause of rejoicing, not only to the whole scottish nation, but wherever the english language is spoken, as promise of the continuance of the name and the line of scotland's greatest literary glory. and, to complete the circle of happiness, on september of the following year, , was born also a daughter, margaret anne. three months after this had scarcely passed, when the mother and both her infants were no more. mrs. hope-scott had never really recovered from her first confinement. in the spring of she had had a severe attack of influenza, and consumptive symptoms, though not called by that name, came on. towards the end of october arrangements had been made to take her to the isle of wight for the winter, but she never got further on her journey than edinburgh. when she called, a day or two after her arrival there, on the bishop, dr. gillis, he said to himself, 'ah! _you_ have been travelling by express train!' very soon after this, bronchitis set in, and rapidly became acute, and the case was pronounced hopeless. to herself, indeed, it was perhaps more or less sudden, though she had virtually made a retreat of preparation during the preceding six months, and left everything in the most perfect order at abbotsford. she had said to 'cousin kate' (miss lockhart) that god had been very merciful to her in sending her a lingering illness; yet, on the last night, was heard to say,' hard to part--jim--mamo [footnote: mamo: an affectionate abbreviation for mary monica.]--god's will be done.' she accepted her death as god's will. on being told of its approach, and after receiving the last sacraments, she said, 'i have no fear now.' bishop gillis gave her the last absolution, fr. noble, one of the oblate fathers from galashiels, assisting. her husband's disposition never allowed him to believe in misfortune till it had really come, and, almost up to the last hour, he had failed to see what was plain to all other eyes; the parting, therefore, with him and with her little daughter mamo (who could scarcely be torn from her) was sad beyond expression. the end came rapidly. she died on tuesday, october , and on december her baby daughter, margaret anne; and on december the little boy, whose birth had caused such gladness. all three were buried in the vault of st. margaret's convent, edinburgh; the mother on november (all souls' day), her two children on december and , . bishop gillis spoke on november and december , but his addresses were unwritten; dr. grant, bishop of southwark, on december . his address, and a beautiful one indeed it is, has fortunately been preserved. of three short letters, in which mr. hope-scott had told dr. newman of each sorrow as it came, i transcribe the last:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.g. to the very rev. dr. newman._ curzon st, london, w.: dec. , . dear father newman,--my intention, for which you so kindly said mass, has been fulfilled, for it was, as well as i could form it, that god should deal with my child as would be most for his honour and its happiness, and this afternoon he has answered my prayer by calling little walter to himself. i rely upon you to pray much for me. it may yet be that other sacrifices will be required, and i may need more strength; but what i chiefly fear is that i may not profit as i ought by that wonderful union of trial and consolation which god has of late vouchsafed me. yours very affectionately, james r. hope-scott. the very rev. dr. newman. on his wife's death mr. hope-scott had written the following letter to mr. gladstone:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.g. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ abbotsford: nov. , . my dear gladstone,--i was uneasy at not having written to you, and hoped you would write--which you have done, and i thank you much for it. an occasion like this passed by is a loss to friendship, but it was not, nor is, easy for me to write to you. you will remember that the root of our friendship, which i trust [was] the deepest, was fed by a common interest in religion, and i cannot write to you of her whom it has pleased god to take from me without reference to that church whose doctrines and promises she had embraced with a faith which made them the objects of sense to her; whose teaching now moulded her mind and heart; whose spiritual blessings surrounded and still surround her, and which has shed upon her death a sweetness which makes me linger upon it more dearly than upon any part of our united and happy life. these things i could not pass over without ignoring the foundation of our friendship; but still i feel that to mention them has something intrusive, something which it may be painful for you to read, as though it required an answer which you had rather not give. so i will say only one thing more, and it is this: if ever, in the strife of politics and religious controversy, you are tempted to think or speak hardly of that church--if she should appear to you arrogant, or exclusive, or formal, for my dear charlotte's sake and mine check that thought, if only for an instant, and remember with what exceeding care and love she tends her children.... and now good-bye, my dear gladstone. forgive me every word which you had rather i had not said. may god long preserve to you and your wife that happiness which you now have in each other! and when it pleases him that either of you should have to mourn the other, may he be as merciful to you as he has been to me! yours affectionately, james e. hope-scott. and now mr. hope-scott was left alone in abbotsford, with his only surviving child, a very fragile and delicate flower too, such as to make a father tremble while he kissed it. we have already seen [footnote: see pp. - , and , , ch. ii, in vol. i.] that he could resort sometimes to poetry as that comfort for the over-burdened mind, in which keble's theory would place even the principal source of the poetical spirit. [footnote: keble, _praelectiones academicae_, oxon. . prael. i. t. i. p. . ] as every reader will sympathise with such expressions of feeling, i do not hesitate to transcribe some touching verses which he wrote at this season of sorrow, and which, with a few others, he had privately printed, and given in his lifetime to two or three of his very closest friends. these others will be found in the appendix. [footnote: appendix iv.] _sancta mater, istud agas, crucifixi fige plagas, cordi meo validè._ christmas, . my babes, why were you born, since in life's early morn death overtook you, and, before i could half love you, you were mine no more? walter, my own bright boy, hailed as the hope and joy of those who told thy grandsire's fame, and looking, loved thee, even for thy name; and thou, my margaret dear, come as if sent to cheer a widowed heart, ye both have fled, and, life scarce tasted, lie among the dead! then, oh! why were you born? was it to make forlorn a father who had happier been if your sweet infant smiles he ne'er had seen? was it for this you came? dare i for you to blame the god who gave and took again, as though my joy was sent but to increase my pain? oh no! of christmas bells the cheerful music tells why you were born, and why you died, and for my doubting doth me gently chide. the infant christ, who lay on mary's breast to-day, was he not born for you to die, and you to bear your saviour company? then stay not by the grave, my heart, but up, and crave leave to rejoice, and hear the song of infant jesus and his happy throng. that wondrous throng, on earth so feeble from its birth, which little thought, and little knew, now hath both god and man within its view! yes, you were born to die; then shall i grudging sigh because to you are sooner given the crown, the palm, the angel joy of heaven? rather, o lord, bestow on me the grace to bow, childlike, to thee, and since above thou keep'st my treasures, there to keep my love. it is scarcely necessary to say that one of the friends to whom mr. hope- scott sent these verses on his family losses of was dr. newman. the note in which his friend acknowledged the precious gift witnesses to the intimacy of their friendship in as striking a manner as any i have been enabled to make use of:-- _the very rev. dr. newman to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.g._ the oratory, birmingham: october , . my dear hope-scott,--i value extremely the present you have made me; first of all for its own sake, as deepening, by the view which it gives me of yourself, the affection and the reverence which i feel towards you. and next i feel your kindness in thus letting me see your intimate thoughts; and i rejoice to know that, in spite of our being so divided one from another, as i certainly do not forget you, so you are not unmindful of me. the march of time is very solemn now--the year seems strewn with losses; and to hear from you is like hearing the voice of a friend on a field of battle. i am surprised to find you in london now. for myself, i have not quitted this place, or seen london, since last may year, when i was there for a few hours, and called on badeley. if he is in town, say to him everything kind from me when you see him. ever yours affectionately, john h. newman, of the oratory. james b. hope-scott, esq. chapter xxiv. - . mr. hope-scott's return to his profession--second marriage--lady victoria howard--mr. hope-scott at hyères--portraits of mr. hope-scott-- miscellaneous recollections--mr. hope-scott in the highlands--ways of building--story of second-sight at lochshiel. the last of the poems in the little collection which is elsewhere given, evidently belongs to a time when mr. hope-scott had regained his tranquillity, and was about to resume, like a wise and brave man, the ordinary duties of his profession. after his great affliction he had interrupted them for a whole year, first staying for some time at arundel castle, and then residing at tours with his brother-in-law and sister, lord and lady henry kerr. to those readers who expect that every life which approaches in any way an exalted and ideal type must necessarily conform to the rules of romance, it may appear strange that mr. hope-scott did not remain a widower for any great length of time. but in truth the same motives which led him to return to the bar, notwithstanding the overwhelming calamity he had sustained, might also have led him again to enter the married state; or rather, if under other circumstances he would have thought it right to do so, would not have interposed any insuperable obstacle against it now. mr. hope-scott, soon after his conversion, had become acquainted with henry granville, earl of arundel and surrey, afterwards duke of norfolk. they had first met, i believe, at tunbridge wells, where, on october , , was born mr. hope-scott's daughter mary monica (now the hon. mrs. maxwell- scott), at whose baptism lady arundel and surrey acted as proxy for the dowager lady lothian. the acquaintance had very soon developed into an intimate and confidential friendship, which by this time had become still closer, from the fear which was beginning to be felt that the duke's life, so precious to his family and to the catholic world in general, was fast drawing to its early termination. to the duke, therefore, and to his family, it was but natural for mr. hope-scott to turn for comfort in his extreme need. in such times sympathy soon deepens into affection, and thus it was that an attachment sprang up between mr. hope-scott and the duke's eldest daughter, lady victoria fitzalan howard. this was towards the end of . the duke was then in his last illness, and on november in that year the betrothed pair knelt at his bedside to receive his blessing. he died on november . although a notice of great interest might be drawn up from materials before me of lady victoria herself, and of the sweetness of character and holiness of life which so much endeared her to all with whom she was connected; yet the time of her departure is still so recent, that i shall better consult the feelings and the wishes of surviving friends by merely placing before my readers one passage from a letter relating to her. the writer was a nun intimately acquainted with her, and describes with great truth and simplicity the graces which especially adorned her: 'she was a person to be observed and studied; and i do not think... i ever saw her without studying her, and consequently without my admiration for her increasing. she was so unworldly, so forgetful of self, and, what always struck me most, so humble, and striving to screen herself from praise; and humility and self- forgetfulness like what she practised, these are the virtues of saints, and not of ordinary people.' the marriage of mr. hope-scott and lady victoria howard was solemnised at arundel on january , , and this too, it is needless to add, proved a very happy union, though on the side of affliction, in the loss of two infants, and in lady victoria's early death, it strangely resembled the first marriage. of twin daughters born june , , catherine and minna- margaret, the first lived for but a few hours. [footnote: two more daughters, josephine mary (born may ) and theresa anne (born september , ), were born before (again, as it were, but for an instant) a son was granted; this was philip james (born april , ), but who lived only till the next day. he was placed beside his sister catherine in the castle vault at arundel. mr. hope-scott's last and only surviving son is james fitzalan hope, born december , .] there are, however, many days of sunshine still to record. abbotsford and dorlin, as before, were the chief retreats in which mr. hope-scott found repose from the toil and harass of his professional life. at arundel castle and norfolk house he and his family were, of course, frequent guests. from it was thought necessary that the surviving child of his first marriage should spend every winter in a warm climate. hyères, in the south of france, was selected for this purpose, which led to mr. hope-scott's purchasing a property there, the villa madona, on a beautiful spot near the boulevard d'orient. here he spent several winters with his family, in the years - . he added to the property very gradually, bit by bit; first a vineyard, and then an oliveyard, as opportunities offered, and indulged over it the same passion for improvement which he had displayed at abbotsford and dorlin. he took the most practical interest in all the culture that makes up a provençal farm, the wine, the oil, the almonds, the figs, not forgetting the fowls and the rabbits. he laid out the ground and made a road, set a plantation of pines, and adorned the bank of his boulevard with aloes and yuccas and eucalyptus--in short, astonished his french neighbours by his perfection of taste and regardlessness of expense. he did not, however, build more than a bailiff's cottage in the first instance, but rented the villa favart in the neighbourhood, and amused himself with his estate, intending it for his daughter's residence in future years. at his death, however, the french law requiring the estate to be shared, it was found necessary to sell it. he greatly enjoyed the repose of hyères, the strolls on the boulevard, and the occasional excursions that charming watering-place affords--pierrefeu, for example, and all the beautiful belt of coast region extending between hyères and the presqu'île. he was also able to enter more into society at hyères than latterly his health and business had permitted in london. one of his oldest and most valued friends, the late serjeant bellasis, had taken the villa sainte cécile in his neighbourhood, and there was a circle of the best french families in and around hyères, whose names must not be omitted when we speak of mr. hope-scott's and lady victoria's annual sojourn in the little capital of the hesperides. among these was the late due de luynes, so well known for his researches into the hydrography of the dead sea, count poniatowski, madame duquesne, m. de butiny, maire of hyères, m. and madame de walmer, and others. cardinal newman has noticed, what appears also in the correspondence, to how surprising a degree mr. hope-scott was consulted by his french neighbours, even in affairs belonging to their own law. whenever there was a difficulty, a sort of instinct led people to turn to him for counsel. as it was at hyères that i first became acquainted with mr. hope-scott, i may introduce into this chapter, perhaps as conveniently as anywhere, such personal recollections of him as i can call to mind. they are much more scanty than i could wish; still, where the memorials to be collected from any sources are but few, and rapidly passing away, surviving friends may be glad of the preservation of even these slight notices. in - i had the honour of being entrusted with the tuition of henry, duke of norfolk, and, as the duke spent that winter with his relatives at hyères, i had several opportunities of conversing with mr. hope-scott in his domestic circle, as on other occasions afterwards. mr. hope-scott was then in his fifty-third year. he was tall, largely built, with massive head, dark hair beginning to turn grey, sanguine, embrowned complexion, very dark eyes, fine, soft, yet penetrating. '_quel bel homme! quel homme magnifique_!' the french would exclaim in talking of him. in his features might be remarked that indefinable expression which belongs to the practised advocate. he had an exceedingly winning smile, an harmonious voice, and deliberate utterance. his manners, i need hardly say, showed all that simplicity and perfection of good breeding which art may simulate, but can never completely attain to. i am not aware that there is any likeness of mr. hope-scott in his later years. there is an excellent one of him about the age of thirty-two, painted by richmond for lady davy, and now at abbotsford, of which an engraving was published by colnaghi. mr. lockhart, writing to mrs. hope- scott on august , , says: 'i called, yesterday at mr. richmond's to inspect his picture of j. r. h., and was extremely pleased--a capital likeness, and a most graceful one.... i am at a loss to say whether i think grant or he has been most lucky--and they are very different too.' i have heard that the portrait by richmond is supposed to represent his expression when pleading. mr. richmond also drew (in crayon, previously to ) two others, one for lady frances hope, subsequently given to the hon. mrs. g. w. hope, and another for mr. badeley, after whose decease it was given by mr. hope to the dowager duchess of norfolk. there was also a small life- portrait, done after his marriage by mr. frank grant, but not thought so pleasing a likeness as richmond's. there is a good bust by noble at abbotsford, but this was made after his death, by study of casts, &c. it might express the age of about thirty-five or forty. in his hospitality mr. hope-scott showed great kindness and thoughtfulness. one day, for example, he would invite to dinner the curé of hyères and his clergy; on another occasion, a young lady having become engaged, a party must be given in her honour; or an english prelate passes hyères on his way home, and must be entertained. he was very attentive to guests, took pains to make people feel at their ease, and dispensed with unnecessary formality, but not with such usages as have their motive in a courteous consideration for others. thus, when there were french guests, he was particular in exacting the observance of the rule that the english present should talk to each other, as well as to the strangers, in french. he had a thorough colloquial knowledge of the french language, marked not so much by any french mannerism, of which there was little, as by a ready command of the vocabulary of special subjects--for instance, agriculture. in society mr. hope-scott's table-talk was highly agreeable. there was, however, a certain air of languor about him, caused partly by failing health, but far more, no doubt, by that 'softened remembrance of sorrow and pain' which my readers can by this time understand better than any of those who then surrounded him. his conversation, therefore, when the duty of entertaining his guests did not require him to exert himself, was liable to lapse into silence. some people seem to think it a duty to break a dead silence at any price; but this, in mr. hope-scott's opinion, was not always to be followed as a rule of etiquette; so, at least, i have heard. i cannot remember that he showed any great interest in politics. he told me that he seldom read the leading articles of the 'times,' which he thought had little influence on public events. i can, however, recall an interesting conversation on the social state of france, of which he took a very melancholy view; and again, in , when he pronounced decisively against the chances of the permanent establishment of the commune, on the ground of the total change in the condition of europe since the middle ages--the old italian republics having been alleged in favour of the former. his conversation seldom turned upon general literature, and at the time i knew him he had given up the 'bibliomania.' his favourite line of reading, for his own amusement, seemed to be glossaries, such as those of the provençal dialect, and the archaeology of hyères, on which a friend of his, the late m. denis, had written an interesting volume. le play's elaborate treatise, 'la réforme sociale,' strongly attracted his attention. he was fond of statistical works, such as the 'annuaire du bureau des longitudes,' a little compilation bristling with facts. he greatly cherished, as might be expected, the memory of sir walter scott; and, had his life been prolonged, would probably have done more for it than the republication of the abridgment of lockhart's life. i recollect his mentioning that there were in his hands unpublished mss. of sir walter's which would furnish materials for a volume. [footnote: in a letter to lord henry kerr, dated 'norfolk house, london, s.w., july , ,' mr. hope-scott says:-- 'i have, because everybody seemed to think i must, become a purchaser to- day of some of sir walter's mss., viz. _rokeby, lord of the isles_, _anne of geierstein_, and a volume of fragments of _waverley, ivanhoe, &c._ i am ashamed to say what they cost, but the _lady of the lake_ alone cost _another_ purchaser more than half what i paid for the four, and i can hardly say that it was to please myself that i bought at all.'] 'what he chiefly valued in the character of sir walter scott (remarks a correspondent) was his _manliness_. i noticed that when sir walter was praised, mr. hope-scott always spoke of his manliness.' these observations may somewhat qualify the impression of an intimate friend of his later years, by whom i have been told that mr. hope-scott 'hardly opened a book, read scarcely at all, though he seemed to know about books.' he certainly could not, in the ordinary sense of the word, be called a literary man; but the active part of his life was far too busy for study, unless study had been a passion with him; and towards its close the state of his health made reading impossible. mr. hope-scott very rarely made mention of himself, and his conversation accordingly supplied little or no biographical incident. yet i have heard him allude, more than once, to his intimacy with mr. gladstone. 'they had been,' he said, 'like brothers;' and he spoke also with pleasure of visits to the house of sir john gladstone, from whom he thought the premier had derived much of his _back_. everything that i saw or heard of mr. hope-scott conveyed the impression that he always acted on a plan and an idea; but this is so evident from what i have already related of him, that i am unwilling to add trivial anecdotes in its illustration. that tenderness of heart of which such ample proof has also been given, i recollect once coming curiously out in a chance expression. 'if a man wants to cry,' said mr. hope-scott, '_let him read the police reports_, or (checking himself with that humour by which deep feeling is often veiled) take a cup of coffee!' he was a thoroughly kind friend in this way, that, unasked, he thought of openings which might be available, and, without offering direct advice, threw out, as if incidentally, useful hints. in giving advice, he applied his mind to the subject; and a small matter, such as the interpretation of a route in _bradshaw_, received as complete consideration, as far as was needed, as he could have given to the most difficult case submitted by a client. as to his religious habits, i only had the opportunity of remarking his regularity in attending mass. i recollect, too, that he was anxious that one in whom he took an interest should not leave hyères without visiting a favourite place of pilgrimage in the vicinity called l'ermitage, and heard with pleasure that st. paul's, in the upper town, had not been forgotten--a church where st. louis heard mass before setting out on his crusade, and which rivals the hermitage as a resort of popular devotion. i now throw together a few scattered recollections communicated to me by friends, for which i have not been able to find a place elsewhere. mr. hope-scott often talked of merton college; he used to compare his affection for it to that felt for a wife. in his professional habits of mind he was a contrast in one respect to his friend mr. john talbot. the latter (as he himself once remarked) was always anxious about a case, and a failure was a great blow to him; but mr. hope- scott, on the other hand, did the best he could, and if he failed, he failed; but he did not allow _that_ to wear him out. he always met the thing in the face, never _mourned_ over it. he never gave way to small troubles; yet he was not a calm person by nature, but by self-command. the only occasion on which i ever knew mr. hope put out (said a friend who knew him well) was when one of his fellow-counsel, whom he had endeavoured to supply with a complete answer to the whole difficulty in an important case, made a mess of it. 'how hard it is,' said mr. hope, 'to sit by and listen to a man speaking on one's side, and _always_ missing the point!' mr. hope-scott was a man _run away with by good sense_. he had great playfulness of character (by no means inconsistent with the last trait), and was especially addicted to punning. a constant fire of puns was kept up when he, bishop grant, and mr. badeley were together, though the bishop always sought a moral purpose in his jesting. after having heard mr. hope-scott's and mr. serjeant wrangham's arguments on the thames watermen and lightermen's bill ( ), the chairman of the committee said: 'mr. hope-scott, the committee have three courses--either to throw the bill out, to pass it in its entirety, or to pass it with alterations. therefore we shall be glad if counsel will retire.' after waiting for half an hour, the door opened. mr. hope-scott said to serjeant wrangham: 'come along, serjeant; now that they have disposed of their three courses, we shall have our _dessert_.' a speech of his at the galashiels mechanics' institute gave great amusement at the time: 'i am a worker like you,' he said; 'my head is the _mill_, my tongue is the _clapper_, and i _spin long yarns_.' once, after signing a good many cheques in charity matters, he said, 'they talk of hewers of wood and drawers of water; but i think i must be called _a drawer of cheques_.' he was highly genial with everybody, and even in reproving his servants would mingle it with humour. the last of sir walter scott's old servants, john swanston the forester (often mentioned in _lockhart_), seemed rather shocked when mr. hope- scott's son and heir was named michael; upon which mr. hope-scott said to him playfully: 'ye mauna forget, john, that there was an archangel before there was a wizard; and besides, the michael called the wizard was, in truth, a very good and holy divine.' with servants mr. hope-scott was very popular. he took great interest in people, taking them up, forwarding their views, advising, protecting, even interfering. he was very fond of children, and they of him. the presence of 'uncle jim' was the signal for fun with his little nephews and nieces: but the case was different with young people; they rather stood in awe of him (but another informant thinks these were the exceptions). he abhorred gossip and spreading of tittle-tattle; avoided speaking before servants, or any one who would retail what was said. when there was any danger of this, he relapsed into total silence; and was, indeed, on some occasions over-cautious. he especially avoided talking of his good deeds, or of himself generally. he was singularly reserved; not by nature, but from his long habituation to be the depositary of important secrets. sir thomas acland worked a good deal with him in puseyite days. 'tell me what my brother is about,' asked lady h. k. 'i cannot tell,' was the reply; 'he is a well too deep to get at.' he had a determined will, though affectionate and kind-hearted. when entertaining guests, he made all the plans day by day; used to lay out the day for them, seeing what could be done, though he might not himself be well enough to join the party. he was extremely systematic in his habits, paid for everything by cheques; and used to preserve even notes of invitation, cards of visitors, and the envelopes of letters. [footnote: i recollect the great importance he attached to them as dates, and his regret at the change from the old method of folded sheets.--w. e. g.] yet he had not punctuality naturally; he _drilled_ himself to it. nor was he naturally particular, but, when married, became over-particular. he had great kindness and tact, and was always kind in the right way. he was once seen, as a lad, flying to open a gate for perhaps the most disgusting person in the parish. it was a feature in his life's history to keep up intimacies for a certain number of years; the intercourse ceased, but not friendliness. 'in giving me an explanation of the mass before i was received into the church, i remember' (said a near relative of his) 'his saying that he delighted especially in the _domine, non sum dignus_. "it is to me [he remarked] the most beautiful adaptation of scripture."' in discussing religion with presbyterians, he was fond of asserting the truth, 'i, too, am a _bible christian_.' in conversation once chancing to turn on the subject of one's being able to judge of character and conduct by looking at people in the street, mr. hope-scott remarked: 'yes, if you saw a novice of the jesuits taking a walk, you would see what that means.' the following more detailed recollections appear to deserve a place by themselves:-- when residing on his highland property at lochshiel, mr. hope-scott personally acquainted himself with his smaller tenantry, and entered into all their history, going about with a keeper known by the name of 'black john,' who acted as his gaelic interpreter. his frank and kindly manners quite won their hearts. sometimes he would ask his guests to accompany him on such visits, and make them observe the peculiarities of the celtic character. on one of these occasions he and the late duke of norfolk went to visit an old peasant who was blind and bedridden. after the usual greetings, they were both considerably astonished to hear the old man exclaim, in great excitement: 'but tell me, how is schamyl getting on?' it was long after the circassian chief had been captured; but his exploits were still clinging to the old highlander's imagination, full of sympathy for warfare and politics. the natural ease and politeness of the highland manners in this class, as contrasted with the rougher type of the lowlands, used always to delight mr. hope-scott. over and over again, after the ladies had withdrawn from the dinner-table, he would send for a keeper, or a gillie, or a boatman, and ply them with plausible questions, that his guests might have the opportunity of witnessing the good breeding of the highlands. john, or ronald, or duncan, or whoever it might be, would stand a few yards away from the table, and, bonnet in hand, reply with perfect deference and self-possession, his whole behaviour free, on the one hand, from servility, and on the other, from the slightest forwardness. as will readily be supposed, the interview commonly ended with a dram from the laird's own hand. in one respect he was very strict with his people. he never would tolerate the slightest interference on their part with the rights of property. some of them were in the habit of presuming on the laird's permission, and helping themselves--no leave asked--to an oar, or a rope, or any implement which they chanced to stand in need of, belonging to the home farm. they indeed brought back these articles when done with; but mr. hope-scott ever insisted they should be _asked for_, and would not accept the excuse that the things were taken without leave in order to save him the trouble of being asked. he was very severe in repressing drunkenness and dissipation, though no one was readier to make allowance for a little extra merriment on market days and festive gatherings. mr. hope-scott's chief source of relaxation and pleasure, when he could escape from his professional duties, was building. in this amusement he followed his own ideas, sifting the plans of architects with the most rigid scrutiny, and never hesitating to alter, and sometimes to pull to pieces, what it had cost hours of hard brain-work to devise. no amount of entreaty could extort his consent to what did not commend itself as clear and faultless to his understanding. it might not be a very agreeable process to some of those concerned, but the result was generally satisfactory to the one who had a right to be the most interested. as for contractors, he latterly abjured them altogether; and dorlin house was commenced and brought to completion under the management of a clerk of the works in whom he had great confidence. in the kindred pursuit of planting (as has already been noticed) mr. hope-scott also took great interest, and the young plantations which now adorn the neighbourhood of dorlin are the result of his care. strong-minded lawyer as he was, he had a firm belief in second-sight. one case in particular, which occurred in his immediate vicinity, is remembered to have made a deep impression on his mind. the facts were these: one sunday, shortly before mr. hope-scott came to lochshiel, it happened, during service in a small country chapel close to the present site of dorlin house, that one of the congregation fainted, and had to be carried out. after the service was over, the late mr. stewart, proprietor of glenuig, asked this man what was the cause of his illness. for a long time he refused to tell, but at length, being pressed more urgently, declared that, of the four men who were sitting on the bench before him, three suddenly appeared to alter in every feature, and to be transported to other places. one seemed to float, face upwards, on the surface of the sea; another lay entangled among the long loose seaweed of the shore; and the third lay stretched on the beach, completely covered with a white sheet. this sight brought on the fainting fit. somehow the story got abroad, and the consequence was, that the fourth individual, who did not enter into the vision at all, passed, in the course of the next four months, into a state verging on helpless idiocy, from the fear that he was among the doomed. but, strange to tell, the three men who were the subjects of the warning were drowned together, a few months later on, when crossing an arm of the sea not far from the hamlet in which they dwelt. one of the bodies was found floating, as described above. another was washed ashore on a sandy part of the coast, and, on being found, was covered with a sheet supplied by a farmer's family living close to the spot. the third was discovered at low water, half buried under a mass of seaweed and shingle. the fourth, who had survived to lose his senses, as we have said, died only two years ago. chapter xxv. - . visit of queen victoria to abbotsford in --mr. hope-scott's improvements at abbotsford--mr. hope-scott's politics--toryism in early life--constitutional conservatism--mr. hope-scott as an irish and a highland proprietor--correspondence on politics with mr. gladstone, and with lord henry kerr in --speech at arundel in . towards the end of august , her majesty queen victoria, visiting the duke and duchess of roxburghe, at floors castle, was received with great rejoicings at the various scottish border towns on the waverley route from carlisle to kelso. on this occasion her majesty honoured mr. and lady victoria hope-scott by calling at abbotsford. the newspapers of the day contain copious narratives of the tour, otherwise unimportant for our present purpose. the following account is taken from the 'daily telegraph' of august , with a few additional particulars introduced from the 'border advertiser' of august , , the former journal supplying details of much interest relating to mr. hope-scott's improvements at abbotsford. i have shortened the original, and made some slight alterations in it:-- her majesty visited melrose and abbotsford on thursday, august , with princess louise, prince and princess christian, the duke and duchess of roxburghe, and the duke of buccleuch. the queen having viewed melrose abbey, mr. hope-scott and his family were honoured, later in the day, by her majesty's presence at abbotsford, which was reached shortly after six o'clock. in the fields in front of the lodge, and for a great distance along the road, was a great concourse of people, many of whom had waited for hours, and vehement cheering rang through the abbotsford woods. many alterations and additions had been made to the abbotsford of sir walter during mr. hope-scott's nineteen years' possession of the place. in the lifetime of the great magician, the ground on which he fixed his abode was nearly on a level with the highway running along the south front; and wayfarers could survey the whole domain by looking over the hedge. mr. hope-scott, twelve years ago or more ( ), threw up a high embankment on the road front of abbotsford, and it is from this steep grassy mound that one of the best views may be had. the long, regular slope, steep near the level top where laurels are planted, is a beautiful bank from end to end, being well timbered with a rich variety of trees, among others the silver birch, the oak, the elm, the beech, the plane, and the good old scotch fir; and being, moreover, naturally favourable to the wild flora of the district, especially to the bluebell and forget-me-not. the wild strawberry also is in great abundance, with its sweet, round little beads of fruit dotting the green. the square courtyard of the house is planned as a garden, with clipped yews at the corners of the ornamental plots of grass, and with beds all ablaze with summer flowers, a brilliant pink annual making a peculiarly fine appearance by well-arranged contrast with the sober greys of an edging of foliage plants. on one side of the courtyard is a postern, which was thrown open when the royal cavalcade had entered the grounds by the lodge gate. the opposite flank of the quadrangle is a kind of ornamental palisade, or open screen of gothic stonework, the spaces of which are filled up by iron railings. this palisade divides the courtyard from the pleasure-gardens, which are well laid out, and bordered with greenhouses. the porch was beautifully decorated with rows of ferns along the margin of the passage, and behind the ferns were magnificent fuchsias rising to the roof, and mingled with other choice and rare flowers. the floors of the porch and other rooms were covered with crimson cloth, but beyond that, and the addition of vases of flowers, 'sir walter's rooms' were in the same condition in which they have been witnessed by the many thousands drawn thither from every civilised country in the world. her majesty was received by mr. hope-scott, lady victoria hope-scott, and miss hope-scott, lord and lady henry kerr, miss kerr, and miss mackenzie. mr. hope-scott bowed to the queen, and led the way to the drawing-room, where a few minutes were passed. her majesty then in succession passed through sir walter's library, study, hall, and armoury, and viewed with great interest all these memorials. the royal party then proceeded to the dining-room, where fruits, ices, and other refreshments had been prepared, but her majesty partook only of a cup of tea and 'selkirk bannock.' when the queen was passing through 'sir walter's library,' some photographic views of abbotsford, which had been taken recently by mr. horsburgh of edinburgh, attracted her attention, and she graciously acceded to the request of mr. hope-scott that her majesty might be pleased to accept of a set of the photographs. her majesty expressed to mr. hope-scott the great pleasure she had experienced in visiting what had been the residence of sir walter scott. the queen and suite then entered their carriages, and left abbotsford about seven o'clock. the day was not so bright as the preceding one; but the little rain which fell, just as her majesty had got under the shelter of the historical roof, did not spoil the holiday which some thousands of people from galashiels, hawick, kelso, berwick, and edinburgh had been bent on making. mr. hope-scott, in a letter to mr. badeley of august , , gives a brief description of the queen's visit, concluding as follows:-- 'throughout her visit, her majesty was most gracious and kind, and her conduct to mamo was quite touching. she showed a great deal of interest in the place and the principal curiosities, looked remarkably well and active, and, i am told, is much pleased with the reception she has met with on the border.' the political aspects of mr. hope-scott's character, on which it is now time that we should enter, do not require any very extended discussion. his opinions and feelings were conservative in the constitutional sense, and in his early years seem to have gone a good deal further. it is perhaps scarcely fair to bring evidence from the correspondence of youths of nineteen, but mr. leader tells him (november , ): 'the latter part of your letter is an admirable specimen of tory liberality and tory argument.... what! are all radicals fools or knaves, and all conservatives honest or intelligent?... _absint hæ ineptiæ pæne aniles_.' a few years later the thun correspondence, though only affording incidental references to mr. hope's own letters, shows clearly that, like 'young oxford' of that date and long afterwards, he adopted tory views as deductions from scripture, and as the political side of religion. thus count leo thun writing to mr. hope on december , , says: 'we both agree in the first principles; i copy your own words: "everything we do is to be done in the name of the lord: admitting this, it is evident that the _principle_ on which we are to act with regard to politics is to be derived from the scriptures."' the future austrian statesman, however, declares that he cannot find in the scriptures 'that blind and passive obedience' which his friend requires, and enters at considerable length into the question, controverting the application which the latter had made of certain passages. again pass on a few years, and we find mr. hope writing to mr. badeley (it is the first letter in that collection), january , : 'i have managed to read pusey's sermon, in which there is nothing that i am disposed to quarrel with. the origin of civil government used long ago to be a favourite subject of inquiry with me; and i had long been convinced of the absurdity of any but the patriarchal scheme. aristotle, the most sensible man, perhaps, who ever lived, came to the same conclusion without the aid of revelation.' these views sustained practically some modification as time went on. toryism, in its _historical_ sense, could never be the political creed of a mind on which the church of england had lost its hold. this begins to appear in a speech made by him at an early date, without preparation indeed, but not carelessly spoken. on the occasion of the ceremony for turning the first sod for the sheffield and huddersfield railway (august , ), mr. hope said:-- if you lived under a despotic government, you would have lines made without reference to your local wants, and perhaps from visionary views of public advantage, but without reference to your private interests. it would be the same if a democratic body were to govern. in the one case you would be subject to the dictates of the imperial office; in the other, to the votes of a turbulent assemblage; but in neither case would there be that mixed regard to public justice and private interests which are combined in an efficient system. i dare say we [railway lawyers] are troublesome, but we belong to a system which has in it great elements of constitutional principle, which combines a regard for the public interest, and for private rights, with that free spirit which enterprises of this nature require in a great commercial country. [footnote: _sheffield and rotherham independent_, august , .] in the letter to mr. gladstone, of december , (quoted p. ), we perceive an uncertain, sea-sick tone, the sadness natural to a mind not yet sure of its course. very different is the buoyancy that breathes in mr. hope-scott's remarks, ten years later, on the rivalry between manchester and liverpool, in his speech on the mersey conservancy and docks bill (quoted p. ), though that, perhaps, is too rhetorical for us to found an argument upon. it will be more to the purpose here if i give an extract from a letter which he had written that same year, as an irish proprietor, on the eve of a contested election, to the agent for his estates in co. mayo, joseph j. blake, esq., at castlebar. it will show the wise and kindly spirit in which he dealt with his people, as well as the reference to the interests of catholicity which now governed his politics:-- as to the election for the county of mayo, i am in considerable ignorance about the state of parties in that particular part of ireland. i may state, however, that i should myself prefer the candidate who is the most sincere friend of the catholic church, and most disposed to take a calm and careful view of the questions which most affect the interests of the irish people-- say tenant right, for instance, in which i think something should be done, but perhaps not so much as the more noisy promoters of it insist on. i do not, however, wish to influence my tenants more decidedly than by letting them know my general feelings on these subjects. (march , .) the question here involved, which has very recently ripened into difficulties so formidable as far as regards ireland, also affected at the time, as it still affects, the state of property in the western highlands, where it seems to have interfered a good deal with mr. hope-scott's efforts to raise the condition of his tenantry. he urged on them the necessity of cultivating more of the waste land which stretched for miles before their doors, but they never took kindly to this task. no rent was to be demanded for the reclaimed lands, and they were promised compensation if called upon to give them up at any future year. they were perfectly convinced of mr. hope-scott's sincerity, but were unwilling to enter into these schemes of amelioration without the security of possession guaranteed by leases. [footnote: further details of mr. hope-scott's relations with his highland tenants will he found in chap. xxvi. see also chap. xxiv. pp. , in this vol. as affording some indirect illustration.] my office not being that of the political economist, it is unnecessary to enlarge on the subject, especially as the following important letter of mr. hope-scott himself will enable the reader to judge of the reasons upon which he acted:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ (_private_.) abbotsford: oct. , . dear gladstone,--as you are kind enough to care for my political ideas, i will try to describe them. born and bred a tory and a protestant, i have discarded both the creeds of my youth. but with this difference in the result: in religion i have found sure anchorage; in politics i am still adrift. had the followers of sir robert peel been able to found a permanent party, my case would probably have been different. but death took many of them, and the rest are scattered. of the two great parties now forming on the ruins of the old ones, that which you lead has a claim upon me for the work of justice [disestablishment of the irish church] which it has undertaken, and which the other seeks to frustrate. but, nevertheless, this work is to me no test of the abiding principles of the party. in you i acknowledge the promotion of it to be a sign of honesty and courage which few can better appreciate than myself; and i know that you mean it as a pledge of steady advancement in the same path. but amongst those who act with you there are many minds of a very different stamp. a few words will bring out my views. speaking logically, justice to the catholic people of ireland means, if it means anything, the undoing of the reformation, the replacing of the church of the great majority in the position from which it has been unjustly removed. but had you proposed this, or anything savouring of this, you know that your followers would have been few indeed; and that you have been able wholly to avoid such a danger for yourself, and even to turn it against your political opponents, has arisen chiefly from the moderation and wisdom of the catholic clergy. by their acquiescence in a mere disestablishment you got so far rid of the fear of popery as to give scope to the voluntary principles of ultra- protestantism, and, as a consequence, many now support you upon grounds so wholly different from your own, that, when the assault is over, and the stronghold taken, half your forces may disappear from the field, or remain only to rebel against your next movement. this, then, is the reason why, seeking for a party, i cannot accept the present action against the irish establishment as materially affecting my choice; but i must add that the church question does not, in point of statesmanship, appear to me to be either the most important or the most difficult of the irish questions. that of land tenure exercises a wider influence among the people, and calls for a higher science of government. now, upon this most difficult and most delicate subject, there are prominent men among your supporters who have put forth views which i am forced to call in the highest degree crude, if not extravagant. the law of demand and supply renders one class dependent upon another to an extent little short of slavery, not only in contracts for land in ireland, but in all questions which, in free countries, turn upon the possession by one man of what another cannot or will not do without. the scale of wages of the agricultural labourers in some counties in england, and the rates paid for the worst lodgings by the poorest classes in our large towns, are full of the same meaning as the difficulties of the irish tenant farmer. but, more than this, the irish land question itself is not exclusively irish. it is to be found also, smaller of course in extent, but identical in its main features and in some of its worst consequences, in the west highlands of scotland; and i, who am a proprietor in both countries, can hardly be expected to put much trust in the political physicians who, to cure a disease in mayo or galway, propound remedies the first principles of which they would deem inapplicable to the same disorder in argyle or inverness. that i am hopeless of any reasonable mode of relief being found, i will not say; but, if it is to be safe, it certainly cannot be speedy; and if it is to be permanent, it must depend upon a change in the habits of a race rather than upon a new distribution of landed property by parliament. and now, turning from irish to general policy, i profess that i accept your principles of finance and commerce with entire satisfaction, and with a confidence in your power of applying them which i give to no other man. i enter heartily also into your schemes for the material improvement of the labouring classes, and admire the wisdom as well as the kindness of what you have done. with regard to the franchise, i have no fear of household suffrage, and i prefer it to the more limited measure which you formerly advocated, because it brings into play a greater variety of interests; and, if it is liable to the objection that it gives votes to the ignorant and the profligate, i answer that your bill would have bestowed still greater, because more exclusive and more concentrated power, upon a class which comprises not only the lancashire operative, but the sheffield rattener. moreover, i believe that all which is worth defending in our social and political state in england and scotland, has better guarantees in the spirit of the people than in any provision of the law. when talleyrand said that england was the most aristocratic country in the world, because there was scarcely any one in it who did not look down on somebody else, he touched the keystone of our society. i have already met with amusing instances of the effect on scotch middle-class liberals of the recent enfranchisement of those below them; and my conviction is, that the more you widen the base, the more closely will you bind the superstructure together. what i fear more than democracy is the strife between capital and skilled labour. this appears to me to be among the most pressing questions of the day, and i shall think well of the statesman, whoever he may be, who, with a just but firm hand, shall regulate the relations of these forces. on education i hope we are agreed; at any rate, i feel sure that you will not intentionally divorce it from religion; but i have yet to learn what measure your party would support. there remains one subject of home policy which with me is paramount. at the time when i became a catholic the so-called papal aggression was the great topic of the day; and while the ignorance and violence of the majority, both in and out of parliament, greatly assisted my conversion, the steady reason and justice of lord aberdeen, and of those who, like yourself, acted with him, drew from me a greater feeling of respect than i have ever been sensible of on any other political occasion, or towards any other political men. i felt that they were determined honestly to carry out the principles of catholic emancipation, amidst great popular excitement, and without reference even to their personal prejudices, far less to their political interests, and i honoured them with no stinted honour. in the same direction much still remains to be done, and i wonder to myself whether you will ever head a party which will venture its political power in a contest with county magistrates and parish vestries on behalf of the catholic poor. i wonder too sometimes, but with less of hope, whether yours will be a party which will be content to forego that political propagandism which seems chiefly favoured in england when applied to the weaker countries which profess the catholic faith, and which, in those countries, seems to impair religion much more than it increases temporal prosperity; and, lastly, whether it will have enough moderation to admit that the protection of the public law of europe ought not to be denied to the states of the church, merely because a neighbouring power demands them in the name of italian unity. such, my dear gladstone, are the thoughts of a somewhat indolent, but not indifferent observer of what is going on around him. they are put before you neither to elicit opinions nor to provoke controversy, but to explain how it is that an old friend, who loves and admires you, should withhold his support, insignificant as it is, at the very moment when, as the leader of a party, you might be thought to have justly earned it. yours aff'ly, james r. hope-scott. the right hon'ble w. e. gladstone, &c. &c. &c. _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ hawarden, n.w.: nov. , ' my dear hope-scott,--everything in your handwriting is pleasant to read, and i thank you sincerely for your letter. * * * * * when i come to the _gros_ of your letter touching politics, i own it appears to me that we have a moral title to your serious and even strenuous aid. i hope you will not think my writing to say so a bad compliment, for, as far as the value of the aid is concerned, even such as yours, i assure you i cannot afford to buy it at the present moment by personal appeals in writing. but you praise _justly_ the 'moderation and wisdom' of the r. c. clergy on the question of the hour--why do you not imitate them? simply because you cannot trust those who are acting with me in the _paulo post futurum_. is that a sound rule of political action? you think much, as i do, of the importance of the land question. you see a great evil--you do not see any other man with a remedy--you hold off from us who made a very moderate proposal in , because eminent men among our supporters have made proposals which you think extravagant or crude, and to which we have never given any countenance. now i will not indulge myself here by going over the many and weighty matters in which we are wholly at one; all that you say on them gives me lively satisfaction. i will only, therefore, touch the one subject on which you anticipate difficulty as possible--that of political propagandism, meaning the temporal power of the pope: for i do not suppose you mean to censure english pleas for civil rights of the united greeks in poland against the emperor of russia, though touching their religion. i have at all times contended that the pope as prince ought to have the full benefit of the public law of europe, and have often denied the right of the italian government to absorb him. but you must know that extraordinary doctrines, wholly unknown to public law, have been held and acted on for the purpose of maintaining the temporal power. if you keep to public law, we _can_ have no differences. if you do not, we may: with abp. manning i have little doubt we should. but that question is and has been for years out of view, and is very unlikely to come into it within any short period. rational cooperation in politics would be at an end if no two men might act together until they had satisfied themselves that in no possible circumstances could they be divided. q.e.d. there in brief is my case, based on yours, and i would submit it to any committee you ever spoke before, provided you were not there to bewilder them with music of the sirens. now pray think about it. i shall bother you no more. i wish i had time to write about the life of scott. i may be wrong, but i am vaguely under the impression that it has never had a really wide circulation. if so, it is the saddest pity; and i should greatly like (without any censure on its present length) to see published an abbreviation of it. with my wife's kindest regards, always aff'tely yours, w. e. gladstone. j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. mr. hope-scott, in replying to the above letter of mr. gladstone's (under date 'abbotsford, november , '), says:-- i fully acknowledge the compliment which you have paid me in writing at such length at such a time, and there are some things in your letter which i am glad to have had from yourself. but your main argument for action fails to convince me. i cannot put 'paulo post futurum' into my pocket, and march to the poll. for the present, then, i cannot enlist with you in politics, but i can do so heartily in any attempt to extend a knowledge of walter scott. the following letters, of the same year, will further illustrate mr. hope- scott's view of the irish disestablishment question, and the independent line of politics which he adopted in his closing years:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the lord henry kerr._ norfolk house, st. james's square: march , ' . dear henry,--[the archbishop] thinks that if gladstone is serious (which he and i both believe him to be) about the irish establishment, he will carry his motion, although it seems probable that disraeli will make it a rallying-point, and may even dissolve parliament if beat. how he is to manage the latter operation in the present condition of the reform question i hardly see.... it is astonishing to find on all sides such proof of the progress of opinion in irish, and i think generally, in catholic matters. the fenian blister has certainly worked well; but besides that, ireland and the catholic religion offer the best field for the liberals, as a party, to recover the ground which disraeli last year ousted them from. hence it is that my two months' absence from england seems to count as years on this point. indeed, gladstone's great declaration on monday last is supposed to be due to the rapid progress of a few weeks, or even days.... yours affectionately, james e. hope-scott. _the same to the same._ dorlin, strontian: sept. , ' . dear henry,--... in politics i have taken my line, and have told curie and erskine that, as at present advised, i do not intend to meddle with either roxburgh or any other election. i trust neither party enough to identify myself with either; and while i do not think that the demolition of the irish establishment is enough of a religious question to make me support the liberals, i think it sufficiently so to prevent me siding with the conservatives. on the other matters which you mention, members of both political parties seem to be at present free to follow their own consciences or interests, but their leaders may at any moment require obedience, and in that case i would rather trust the necessary tendency of the liberals than that of the conservatives on all home questions; and foreign policy seems, by accord of all parties, to have now settled into non-interference.... yrs affly, james r. hope-scott. the lord henry kerr. in a speech at arundel, january , , perhaps the last mr. hope-scott made on a public occasion, he remarked that he did not think the wisest thing had been done in remodelling the constituency by simply numbering heads. by depriving arundel of its member, a large interest had been left unrepresented--that is, the catholic interest. an intimate friend of his, possessing excellent means of information and judgment, said to me: 'hope- scott, in his latter years, was not political--not a party man in any sense. indeed, he got into a scrape with the whigs when the duke of norfolk voted with the tories. this much mortified the whigs, and they complained to hope-scott of the duke's line: he said he wished him to be of no party. this was his line as a catholic. every lawyer, in fact, is conservative. revolution is against all their theories of government.' this, however, so far as it relates to the personal influence exercised by mr. hope-scott, must be balanced by the evidence of another friend, also very intimate with him, to whom the _late_ duke of norfolk, while still traditionally a liberal, had remarked that he thought conservatives would do more for catholics, and that nothing was to be expected from the liberals. chapter xxvi. - . religious life of mr. hope-scott--motives of conversion--acceptance of the dogma of infallibility--the 'angelus' on the committee-room stairs--faith in the real presence--books of devotion--the society of jesus--letter of mr. bellasis--mr. hope-scott's manners--his generosity--courage in admonishing--habits of prayer--services to catholicity--remark of lord blachford--the catholic university of ireland--cardinal newman's dedication of his 'university sketches' to mr. hope-scott--aid in the achilli trial-- mr. badeley's speech--charitable bequests--westminster missions--repeal of titles act--statement of mr. hope-scott--letter to right hon. s. walpole-- correspondence with the duke of norfolk--scottish education bill, -- parliamentary committee on convents--services of mr. hope-scott to catholicity in legal advice to priests and convents--other charities in advice, &c.--private charities, their general character--probable amount of them--missions on the border--galashiels--abbotsford--letter of père de ravignan, s.j.--kelso--letter of father taggart--burning of the church at kelso--charge of the lord justice-clerk--article from the 'scotsman'-- missions in the western highlands--moidart--mr. hope-scott's purchase of lochshiel--'road-making'--dr. newman's 'grammar of assent'--mr. hope- scott's kindness to his highland tenants--builds school and church at mingarry--church at glenuig--sells dorlin to lord howard of glossop--other scottish missions aided by mr. hope-scott--his irish tenantry--his charities at hyères. the reader has now been enabled to form an opinion of mr. hope-scott's character and actions in various aspects. the most important of all--his religious life, his services to the church, and his charities during his catholic period--remain to be reviewed; and that interval appears the most natural for making such a survey, which comes just before the time when he was visibly approaching the end of his career. the path by which mr. hope-scott was led to catholicity has been made sufficiently apparent. we have seen that he was principally influenced by two reasons, affecting, on the one hand, church order, and on the other, dogma: the jerusalem bishopric, which was set up by anglicans and lutherans together; and the gorham judgment, which rejected an article of the creed. these reasons were, as he acknowledged, _clenched_ by his disgust at the outcry raised against the exercise of papal authority in the institution of the catholic hierarchy in england; and perhaps the greater stress ought to be laid upon this last, as it might have been the less expected, because his early ecclesiastical studies, and early contact with catholic society, were certainly not such as could have led him to views usually classed as 'ultramontane.' on this head it may be sufficient simply to state that, when the time of its promulgation arrived, he rendered, without reservation, the homage of his intellect to the exalted dogma of infallibility, which in our days has been welcomed by the whole catholic world from the voice of its chief pastor. it is, further, only necessary to refer to his political letter to mr. gladstone to see that he endeavoured to make his influence (often so much more effective than any outward agitation) available towards the recovery of the temporal power and the rights of the holy see. as to his religious habits as a catholic, every page of this memoir shows, or might show, that he was a man of great faith, great earnestness, and the most sincere intention to obey the will of god. yet it must be remembered that his duty called him into the very thick of the battle of life from morning--till night: whilst so engaged (and it was the case during half the year) it was by no means in his power either to attend daily mass or to be a frequent communicant, though, at abbotsford, he would communicate two or three times a week. but a little anecdote will serve to prove that he took care to place himself in the presence of god in the midst of the busy world in which he moved. he told his friend serjeant bellasis that he found he was just able to say the _angelus_ in the time he took to mount the stairs of the committee-rooms at westminster. at home he regularly said the _angelus_; as was noticed by persons who accidentally entered his room at the hours assigned to it, and used to find him standing to say it. the one absorbing devotion of his catholic life was undoubtedly the adoration of our blessed lord in the sacrament of the altar. few who have seen him in prayer before the tabernacle could forget his look of intense reverence and recollection, the consequence of his strong faith in the real presence. after the blessed virgin and st. joseph, st. michael was his favourite saint; his favourite books of devotion the _missal_ and the _new testament_; and, among religious orders, he was personally most attracted by the _society of jesus_, with members of which order we have already seen that he was on terms of friendship, even before his reception into the church. his admiration for the society lasted throughout his life; and for more than twenty years together, until the end, i believe that for the direction of his conscience it was to the jesuit fathers that he always had recourse. in private conversations, when expressing the great satisfaction he felt at seeing the society established in roxburghshire and the highlands, he often said that the jesuits seemed to him 'like the backbone of religion.' yet this love for the society never led to any want of hearty appreciation of the merits of other orders, or of the seculars. thus he hoped, at one time, to see the dominicans at galashiels, and showed the greatest regard for the oblate fathers of mary immaculate, who were for nine years in charge of the mission there, while, both in london, and at abbotsford and dorlin, the fathers of the oratory and the secular clergy were welcome and honoured guests. the high value he set upon the rev. p. taggart (whom he used to call 'the patriarch of the border'), and on the hard-worked highland priests, is well remembered. i am here, however, partly anticipating another branch of the subject, and shall conclude what i have to say about the personally religious aspect of his character by the following letter, from a friend who knew him well, and which contains one or two fine illustrations of it, and some very interesting general recollections also:-- _mrs. bellasis to the hon. mrs. maxwell-scott_. villa ste cécile: dec. , . my dear friend,--you ask me [for] some of those impressions which memory gives me of the kindest friend we ever possessed--your excellent father. years have rolled on, and yet the intercourse with so striking a person has left a remembrance not to be deadened by lapse of time. the noble form-- that beautiful, intellectual countenance--the kindly tone of voice, so encouraging in difficulty, so sympathetic in sorrow, so persuasive in advice--who that knew james hope-scott could ever forget? he had a peculiar way of listening, with the head a little bent on one side, to the most trivial subject broached by a friend in conversation, as if it was of the deepest importance, which pleased you with its unintentional flattery. with true christian politeness he never interrupted you, but, if the subject was an important one, he would come down with some unanswerable view which at once approved itself to the listener as the course to be followed: 'hope thinks so-and-so'--and it always proved the right thing. with regard to his generosity, it was his nature to be generous--he had learned the pleasure of giving; and, when any principle was involved in a gift, there was no stint. as an illustration of this, i remember on one occasion a friend--not rich--known to us both, had given me a picture to dispose of, as she did not care for it: it was small, and out of condition, and of an objectionable subject, though we had not perceived its closely veiled viciousness. i failed in persuading a picture dealer to purchase it, and, having to return home by my husband's chambers, i there found mr. hope-scott. i mentioned my want of success, and your father at once said, 'let us see it.' it was fetched up from the carriage, and after looking at it attentively--'well,' he said, 'mrs. bellasis, i think you must leave this with me.' i did so, and learnt afterwards that on my leaving the room he crushed the painting with his heel, put it on the fire, and sent me a cheque for my friend for _l._ his faculty for languages was very great, and when in the south of france, rambling daily over the pretty property he possessed at hyères, i used to be amazed at the fluent way in which he talked with the workmen; whether it was the carpenter, the plasterer, mason, or gardener, he talked with each in the terms of their respective occupations and trades, quite unhesitatingly. provençal talk is certainly puzzling, but he seemed as if born to it; and the french gentlemen told me he spoke exactly all the niceties of their language, whether in repartee or in illustration. how profoundly catholic he was those near and dear to him must know far better than outsiders. no consideration ever closed the purse or the lips where the interests or the honour of holy church were concerned. there was no parade of piety in him; and yet, if he thought he could say the word in season, he spoke _unreservedly_. i recollect on one occasion a very distinguished member of the parliamentary bar, who was, in common parlance, a man of the world--long gone to his rest--met my husband and your father walking together in piccadilly. mr. x. stopped them, exclaiming, 'well, you two black papists, how are you?' 'come, come,' replied mr. hope-scott, 'don't you think it is time _you_ should be looking into your accounts?' 'oh, i'm all right _now_,' was the reply, half jocularly. 'well,' said mr. hope-scott, 'but how about those _past_ pages--eh?' mr. x., taking no offence, drew himself up and said, with great gravity, 'i tell you what it is, hope: i am thoroughly, intellectually convinced; but' (he added, striking his breast) 'my heart is not touched!' and thereupon the three parted. had he been a catholic, he would have used, i suppose, the term 'will' for 'heart.' [footnote: this courage in giving religious admonition where he saw it was needed, is a trait which i have occasionally observed appearing in his correspondence, and quite in keeping with his favourite expression, _'liberavi animam meam.'_--r. o.] all that mr. hope-scott did in religious observances was done so naturally, so simply--whether it was in going down to the committees with my husband, he would pull out his rosary in the cab, and so occupy his thoughts through the busy streets; or when, in mounting the stairs at westminster to reach the committee-rooms, he would repeat, _sotto voce_, with my husband, some slight invocatory prayers, or verse of a psalm--such things were only known to the extreme intimacy of long friendship. such was the hidden, deeply pious life of one who, for many years at least, though certainly in the world, was yet not of it. i might say he was _above_ it; for who, more than our dear friend, saw through, and so thoroughly despised its shams, its allurements, its ambition, and modes of thought? there is one other remembrance which is a very bright one: i allude to his ever-ready wit. when he was in good health, and well, before he was threatened with the coming malady, how amusing he was--such a cheery companion! i have often thought, when we left his company, that i would put down his clever, witty rejoinders--they were legion! and never a spark of ill-nature. i never remember his saying an unkind word of any one. e. j. b. the services rendered by mr. hope-scott to the cause of catholicity may be grouped in three great divisions:-- . the giving advice, at no small cost of time and trouble, either on great questions affecting the interests of the church, or on those of a more local and personal description. . pecuniary charities. . the foundation of churches and missions. i will endeavour to give some idea of each of these, though of course the very nature of charity, but still more that of counsel, involves so much of secrecy, that particulars which remain on record, and can be given to the world, we may safely assume to be only specimens of many more which must remain untold. . the first division includes, as we shall see, many of the great questions affecting the catholic church in these countries during his active career as a catholic. but his services were chiefly those of a wise and trusted adviser behind the scenes, for he never entered parliament, and rarely took part in public meetings. that he thus kept at a distance from a sphere of action for which his powers so eminently fitted him, was a subject of regret even outside of catholic society, as will appear from a letter of lord blachford's to mr. e. s. hope, already cited, in which his lordship remarks:-- i have sometimes been disappointed that in joining the church of rome [mr. hope-scott] was not led by circumstances to adopt in england the task so brilliantly, but so differently performed in france by m. de montalembert-- that of asserting for english r. catholics that political and parliamentary status to which their education and importance entitle them. it would have been an advantage for all parties. and, earlier in the same letter:-- given a constituency, he united almost every qualification for public life. he seized instantly the point of a matter in hand, and was equally capable of giving it words at a moment's notice, or of working it out thoroughly and at leisure, and that either by himself or, what is as important, through others. he would have made no enemies, and multitudes of friends; and his quiet tact and flexible persuasiveness, grafted on a clear grasp of leading principles, would have made him invaluable in council. it would be useless to speculate on the motives of this abstinence, or on the part which he might have played in parliamentary life in the years when the too brief career of mr. lucas was drawing to its close, and a great opportunity seemed to offer itself for a leader to step forward who should unite, in a degree equal to his, faith and devotedness with eloquence, and a rare talent for the conduct and marshalling of affairs. however, among the transactions affecting catholic interests in which mr. hope-scott's knowledge and experience were turned to account, may be named the following:-- ( ) _the catholic university of ireland_, which has since shown such struggling yet persistent vitality, had been in contemplation as far back as . serious steps were being taken towards its foundation in , when mr. hope's advice was immediately sought by archbishop (afterwards cardinal) cullen: he said, 'get newman for your rector;' and from him the archbishop came straight to birmingham. there is a letter of archbishop cullen's to mr. hope (dated drogheda, october , ), in which, after thanking him for valuable advice regarding the university, his grace says: 'i think we shall be guided by what you have suggested. for my part, i adopt your views altogether.... if we once had dr. newman engaged as president, i would fear for nothing; and i trust that this point will soon be gained. after that, every thing else will be easy.' from a letter of mr. allies to mr. hope (august , ) it appears that dr. newman regarded it as of the highest importance for those charged with the construction of the new university to obtain information from mr. hope as to the course of studies pursued in the catholic universities abroad; and in another letter (august ) mr. allies proposes to mr. hope a long string of questions as to university legislation. what mr. hope looked upon as of the most consequence may be gathered from a postscript to that letter, marked 'private:' 'j. h. n. showed me your letter, with which he entirely agrees; and i need not say that i feel myself all the force of what you say. all paper rules and constitutions are nothing in comparison to there being a good selection of men, and a perfect unity and subordination in the governing and teaching body. if this is to succeed, my belief is that the only way is to appoint j. h. n. head, with the _fullest powers_, both for the selection of coadjutors and the working into shape.' mr. allies (with the very rev. dr. leahy, afterwards archbishop of cashel, and mr. myles o'reilly) was, at the time, engaged with dr. newman in drawing up a report on the organisation of the university, after consulting a certain number of persons, among whom was mr. hope. in mr. hope-scott presented to the new institution one of his splendid gifts--a library of books on civil and canon law. 'your books' (writes dr. newman to him, august ) 'will be the cream of our library.' in the difficulties of later years, when dr. newman felt his duty as rector of the university and that as father-superior of the oratory pulling him in different directions, the congregation, not from any one's fault, but from the nature of the case, being unable to get on without him, it was to the same faithful counsellor he turned. i may here mention that mr. hope-scott warmly took up the idea of founding an oratory at oxford (january ), and gave , _l_. towards this object, which he refused to take back when the design was laid aside. in a conversation on the subject of this memoir, which cardinal newman condescended to hold with me, his eminence said, 'hope-scott was a truly good friend--no more effectual friend--from his character and power of advice.' he had stood by him all through as a good friend and adviser in the difficulties of the oratory connected with his rectorship, and so in another critical moment relating to other affairs. i venture to transcribe the eloquent words in which the cardinal has placed on record the value he had for his friendship, in the dedication to his 'university sketches:'-- 'to james r. hope-scott, esq., q.c., &c. &c., a name ever to be had in honour when universities are mentioned, for the zeal of his early researches, and the munificence of his later deeds, this volume is inscribed, a tardy and unworthy memorial, on the part of its author, of the love and admiration of many eventful years.--dublin, october , .' ( ) the assistance rendered by mr. hope-scott to dr. newman under the anxieties of the _achilli trial_ has already been briefly alluded to (p. ). the first meeting of dr. newman's friends to hold consultation in the affair was a scene, as i have heard it described, which brought out in a striking manner mr. hope-scott's talents for ruling and advising those in perplexity. at first all was confusion, but order began to appear the moment that he entered the room; he seemed to have a just claim to take the lead, and placed everything in the right point of view. i find him writing to mr. badeley (from abbotsford, november , ), to ask whether it would be _professionally_ correct for him to appear at dr. newman's side on the day of sentence, adding: 'i need hardly say that i should much like to show him any signs of respect and affection. there are, indeed, few towards whom i feel more warmly.' this, it seems, would not have been etiquette if he had appeared in wig and gown; and mr. badeley (who was one of dr. newman's counsel) suggested his sitting with sir a. cockburn, to assist, if not to speak. however, a motion for a new trial was made, and on january , , judgment was given, discharging the rule on technical grounds, and imposing a nominal fine. there is a very interesting account of this in the badeley correspondence, part of which i am tempted to subjoin. so important an event affecting newman can scarcely be considered foreign to hope-scott, and it affords also a specimen of mr. badeley's familiar letters to his friend, which entered into the daily life i have endeavoured to describe. _edward badeley, esq., q.c. to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ temple: feb. , . my dear hope,--... newman has been here, and seems well satisfied with the result, and i think he has reason to be so. the judges paid him great respect, and though coleridge preached him an immensely long puseyite sermon, much of which he might as well have spared, full credit was given for newman's belief of the truth of his charges, and for proper motives. you will see a tolerably correct report of it in the 'times,' but the best report of _the judgment_ is in the 'morning post.' the speeches of counsel are _execrably_ given both in that and in the other papers. my speech is _very incorrect_, but i have been gratified by very kind expressions about it, particularly from my legal brethren: it was not long, but it seemed to produce some sensation, particularly as i started by avowing my friendship for newman. my conclusion, as well as i remember it, was as follows:-- 'there may be some, my lords, who seek in dr. newman's conviction a malignant triumph, and who would gladly avail themselves of the sentence of this court, to crush the man whose writings have been their dread, as his life has been their shame. the cry of party prejudice and of religious bigotry may be raised in other places, and its echo may perhaps be heard even within these walls; but your lordships, i am confident, will disregard it, and in the exercise of your sacred functions you will be guided only by the dictates of wisdom and of justice; you will respect the high character of dr. newman, his genius, his learning, his piety, his zeal, the purity of his motives, the sanctity of his life; you will remember the anxiety he has undergone, the expense which he has incurred, _the facts which he has proved_; and bearing these in mind, you cannot pass upon him any sentence of severity, you can but inflict a nominal punishment. 'vestrum est hoc, judices, vestræ dignitatis, vestræ dementias: recte hoc repetitur a vobis, ut virum optimum atque innocentissimum, plurimisque mortalibus carum atque jucundissimum, his aliquando calamitatibus liberetis, ut omnes intelligant in concionibus esse invidiæ locum, in judiciis veritati.' [footnote: cic. 'pro cluent. ' .] there was some applause when i sat down, and all seemed highly delighted with my quotation.... the small amount of the fine is regarded by the _myrmidons_ (achilli's followers) as a heavy blow to them, and all regard it as a triumph for us. one of the most satisfactory things, however, is the declaration of the court that they are not satisfied with the finding of the jury upon the facts, and that if the question as to a new trial had rested solely on that finding, they would have felt themselves bound to send the case to another jury. and so ends this important case. i think we may congratulate ourselves. newman is gone home to-day, and means to write to you tomorrow or next day. he was very tired yesterday, but seems quite alive again now, and in excellent spirits. the crowd in and about the court was immense;... newman was well attended by a numerous party of friends, and cheered as he left the court. ever believe me yours most affectionately, e. badeley. ( ) _charitable bequests_, &c.--in a letter of the very rev. dr. (since cardinal) manning to mr. hope-scott, dated 'rome, march , ,' and marked 'private and confidential,' occurs the following passage: 'i am rejoiced to hear that you have been invited to communicate with the government on the charitable bequests. and i think you will be glad to know that this fact has given, as i hear, great satisfaction to the cardinal. in conversation he has often named you to me, and i feel sure that he would have selected you on his own part for such a purpose.' i quote the following lines from a long and interesting letter of dr. manning's to mr. hope-scott, dated ' s[outh] a[udley] st., january , :' 'do you remember a conversation, the summer of , one sunday evening, at charles st., on the good which might be done by four or five men living together and preaching statedly at different places, on courses of solid subjects? the thought has long been in my mind both before and since our conversation, and it has been coming to a point under an increased sense of the need.' correspondence of this kind, which i can merely notice, would, of course, illustrate mr. hope-scott's position as a leading catholic layman of his time, in the confidence of the heads of the church. ( ) _the repeal of the ecclesiastical titles act_ is an event too familiar in recent church history to require much comment. the government in , having, in compliance with popular clamour, passed a bill by which catholic prelates were prohibited, under many penalties, from assuming territorial titles of sees, found itself, from the very first, obliged to treat this enactment as a dead letter, in consequence of the legal difficulties and complications which arose from it. common sense suggested its removal from the statute-book. this was not effected without considerable effort to escape from that necessity by some less humiliating alternative. mr. hope-scott gave evidence, lasting for two days (july and ), before the select committee appointed in to report on the operation of the ecclesiastical titles act; and to that evidence, showing all the luminous clearness and completeness which was so characteristic of him, but especially to an admirable _statement_ on the whole case which he submitted to the committee [see _infra_, p. ], there can, i think, be no doubt that the final adoption (in ) of the only satisfactory remedy--a total repeal of the act--was mainly due. a letter of the london correspondent of a dublin newspaper of the day, relating to mr. hope-scott's examination before the select committee above mentioned, contains, in the lively manner of a journalist, some particulars worth preserving:-- it used to be said of mr. hope-scott in the great days of railway committees, ere the london, chatham, and dover had made its _scandalum magnatum_, that his briefs were worth , _l_. a year; but that if he could forget some slight knowledge of the common law that he had acquired in his youth, there was no reason why they might not mount up to , _l_. the story is only worth relating as an instance of the professional lawyer's ingrained contempt for such a tribunal as a committee composed of five or more ordinary members of the house of commons. but to- day [july , ] it so happened that when mr. hope-scott for the first time in his life had to sit in a chair and be examined and cross-examined before such a committee, his common law stood him in good stead. there is something extremely impressive in the complete simplicity of this eminent lawyer's appearance. a great natural superiority of intellect, an apt and complete study of his subject, ample readiness and subtlety of statement, these you expect; but not a certain direct and cogent candour, which appears to be, and which indeed is, utterly unaffected. the success of mr. hope-scott with parliamentary committees is, i have always thought, due to the fact that he unites the qualities of a great lawyer with the qualities that make a man a great member of parliament.... his evidence was limited to the substantiation and illustration of the legal positions laid down in the document drawn up by him [see page ], and of the whole case he was evidently master to its most minute points. mr. walpole and mr. chatterton both essayed what we may call cross-examination--it cannot be said successfully.[footnote: _irish times_, july , .] the following letters on this subject appear to merit preservation; it will be seen that not all catholic politicians of the day had so clear a view of the case as mr. hope-scott:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the right hon. spencer h. walpole, m.p._ [draft copy.] norfolk house, st. james's square: _confidential._ june , ' . dear walpole,--i wrote to mr. m'evoy from arundel to request that he would make an appointment with you on the subject of the eccl. titles act, but, as i have received no reply, i presume that he is still out of town. my object, however, may be as well, perhaps better, attained if you will read the memorandum which i enclose, and in which i have endeavoured to state the case against the act, in the manner in which it _must_ be stated to the commons' committee, should the proposed inquiry take place. you will gather from the memorandum that r. catholics owe a great deal to the forbearance of the government and the judges, and i can assure you that they are far from desirous to requite such treatment by pointing out the infractions of the law by which it has been accompanied. moreover, in the event of the act not being repealed, it is evident that they would greatly endanger their present immunity by showing how easily it might be destroyed. under these circumstances, if i had to choose between acquiescence in the retention of this act, and a parliamentary inquiry of certain inconvenience and of doubtful result, i should naturally prefer the former; but the question has apparently advanced too far to be now set aside, and i therefore venture to suggest to you, and through you to the government, that the most just, and to all concerned the most convenient course, would be, that the ministry should supersede further inquiry by an avowal that the action of the public departments is impeded by the act, and should introduce a government bill to repeal it. i have marked this letter and the memorandum 'confidential' for reasons which you will understand; but i do not mean to limit the use of them in any case where you think they may assist the consideration of my suggestion. believe me, &c. &c., j. r. h.-s. the right honorable spencer h. walpole, &c. &c. &c. _his grace the duke of norfolk, e.m. to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ house of lords: july , . my dear mr. hope,--monsell, into whose hands i put the affair of the ecc. titles bill, and to whom i gave your papers on the subject, says that both o'hagan and sherlock see no objection in the bill. he says that he will try and get some one to protest against the language of the preamble, but he does not feel sure that anybody will even do that. i believe o'hagan now says that, though papal instruments are declared void, in a court of law such instruments are not called for to prove such facts as divisions of dioceses, &c. what had we better do? yours affectionately, norfolk. _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to his grace the duke of norfolk, e.m._ bedford hotel, brighton: march , ' . dear henry,--[after mentioning the enclosure of a rough draft of memorandum made in , and of the clause he had proposed to mr. gladstone (footnote: in mr. hope-scott had proposed to mr. gladstone the following _clause_ with reference to the ecclesiastical titles act:-- 'before all courts, in all questions affecting the rights or property of any religious body not established by law, or of the members of the same as such, it shall be sufficient to prove the existence 'de facto' of any ecclesiastical arrangement material to the inquiry, and no evidence shall be required of the manner in which, or of the persons by whom, such arrangement may have been originally made.') with reference to the eccl. titles bill:--] these i now send you, and, with them, a letter which you wrote to me last july showing how the matter then stood. in connection with this letter, i send you likewise a print of my statement made and circulated before the committee met in , and given in evidence by me before that committee. a reference to it will show that the view which your letter attributes to lord o'hagan is certainly not correct as regards england, though there are some circumstances in ireland which make it more applicable there. as the bill is now to go to a select committee of the commons, there seems a fair chance of getting a favourable alteration, and it is certainly well worth the attempt. as i wrote to you last summer, the _clause_ i proposed would be of the greatest practical value, and might save some amount of feeling among protestants by letting them fire away at the papal authority; but if it cannot be got, the words 'and all assumption, &c., is wholly void' should either go out, or the whole of that recital be qualified so as to mean _legal and coercive_, not merely spiritual, jurisdiction, &c. i am sorry to add to the number of your labours for the church, but at present i am not able to take the field myself; and as you are at any rate to be in london this week, you may take the opportunity of moving in the matter. yrs affly, james r. hope-scott remember j. v. harting in case of need. his grace the duke of norfolk, e.m. the whole subject has belonged to the domain of history since the repeal passed under mr. gladstone's administration in . still, i am unwilling to dismiss it without quoting the wise and powerful words with which mr. hope-scott concludes the 'statement' of , several times referred to:-- no act of parliament can cause direct hardship to the subject while the ministers of the crown, the judges, the magistrates, and the public concur in disregarding it; but it is one thing to be secure by the law, and another to be secure only by a general contempt of the law. in the latter case a gust of popular excitement, such as occurred in - , or the interest or prejudice of an individual, or the scruples of a single official, or of a single judge, might at any time turn this dormant act into a real instrument of oppression; and therefore the grievance of the roman catholics is this, and it is essentially a practical one, that, whatever their present immunity may be, they are not, and, as the law stands, they never can be, secure of its continuance. from this it follows, that in all matters to which the act may be applied, roman catholics find it necessary to take the same precautions, and resort to the same expedients, as if its application were certain. in short, they are under the constant sense that a penal statute is at the door, and that it depends upon little more than accident whether it shall come in or not: and thus, if the apprehension of evil be, as it certainly is, an evil in itself, the mere existence of the act is a practical hardship, and there can be no remedy short of its repeal. [footnote: _minutes of evidence_ (j. r hope-scott, esq., q.o.), p. .] ( ) it appears from mr. hope-scott's papers that, in may , he was giving his weight to the opposition against the _scottish education bill_, as a measure, in its original form, based on the principle of presbyterian ascendency, and was advocating a denominational system in the interests of catholicity. ( ) the parliamentary committee on _conventual and monastic institutions_ (originally designed by its mover, mr. newdegate, to inquire into the '_existence, characters, and increase_' of those institutions, but restricted, on a motion of mr. gladstone's, to inquire into '_the state of the law_' respecting them) held its sittings may to july , , and mr. hope-scott's attention seems to have been much occupied with the subject. during the earlier stages of the affair he was at hyères, but his correspondence shows how carefully he was kept informed of what passed. a letter to him from the duke of norfolk (dated norfolk house, april , ) gives an idea of the line mr. hope-scott had taken: 'i was very glad to receive your letter' (the duke writes). 'it had great weight with our committee to-day, and we decided to ask government for nothing, but to resist inquiry in any form.' ( ) to services like these, in which he was the trusted counsellor of those who were acting for catholicity in general, might be added illustrations of the many instances in which mr. hope-scott's legal knowledge and experience were applied to the business affairs of priests on the missions, or of convents, if such cases were not, from their own nature, uninteresting except to those immediately concerned, and implying also the same confidence that belongs to other privileged communications. the words of a valuable letter, from which i have more than once quoted, are here in point: [footnote: lady georgiana fullerton to lady h. k.] 'what i always admired in him was his patient charity--not so much the alms he gave, considerable as they were, but the manner in which, busy as he was, and often exhausted by his professional labours, he gave time and attention to all sorts of cases of distress and perplexity, or of importance to religion. "consult mr. hope," was the advice given to numberless persons who had no claim whatever upon him but that of needing what no one else could so well give. one of the titles of our blessed lady, "auxilium christianorum," might in one sense have been applied to him.' under this head of charity may well be included his undertaking, at the cost of time so precious to himself, the guardianships of bereaved families, of which a list has been given in a former chapter (p. ). . of mr. hope-scott's pecuniary charities in england (in the catholic part of his life) i am not able to give a special account; but i may mention one characteristic trait, that he felt it his duty to do more for westminster than other places, because it was there that he earned his money; following the excellent principle of helping, in the first instance, the locality in which almighty god has placed one. accordingly, at westminster he gave ground for catholic _poor schools_, with property endowment of _l_. per annum; and gave great assistance to the _filles de marie_, a community of religious ladies so employed in the horseferry road, in the same district. a large proportion of his private benefactions seem to have been of a description especially in keeping with his tender and thoughtful mind, such as giving a mother the means of going to visit a daughter whom she had reluctantly allowed to enter a convent; enabling sick priests to go abroad for their health; setting up a poor schoolmistress with the means of purchasing a school; paying the expenses of a funeral; and so on. like all men either wealthy or reputed to be so, he was continually importuned with petitions for pecuniary aid, sometimes asked for by way of gift, sometimes as loans. to particularise such in any recognisable manner would of course be impossible, for fear of wounding the feelings of persons who were the objects of his kindness; but, avoiding this as well as i can, i may say that there were instances in which mr. hope-scott cleared people out of overwhelming difficulties by gifts of lavish generosity--hundreds of pounds, and in some cases as much as , _l_. i could produce an example of the former in which the prompt liberality shown was only equalled by the delicacy and forbearance; for it may easily be supposed that the difficulties thus relieved were not always free from blame on the part of those involved in them. seldom, perhaps, can it be otherwise; but what would happen if all charity were measured by the deserts of the recipient? what may have been the actual amount of mr. hope-scott's charities during his life it would be very hard to conjecture; but this much i can state, on the testimony of one who knew the fact from his own personal knowledge, that in twelve or thirteen years (from or thereabouts) he gave away, in charity of some form or other, not less than , _l_. it is right to observe that, quite towards the close, as he was retiring from his profession, there was a great diminution in his charitable expenditure; for, instead of the ample, though merely professional, income he had enjoyed for a great part of his life, he had become, relatively speaking, a person with very limited means. believing it still to be his duty to provide for his 'son and heir,' and for his other children, of course he had no longer the power of doing all that he had done under circumstances altogether different. missions on the border; galashiels, kelso, &c. mr. hope-scott's zeal for the support of catholicity was naturally felt most by places near him in the highlands or on the border, where he built churches and schools, and aided struggling missions. of those on the border, the most important was the church of our lady and st. andrew at _galashiels_, which, as a manufacturing town, has a large catholic population. true to his organising genius, he intended it should be a centre for smaller out-missions around it, as _selkirk, jedburgh, kelso, &c._ it was completed gradually, and the following extract from a letter of his to father newman (dated abbotsford, december , ) shows, in a pleasing and simple manner, the heart which mr. hope-scott threw into the work he was offering to almighty god:-- i hope that ten days or so will render [the church] fit for use in a rough way; and i hope it will be so used, and that i shall not be hurried in the decorative part, which i cannot afford to do handsomely at present, and which i think will be done better when we have become used to the interior, and have observed what is to be brought out and what concealed. the shell i am well pleased with. it is massive and lofty, no side aisles, but chapels between buttresses--and no altar-screen--more like a good college chapel than a parish church. the whole plan, however, has not been carried out, so the proportions cannot be fairly judged of. some day perhaps i may finish it, or some one else instead; and to keep us in mind that more is to do, we have a rough temporary work at the west end (not really west), with square sash windows of a repulsive aspect.[footnote: there are readers who will be glad of the preservation of the following dates connected with galashiels church. the plans were completed july , ; first payment, november ; last account rendered, february ; the church was opened on candlemas day, february , , by bishop gillis; finished finally in , and opened in august .] mr. hope-scott lived to finish it, and the work, i have heard, can hardly have cost him less than , _l_. he also gave to the jesuit fathers at galashiels a library of books, chiefly on civil and canon law, in value about _l_. the last cheque he signed with his failing hand was one for _l_. in discharge of the last debt on galashiels church. the mission at galashiels was held at first by the oblate fathers, but from the end of july by the jesuits.[footnote: there is a letter of father jos. johnson, provincial s. j., to mr, hope-scott, dated february , , from which it appears that the society, in consequence of the many demands upon them, were unable to accept the mission of galashiels at that time.] the following letter (worthy of preservation also because of the writer) will show that mr. hope-scott had wished, almost immediately on finding himself a catholic, to have a jesuit father at _abbotsford_:--_the père de ravignan, s.j. to j. r. hope, esq., q.g._ voici, monsieur, ce que le t. r. p. général, m'écrit de sa maison de rome le juin: 'je désire bien que m. hope sache combien j'ai été consolé à la bonne nouvelle.--jamais je ne l'avois oublié--il m'avoit inspiré tant d'intérét!' pour ne point oublier non plus, je vous demande la permission de vous dire ici que le r. p. provincial d'angleterre a accueilli, avec le plus grand désir de vous satisfaire, la prière que vous avez bien voulu me communiquer, d'établir un de nos pères chez vous en Ã�cosse. le p. etheridge, provincial actuel, doit arriver demain à londres. ce matin nous étions tous heureux près de cet autel. bénissons le seigneur de tant de grâces. veuillez agréer toutes mes tendres et profondes sympathies in xto jesu. x. de ravignan, s.j. londres: juin . the chapel at _selkirk_, dedicated to our lady and st. joseph, was a purchase of mr. hope-scott's. the mission of _kelso_, where he built the church of the immaculate conception, would furnish many instructive pages for a history of the re- settlement of the catholic church in those very desolate regions. a letter of the rev. patrick taggart,[footnote: compare page of this volume.] to mr. hope-scott, dated hawick, september , , contains some details which, in connection with later events at kelso, are full of interest. they show how deeply felt is the spiritual isolation of such localities, and how unexpectedly great is the number of catholics often to be found in them, left to themselves. father taggart first speaks of the great kindness which he had received from sir george and lady douglas, of springwood park, near kelso, and then goes on to say:-- lady douglas is a genuine catholic, just as a daughter of old catholic spain should be. her sister is staying with her just now.... i think they do not like the idea of attending divine service in a public hall. i told them that father cooke would be delighted to afford them any assistance in his power under present circumstances. i also told them that i thought that, if possible, a small church would be built at kelso in the meantime; and that the time was not far distant when perhaps the bishop would be able to give to kelso a resident priest. this news so delighted them that they could not find words to express their joy.... i do not know of any part of this district that is at present more destitute of the ministrations of a priest than kelso and its environs. the mission extends twenty miles north- east of kelso--that is, forty miles from galashiels and from hawick; and there is not a village in that, i might almost say, immense tract of country that does not contain its ten and twenty poor irish catholics. i attended kelso, once in the month, for nearly five years, and i am the first priest who offered up the holy sacrifice of the mass at kelso since the days of the so-called reformation. i therefore know its geography and its wants.... patrick taggart. accordingly, a church was built for kelso at the expense of mr. hope-scott. it could hardly have been finished more than a year or two, when, on the night of august - , , it was attacked by a protestant mob, set fire to, and burned to the ground, with the schoolhouse and dwelling-house adjoining, including books, vestments, and furniture, the property of mr. hope-scott. four of the ringleaders were put on their trial on november . in charging the jury, otherwise fairly enough, 'the lord justice-clerk remarked that, as to whether it were necessary that mr. hope-scott should build the roman catholic chapel at kelso or not, the jury might have very considerable doubts, as it appeared that the priest did not live there, but some miles distant at jedburgh; but that was a matter which the prisoners had nothing to do with, as every one was at liberty to build such a place of worship if he chose; neither did it matter whether the attack upon the chapel was made in consequence of any attempts to proselytise protestants to the catholic faith. in going over the evidence, his lordship said he could have wished that mrs. byrne, the schoolmistress, had given timely notice to the police of what she had heard as to the resolution to fire the chapel, as that would have been a better course than quitting the chapel. however, they could not blame the poor woman; and _perhaps, being a catholic, she might not like to make an appeal to the police_.' (quoted from the report in the 'scottish press,' november , . [footnote: i italicise the last sentence, which at first sight gives a curious idea of the practical equality of legal protection existing for catholics at the time; though probably all that was intended to be conveyed is the strange impression that catholics might entertain a scruple about appealing to the police.--r. o.]) the jury's verdict would surprise any unprejudiced reader who studies the evidence. they found the charge of wilful fire-raising not proven against the prisoners, but found three of them guilty of mobbing and rioting, but, in respect of their previous good conduct, recommended them to mercy. the three got off with eighteen months' imprisonment and hard labour. i quote the following remarks on the affair generally, and on the lord justice- clerk's charge, from an article in the 'scotsman,' republished by the 'northern times' of november , : [footnote: i have not met with any _letter_ of mr. hope-scott's to the _scotsman_, but this article is probably from his pen.--r. o.]-- in the town of kelso there is, it seems, a more or less considerable colony of irish; and it needs scarcely be said that the mixture of that element with the border material does not work together for the promotion of harmony and good order. at st. james's fair, held at kelso on th august last, a scotch butcher-boy quarrelled and fought with an irish mugger. scotch and irish rallied round these champions of the two countries, and in the mêlée which ensued, a young scotchman was unhappily and barbarously killed. the kelso crowd, in very natural rage, burned the muggers' camp, threw their carts into the tweed, and drove them from the neighbourhood of the town. but there remained the resident irish of the town, and it seems to have been deemed fitting to hold them guilty as art and part. it is not clear that any of them were in the fight--at least, no person among them was charged with the murder; but there is a short cut through all these difficulties. most irishmen are roman catholics--kelso has a roman catholic chapel--let it be burned. accordingly, after considerable talk and preparation (which seems to have included getting drunk), a mob assembled the next evening, and did burn the chapel with perfect ease and effect.... some mystery may dwell in readers' minds as to how such an affair could be arranged and completed without any one but the rioters themselves having any voice thereanent. and the mystery is not quite cleared away by the evidence. the woman that lived under the chapel heard, on the day of the fair and the fight (i.e. the day before the incendiarism), that the chapel was to be burned, and slept out of her house, so as not to be in the way; coming back the next day she heard the same rumour, and left again at night--when it happened as she had been foretold. but though other witnesses, some of whom had witnessed the burning, testified that the design had been talked about all day, the chief magistrate mentions in his evidence that he 'had not had the slightest expectation of a disturbance;' the superintendent of police was in the same state of information, and the police constable 'had not taken any alarm.' all this, however, is of little consequence, seeing that when the alarm was taken, there was no result but that of disturbing two or three people who might as well have gone to bed. the guardianship of the town is confided to one county policeman, who must be a tumultuous sort of person himself, since he seems to require a 'superintendent' to keep him in order. the said superintendent, when he did know what was going on, first tried a little moral suasion, with the result usual in such cases: 'i cautioned them against proceedings of that kind, and advised them to go to their homes--they disregarded me.' his disposable force, condensed in the person of the 'police constable,' took the same course. '_we_ warned them'--the answer was a volley of stones. 'we retired, and went to all the magistrates.' 'by the time we got back the chapel was completely destroyed.' it would be unreasonable to blame the superintendent and his 'force' for not successfully fighting several hundred men, although we do think they might have done more as to identifying the ringleaders: the real blame lies with the authorities, who appear to have failed to provide decently adequate means for preserving the public peace. the use of a local police force must be measured, not by what it detects and punishes, but by what it prevents, or may reasonably be supposed to prevent.... so wide-spread is [the feeling that roman catholic chapels are somehow an intrusion and an offence] that it would almost appear as if the very bench were not placed above its influence. the lord justice-clerk made some very sound and strong remarks on the nature of the outrage; but he added: 'whether it was necessary on the part of mr. hope-scott to build this chapel--which it scarcely seemed to be, seeing the priest did not live there, but at jedburgh--or whether it was a prudent proceeding to attempt, by the erection of this chapel, to win converts to the roman catholic faith--was of no importance here.' since it was of no importance, the expressed doubt and the implied censure had, we very humbly think, have been better avoided.... though there had not been a single roman catholic in or near jedburgh, mr. hope-scott had a perfect moral as well as legal right to spend his money in building a chapel, without either having it burned down by a mob, or himself pointed at from the bench. as a matter of fact, however, there does appear to have been a congregation as well as a chapel. the lord justice-clerk was pleased to add that the roman catholic school attached to the chapel 'could not but have been of the utmost use;' and we could thence infer that, roman catholic children having parents, there must have been use also for the chapel. the fact relied on, of the priest 'living at jedburgh,' is evidence, we should think, not of a want of hearers, but of a want of funds to pay two priests. but look where we should be landed, on this hand or on that, if others than those that choose to provide the money are to decide where church-building is 'necessary' or is 'prudent.' the extreme chapel-attendance of episcopalians in the county of roxburgh was shown by the census to be ; and for the accommodation of that number the county contains five chapels. four of them might be pronounced not 'necessary,' and all of them not 'prudent.' or, to go from the country of the rioters to that of the rioted upon. in our humble opinion, seven-eighths of the churches belonging to the establishment in ireland are utterly unnecessary, and every one of them very imprudent. such, too, is notoriously the opinion of all but a fraction of the population among whom, and out of whose funds, these churches are built and maintained. the late lamented roman catholic chapel at kelso was immeasurably less unnecessary and offensive than these; for not only had it a congregation, but was paid for only by those that used it or approved of it. of course, the lord justice-clerk did not mean that his opinion or that of any other man as to the chapel being unnecessary was any justification of the outrage--his lordship said the contrary very impressively; but his remark, though not what is called a fortunate one, is useful as indicating, in however faint and refined shape and degree, the feeling which on such topics is apt to lead us all more or less astray. missions in the western highlands: moidart. the purchase by mr. hope-scott of the estate at lochshiel, in the wilds of moidart, his 'highland paraguay,' as cardinal manning calls it, in an old letter to him (january , ), was attended, as i have already hinted (p. ), by some noteworthy circumstances. in the first place, the condition of the catholic remnant in the highlands is, perhaps, little known even to catholic readers. an interesting letter to mr. hope-scott, dated october , , from the rev. d. macdonald, in charge of the mission of fortwilliam, furnishes a statistical table, from which it appears that in , in the highlands and insular districts within the range of his knowledge, there was but one single school, where, to do justice, considering the scattered population, there ought to have been twenty-six. the people were so miserably poor, that out of thirteen missions, only one could afford their priest _l_. per annum; one, _l_.; three, _l_.; and the rest, ranging from _l_. down to as low as _l_. per annum. of course the priests could not subsist on these incomes without some other aid, and this was obtained by taking small farms, from which they endeavoured to eke out a living. 'in moidart' (i here copy from another well-informed correspondent) 'a severe crisis had just passed over the people. the cruel treatment which has depopulated the greater portion of the highlands, and converted large tracts of country into sheep-farms and deer-forests, had overtaken them. dozens of unfortunate families occupying the more fertile portions of the estate were ruthlessly torn from their homes, and shipped away to australia and america. their good old priest, the rev. ranald rankin, broken-hearted at the desolation which had come over his flock, accompanied the larger portion of these wanderers to the shores of australia. his impression at the time was, that the whole of the country, sooner or later, would share the same unhappy fate; for in bidding farewell to his bishop, the late dr. murdoch, vicar-apostolic of the western district, he assured his lordship, who felt at a loss how to supply his place, that it was a matter of little or no consequence, as the mission was practically ruined already. the bishop's reply was characteristic: "moidart has always been a catholic district; and so long as there remains one catholic family in it, for the sake of its old steadfastness, i shall not leave it unprovided."' in the meantime, mr. hope-scott, having already become a landed proprietor in ireland, in the county mayo, much wished to possess also a highland property. lochshiel was offered to him; but, after consideration, he decided against taking it. in the estate was again in the market, but mr. hope-scott had not heard of it. the owner, macdonald of lochshiel, was a catholic, and, it may be presumed, a devout one, since he had the blessed sacrament and a priest in his house. he had been obliged to sell, and the property had been bought by a brother-in-law of his, named macdonell, who added to the house. he, too, found himself obliged to sell, and this time the estate was on the point of passing into the hands of people from london who would have rooted out the catholic population from the land. hearing that it had been actually sold to protestants, two old ladies of the same family, living at portobello, went to the lawyer, and asked him, if possible, to postpone the signature of the deeds for nine or ten days, to give another purchaser a chance. he agreed to do so. they then commenced a novena that a catholic might buy it. (i ought perhaps to explain, for the benefit of some of my readers, that catholics have great faith in the efficacy of prayer persevered in for nine days when there is some important object to be gained.) the ninth day came, and mr. hope-scott purchased the property, for the sum of , _l_., without even having seen it. his attention had been drawn to it by the late mrs. colonel hutchison, of edinburgh, a lady well known among scotch catholics for her shrewd good sense and innumerable good works. he certainly was induced to purchase by the fact that lochshiel had never been out of catholic hands, and that all the population were catholic, with the personal motive, however, of providing his wife with a quiet and pleasant change of residence. 'on his arrival, the character of the people, and the wild and glorious scenery of the place, made a favourable and lasting impression on his mind; [footnote: how deeply the highland scenery impressed his imagination may be seen from the beautiful verses, 'low tide at sunset on the highland coast, which will be found in appendix iv.] but the state of the country might have appeared to him as little more advanced than under the earlier clanranald chiefs three or four centuries ago. the peasants generally were in a state of great poverty. their cottages were miserable turf cabins, black and smoky; agriculture was imperfectly understood among them, and the small patches of moorland upon which they tried to raise crops of oats and potatoes were inadequate to the maintenance of themselves and their families. there was no demand or employment of labour. there was no school upon the estate. the principal building assigned to religious worship, and which served as the central chapel for moidart, was a miserable thatched edifice, destitute of everything befitting the service of religion. the want of good roads was severely felt. it was difficult to get into "the _rough bounds_" as this part of the highlands was aptly styled by the more favoured districts, and, once in, it was more difficult still to get out. 'mr. hope-scott lost no time in trying to improve matters. it was a fundamental maxim with him that, in a neglected estate like this, no improvement was more sensible, or paid better, than the construction of good roads. these occupied his attention for several years, and gave most beneficial employment to the tenants. the cost in some instances was very great; for, in constructing the present beautiful carriage drive from sheil brude to dorlin house, hundreds of yards of solid rock had to be blasted; part of the river sheil had to be embanked; huge boulders between the cliffs and the sea-shore had to be cleared away, while a considerable line of breastwork had to be erected as a protection against the waves of the atlantic, which, in a southwest gale, beat with great fury against the coast. the other roads were carried to those parts of the estate where the tenants were principally clustered, and were a great boon. [these road-making operations in the highlands were evidently in mr. hope- scott's mind in one of his last letters to his dear friend dr. newman. the great oratorian, then busy with the 'grammar of assent,' writes to him on january , : 'my dear hope-scott,--a happy new year to you and all yours--and to bellasis and all his.... i am engaged, as bellasis knows, in cutting across the isthmus of suez; and though i have got so far as to let the water into the canal, there is an awkward rock in mid-channel near the mouth which takes a great deal of picking and blasting, and no man-of-war will be able to pass through till i get rid of it. thus i can't name a day for the opening. ever yours affectionately,--john h. newman.' mr. hope-scott's reply is--'hôtel d'orient, hyères (var), france, january , .--dear f. newman,--(after giving an account of serjeant bellasis's health, then seriously ill, and anxiously asking for masses and prayers for him,) that rocky point in your enterprise is a nuisance--more especially as rocks lie in beds, and this may be but the "crop" of some large stratum. as a road-maker, i know what it is to have to come back upon my work, and to strike a new level to get rid of some seemingly small but hard obstacle.... yours ever affectionately,--james e. hope-scott.'] 'the improvement of the tenants' own condition was a subject of anxious consideration. it was impossible to build new houses for every one; but great facilities were offered by the proprietor to such as were willing to build for themselves. wood and lime were placed at their disposal free of charge, and a sum of _l_. or _l_. was added to help in defraying the expenses of the mason-work. a few cottages of a superior kind were built at the entire expense of the proprietor; but the cost was out of all proportion with the rental of the estate, and this attempt had to be abandoned for a time. mr. hope-scott's kindness towards the smaller tenants was very marked. besides helping them to better houses, he frequently assisted them with considerable sums of money towards increasing their stock of cattle, or towards repairing losses from accidents and disease. in some cases his generosity extended to the poorer tenants on neighbouring estates, when, for instance, they felt themselves at a loss for means to purchase a new boat or to provide themselves with fishing-nets. [footnote: mr. hope-scott had formed schemes for the employment of the people in working the salmon fisheries, and, when the salmon was out of season, the deep-sea fishing, and enabling them to dispose of their fish.] to encourage a spirit of independence among them, he used to grant sums of money on _loan_; but when, at the end of a successful season, the borrowers came back with the money, he invariably refused to accept it, or he would give instructions to have it passed to some other poor person in difficulties.' his efforts to induce them to extend cultivation have been elsewhere noticed. 'he never left the country towards the end of autumn without leaving a few pounds for distribution among the poorer classes. the clergyman of the district had always strict injunctions to report any case of hardship, or illness, or distress, and to draw upon his purse for what was required. the habits of the people soon showed signs of real improvement. a more orderly or respectable class of tenants are not to be found in any other part of the highlands. from the day of his coming among them until now the rents have remained the same, greatly to the prosperity of the tenants. with the rest of the proprietors residing in and near moidart he was very popular. his relations with them were invariably pleasant and happy. 'in , mr. hope-scott commenced the erection of a school at mingarry, with ample accommodation for scholars and teacher. it was completed in . this was an improvement very acceptable to the tenants. hitherto the catholic children had to cross over to a neighbouring estate, where the society for the propagation of christian knowledge had established a school-house and teacher, or they had to frequent another school, often very irregularly, in ardnamurchan. the secular teaching in both of these schools was excellent of its kind. but, although the most cordial relations have, for generations past, existed between the catholics on the north and the presbyterians on the south side of the river sheil, it was always a subject of regret among the former that they had no means of educating their children nearer home, and under catholic teachers. after the school was successfully opened, mr. hope-scott supplied funds to defray the teacher's salary. 'in , he erected, at a cost of about , _l_., the present church and presbytery at mingarry, within a few hundred yards of the school; but, to his grief, this was the least satisfactory of all his undertakings from one cause or another, neither church nor presbytery coming up to his expectations; and the former was for years a continual source of trouble and expenditure.' he built also another, at glenuig, mentioned already. to complete the history of dorlin, so far as it is connected with mr. hope- scott: when, towards the close of his life, he had completely given up practice, he made up his mind to part with it, great as he acknowledged the wrench was--but to a catholic purchaser--and sold it to lord howard of glossop, the present proprietor, who worthily carries out the admirable example bequeathed him by his predecessor. [footnote: lord howard of glossop died as these sheets were passing through the press, december , . r. i. p.] the missions of _oban_, and, on the other side of scotland, _st. andrews_, [footnote: he had been otherwise interested in st. andrews, during the years - , when associated with sir john gladstone (father of the premier) in a scheme for developing that town as a bathing-place, building houses, &c. this, however, was a speculation on which it would he needless to enlarge, even if i had the details. in a letter to miss hope- scott (may , ) he observes, 'st. andrews is the best sea quarter in scotland, i believe (and you know i have property there, which proves it).'] must also be named as either created or largely assisted by mr. hope-scott; and, among scottish religious houses, lastly, but not least, st. margaret's convent at _edinburgh_ (the ursulines of jesus), as a cherished object of his benefactions, and kind counsel and help. mr. hope-scott's irish tenantry. of mr. hope-scott's dealings, as a catholic proprietor, with his irish estates (co. mayo), what has appeared in a former chapter gives a pleasing idea, quite borne out by other letters that have come before me. the rev. james browne, writing to him on june , , to acknowledge a donation for the chapel and school of _killavalla_, says of his tenantry there: 'they all look upon it as a blessing from god that they have got a catholic landlord, who has the same religious sympathies that they have themselves.' thirteen years later (may , ) the same priest writes: 'i have been holding stations of confession among your people at balliburke, gortbane, and killadier. i was glad to find them happy and contented, the houses neat, and the people most comfortable.' charities at hyÃ�res. at hyères i can say from my own knowledge that mr. hope-scott's support of a chaplain is to be numbered among his charitable and fruitful deeds. the arrangement was made with all his usual thoughtfulness; it enabled a most excellent priest, who was in a slow decline, but could still hear confessions and do much good, to spend a few winters in a warm climate. the rev. edward dunne acted also as confessor to the little english colony at hyères, as well as to the family of mr. hope-scott. it often happens that, in such a watering-place, strangers whose case is hopeless come for a last chance of life. sometimes they are catholics, or needing instruction, and willing to receive it; sometimes they are in distressed circumstances. father dunne's great prudence and charity well fitted him for these ministrations, and he was equally beloved by catholics and protestants. the good which such a priest does is shared by the benefactor who places him in the position where he has the means of doing it. the following passage from a letter of father dunne's to mr. hope-scott (may , ), which must have been one of his last, will interest the reader as an example:-- you will be glad to know that my being at hyères was a great blessing to a poor young man who died there towards the end of april. he had been at sea, and was for years without receiving the sacraments. his poor mother, a very pious woman, was in the greatest anxiety about him. he could not speak french, and it would have been impossible for him to make his confession if i, or some other english-speaking priest, was not there. i mention this, as i know it will be a consolation to you to know that your charity and benevolence were, under god, the means of saving a poor soul, and will secure for you the prayers of a bereaved mother, and three holy nuns, aunts of the poor young man. chapter xxvii. - . mr. hope-scott's speech on termination of guardianship to the duke of norfolk--failure in mr. hope-scott's health--exhaustion after a day's pleading--his neglect of exercise--death of mr. badeley--letter of dr. newman--last correspondence of mr. hope and the bishop of salisbury (hamilton)--dr. newman's friendship for mr. hope-scott and serjeant bellasis--mr. hope-scott proposes to retire--birth of james fitzalan hope-- death of lady victoria hope-scott--mr. hope-scott retires from his profession--edits abridgment of lockhart, which he dedicates to mr. gladstone--dr. newman on sir walter scott--visit of dr. newman to abbotsford in --mr. hope-scott's last illness--his faith and resignation--his death--benediction of the holy father--requiem mass for mr. hope-scott at the jesuit church, farm street--funeral ceremonies at st. margaret's, edinburgh--cardinal newman and mr, gladstone on mr. hope-scott. mr. hope-scott's duties as trustee and guardian of the duke of norfolk had lasted altogether eight years, when they terminated of course on the duke's attaining his majority, on december , . the speech made by mr. hope- scott, at the banquet given by the duke in the baron's hall at arundel castle, to the mayor and corporation of arundel, on the following day, was a striking and beautiful one. i copy a few lines of it from the summary given in the 'tablet' of january , :-- mr. hope-scott paid a well-merited tribute to the virtues of the duchess when he said that if they observed in the duke earnestness and yet gentleness, strict justice and yet most liberal and charitable feelings, neglect of himself and attention to the wants of all around him, let them remember that his mother brought him up. the guardianship being now over, the ward must go forward on the battle-field of life, depending not upon his rank or property, but upon his own prudence, his own courage, but above all, his fidelity to god. it was true that his path was strewn with the broken weapons and defaced armour of many who had gone forth amidst acclamations as loud and promises as bright, but the groundworks of hope in his case were the nobility of his father's character, the prayers of his mother, the strong domestic affections which belong to pure and single- minded youths, great powers of observation, great vigour of will, and the daily and habitual influence under which he knew that he lived, of well- reasoned and well-regulated religion. the celebrations at arundel were, i believe, the last occasion, unconnected with his profession, at which mr. hope-scott ever spoke in public. he had already, for some years, showed signs of failing health. it used to be supposed, as has been previously mentioned, from the facility of his manner in pleading, that he got through his work with little trouble. people little knew what commonly happened when he reached home, after the day's pleading was over. such was his state of lassitude, that he would drop, like a load, upon the first chair he found, and instantly fall into a profound sleep: sometimes he was half carried, thus unconscious, to bed, or sometimes placed at table, and made to swallow a little food. even when the prostration was not so overpowering, the chances were that he would fall fast asleep, at dinner or at dessert, in the middle of a sentence. all this resembles very closely what thiers related of himself to mr. senior. the french statesman, after a day of parliamentary battle, had often to be carried to his bed by his servants, as motionless and helpless as a corpse. this strange torpor, after extreme intellectual exertion, seems to have been observed in mr. hope-scott from a very early stage in his career, during the great railway excitement of . it was probably connected with the shock given to his constitution, in his infancy, by the fever at florence. there was always a kind of struggle going on in his system. unfortunately, throughout his professional life he never took proper exercise. it was, however, in vain to advise him on this point. he said he could not _both_ work hard and take exercise also, or would playfully insist that he had sufficient exercise in pleading. 'why don't you go out?' asked a friend. 'don't you think,' replied mr. hope-scott, 'that the work in committee gives a man sufficient exercise? cicero considered making a speech was exercise.' this great mistake was the more to be wondered at in mr. hope-scott, as he had had the advantage of an early initiation into field sports. he never, indeed, seems to have liked riding. he used to say he had _once_ been out on a steeplechase at arundel, and sometimes he went out shooting there, but these were exceptional occasions. his chief active amusements, gardening and architecture, were insufficient to compensate the depression caused by the tremendous strain of half the year at westminster. in the year he was exceedingly unwell, and the failure in his health became very appreciable, his physician telling him that he had 'the heart of an overworked brain.' within two years after this, the violence of his grief at mrs. hope-scott's death further disordered him. he had an illness in , and again a serious one in , which, however, he got over, and went on as usual, but became more unwieldy, and suffered much from impeded circulation. it happened also, soon after this, that the breaking up of some very dear associations, or sure signs of it, began to give warning that the end of all things was at hand. on march , , rather suddenly, died mr. badeley, the most affectionate and faithful friend of so many years. on hearing of his illness mr. hope-scott had hastened home from hyères to assist him, and was with him each day till the last. dr. newman wrote the following letter on this occasion:-- _the very rev. dr. newman to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ rednall: march , . my dear hope-scott,--what a heavy, sudden, unexpected blow! i shall not see him now till i cross the stream which he has crossed. how dense is our ignorance of the future! a darkness which can be felt, and the keenest consequence and token of the fall. till we remind ourselves of what we are--in a state of punishment--such surprises make us impatient, and almost angry, alas! but my blow is nothing to yours, though you had the great consolation of sitting by his side and being with him to the last. what a fulness of affection he poured out on you and yours! and how he must have rejoiced to have your faithful presence with him while he was going! this is your joy and your pain. now he has the recompense for that steady, well-ordered, perpetual course of devotion and obedience which i ever admired in him, and felt to be so much above anything that i could reach. all or most of us have said mass for him, i am sure, this morning; certainly we two have who are here. i did not write to you during the past fortnight, thinking it would only bother you, and knowing i should hear if there was anything to tell. but you have been as much surprised as any one at his sudden summons. i knew it was the beginning of the end, but thought it was only the beginning. how was it his medical men did not know better? i suppose the funeral is on saturday. god bless and keep and sustain you. ever yours most affectionately, john h. newman. the year had not yet come round when the last correspondence passed between mr. hope-scott and another dear friend, dr. hamilton, bishop of salisbury, his brother-fellow at merton so many years before. _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the eight rev. dr. hamilton (bishop of salisbury)_. hyères: march , . my dear friend,--i have watched the papers with anxiety, and learnt all i could from home about your health, but have been unwilling to trouble you with a letter. however, manning has just been here, and we naturally spoke with our old affection of you, and joined in hopes for your welfare; and i thought you might like to know that two of your oldest friends have been so engaged. hence these few lines. may god keep you! yours ever affectionately, james e. hope-scott. _the right rev. dr. hamilton (bishop of salisbury) to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ grosvenor street: march , . my dearly loved friend,--i have received your note, _non sine multis lachrymis_, and though i am too weak to write or answer myself, i must dictate a few words of thankfulness to it. few trials of my life i have felt with such keenness as my separation from two such friends, from whom i have learnt so much, and whom i have loved and love so dearly as manning and yourself. perhaps this feeling for you both has helped to prevent my doing that which it has been my daily aim not to do, namely, to hinder either by word or deed that object which i venture to say is as dear to me as to you--the reunion of christendom. may god forgive me anything which has led me to lose sight of this in all my ministrations! nothing, however, would tend more to forward this than a just and charitable estimate of the claims of the church of england on the part of the authorities of your communion. i have dictated these few words, and my chaplain, liddon, has written them exactly as i have dictated them, and i beg you to receive them as a legacy of affection and deep respect from your old brother-fellow. w. k. sarum. _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q. c. to the rev. canon liddon_. villa favart, hyères: march , . my dear sir,--accept my grateful thanks for the letter which you added to that of my very dear friend the bishop. to him i do not write, for it is plain that he should make no exertion that can be avoided; but i trust to your kindness to assure him that i was indeed deeply moved--more than i can well say--both by his love for me and by his sufferings, and that my prayers, and those of others far more worthy than myself, are offered to god for him. yours very truly, james r. hope-scott. and another twelvemonth had not been completed before mr. hope-scott's attached friend and familiar neighbour of many years (both in london and at hyères), serjeant bellasis, was visibly nearing his departure. [footnote: he lingered till january , .] the following letters witness, in a most touching manner, to their mutual affection, and to that of dr. newman for them both:-- _the very rev, dr. newman to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ the oratory: march , ' . my dear hope-scott,--after writing a conversational letter to bellasis yesterday, i heard at night so sad an account, which i had not anticipated, of his pain and his weakness and want of sleep, that i not only was distressed that it had gone, and felt that it would harass him to receive a second letter so soon, and, as he would anticipate, as unseasonable as the former. therefore i enclose with this a few lines to him, which you can let him have when you think right. i do not undervalue the seriousness of your first letter about him, and have had him constantly in my mind; but i did not contemplate his pain, or his sudden decline. i thought it would be a long business, but now i find that the complaint is making its way. what a severe blow it must be to you! but to me, in my own way, it is very great too, though in a different way; for, though i am not in his constant society as you are, he has long been _pars magna_ of this place, and he has, by his various acts of friendship through a succession of years, created for himself a presence in my thoughts, so that the thought of being without him carries with it the sense of a void, to which it is difficult to assign a limit. three æquales i shall have lost--badeley, h. bowden, and bellasis; and such losses seem to say that i have no business here myself. it is the penalty of living to lose the great props of life. what a melancholy prospect for his poor boys! when you have an opportunity, say everything kind from me to mrs. bellasis. i shall, i trust, say two masses a week for him. he is on our prayer lists. what a vanity is life! how it crumbles under one's touch! i hope you are getting strong, and that this does not weigh too heavily on you.... ever yours affectionately, john h. newman. _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the very rev. dr. newman_. hotel d'orient, hyères, var, france: march , ' . dear f. newman,--i received yours yesterday evening, but withhold the enclosure for bellasis, as i think it might do him harm. [after giving a somewhat better account of his friend's health:] masses and prayers i am sure he has many, and i know how grateful he is for your deep interest in him.... should he be able to get out, i hope for more progress: but, with slight exceptions, he has now been confined to the house for weeks. however, his patience helps his greatly, and when, as lately he has often been, free from pain, his cheerfulness revives, and with it his interest in the works he has undertaken, and the subjects which have long interested him. i am sure that the dedication of your new work [the 'grammar of assent'] to him affects him, as that of your poems did badeley, in a very soothing way. few have such extensive means of testifying to their friendships as you have. yours affectionately, james e. hope-scott. repeated griefs of this kind would not be without their effect on mr. hope- scott's own already failing health. by the physicians pronounced that there was functional, though not organic, disease of the heart, the valve losing its power to close. he spoke of this himself to a near relative at the time, adding that he had immediately asked whether he might expect the end to come suddenly; but had been told that in all probability it would not, and that he would have warning of its approach. he now began to talk of retiring, and did take the first step, by giving up a certain number of causes. but he said to a professional friend: 'i own i dread giving up; it is almost like the excitement of racing, and the reaction would be so strong, life so flat, when such an interest is lost, and the stimulus over.' before this happened, meeting another friend in the street, who had wisely retreated in time, mr. hope-scott asked him how he got on? 'oh, very well; i fall back on my old classics--don't you do the same?' 'oh no,' replied mr. hope-scott; 'when i go to the country, i find it indispensable to allow my mind to lie entirely fallow. i live in the open air, go on planting, and do no mental work whatever.' this was the state of things when he had suddenly to meet a new sorrow, and the last. a son, indeed (james fitzalan), was born to him on december , , thus replacing the long wished-for blessing which had been given and withdrawn; but lady victoria's health had for years been enfeebled, a fever came on, and, after lingering for a time between life and death, she expired at norfolk house on december , aged only thirty, leaving three little girls, besides the newly born babe. it happened on this occasion, as so often in mr. hope-scott's life, that he had persuaded himself that things would be as he wished they should. he never believed that lady victoria was dying, though she was in her agony, and had been senseless for ten days; nay, he could hardly be made to think it, even at the last moment; and this time he never recovered the shock. the morning after the funeral [footnote: lady victoria hope-scott was laid beside her father and her two infant children in the vault at arundel castle.] he said that he considered he had had a warning that night--the disease had made a stride. he had never contemplated surviving his wife, and had made all arrangements on the supposition that he was to die before her. on the very night that followed he altered his will. he sent for his confidential clerk, destroyed quantities of papers, and, in short, evidently considered himself a dying man. he now definitively retired from his profession, and, though he survived for more than two years, what remains to be told is little more than the story of a last illness. the years and , indeed, passed tranquilly enough, as if there was a lull and a silence after the storm. mr. hope-scott resided chiefly at abbotsford, and devoted part of his leisure in the first year to preparing an edition (the centenary) of the abridgment of lockhart's 'life of scott.' [footnote: _the life of sir walter scott, earl., abridged from the larger work_, by j. c. lockhart, with a prefatory letter by james r. hope- scott, esq., q.c. edinburgh: adam & charles black, .] he also thought that it was time for the larger 'life' to be revised, and the extracts from letters to be compared with the originals, &c., and actually began the task after the republication of the abridgment, but, i believe, very soon gave it up. he dedicated the abridgment to mr. gladstone, whose letter in reply to his proposal to do so is subjoined:-- _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p. to j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c._ carlton house terrace, s.w. march , ' . my dear hope-scott,--...i learn with pleasure that you now find yourself able to make the effort necessary for applying yourself to what i trust you will find a healthful and genial employment. you offer me a double temptation, to which i yield with but too much readiness. i am glad of anything which associates my name with yours; and i feel it a great honour to be marked out in the public view by your selection of me as a loyal admirer of scott, towards whom, both as writer and as man, i cannot help entertaining feelings, perhaps (though this is saying much) even bordering upon excess. honesty binds me to wish you would do better for your purpose, but if you do not think any other plan desirable, i accept your proposal with thanks. believe me affectionately yours, w. e. gladstone. j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. from the letter of dedication, which i should have been glad, if space had permitted, to give as a whole, i subjoin the opening and closing paragraphs, with notices (inclusive of some critical remarks) of the deeply interesting pages which intervene:-- _j. r. hope-scott, esq., q.c. to the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p._ arundel castle: april , . my dear gladstone,--although our friendship has endured for many years, and has survived great changes, it is not on account of my affection for you that i have desired to connect these pages with your name. it is because from you, more than from any one else who is now alive, i have received assurances of that strong and deep admiration of walter scott, both as an author and as a man, which i have long felt myself, and which i heartily agree with you in wishing to extend and perpetuate. on my part, such a desire might on other grounds be natural; on yours it can only spring from the conviction, which i know you to entertain, that both the writings and the personal history of that extraordinary man, while affording entertainment of the purest kind, and supplying stores of information which can nowhere else be so pleasantly acquired, have in them a great deal which no student of human nature ought to neglect, and much also which those who engage in the struggle of life with high purposes--men who are prepared to work earnestly and endure nobly--cannot pass without loss. [after quoting passages from mr. gladstone's letters to himself, showing the hold which walter scott had over his friend's mind, mr. hope-scott states his reasons for abandoning his original idea of having a new life written, and for preferring to publish an abridgment of it, and the abridgment by lockhart himself:--] a work of art in writing is subject to the same rules as one in painting or in architecture. those who seek to represent it in a reduced form must, above all things, study its proportions, and make their reduction equal over all its parts. but, in the case of written compositions, there are no mechanical appliances as there are in painting and architecture, for varying the scale; and there is, moreover, a greater difficulty in catching the leading principle of the design, and thus establishing the starting- point for the process which is to follow. hence, an abridgment by the author himself must necessarily be the best--indeed, the only true abridgment of what he has intended in his larger work; and i deem it very fortunate that cadell's influence overcame lockhart's repugnance to the task.... there is [however] an abiding reason why scott's personal history should not be too freely generalised, and an abstract notion be substituted for the real man.... in scott, if in any man, what was remarkable was the sustained and continuous power of his character. it is to be traced in the smallest things as well as in the greatest; in his daily habits as much as in his public actions; in his fancies and follies as well as in his best and wisest doings. everywhere we find the same power of imagination, and the same energy of will; and, though it has been said that no man is a hero to his _valet-de-chambre_, i am satisfied that scott's most familiar attendants never doubted his greatness, or looked upon him with less respect than those who judged him as he stood forth amidst the homage of the world. in dealing with such a character, it is hardly necessary to say that the omission of details becomes, after a certain point, a serious injury to the truth of the whole portrait; and if any man should object that this volume is not short enough, i should be tempted to answer, that if he reads by foot-rule, he had better not think of studying, in any shape, the life of walter scott. [in what follows, mr. hope-scott speaks of 'the depth and tenderness of feeling which lockhart, in daily life, so often hid under an almost fierce reserve,' and regards it as matter of thankfulness that he was spared the suffering he would have felt in the death of his only daughter, 'whose singular likeness to her mother must have continually recalled to him both the features and the character of her of whom he wrote' those touching words in the original life which mr. hope-scott quotes, with evident application to his own bereavement, to which he makes a short and sad reference. he concludes:--] and now, my dear gladstone, _vive valeque_. you have already earned a noble place in the history of your country, and though there is one great subject on which we differ, i am able heartily to desire that your future career may be as distinguished as your past. but since it is only too certain that the highest honours of statesmanship can neither be won nor held without exertions which are full of danger to those who make them, i will add the further wish, that you may long retain, as safeguards to your health, your happiness, and your usefulness, that fresh and versatile spirit, and that strong sense of the true and beautiful, which have caused you to be addressed on this occasion by your affectionate friend, james r. hope-scott. the right hon. w. e. gladstone. dr. newman's letter, on receiving from mr. hope-scott a copy of the abridgment, is full of interest:-- _the very rev. dr. newman to j. r. hope-scott., esq., q.c._ the oratory: may , . my dear hope-scott,--thank you for your book. in one sense i deserve it; i have ever had such a devotion, i may call it, to walter scott. as a boy, in the early summer mornings i read 'waverley' and 'guy mannering' in bed, when they first came out, before it was time to get up; and long before that, i think, when i was eight years old, i listened eagerly to the 'lay of the last minstrel,' which my mother and aunt were reading aloud. when he was dying i was continually thinking of him, with keble's words--'if ever floating from faint earthly lyre,' &c. (sixth after trin.). [footnote: compare a letter of dr. newman's to j. r. hope in . see _ante_, p. .] it has been a trouble to me that his works seemed to be so forgotten now. our boys know very little about them. i think f. ambrose had to give a prize for getting up 'kenilworth.' your letter to gladstone sadly confirms it. i wonder whether there will ever be a crisis and correction of the evil? it arises from the facilities of publication. every season bears its own crop of books, and every fresh season ousts the foregoing. books are all annuals; and, to revive scott, you must annihilate the existing generation of writers, which is legion. if it so fares with scott, still more does it so fare with johnson, addison, pope, and shakespeare. perhaps the competitive examinations may come to the aid. you should get gladstone to bring about a list of classics, and force them upon candidates. i do not see any other way of mending matters. i wish i heard a better account of you. ever yours affectionately, john h. newman. during all this time mr. hope-scott's health continued steadily to fail; yet he suffered rather from malaise than from any acute symptoms. now and then there were gleams in which he seemed better for a space, but they were but as the flickerings of the flame in the socket. in march bournemouth was tried. in the summer of that year he was in scotland, and in july had the great happiness of receiving a visit of about a fortnight from dr. newman at abbotsford, which revived the memories of twenty years-- for so long was the interval since his former visit. this, i suppose, was the last occasion of mr. hope-scott's entertaining guests. he was able to move about quietly; old times were gently talked over, and there was nothing to show that the great separation was very imminent. it was even possible, the doctors had told him when the disease was first apparent, to linger under it for twenty years. thus the last days at abbotsford looked as if lit up by the setting sun. he fell off, however, a day or two after dr. newman left; went first to luffness, and in october, whilst staying in edinburgh, the heart affection becoming worse, he seemed, for a time, in immediate danger; yet rallied, and removed to london by easy stages, halting first at newcastle and then at peterborough. owing to the thoughtful kindness of mr. h. hope, of luffness, he was accompanied by dr. howden, the family physician at luffness. it was, however, a most anxious journey, and it often seemed doubtful whether he would reach his destination alive. soon after his arrival in london he had a dangerous attack, and received the last sacraments, with the holy father's blessing. this was at no. hyde park place, a house which he had taken conjointly with his widowed sister-in-law, the hon. mrs. g. w. hope; and here, under her affectionate care, and that of his daughter, mary monica, mr. hope- scott spent the few months that remained to him. miss hope-scott (now the hon. mrs. maxwell scott), during those months, kept a diary, commencing march , , of all that passed, which she has kindly placed in my hands. at first the entries were usually of 'a good night,' and 'tired,' or 'very tired,' during the day, though he is occasionally able to go into the library, to talk a little with his infant children in their turns, and to see near relatives from time to time. soon the nights get less good, the days more languid, and he is seldom able to leave his room. for about a fortnight (april - ) there seemed a slight improvement, but this did not last, and on april there was a great change for the worse. sir w. jenner, sir w. gull, and mr. sims held a consultation, and pronounced very unfavourably. father clare, s. j., brought the blessed sacrament, and spent the night in the house. the following morning, tuesday, april , he heard his confession, and gave him holy communion. it was the morning on which he usually received. the two physicians hesitated about extreme unction being administered, for fear of causing excitement. but, on the priest's asking him what he wished, the reply at once was, 'dear father, give me all you can, and all the helps which holy church can bestow.' during the administration of the sacrament he answered all the prayers himself; and the physicians, on leaving the room, said there had not been the least excitement. i take these particulars from a letter of father clare's to the hon. mrs. maxwell scott, in which he also says: 'during the whole of his illness i never knew him to show the slightest impatience, i never heard one murmur; but in all our conversation there was _invariably_ a cheerful resignation to the holy will of our good god. his lively faith and wonderful fervour in receiving holy communion, which was at least twice a week, i have never seen surpassed.' the duke of norfolk was telegraphed for from arundel. he arrived about p.m. mr. hope-scott was able to see him, spoke of the blessing which his church would bring on him (the splendid church of st. philip's, arundel, just completed by the duke), and promised to pray for him the next day, when it was to be opened. sir william gull now left hardly any hope. the ceremony of the opening of the church was deferred, and all the arundel party arrived that night. the following is the last paragraph in the diary:-- 'in the afternoon, dear papa, after taking something, said out loud his favourite prayer, "_fiat, laudetur_." [footnote: this prayer is as follows: _fiat, laudetur, atque in æternum superexultetur, justissima, altissima, et amabilissima voluntas dei in omnibus. amen._] then, looking at me, he said, "god's will be done," and asked me to say some prayers. i said the _angelus_, in which he joined, and the "offering." father clare comes about five, and goes out, to return about seven, meaning to spend the night again. a little before seven i was in the library with aunt lucy and uncle henry. aunt car. suddenly called me, and we all went in. i gave dearest papa the crucifix to kiss, and uncle henry read the prayers. edward [footnote: the persons mentioned by their christian names in this paragraph of the diary are--lady henry kerr, lord henry kerr, the hon. mrs. g. w. hope, and her son, mr. edward stanley hope, nephew to mr. hope-scott, and now ( ) one of the charity commissioners for england and wales.] was there too, mr. dunn, &c. 'he died very peacefully and calmly, about seven.' to this is only to be added that there was conveyed to mr. hope-scott on his death-bed the special blessing of his holiness pope pius ix. shortly after death, the body having been laid out, according to catholic custom, with lights round the bed and flowers upon it, a sudden change was observed to have come over the face of the deceased, which assumed a totally different expression. all signs of sickness or pain seemed to vanish, and in one minute he had become like what he used to be in very early years. readers who may perhaps have witnessed a change of the kind, which is not unfrequent, will understand the striking remark made by a friend on this occasion: 'it is sometimes given to the dead to reveal their blessedness to the living.' the following particulars of the requiem mass for mr. hope-scott, and of the funeral, are taken, with alterations and omissions, from newspapers of the day (the 'tablet' of may ; 'scotsman,' may and ; and 'edinburgh courant,' may , ). the requiem mass for the repose of the soul of the late mr. hope-scott, q.c., took place at the church of the immaculate conception, farm street, on monday, may , at eleven o'clock. the coffin was removed, on the previous evening, from hyde park place, and laid on a splendid catafalque in the church. the mass was celebrated by the very rev. fr. whitty, provincial of the jesuits, _coram archiepiscopo_; and the sermon was preached by the very rev. father (now his eminence cardinal) newman (by whose kind permission it is placed in the appendix to this volume). cherubini's second requiem in d minor, for male voices only, was used. weak with old age and sorrow, father newman had almost to be led to the pulpit, but the simple vigour of language and the lucidity of style so peculiarly his own remained what they had ever been. when, towards the conclusion of his discourse, he came to speak of the last hours of the deceased, father newman almost broke down, and for a moment it seemed that his feelings would prevent him from finishing. the solemnity of the occasion--the church draped in black, the old man come so far purposely to pay the last offices to his friend--produced such an impression on those who witnessed it as they are not likely to forget. among the clergy and laity present were--mgr. weld, the hon. and rev. dr. talbot, revs. e. g. macmullen, c. b. garside, father fitzsimon, s. j., father clare, and the fathers, s. j., of mount street; father coleridge, s. j., father amherst, s. j., father christie, s. j., father dalgairns, of the oratory, the duke of norfolk, the duke and duchess of buccleuch, the marquis and marchioness of lothian, cecil, marchioness dowager of lothian, the marchioness of bute, lord and lady howard of glossop, lord henry kerr, mr. hope of luffness, mr. edward s. hope, mr. herbert hope, field-marshal sir william gomm and lady gomm, lord edmund howard, the earl of denbigh, lady herbert of lea, lady georgiana fullerton, mr. allies, mr. langdale, &c. the dowager duchess of norfolk and the ladies howard, mr. hope-scott's daughters, the hon. mrs. george w. hope and misses hope, and lady henry kerr, occupied a separate tribune. on wednesday, may , the remains of mr. hope-scott, q.c., were interred in the vaults of st. margaret's convent, bruntsfield, edinburgh. the coffin had been conveyed from london on tuesday, and was placed on a catafalque within the choir of the chapel, where several sisters of the community (ursulines of jesus) watched until the morning. the catafalque was draped in black, surrounded by massive silver candlesticks hung with crape, and lit up with numerous wax candles. the altar, sanctuary, organ, and choir gallery were hung with black cloth. the east aisle of the chapel was occupied by the relatives and friends of the deceased; the west aisle by the young ladies of the convent school, about fifty in number, dressed in white, and with white veils, and the household servants from abbotsford; whilst at the south were persons who had received special invitations. in the stalls of the choir were the clergy, and the sisters of the convent in their accustomed places. the ceremonies commenced at eleven o'clock, when a procession, consisting of the cross-bearer and acolytes, the clergy in attendance, and the right rev. dr. strain, bishop of abila, v.a. of the eastern district of scotland, entered the chapel at the great south door, and marched slowly up the centre of the choir to the sanctuary, the organ sounding whilst the bell was heard tolling in the distance. the bishop was attended by the rev. george rigg, st. mary's, and the rev. mr. clapperton. the rev. w. turner acted as master of the ceremonies; the rev. father foxwell, s. j., said the mass, which, by the express desire of the deceased, was a low mass, although accompanied by music (father foxwell, stationed at galashiels, frequently said mass at abbotsford). during the mass, among other exquisite music sung by the choir, was the _dies irae_. the rev. w. j. amherst, s. j., norwich, a great personal friend of mr. hope-scott's, preached the sermon (which, by his kind permission, is placed in the appendix to this volume). bishop strain then read the burial service in front of the bier, and concluded by giving the absolution. the procession was then formed, and during the singing of the _dies irae_ emerged from the church, and walked to the vault, in the following order:--cross-bearer and acolytes, the young ladies of the convent school, the _religieuses_ of the community of st. margaret's, the clergy and bishop, then the coffin, borne shoulder-high, and attended by the pall-bearers, the duke of norfolk, lord henry kerr, mr. h. w. hope of luffness, and dr. lockhart of milton lockhart. the ladies who followed the coffin were miss hope-scott, the hon. mrs. g. w. hope, lady henry kerr, and mrs. francis kerr. then followed the relatives and friends, servants, and tenant-farmers of abbotsford. the procession marched slowly from the quadrangle in front of the chapel northwards to the entrance to the vaults, the sisters of the community chanting the psalm _miserere_. it opened up at the mortuary door, and the coffin was borne into the vault, and placed in the recess assigned to it beside the coffin of his first wife, and under those of his two children. a short service here took place, the _benedictus_ was sung, and the funeral service terminated. the outer coffin, which was of richly polished oak, bound with brass ornaments, had a beautiful crucifix on the lid, and beneath, a shield, bearing the following inscription:-- 'james egbert hope-scott, third son of general sir alexander hope, of luffness and rankeillour. born july , . died april , . may he rest in peace.' i have now placed before the reader the materials from which he will be enabled in some measure to judge what mr. hope-scott was, and how he appeared to those around him. but to all beauty of character there belongs a lustre, outside of and beyond it, which genius alone can portray. this task has fortunately been performed by two of his most intimate friends, of whose genius it is needless to say a word--cardinal newman and mr. gladstone--by whose kind permission their respective papers on his life will be appended to this volume. with reference to certain expressions on religious subjects in mr. gladstone's letter, it will be remembered that it here appears as a biographical and historical document, and therefore without omissions--a remark which i feel assured that the illustrious writer will not misinterpret, and that both will accept the gratitude and admiration due from all surviving friends of mr. hope-scott, for the splendid tribute which each of them has given to a memory so dear. appendix i. _funeral sermon by his eminence cardinal newman, preached at the requiem mass for mr. hope-scott, at the church of the immaculate conception, farm street, may_ , . i have been asked by those whose wish at such a moment is a command, to say a few words on the subject of the sorrowful, the joyful solemnity which has this morning brought us together. a few words are all that is necessary, all that is possible; just so many as are sufficient to unite the separate thoughts, the separate memories, the separate stirrings of affection, which are awakened in us by the presence in our midst of what remains on earth of the dear friend, of the great soul, whom we have lost,--sufficient to open a communication and create a sympathy between mind and mind, and to be a sort of testimony of one to another in behalf of feelings which each of us has in common with all. yet how am i the fit person even for as much as this? i can do no more than touch upon some of those many points which the thought of him suggests to me; and, whatever i may know of him and say of him, how can this be taken as the measure of one whose mind had so many aspects, and who must, in consequence, have made such distinct impressions, and exercised such various claims, on the hearts of those who came near him? it is plain, without my saying it, that there are those who knew him far better than i could know him. how can i be the interpreter of their knowledge or their feelings? how can i hope by any words of mine to do a service to those who knew so well the depths of his rare excellence by a continuous daily intercourse with him, and by the recurring special opportunities given to them of its manifestation? i only know what he was to me. i only know what his loss is to me. i only know that he is one of those whose departure hence has made the heavens dark to me. but i have never lived with him, or travelled with him; i have seen him from time to time; i have visited him; i have corresponded with him; i have had mutual confidences with him. our lines of duty have lain in very different directions. i have known him as a friend knows friend in the tumult and the hurry of life. i have known him well enough to know how much more there was to know in him; and to look forward, alas! in vain, to a time when, in the evening and towards the close of life, i might know him more. i have known him enough to love him very much, and to sorrow very much that here i shall not see him again. but then i reflect, if i, who did not know him as he might be known, suffer as i do, what must be their suffering who knew him so well? . i knew him first, i suppose, in or , thirty-five or six years ago, a few years after he had become fellow of merton college. he expressed a wish to know me. how our friendship grew i cannot tell; i must soon have been intimate with him, from the recollection i have of letters which passed between us; and by i had recourse to him, as a sort of natural adviser, when i was in difficulty. from that time i ever had recourse to him, when i needed advice, down to his last illness. on my first intimacy with him he had not reached the age of thirty. i was many years older; yet he had that about him, even when a young man, which invited and inspired confidence. it was difficult to resist his very presence. true, indeed, i can fancy those who saw him but once and at a distance, surprised and perplexed by that lofty fastidiousness and keen wit which were natural to him; but such a misapprehension of him would vanish forthwith when they drew near to him, and had actual trial of him; especially, as i have said, when they had to consult him, and had experience of the simplicity, seriousness, and (i can use no other word) the sweetness of his manner, as he threw himself at once into their ideas and feelings, listened patiently to them, and spoke out the clear judgment which he formed of the matters which they had put before him. this is the first and the broad view i am led to take of him. he was, emphatically, a friend in need. and this same considerateness and sympathy with which he met those who asked the benefit of his opinion in matters of importance was, i believe, his characteristic in many other ways in his intercourse with those towards whom he stood in various relations. he was always prompt, clear, decided, and disinterested. he entered into their pursuits, though dissimilar to his own; he took an interest in their objects; he adapted himself to their dispositions and tastes; he brought a strong and calm good sense to bear upon their present or their future; he aided and furthered them in their doings by his co-operation. thus he drew men around him; and when some grave question or undertaking was in agitation, and there was, as is wont, a gathering of those interested in it, then, on his making his appearance among them, all present were seen to give to him the foremost place, as if he had a claim to it by right; and he, on his part, was seen gracefully, and without effort, to accept what was conceded to him, and to take up the subject under consideration; throwing light upon it, and, as it were, locating it, pointing out what was of primary importance in it, what was to be aimed at, and what steps were to be taken in it. i am told that, in like manner, when residing on his property in france, he was there too made a centre for advice and direction on the part of his neighbours, who leant upon him and trusted him in their own concerns, as if he had been one of themselves. it was his unselfishness, as well as his practical good sense, which won upon them. such a man, when, young and ardent, with his advantages of birth and position, he entered upon the public world, as it displays itself upon its noblest and most splendid stage at westminster, might be expected to act a great part, and to rise to eminence in the profession which he had chosen. not for certain; for the refinement of mind, which was one of his most observable traits, is in some cases fatal to a man's success in public life. there are those who cannot mix freely with their fellows, especially not with those who are below their own level in mental cultivation. they are too sensitive for a struggle with rivals, and shrink from the chances which it involves. or they have a shyness, or reserve, or pride, or self- consciousness, which restrains them from lavishing their powers on a mixed company, and is a hindrance to their doing their best if they try. thus their public exhibition falls short of their private promise. now, if there was a man who was the light and the delight of his own intimates, it was he of whom i am speaking; and he loved as tenderly as he was beloved, so that he seemed made for domestic life. again, there are various departments in his profession, in which the particular talents which i have been assigning to him might have had full play, and have led to authority and influence, without any need or any opportunity for those more brilliant endowments by which popular admiration and high distinction are attained. it was by the display of talents of an order distinct from clearness of mind, acuteness, and judgment, that he was carried forward at once, as an advocate, to that general recognition of his powers, which was the response that greeted his first great speech, delivered in a serious cause before an august assembly. i think i am right in saying that it was in behalf of the anglican chapters, threatened by the reforming spirit of the day, that he then addressed the house of lords; and the occasion called for the exercise, not only of the talents which i have already dwelt upon, but for those which are more directly oratorical. and these were not wanting. i never heard him speak; but i believe he had, in addition to that readiness and fluency of language, or eloquence, without which oratory cannot be, those higher gifts which give to oratory its power and its persuasiveness. i can well understand, from what i knew of him in private, what these were in his instance. his mien, his manner, the expression of his countenance, his youthfulness--i do not mean his youth merely, but his youthfulness of mind, which he never lost to the last,--his joyous energy, his reasonings so masterly, yet so prompt, his tact in disposing of them for his purpose, the light he threw upon obscure, and the interest with which he invested dull subjects, his humour, his ready resource of mind in emergencies; gifts such as these, so rare, yet so popular, were necessary for his success, and he had them at command. on that occasion of his handselling them to which i have referred, it was the common talk of oxford, how the most distinguished lawyer of the day, a literary man and a critic, on hearing the speech in question, pronounced his prompt verdict upon him in the words, 'that young man's fortune is made.' and, indeed, it was plain, to those who were in a position to forecast the future, that there was no prize, as it is called, of public life, to which that young man might not have aspired, if only he had had the will. . this, then, is what occurs to me to say in the first place, concerning the dear friend of whom we are now taking leave. such as i have described were the prospects which opened upon him on his start in life. but now, secondly, by way of contrast, what came of them? he might, as time went on, almost have put out his hand and taken what he would of the honours and rewards of the world. whether in parliament, or in the law, or in the branches of the executive, he had a right to consider no station, no power, absolutely beyond his reach. his contemporaries and friends, who fill, or have filled, the highest offices in the state, are, in the splendour of their several careers, the illustration of his capabilities and his promise. but, strange as it may appear at first sight, his indifference to the prizes of life was as marked as his qualifications for carrying them off. he was singularly void of ambition. to succeed in life is almost a universal passion. if it does not often show itself in the high form of ambition, this is because few men have an encouragement in themselves or in their circumstances to indulge in dreams of greatness. but that a young man of bold, large, enterprising mind, of popular talents, of conscious power, with initial successes, with great opportunities, one who carried with him the good-will and expectation of bystanders, and was cheered on by them to a great future, that he should be dead to his own manifest interests, that he should be unequal to the occasion, that he should be so false to his destiny, that his ethical nature should be so little in keeping with his gifts of mind, may easily be represented, not only as strange, but as a positive defect, or even a fault. why are talents given at all, it may be asked, but for use? what are great gifts but the correlatives of great work? we are not born for ourselves, but for our kind, for our neighbours, for our country: it is but selfishness, indolence, a perverse fastidiousness, an unmanliness, and no virtue or praise, to bury our talent in a napkin, and to return it to the almighty giver just as we received it. this is what may be said, and it is scarcely more than a truism to say it; for, undoubtedly, who will deny it? certainly we owe very much to those who devote themselves to public life, whether in the direct service of the state or in the prosecution of great national or social undertakings. they live laborious days, of which we individually reap the benefit; nevertheless, admitting this fully, surely there are other ways of being useful to our generation still. it must be recollected, that in public life a man of elevated mind does not make his own self tell upon others simply and entirely. he is obliged to move in a groove. he must act with other men; he cannot select his objects, or pursue them by means unadulterated by the methods and practices of minds less elevated than his own. he can only do what he feels to be second-best. he proceeds on the condition of compromise; and he labours at a venture, prosecuting measures so large or so complicated that their ultimate issue is uncertain. nor of course can i omit here the religious aspect of this question. as christians, we cannot forget how scripture speaks of the world, and all that appertains to it. human society, indeed, is an ordinance of god, to which he gives his sanction and his authority; but from the first an enemy has been busy in its depravation. hence it is that, while in its substance it is divine, in its circumstances, tendencies, and results it has much of evil. never do men come together in considerable numbers, but the passion, self-will, pride, and unbelief, which may be more or less dormant in them one and one, bursts into a flame, and becomes a constituent of their union. even when faith exists in the whole people, even when religious men combine for religious purposes, still, when they form into a body, they evidence in no long time the innate debility of human nature, and in their spirit and conduct, in their avowals and proceedings, they are in grave contrast to christian simplicity and straightforwardness. this is what the sacred writers mean by 'the world,' and why they warn us against it; and their description of it applies in its degree to all collections and parties of men, high and low, national and professional, lay and ecclesiastical. it would be hard, then, if men of great talent and of special opportunities were bound to devote themselves to an ambitious life, whether they would or not, at the hazard of being accused of loving their own ease, when their reluctance to do so may possibly arise from a refinement and unworldliness of moral character. surely they may prefer more direct ways of serving god and man; they may aim at doing good of a nature more distinctly religious, at works, safely and surely and beyond all mistake meritorious; at offices of kindness, benevolence, and considerateness, personal and particular; at labours of love and self-denying exertions, in which their right hand knows nothing that is done by their left. as to our dear friend, i have already spoken of the influence which he exercised on all around him, on friends or strangers with whom he was connected in any way. here was a large field for his active goodness, on which he did not neglect to exert himself. he gave others without grudging his thoughts, time, and trouble. he was their support and stay. when wealth came to him, he was free in his use of it. he was one of those rare men who do not merely give a tithe of their increase to their god; he was a fount of generosity ever flowing; it poured out on every side; in religious offerings, in presents, in donations, in works upon his estates, in care of his people, in almsdeeds. i have been told of his extraordinary care of families left in distress, of his aid in educating them and putting them out in the world, of his acts of kindness to poor converts, to single women, and to sick priests; and i can well understand the solicitous and persevering tenderness with which he followed up such benevolences towards them from what i have seen in him myself. he had a very retentive memory for their troubles and their needs. it was his largeness of mind which made him thus open-hearted. as all his plans were on a large scale, so were his private charities. and when an object was public and required the support of many, then he led the way by a munificent contribution himself. he built one church on his property at lochshiel; and another at galashiels, which he had intended to be the centre of a group of smaller ones round about; and he succeeded in actually planting one of these at selkirk. nor did he confine himself to money gifts: it is often more difficult to surrender what we have made our own personally, than what has never come actually into our tangible possession. he bought books freely, theological, historical, and of general literature; but his love of giving was greater than his love of collecting. he could not keep them; he gave them away again; he may be said to have given away whole libraries. little means has any one of determining the limits of his generosity. i have heard of his giving or offering for great objects sums so surprising, that i am afraid to name them. he alone knows the full measure of his bounties, who inspired, and will reward it. i do not think he knew it himself. i am led to think he did not keep a strict account of what he gave away. certainly i know one case in which he had given to a friend many hundreds, and yet seemed to have forgotten it, and was obliged to ask him when it was that he had done so. i should trust that, in what i am saying, i have not given any one the impression that he was inconsiderate and indiscriminate in giving. to have done this would have been to contradict my experience of him and my intention. as far as my opportunities of observing him extended, large as were his bounties and charities, as remarkable was the conscientious care with which he inquired into the nature and circumstances of the cases for which his aid was solicited. he felt he was but the steward of him who had given him what he gave away. he gave away as the steward of one to whom he must give account. there are at this time many philanthropic and benevolent men who think of man only, not of god, in their acts of liberality. i have already said enough to show that he was not one of these. i have implied the presence in him of that sense of religion, or religiousness, which was in fact his intimate and true life. and, indeed, liberality such as his, so incessant and minute, so well ordered, and directed too towards religious objects, almost of itself evidences its supernatural origin. but i insist on it, not only for its own sake, but also because it has a bearing upon that absence of ambition which, in a man so energetic, so influential, is a very remarkable point of character. viewed in itself, it might be, even though not an epicurean selfishness, still a natural temper, the temper of a magnanimous mind, such as might be found in ancient greece or rome, as well as in modern times. but, in truth, in him it was much more than a gift of nature; it was a fruit and token of that religious sensitiveness which had been bestowed on him from above. if it really was the fact that his mind and heart were fixed upon divine objects, this at once accounts for what was so strange, so paradoxical in him in the world's judgment, his distaste for the honours and the pageants of earth; and fixed, assuredly they were, upon the invisible and eternal. it was a lesson to all who witnessed it, in contrast with the appearance of the outward man, so keen and self-possessed amid the heat and dust of the world, to see his real inner secret self from time to time gleam forth from beneath the working-day dress in which his secular occupations enveloped him. i cannot do justice by my words to the impression which in this respect he made on me. he had a tender conscience, but i mean something more than that--i mean the emotion of a heart always alive and awake at the thought of god. when a religious question came up suddenly in conversation, he had no longer the manner and the voice of a man of the world. there was a simplicity, earnestness, gravity in his look and in his words, which one could not forget. it seemed to me to speak of a loving desire to please god, a single-minded preference for his service over every service of man, a resolve to approach him by the ways which he had appointed. it was no taking for granted that to follow one's own best opinion was all one with obeying his will; no easy persuasion that a vague, obscure sincerity in our conclusions about him and our worship of him was all that was required of us, whether those conclusions belonged to this school of doctrine or that. that is, he had deep within him that gift which st. paul and st. john speak of, when they enlarge upon the characteristics of faith. it was the gift of faith, of a living, loving faith, such as 'overcomes the world' by seeking 'a better country, that is, a heavenly.' this it was that kept him so 'unspotted from the world' in the midst of worldly engagements and pursuits. no wonder, then, that a man thus minded should gradually have been led on into the catholic church. judging as we do from the event, we thankfully recognise in him an elect soul, for whom, in the decrees of omnipotent love, a seat in heaven has been prepared from all eternity--whose name is engraven on the palms of those hands which were graciously pierced for his salvation. such eager, reverential thoughts of god as his, prior to his recognising the mother of saints, are surely but the first tokens of a predestination which terminates in heaven. that straightforward, clear, good sense which he showed in secular matters did not fail him in religious inquiry. there are those who are practical and sensible in all things save in religion; but he was consistent; he instinctively turned from bye-ways and cross-paths, into which the inquiry might be diverted, and took a broad, intelligible view of its issues. and, after he had been brought within the fold, i do not think i can exaggerate the solicitude which he all along showed, the reasonable and prudent solicitude, to conform himself in all things to the enunciations and the decisions of holy church; nor, again, the undoubted conviction he has had of her superhuman authority, the comfort he has found in her sacraments, and the satisfaction and trust with which he betook himself to the intercession of the blessed virgin, to the glorious st. michael, to st. margaret, and all saints. . i will make one remark more. i have spoken, first, of his high natural gifts, of his various advantages for starting in life, and of his secular prospects. next, in contrast with this first view of him, i have insisted on his singular freedom from ambition, and have traced it to that religiousness of mind which was so specially his; to his intimate sense of the vanity of all secular distinction, and his supreme devotion to him who alone is 'faithful and true.' and now, when i am brought to the third special feature of his life, as it presents itself to me, i find myself close to a sacred subject, which i cannot even touch upon without great reverence and something of fear. we might have been led to think that a man already severed in spirit, resolve, and acts from the world in which he lived, would have been granted by his lord and saviour to go forward in his course freely, without any unusual trials, such as are necessary in the case of common men for their perseverance in the narrow way of life. but those, for whom god has a love more than ordinary, he watches over with no ordinary jealousy; and if the world smiles on them, he sends them crosses and penances so much the more. he is not content that they should be by any common title his; and, because they are so dear and near to him, he provides for them afflictions to bring them nearer still. i hope it is not presumptuous thus to speak of the inscrutable providences of god. i know that he has his own wise and special dealings with every one of us, and that what he determines for one is no rule for another. i am contemplating, and, if so be, interpreting, his loving ways and purposes only towards the very man before us. now, so it was, there was just one aspect of this lower world which he might innocently love; just one in which life had charms for a heart as affectionate as it was religious. i mean that assemblage of objects which are included under the dear name of home. if there was rest and solace to be found on earth, he found it there. is it not remarkable, then, that in this, his sole earthly sanctuary, he who loved him with so infinite a love met him, visited him, not once or twice, but again and again, with a stern rod of chastisement? stroke after stroke, blow after blow, stab after stab, was dealt against his very heart. 'great and wonderful are thy works, o lord god almighty; just and true are thy ways, o king of ages. who shall not fear thee, o lord, and magnify thy name? for thou only art holy.' i may speak with more vivid knowledge of him here than in other respects, for i was one of the confidants of his extreme suffering under the succession of terrible inflictions which left wounds never to be healed. they ended only with his life; for the complaint, which eventually mastered him, was brought into activity by his final bereavement. nay, i must not consider even that great bereavement his final one; his call to go hence was itself the final agony of that tender, loving heart. he who had in time past been left desolate by others, was now to leave others desolate. he was to be torn away, as if before his time, from those who, to speak humanly, needed him so exceedingly. he was called upon to surrender them in faith to him who had given them. it was about two hours before his death, with this great sacrifice, as we may suppose, this solemn summons of his supreme lord confronting him, that he said, with a loud voice, 'thy will be done;' adding his favourite prayer, so well known to us all: 'fiat, laudetur, atque in æternum superexaltetur, sanctissima, altissima, amabilissima voluntas dei in omnibus.' they were almost his last words. we too must say, after him, 'thy will be done.' let us be sure that those whom god loves he takes away, each of them, one by one, at the very time best for their eternal interests. what can we, in sober earnest, wish, save that very will of god? is he not wiser and more loving than we are? could we wish him back whom we have lost? who is there of us who loves him most but would feel the cruelty of recalling to this tumultuous life, with its spiritual perils and its dark future, a soul who is already rejoicing in the end and issue of his trial, in salvation secured, and heaven begun in him? rather, who would not wish to have lived his life, and to have died his death? how well for him that he lived, not for man only, but for god! what are all the interests, pleasures, successes, glories of this world, when we come to die? what can irreligious virtue, what can innocent family affection do for us, when we are going before the judge, whom to know and love is life eternal, whom not to know and not to love is eternal death? o happy soul, who hast loved neither the world nor the things of the world apart from god! happy soul, who, amid the world's toil, hast chosen the one thing needful, that better part which can never be taken away! happy soul, who, being the counsellor and guide, the stay, the light and joy, the benefactor of so many, yet hast ever depended simply, as a little child, on the grace of god and the merits and strength of thy redeemer! happy soul, who hast so thrown thyself into the views and interests of other men, so prosecuted their ends, and associated thyself in their labours, as never to forget, there is one holy catholic roman church, one fold of christ and ark of salvation, and never to neglect her ordinances or to trifle with her word! happy soul, who, as we believe, by thy continual almsdeeds, offerings, and bounties, hast blotted out such remains of daily recurring sin and infirmity as the sacraments have not reached! happy soul, who by thy assiduous preparation for death, and the long penance of sickness, weariness, and delay, hast, as we trust, discharged the debt that lay against thee, and art already passing from penal purification to the light and liberty of heaven above! and so farewell, but not farewell for ever, dear james robert hope-scott! he is gone from us, but only gone before us. we then must look forward, not backward. we shall meet him again, if we are worthy, in 'mount sion, and the heavenly jerusalem,' in 'the company of many thousands of angels, the church of the firstborn who are written in the heavens,' with 'god, the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and jesus, the mediator of the new testament, and the blood which speaketh better things than that of abel.' j. h. n. appendix ii. _words spoken in the chapel of the ursulines of jesus, st. margaret's convent, edinburgh, on the th day of may, , at the funeral of james robert hope-scott, q.c. by the rev. william j. amherst, s.j._ my dear brethren,--in complying with the request which has been made to me, to say a few words on this solemn occasion about one who was so immeasurably my superior in everything, i feel as a child would when suddenly asked to give an opinion on some abstruse question which it could not comprehend. but when asked to address you, however sensible i might have been of my own inferiority, i could not, even in thought, entertain a reluctance; i could not show the slightest hesitation to speak the praises of one whom i admired so much, to ask your prayers for one whom i so much loved. scotland is blessed in giving a resting-place to one of her noblest sons; and this religious community is doubly blessed in providing the holy spot where his body shall repose. i need not enter into all the particulars of his life. those which i should naturally think of to-day are sufficiently known to you all. but if i do not enter into any details, it is not that they are without a very strong interest. they might well be recorded as the history of a great and noble character, as an example to the young men of our own day, and as possessing, from his family connections, more than ordinary value for every one. but i must speak of his character in general, and single out those points which i consider deserving of especial praise. we must praise the dear deceased. it is our duty to do so. what are our desires now? what is our great wish? that god may have mercy on his soul. god will hear us when we appeal to him by the good works which his servant has done. we should all praise him, that we may be so many witnesses before god of the things which we know must entitle him to mercy from his father who is in heaven. when i first heard that he was dead--especially when i was asked to speak about him--i began to think of his character in a more careful manner than i had ever done before. besides my own thoughts about him, i have heard what they say of him who were most closely allied to him. i have listened to those who, though not related to him, were his most intimate friends and acquaintance. i know what is thought of him by those who knew him well. i have seen letters written since his death from many different persons; from those who knew him in early days, those who knew him in middle life, and again, those who knew him in later days. i have read letters from some who knew him during the whole of his and their lives. there is a unanimity in the thoughts of all about him which is most striking. the thoughts and words of every one seem to form one beautiful melody, one harmonious song. they all testify to the same great intellectual qualities, the same goodness of heart, the same excellence of demeanour. they speak of him as being one who was more fit for the foremost places in the state than some who have actually attained them. they speak of him in such terms as these, 'the loveable,' 'the amiable, 'the beautiful.' besides having talents of the highest order, the dear deceased possessed a nature peculiarly susceptible of good impressions. and he seems to have opened his whole heart to receive the dew of heaven; and the grace of god produced a hundredfold in his soul. to have known a man such as he was, who possessed such power of mind combined with such high attainments, such soundness of principle with such rectitude in practice, such independence of thought, and such submission to conscience and lawful authority; to have known him-- to have been, i may say, on terms of friendship and intimacy with him--will be amongst the most pleasing and the saddest recollections of my life. i have said his submission to conscience. it seems almost like presumption in me, standing as i do in the midst of those who knew him so much better than myself, to single out any one distinguishing characteristic; but it always struck me that a great conscientiousness was that which showed itself the most, and shone most brilliantly to those who had the happiness of knowing him. the voice of conscience seemed to have a magic effect upon him. the call was no sooner heard than it was obeyed, and without any apparent hesitation of the will. it was this delicacy of conscience, and his good- will to act upon it, combined with his most perfect demeanour, which gave him that authority over others which was so beautifully spoken of by his venerable friend on monday last, when i and many of you, my dear brethren, had the happiness of being present. for it was this conscientiousness which purified, consolidated, and gave direction to all the great qualities of his soul. to this influence which he had over others i am myself a willing witness. i felt the force of it myself. and in saying this, my dear brethren, i speak most sincerely what i believe to be true. i should deem it an irreverence on an occasion like this to say a word which i did not believe. though by no means a young man myself when i first had the happiness of making acquaintance with the dear deceased, during the few years that i knew him he exercised an influence over me, for the effects of which i now thank god, and hope that i shall thank him for all eternity. it was, my dear brethren, to this great gift of conscientiousness, aided by the grace of god, that he who has left us owed the greatest blessing of his life--his submission to the one holy catholic and apostolic church. the obstacles which stood in the way of his entering the church must have been great. the old french saying does not stand good when one who is not a catholic is thinking of entering the church. it is not the first step towards the church which, in this country at least, costs the sacrifice. the first step costs little; it most frequently costs nothing. it is generally a pleasant step to take. many have taken that step; but few have persevered in their onward march. the step which costs the sacrifice is that which crosses the threshold when the door has been arrived at. for on one side stands that powerful tempter, human respect, whose baneful influence has sent back hundreds, perhaps thousands, into the dreary waste. on the other side stands ambition, with noble and captivating mien. i need not speculate here as to what ambition may say to others; but i will imagine what ambition may have said to our departed friend. it may have addressed him in some such words as these: 'you are conscious, innocently conscious, of possessing great talents. you cannot have associated as you have done with men of great intellect, with the first men of the day, without having in some degree measured yourself with them, without knowing something of your own great power. you are, perhaps, desirous yourself of advancing in the highest paths. you may have a praiseworthy ambition of using the gifts you have received for the good of others, and to make a return to god for all that he has bestowed upon you. you cannot but know that, from your family connections, and the position you hold in society, you have as fine an opening as was ever presented to a young man. enter the catholic church, and all such knowledge will be useless; all such thoughts may be cast aside.' there is no use, my dear brethren, in blinding ourselves to the truth in this matter. we know it, and it is well that we should recognise it. in this country, which boasts so much of its religious liberty, the influence--the persecution i must call it--of public opinion is such, that when a man enters the church, he deprives himself of all chance of progress in the high walks of life. it may be said that in the line in which he had hitherto walked, he succeeded as well after he entered the church as he had done before. it is true that he reached the highest point of eminence as an advocate, and his religion was no obstacle in the way; but if it was so, it was because it was the interest of suitors to make use of his power. but if he ever entertained any idea of attaining to the highest offices in the state--and he may well have done so--the fact of his having entered the catholic church would, in all probability, have proved a bar to his advance. he resisted the tempters; he despised human respect, and he thrust aside ambition. having walked up to the open door of the church, he did what conscience told him he ought to do, and passing the threshold, he went in. my dear brethren, there can be no doubt that the life which he led before this time had prepared him for the step which he took. he had a great devotion to the will of god. his favourite prayer was those well-known words: 'may the most just, the most high, and the most amiable will of god be done, praised, and eternally exalted in all things!' and though before he became a catholic his thoughts may not have been put into that particular formula, yet no doubt the substance of those words had been his prayer through life. as the will of god had been his guiding star, so, and as a consequence, he always had a great love for jesus christ our redeemer. i cannot, indeed, state this as a positive fact on my own personal knowledge, but it could not have been otherwise; and you, my dear brethren, who knew him so much better than i did, will, i think, agree with me in this respect. when he became a catholic, jesus christ was the object of his continually increasing love. by the means which god provided for him in the church, his faith in his redeemer, his hope in his redeemer, and his love for his redeemer, grew stronger, and went on increasing to his dying day. [footnote: the last words which he heard on earth whilst the crucifix was pressed to his lips, and they were spoken by those lips which here he loved the most, were these: 'you know that you have loved jesus all your life.'] as he loved jesus all his life, pray, my dear brethren, that his merciful lord may show mercy to him now. some amongst you, my dear brethren, have already heard from the lips of one as much my superior as the subject of my discourse was, that a distinguishing feature of the departed was the intensity of his domestic affection. and the venerable preacher observed that the great trial of him who has left us was to receive a succession of terrible wounds in the tenderest part of his noble nature. you will remember his words. he said that god had repeatedly struck him; that he had stabbed him. it was so, indeed; and yet, my dear brethren, at the same time that a merciful god so severely tried his servant, it was through those same domestic affections that he gave to him the greatest comfort, next to a good conscience, that a man can have on his death-bed. for to him who had always been so kind and gentle with others, and anticipated all their wants, was given during the many long months of his illness all that help and comfort which the most tender, filial, and sisterly love could give. as god blessed him in making him the object of such strong and persevering affection, so he has blessed those also who were the willing instruments of his mercy. pray, my dear brethren, that he may rest in peace. we all owe a great deal to him, more than we can ever repay during life. generosity was a remarkable feature in the dear deceased. his generosity was of a noble kind. it was not confined to generosity with his worldly means. he was generous in his sympathies. he sympathised with all who had any relations with him. no one was ever with him who did not feel this. he was generous with his worldly means; he was generous with his counsel and advice. he was ready and willing to help any one in any way he could. i feel that i owe him much myself. i have already alluded to the obligations which i am under to him. and who is there amongst you, my dear brethren, who does not, in some respect, owe him much? as he was generous to others, let us be generous to him. let us pray, and continually pray, to god for him. if any of you may be inclined to relax in your prayers for his soul, because you think that his good works were such that we have reason to hope that he is even now enjoying the sight of god, i do not quarrel with you for so thinking--i may think so myself; but still i urge you to pray. pray as if you thought it were not so. do not let your hope lessen the effect of your love. pray for him as you would wish him and others to pray for you if you were dead. and here, my dear brethren, i might finish my discourse. but who is there who knew the dear departed, who does not feel an irresistible impulse to turn from the dead to the living? this influence may have been felt on other occasions by others. for my part, i have never so deeply felt how impossible it is to separate the one who has gone from those whom he has left behind. pray for the father; and pray also for the children. pray for those whose future must be a matter of interest to you all. and you may pray with a firm hope of being heard. for it would seem that there is a special providence over them, for already those children have found a home --homes, i may say--which a guardian angel might have chosen for them. pray that god would ratify and confirm all those blessings which that fond parent had bestowed upon his own, especially those blessings which, with increased earnestness, he must have desired when he saw that, at a critical moment in life, the hand which had guided was to make sign no more. pray, my dear brethren, that those two honoured names which he bore, and which for so many years have been allied to all that is best and of sterling worth, to all that is great and noble, may long continue the ornament and the pride of scotland. once more, let me turn from the living to the dead; and i will conclude with the prayer of the church--'eternal rest give to him, o lord; and may a perpetual light shine upon him! may he rest in peace!' appendix iii. _the right hon. w. e. gladstone, m.p., to miss hope-scott [now the hon. mrs. maxwell scott_]. hawarden: sept. , . my dear miss hope-scott,--i found awaiting me, through your kindness, on my return from scotland, dr. newman's address on your much-loved father's death. i need not say that one of my first acts was to read it. it does not discourage me from attempting to put on paper my recollections of him, as my free intervals of time may permit. it is well that a character of such extraordinary grace as his should have been portrayed by one who could scarcely, i think, even if he tried, compose a sentence that would not be 'a thing of beauty.' his means and materials for undertaking that labour of love were as superior to mine as his power of performing it. i will only say that i countersign, with full assent, to the best of my knowledge, the several traits which dr. newman has given. he must have much more to say. i shall at once lay before you all my little store of knowledge, in addition to that worthier tribute of your father's own letters, to which you are not less welcome. lights upon his mental history my memory may, i hope, serve here and there to throw; but those will be principally for the period antecedent to what he himself described as 'the great change of his life.' few men, perhaps, have had a wider contact with their generation, or a more varied experience of personal friendships, than myself. among the large numbers of estimable and remarkable people whom i have known, and who have now passed away, there is in my memory an inner circle, and within it are the forms of those who were marked off from the comparative crowd even of the estimable and the remarkable by the peculiarity and privilege of their type. of these very few, some four or five i think only, your father was one: and with regard to them it always seemed to me as if the type in each case was that of the individual exclusively, and as if there could be but one such person in our world at a time. after the early death of arthur hallam, i used to regard your father distinctly as at the head of all his contemporaries in the brightness and beauty of his gifts. we were at eton at the same time, but he was considerably my junior, so that we were not in the way of being drawn together. at christ church we were again contemporaries, but acquaintances only, scarcely friends. i find he did not belong to the 'oxford essay club,' in which i took an active part, and which included not only several of his friends, but one with whom, unless my memory deceives me, he was most intimate--i mean mr. leader. and yet i have to record our partnership on two occasions in a proceeding which in oxford was at that time, and perhaps would have been at any time, singular enough. at the hazard of severe notice, and perhaps punishment, we went together to the baptist chapel of the place, once to hear dr. chalmers, and the other time to hear mr. rowland hill. i had myself been brought up in what may be termed an atmosphere of low church; and, though i cannot positively say why, i believe this to have been the case with him; and questions of communion or conformity at that date presented themselves to us not unnaturally as questions of academic discipline, so that we did not, i imagine, enter upon any inquiry whether we in any degree compromised our religious position by the act, or by any intention with which it was done. after oxford (which i quitted in december ) the next occasion on which i remember to have seen him was in his sitting-room at chelsea hospital. there must, however, have been some shortly preceding contact, or i should not have gone there to visit him. i found him among folios and books of grave appearance. it must have been about the year . he opened a conversation on the controversies which were then agitated in the church of england, and which had oxford for their centre. i do not think i had paid them much attention; but i was an ardent student of dante, and likewise of saint augustine; both of them had acted powerfully upon my mind; and this was in truth the best preparation i had for anything like mental communion with a person of his elevation. he then told me that he had been seriously studying the controversy, and that in his opinion the oxford authors were right. he spoke not only with seriousness, but with solemnity, as if this was for him a great epoch; not merely the adoption of a speculative opinion, but the reception of a profound and powerful religious impulse. very strongly do i feel the force of dr. newman's statements as to the religious character of his mind. it is difficult in retrospect to conceive of this, except as growing up with him from infancy. but it appeared to me as if at this period, in some very special manner, his attention had been seized, his intellect exercised and enlarged in a new field; and as if the idea of the church of christ had then once for all dawned upon him as the power which, under whatever form, was from thenceforward to be the central object of his affections, in subordination only to christ himself, and as his continuing representative. from that time i only knew of his career as one of unwearied religious activity, pursued with an entire abnegation of self, with a deep enthusiasm, under a calm exterior, and with a grace and gentleness of manner, which, joined to the force of his inward motives, made him, i think, without doubt the most winning person of his day. it was for about fifteen years, from that time onwards, that he and i lived in close, though latterly rarer intercourse. yet this was due, on my side, not to any faculty of attraction, but to the circumstance that my seat in parliament, and my rather close attention to business, put me in the way of dealing with many questions relating to the church and the universities and colleges, on which he desired freely to expand his energies and his time. i will here insert two notices which illustrate the opposite sides of his character. it was in or about that i came to know well his sister-in- law, lady f. hope, then already a widow. i remember very clearly her speaking to me about the manner in which he had ministered to her sorrow. it was not merely kindness, or merely assiduity, or any particular act of which she spoke. she seemed to speak of him as endowed with some special gift, as if he had, like one of old, been 'surnamed barnabas, which is, being interpreted, the son of consolation.' i now pass to the other pole of his mind, his relish for all fun, humour, and originality of character. in one of his tranquil years he told me with immense amusement an anecdote he had brought from oxford. he was in company with two men, mr. palmer, commonly called deacon palmer, and arthur kinnaird, of whom the one was not more certain to supply the material of paradox, than the other to draw it out. the deacon had been enlarging in lofty strain on the power and position of the clergy. 'then i suppose,' said kinnaird, 'you would hold that the most depraved and irreligious priest has a much higher standing in the sight of god than any layman?' 'of course,' was the immediate reply. [footnote: of course, mr. palmer, who was clear-headed, knew what he was saying, and meant that, in comparing an irreligious priest with a religious layman, the priest, _as such_, belongs to a higher spiritual order than the layman _as such_, just as it is a mere truism to say that a fallen angel, as regards his degree in the order of creation, is superior to a saint.--ed.] his correspondence with me, beginning in february , truly exhibits the character of our friendship, as one founded in common interests, of a kind that gradually commanded more and more of the public attention, but that with him were absolutely paramount. the moving power was principally on his side. the main subjects on which it turned, and which also formed the basis of our general intercourse, were as follows: first, a missionary organisation for the province of upper canada. then the question of the relations of church and state, forced into prominence at that time by a variety of causes, and among them not least by a series of lectures, which dr. chalmers delivered in the hanover square rooms, to distinguished audiences, with a profuse eloquence, and with a noble and almost irresistible fervour. those lectures drove me upon the hazardous enterprise of handling the same subject upon what i thought a sounder basis. your father warmly entered into this design; and bestowed upon a careful and prolonged examination of this work in ms., and upon a searching yet most tender criticism of its details, an amount of thought and labour which it would, i am persuaded, have been intolerable to any man to supply, except for one for whom each and every day as it arose was a new and an entire sacrifice to duty. as in the year , when the manuscript was ready, i had to go abroad on account mainly of some overstrain upon the eyes, he undertook the whole labour of carrying the work through the press; and he even commended me, as you will see from the letters, because i did not show an ungovernable impatience of his aid. [footnote: j. r. hope to mr. gladstone, august , , in ch. ix. vol. i. p. .] the general frame of his mind at this time, in october , will be pretty clearly gathered from a letter of that month, no. in the series, written when he had completed that portion of his labours. [footnote: ibid., october , , ch. ix. vol. i. p. .] he had full, unbroken faith in the church of england, as a true portion of the catholic church; to her he had vowed the service of his life; all his desire was to uphold the framework of her institutions, and to renovate their vitality. he pushed her claims, you may find from the letters, further than i did; but the difference of opinion between us was not such as to prevent our cordial co- operation then and for years afterwards; though in using such a term i seem to myself guilty of conceit and irreverence to the dead, for i well know that he served her from an immeasurably higher level. if i have not yet referred to his main occupation, it is because i desire to speak specially of what i know specially. it was, however, without doubt, in his fellowship at merton that he found at this period the peculiar work of his life. a wonderful combination of fertility with solidity always struck me as one of his most marked mental characteristics. only by that facility could he have accumulated and digested the learning which he acquired in relation to church, and especially to college history and college law. in mastering these systems how deeply he had drunk of the essential spirit of the times which built them up, may be seen from a very striking letter (no. ) respecting walter de merton. [footnote: j. r. hope to mr. gladstone, dated 'rochester: sunday, july , ,' in ch. viii. vol. i. p. .] he gave the world some idea of the extent and fruitfulness of these labours in connection with the next subject on which we had much communication together, the subject of what was termed in cathedral reform. my part was superficial, and was performed in the house of commons. his was of a very different character. as a hearer, and a rapt hearer, i can say that dr. newman (p. ) has not exaggerated the description of the speech which he delivered, as counsel for the chapters (i think) before the house of lords in .[footnote: see ch. xi. vol. i. p. .] i need not say that, during the last forty years, i have heard many speeches, and many, too, in which i had reason to take interest, and yet never one which, by its solid as well as by its winning qualities, more powerfully impressed me. at this period he had (i think never or) rarely spoken in public, and he had not touched thirty years of age. i cannot now say who was the prime mover in the next matter of interest which we pursued in common. it was the foundation of trinity college, glenalmond. we drew into our partnership the deceased dean ramsay, one of the very few men known to me who might, perhaps, compete even with your father in attracting affection, though very different in powers of mind. the dean worked with us usefully and loyally, although, as was to a certain extent his nature, sometimes in fear and trembling. the early prosecution of this enterprise was left for a time mainly to me, while your father paid his visit to italy in , in company with mr, rogers, now lord blachford, from whom i hope you may obtain memorials of it far better worth your having than any which i could supply, even had i been his companion. i remember that i wrote for him in bad italian a letter of introduction to manzoni, of whom, and of whose religious standing-ground, he gives (no. [footnote: see ch. xiii. vol. i. p. , mr. hope to mr. gladstone (milan: november , ).]) a remarkable account. i wish i could recover now that letter, on account of the person for whom, and the person to whom, it was written. i think it was shortly before or shortly after this tour, that your father one day spoke to me--i well remember the spot where he stood--about his state and course of life. he had taken a resolution, with a view to the increase of his means, to apply some part of his time to the ordinary duties of his profession; whether he then said that it would be at the parliamentary bar or not, i am not able to say. he, on this occasion, told me that he did not intend to marry; that, giving a part of his time in the direction i have just mentioned, he meant to reserve all the rest for the church and its institutions; and of these two several employments he said, 'i regard the first as my kitchen-garden, but the second as my flower- garden.' [footnote: compare letter of j. r. hope to mr. gladstone, quoted in ch. xxii vol. ii. p. .] and so it was that, almost without a rival in social attractions, and in the springtide of his youth and promise, he laid with a cheerful heart the offering of his life upon the altar of his god. it was, i think, the undertaking to found trinity college which gave rise to another friendship, that it gave me the greatest pleasure to witness-- between him and my father. in my father was moving on towards fourscore years, but 'his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated;' he was full of bodily and mental vigour; 'whatsoever his hand found to do, he did it with his might;' he could not understand or tolerate those who, perceiving an object to be good, did not at once and actively pursue it; and with all this energy he joined a corresponding warmth and, so to speak, eagerness of affection, a keen appreciation of humour, in which he found a rest, and an indescribable frankness and simplicity of character, which, crowning his other qualities, made him, i think (and i strive to think impartially), nearly or quite the most interesting old man i have ever known. nearly half a century of years separated the two; but your father, i think, appreciated mine more than i could have supposed possible, and always appeared to be lifted to a higher level of life and spirits by the contact. on one occasion we three set out on a posting expedition, to examine several sites in the midland counties of scotland, which had been proposed for the new college. as we rolled along, wedged into one of the post-chaises of those days, through various kinds of country, and especially through the mountains between dunkeld and crieff, it was a perpetual play, i might almost say roar, of fun and laughter. the result of this tour, after the consideration of various sites near perth, dunkeld, and dunblane, was the selection of the spot on which the college now stands. i am ashamed to recollect that we were, i do not say assisted in reaching this conclusion, but cheered up in fastening on it, by a luncheon, which mr. patton, the proprietor, gave us, of grouse newly killed, roasted by an apparatus for the purpose on the moment, and bedewed with what i think is called partridge-eye champagne. your father's influence operated materially in procuring a preference for this beautiful but somewhat isolated site on the banks of the almond. the general plan of the buildings was, i think, conceived by mr. dyce--another rare specimen of the human being--a master of art and thought in every form, and one whose mind was stocked to repletion with images of beauty. i need not tell you what was your father's estimate of him. as to the site, the introduction of railways, which did not then exist for scotland, has essentially altered the scale for relative advantage for all situations, in proportion as they are near to or removed from these channels of communication, and has caused us, in estimating remoteness from centres, to think of a mile as much as we should formerly have thought of ten. but i ought to record that, in all questions relating to the college, your father's mind instinctively leaned to what may be called the ecclesiastical side; and though the idea of a great school was incorporated in the plan, his desire was that even this should not be too near any considerable town. i remember also his saying to me, with reference to glenalmond, and the opportunities which the college chapel would afford, 'you know it will plant the church in a new district.' he laboured much for the college; and had, if my memory serves, a great hand in framing the constitution, with respect to which his academic learning gave him a just authority. he laboured for it at first in love and enthusiasm, afterwards in duty, at last perhaps in honour: but after a few years it necessarily vanished from his thoughts, and he became unable to share in facing the difficulties through which it had to pass. events were now impending which profoundly agitated, not only what is termed the religious world, but the general mind of the country. i need not here refer to the unwise proceedings of great and ardent churchmen, which darkened the skies over their heads, and brought their cause from calm and peaceful progress to storm, and in some senses to shipwreck. i do not think that, with his solid judgment, he was a party to any of those proceedings. they seem to have gradually brought about an opinion on the part of the ruling authorities of the english church that some effort should be made to counteract the excesses of the party, and to confront the tendencies, or supposed tendencies, now first disclosed, towards the church of rome, by presenting to the public mind a telling idea of catholicity under some other form. i am now construing events, not relating them; but they are events which it will be a prime duty of the future historian to study, for they have (i think) sensibly affected in its religious aspects the history of this country, nay, even the history of western christendom. about this time baron bunsen became the representative of prussia at the british court. i remember that your father used to strike me by his suspicions and apprehensions of particular persons; and bunsen, if i recollect right, was among them. that distinguished person felt an intense interest in england; he was of a pious and an enthusiastic mind, a mind of almost preternatural activity, vivacity, and rapidity, a bright imagination, and a wide rather than a deep range of knowledge. he was in the strongest sympathy, both personal and ecclesiastical, with the then reigning king of prussia, who visited england in the autumn, i think, of . sir robert peel, however loyal to the _entente_ with france, had a strong desire for close relations of friendship with germany; and the marriage of the queen, then recent, told in the same sense. all these circumstances opened the way for the singular project of the anglican bishopric of jerusalem, which i believe to have been the child of bunsen's fertile and energetic brain, and which received at that particular juncture a welcome due, i think, to special circumstances such as those which i have enumerated. wide as was the range of bunsen's subsequent changes, he at this time represented the opinions of the evangelical german church, with the strong leaning of an _amateur_ towards the episcopate as a form of government, not as the vehicle of the continuous, corporate, and visible life of the christian church. he had, beyond all men i ever knew, the faculty of persuading himself that he had reconciled opposites; and this persuasion he entertained with such fervour that it became contagious. from some of these letters (in accordance with my recollections) it would appear that in the early stages of this really fantastic plan (see no. ) [footnote: see ch. xvi. (vol. i. p. ), j. r. hope to mr. gladstone, november , .] your father's aid had been enlisted. i must not conceal that my own was somewhat longer continued. the accompanying correspondence amply shows his speedy and strong dissatisfaction and even disgust. i do not know whether the one personal influence, which alone, i think, ever seriously affected his career, was brought to bear upon him at this time. but the movement of his mind, from this juncture onwards, was traceably parallel to, though at a certain distance from, that of dr. newman. my opinion is (i put it no higher) that the jerusalem bishopric snapped the link which bound dr. newman to the english church. i have a conviction that it cut away the ground on which your father had hitherto most firmly and undoubtingly stood. assuredly, from or onwards, his most fond, most faithful, most ideal love progressively decayed, and doubt nestled and gnawed in his soul. he was, however, of a nature in which levity could find no place. without question, he estimated highly, as it deserves to be estimated, the tremendous nature of a change of religious profession, as between the church of england and the church of rome; a change dividing asunder bone and marrow. nearly ten years passed, i think, from , during which he never wrote or spoke to me a positive word indicating the possibility of this great transition. long he harboured his misgivings in silence, and ruminated upon them. they even, it seemed to me, weighed heavily upon his bodily health. i remember that in i wrote an article in a review (mentioned in the correspondence) which referred to the remarkable words of archbishop laud respecting the church of rome as it was; and applied to the case those other remarkable words of lord chatham respecting america, 'never, never, never.' he said to me, half playfully (for the article took some hold upon his sympathies), 'what, gladstone, never, never, never?' it must have been about this time that i had another conversation with him about religion, of which, again, i exactly recollect the spot. regarding (forgive me) the adoption of the roman religion by members of the church of england as nearly the greatest calamity that could befall christian faith in this country, i rapidly became alarmed when these changes began; and very long before the great luminary, dr. newman, drew after him, it may well be said, 'the third part of the stars of heaven.' this alarm i naturally and freely expressed to the man upon whom i most relied, your father. on the occasion to which i refer he replied to me with some admission that they were calamitous; 'but,' he said, 'pray remember an important compensation, in the influence which the english mind will bring to bear upon the church of rome itself. should there be in this country any considerable amount of secession to that church, it cannot fail to operate sensibly in mitigating whatever gives most offence in its practices or temper.' i do not pretend to give the exact words, but their spirit and effect i never can forget. i then thought there was great force in them. when i learned that he was to be married, my opinion was that he had only allowed his thoughts to turn in the direction of the bright and pure attachment he had formed, because the object to which they had first been pledged had vanished or been hidden from his view. i think that his feelings underwent a rally, rather, perhaps, than his understanding, when i was first put forward as a candidate for the university of oxford in . at least, i recollect his speaking with a real zest and interest at that time of my wife, as a skilful canvasser, hard to resist. i have just spoken of your father as the man on whom i most relied; and so it was. i relied on one other, also a remarkable man, who took the same course, at nearly the same time; but on him most, from my opinion of his sagacity. from the correspondence of you might suppose that he relied upon me, that he had almost given himself to me. but whatever expressions his warm feelings combined with his humility may have prompted, it really was not so; nor ought it to have been so, for i always felt and knew my own position beside him to be one of mental as well as moral inferiority. i cannot remember any occasion on which i exercised an influence over him. i remember many on which i tried; and especially when i saw his mind shaken, and, so to speak, on the slide. but these attempts (of which you may possibly have some written record) completely failed, and drove him into reserve. never, on any one occasion, would he enter freely into the question with me. i think the fault lay much on my side. my touch was not fine enough for his delicate spirit. but i do not conceal from you that i think there was a certain amount of fault on his side also. notwithstanding what i have said of his humility, notwithstanding what dr. newman has most truly said of his self-renouncing turn, and total freedom from ambition, there was in him, i think, a subtle form of self-will, which led him, where he had a foregone conclusion or a latent tendency, to indulge it, and to refuse to throw his mind into free partnership with others upon questions of doubt and difficulty. yet i must after all admit his right to be silent, unless where he thought he was to receive real aid; and of this he alone could be the judge. indeed, his own intellectual calibre was too large to allow him to be other than fastidious in his judgment of the capacities of other men. he had a great opinion of the solidity and tact of denison, bishop of salisbury. he thought also very highly of lord blachford. when archbishop (then archdeacon) manning produced his work on the 'unity of the church,' he must, i think, have seen it before the world saw it; for i remember his saying to me, 'that is going to be a great book,' or what would have been not less emphatic, 'that is going to be a book.' again, he was struck with mr. w. palmer's work on the church, to which also testimony has been borne by dr. newman in his 'apologia.' but i do not recollect that he had an unreserved admiration at once of character and intellect in any case except one--that of dr. newman himself. whatever may have been the precise causes of the reticence to which i have referred (and it is possible that physical weakness was among them), the character of our friendship had during these later years completely changed. it was originally formed in common and very absorbing interests. he was not of those shallow souls which think, or persuade themselves they think, that such a relation can continue in vigour and in fruitfulness when its daily bread has been taken away. the feeling of it indeed remained on both sides, as you will see. on my side, i may say that it became more intense; but only according to that perversity, or infirmity, of human nature, according to which we seem to love truly only when we lose. my affection for him, during those later years before his change, was, i may almost say, intense; and there was hardly anything, i think, which he could have asked me to do, and which i would not have done. but as i saw more and more through the dim light what was to happen, it became more and more like the affection which is felt for one departed. as far as narrative is concerned, i am now at the close. in came the discussions and alarms connected with the gorham judgment; and came also the last flickering of the flame of his attachment to the church of england. thereafter i never found myself able to turn to account as an opening any word he spoke or wrote to me. the year had been, for my wife and me, one of sorrow and anxiety, and i was obliged to spend the winter in italy. in the spring of i dined at his brother's and met him. he spoke a few words indicative of his state of mind, but fell back immediately into silence. i was engaged at the time in opposing with great zeal the ecclesiastical titles bill, but not even this circumstance led him to give me his confidence. the crisis had come. i am bound to say that relief soon became visible in its effect upon his bodily health. his road and mine were now definitively parted. after the change had taken place, it happened to me to be once, and once only, brought into contact with him in the course of his ordinary professional employment. i had been giving evidence in a committee-room on behalf of a railway. he was the opposing counsel, and had to put some questions to me in cross-examination. his manner in performing this usually harsh office was as engaging as in ordinary social intercourse; and though i have no doubt he did his duty by his clients, i thought he seemed to handle me with a peculiar tenderness. on june , , he wrote to me the beautiful letter, no. . [footnote: see ch. xxi. (vol. ii. p. ), where this letter is given.] it was the epitaph of our friendship, which continued to live, but only, or almost only, as it lives between those who inhabit separate worlds. on no day since that date, i think, was he absent, however, from my thoughts; and now i can scarcely tear myself from the fascination of writing about him. and so, too, you will feel the fascination of reading about him; and it will serve to relieve the weariness with which otherwise you would have toiled through so long a letter. i hope it is really about him, and that egotism has not slily crept into the space which was meant to be devoted to him. it notices slighter as well as graver matters; for the slight touches make their contribution to the exhibition of every finely shaded character. if anything which it contains has hurt you, recollect the chasm which separates our points of view; recollect that what came to him as light and blessing and emancipation, had never offered itself to me otherwise than as a temptation and a sin; recollect that when he found what he held his 'pearl of great price,' his discovery was to me beyond what i could describe, not only a shock and a grief, but a danger too. i having given you my engagement, you having accepted it, i have felt that i must above all things be true, and that i could only be true by telling you everything. if i have traversed some of the ground in sadness, i now turn to the brighter thought of his present light and peace and progress; may they be his more and more abundantly, in that world where the shadows that our sins and follies cast no longer darken the aspect and glory of the truth; and may god ever bless you, the daughter of my friend! believe me always and warmly yours, w. e. gladstone. miss hope-scott. appendix iv. verses by j. r. hope-scott. feast of the circumcision, (the birthday of c. h. s.). new year's day returns again, does it bring us joy or pain? does it teach us to rely on the world, or pass it by? will it be like seasons gone, or undo what they have done? shall we trust the future more than the time we've spent before? is it hope, or is it fear that attends our new-born year? childhood, busy with its toys, answers, it expects new joys; youth, untaught by pleasures past, thinks to find some that will last; manhood counts its honours o'er, and resolves to gather more; while old age sits idly by, only hoping not to die. thus the world--now, christian, say what for me means new year's day. new year's day is but a name, while our hearts remain the same; all our years are old and few, christ alone can make them new. around him our seasons move, each made fruitful by his love. summer's heat and winter's snow may unheeded come and go; what he suffered, what he taught, makes the year of christian thought. then to know thy gain or loss, from the cradle towards the cross follow him, and on the way thou wilt find his new year's day. advent, summoning thy heart in his coming to take part, warned thee of its double kind, mercy first, but wrath behind; bade thee hope the incarnate word, bade thee fear the avenging lord. christmas next, with cheerful voice, called upon thee to rejoice; but, while yet the blessed child sweetly on thy homage smiled, lo! beside his peaceful bed stephen laid a martyr's head. next a day of joy was won for thee by our dear saint john; but its sun had scarcely set when the earth with blood was wet: rachel, weeping for her slain, would not raise her heart again; and st. thomas, bowing down, grasped in death his jewelled crown. thus the old year taught thee: say, thinkest thou that new year's day will these lessons sweep away? foolish thought! the opening year claims a sacrifice more dear than the martyrdom of saints, or the blood of innocents. christ himself doth now begin, sinless, to atone for sin; welcomes suffering for our good, takes his saviour's name in blood, and by circumcision's pain makes the old year new again. then, with him to keep the feast, bring thy dearest and thy best; common gifts will not suffice to attend his sacrifice. jesus chose his mother's part, and she brought a pierced heart. but what christ for many chose, doth his utmost love disclose; bid her not unkind to be, but to share that choice with thee. ask her sufferings, ask yet more, ask for those thy saviour bore; upon earth hath never been sorrow like his sorrow seen; he exhausted man's distress, pain, and shame, and loneliness. ask to feel his thorny crown, ask to make his wounds thine own; with his mother claim to be partner in his agony. this obtain, and thou wilt care little what thy new years are; there can thee no grief befall which the cross did not forestall; joy in this world there is none like that which the cross hath won. grasp it, and the year begin with no fear, except of sin; love it, and, in turning o'er all the gifts in hope's bright store, choose but one--to love it more. low tide at sunset on the highland coast. ye dark wild sands, o'er which th' impatient eye travels in haste to watch the evening sky, when last i gazed, how nobly heaved your breast, in purple waves and scattered sunbeams drest! then o'er you shouted many a gallant crew, and in gay bands the sea-fowl circling flew; in your embrace you held the restless tide, and shared awhile great ocean's power and pride. but now how sad, how dreary is the scene in which so much of life hath lately been! your barren wastes untraversed by a sail, your only voice the curlew's distant wail; with rocky limbs and furrowed brow you lie like some lone corpse by living things passed by; till night in mercy spreads her clouded pall, and rising winds mourn at your funeral. yes, you are changed, but not more changed than he who lately stood beside that smiling sea; for whom each bark which hastened to the shore some welcome freight of love or honour bore; who saw reflected in the peaceful flood his home made happy by the bright and good. gladly he looked upon you; now, apart, he veils his brow and hides his desolate heart; from him life's joys have quickly ebbed away, leaving the rocks, the sands, and the declining day. to-morrow's tide again the shore will lave, to-morrow's sun will gild the crested wave; new ships will launch and speed across the main, and the wild sea-fowl ply their sport again; but for the broken-hearted there is none to gather back the spoils which death hath won. none, did i say? o foolish, impious thought, in one whom god hath made, and christ hath bought! thou who dost hold the ocean in thy hand, and the sun's courses guide by thy command, hast thou no morrow for the darkened soul, no tide returning o'er its sands to roll? must its deep bays, once emptied of their sea, for ever waste, for ever silent be? not such thy counsels--not for this the cross stretched its wide arms, and saved a world from loss! when life's great waters are by sorrow dried, then gush new fountains from christ's wounded side; the ark is there to gather in our love, the spirit, dove-like, o'er the stream to move. then look again, and mirrored in thy breast behold the home in which thy dear ones rest; see forms which lately vanished from thy sight, shine back with crowns, and palms, and robes of light! see richer freights than ever ocean bore guided by angel pilots to the shore! in faith, in penitence, in hope shall be thy traffic on that bright and changeless sea. on resuming his profession. mourner, arise! this busy fretful life calls thee again to share its toils and strife; the pause conceded to thy grief is o'er, and the world's march can stay for thee no more. then dry thy tears, and with a steadfast mien resume thy station in the troubled scene; sad, but resolved, thy wonted vigour prove, nor let men deem thee weak from sorrowing love. the wakeful bed, the sudden sharp distress, the still recurring void of loneliness; the urgent prayer, the hope, the humble fear, which seek beyond the grave that soul so dear,-- these yet are thine, but thine to tell no more. hide, then, from careless hearts thy sad but precious store, and if life's struggle should thy thoughts beguile, quicken the pulse, and tempt the cheerful smile, should worldly shadows cross that form unseen, and duty claim a place where grief hath been, spurn not the balm by toil o'er suffering shed, nor fear to be disloyal to the dead. 'twas nature bade thee grieve, and for thy grief the lord of nature now ordains relief. like iron molten by the founder's art, to fierce affliction yields the stubborn heart. the fiery blast its ancient form destroys, and bids it flow released from base alloys; but the kind god, who doth the flames control, wills to re-cast, not to consume, the soul: hence tempering breezes, hence the lessened pain, that the vexed heart may rest and form again. then be it so--but, ere that heart grows cold, see that its later be its nobler mould. see that, by pain made new, and purged from dross, it bear, in sharp relief, the image of the cross. the window at the white cat by mary roberts rinehart triangle books new york triangle books edition published september reprinted december reprinted february triangle books, west forty-ninth street, new york, n. y. printed and bound in the united states of america by the american book--stratford press, inc., n. y. c. the window at the white cat chapter i sentiment and clues in my criminal work anything that wears skirts is a lady, until the law proves her otherwise. from the frayed and slovenly petticoats of the woman who owns a poultry stand in the market and who has grown wealthy by selling chickens at twelve ounces to the pound, or the silk sweep of mamie tracy, whose diamonds have been stolen down on the avenue, or the staidly respectable black and middle-aged skirt of the client whose husband has found an affinity partial to laces and fripperies, and has run off with her--all the wearers are ladies, and as such announced by hawes. in fact, he carries it to excess. he speaks of his wash lady, with a husband who is an ash merchant, and he announced one day in some excitement, that the lady who had just gone out had appropriated all the loose change out of the pocket of his overcoat. so when hawes announced a lady, i took my feet off my desk, put down the brief i had been reading, and rose perfunctorily. with my first glance at my visitor, however, i threw away my cigar, and i have heard since, settled my tie. that this client was different was borne in on me at once by the way she entered the room. she had poise in spite of embarrassment, and her face when she raised her veil was white, refined, and young. "i did not send in my name," she said, when she saw me glancing down for the card hawes usually puts on my table. "it was advice i wanted, and i--i did not think the name would matter." she was more composed, i think, when she found me considerably older than herself. i saw her looking furtively at the graying places over my ears. i am only thirty-five, as far as that goes, but my family, although it keeps its hair, turns gray early--a business asset but a social handicap. "won't you sit down?" i asked, pushing out a chair, so that she would face the light, while i remained in shadow. every doctor and every lawyer knows that trick. "as far as the name goes, perhaps you would better tell me the trouble first. then, if i think it indispensable, you can tell me." she acquiesced to this and sat for a moment silent, her gaze absently on the windows of the building across. in the morning light my first impression was verified. only too often the raising of a woman's veil in my office reveals the ravages of tears, or rouge, or dissipation. my new client turned fearlessly to the window an unlined face, with a clear skin, healthily pale. from where i sat, her profile was beautiful, in spite of its drooping suggestion of trouble; her first embarrassment gone, she had forgotten herself and was intent on her errand. "i hardly know how to begin," she said, "but suppose"--slowly--"suppose that a man, a well-known man, should leave home without warning, not taking any clothes except those he wore, and saying he was coming home to dinner, and he--he--" she stopped as if her voice had failed her. "and he does not come?" i prompted. she nodded, fumbling for her handkerchief in her bag. "how long has he been gone?" i asked. i had heard exactly the same thing before, but to leave a woman like that, hardly more than a girl, and lovely! "ten days." "i should think it ought to be looked into," i said decisively, and got up. somehow i couldn't sit quietly. a lawyer who is worth anything is always a partisan, i suppose, and i never hear of a man deserting his wife that i am not indignant, the virtuous scorn of the unmarried man, perhaps. "but you will have to tell me more than that. did this gentleman have any bad habits? that is, did he--er--drink?" "not to excess. he had been forbidden anything of that sort by his physician. he played bridge for money, but i--believe he was rather lucky." she colored uncomfortably. "married, i suppose?" i asked casually. "he had been. his wife died when i--" she stopped and bit her lip. then it was not her husband, after all! oddly enough, the sun came out just at that moment, spilling a pool of sunlight at her feet, on the dusty rug with its tobacco-bitten scars. "it is my father," she said simply. i was absurdly relieved. but with the realization that i had not a case of desertion on my hands, i had to view the situation from a new angle. "you are absolutely at a loss to account for his disappearance?" "absolutely." "you have had no word from him?" "none." "he never went away before for any length of time, without telling you?" "no. never. he was away a great deal, but i always knew where to find him." her voice broke again and her chin quivered. i thought it wise to reassure her. "don't let us worry about this until we are sure it is serious," i said. "sometimes the things that seem most mysterious have the simplest explanations. he may have written and the letter have miscarried or--even a slight accident would account--" i saw i was blundering; she grew white and wide-eyed. "but, of course, that's unlikely too. he would have papers to identify him." "his pockets were always full of envelopes and things like that," she assented eagerly. "don't you think i ought to know his name?" i asked. "it need not be known outside of the office, and this is a sort of confessional anyhow, or worse. people tell things to their lawyer that they wouldn't think of telling the priest." her color was slowly coming back, and she smiled. "my name is fleming, margery fleming," she said after a second's hesitation, "and my father, mr. allan fleming, is the man. oh, mr. knox, what are we going to do? he has been gone for more than a week!" no wonder she had wished to conceal the identity of the missing man. so allan fleming was lost! a good many highly respectable citizens would hope that he might never be found. fleming, state treasurer, delightful companion, polished gentleman and successful politician of the criminal type. outside in the corridor the office boy was singing under his breath. "oh once there was a miller," he sang, "who lived in a mill." it brought back to my mind instantly the reform meeting at the city hall a year before, where for a few hours we had blown the feeble spark of protest against machine domination to a flame. we had sung a song to that very tune, and with this white-faced girl across from me, its words came back with revolting truth. it had been printed and circulated through the hall. "oh, once there was a capitol that sat on a hill, as it's too big to steal away it's probably there still. the ring's hand in the treasury and fleming with a sack. they take it out in wagon loads and never bring it back." i put the song out of my mind with a shudder. "i am more than sorry," i said. i was, too; whatever he may have been, he was _her_ father. "and of course there are a number of reasons why this ought not to be known, for a time at least. after all, as i say, there may be a dozen simple explanations, and--there are exigencies in politics--" "i hate politics!" she broke in suddenly. "the very name makes me ill. when i read of women wanting to--to vote and all that, i wonder if they know what it means to have to be polite to dreadful people, people who have even been convicts, and all that. why, our last butler had been a prize fighter!" she sat upright with her hands on the arms of the chair. "that's another thing, too, mr. knox. the day after father went away, carter left. and he has not come back." "carter was the butler?" "yes." "a white man?" "oh, yes." "and he left without giving you any warning?" "yes. he served luncheon the day after father went away, and the maids say he went away immediately after. he was not there that evening to serve dinner, but--he came back late that night, and got into the house, using his key to the servants entrance. he slept there, the maids said, but he was gone before the servants were up and we have not seen him since." i made a mental note of the butler. "we'll go back to carter again," i said. "your father has not been ill, has he? i mean recently." she considered. "i can not think of anything except that he had a tooth pulled." she was quick to resent my smile. "oh, i know i'm not helping you," she exclaimed, "but i have thought over everything until i can not think any more. i always end where i begin." "you have not noticed any mental symptoms--any lack of memory?" her eyes filled. "he forgot my birthday, two weeks ago," she said. "it was the first one he had ever forgotten, in nineteen of them." nineteen! nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen! "what i meant was this," i explained. "people sometimes have sudden and unaccountable lapses of memory and at those times they are apt to stray away from home. has your father been worried lately?" "he has not been himself at all. he has been irritable, even to me, and terrible to the servants. only to carter--he was never ugly to carter. but i do not think it was a lapse of memory. when i remember how he looked that morning, i believe that he meant then to go away. it shows how he had changed, when he could think of going away without a word, and leaving me there alone." "then you have no brothers or sisters?" "none. i came to you--" there she stopped. "please tell me how you happened to come to me," i urged. "i think you know that i am both honored and pleased." "i didn't know where to go," she confessed, "so i took the telephone directory, the classified part under 'attorneys,' and after i shut my eyes, i put my finger haphazard on the page. it pointed to your name." i am afraid i flushed at this, but it was a wholesome douche. in a moment i laughed. "we will take it as an omen," i said, "and i will do all that i can. but i am not a detective, miss fleming. don't you think we ought to have one?" "not the police!" she shuddered. "i thought you could do something without calling in a detective." "suppose you tell me what happened the day your father left, and how he went away. tell me the little things too. they may be straws that will point in a certain direction." "in the first place," she began, "we live on monmouth avenue. there are just the two of us, and the servants: a cook, two housemaids, a laundress, a butler and a chauffeur. my father spends much of his time at the capital, and in the last two years, since my old governess went back to germany, at those times i usually go to mother's sisters at bellwood--miss letitia and miss jane maitland." i nodded: i knew the maitland ladies well. i had drawn four different wills for miss letitia in the last year. "my father went away on the tenth of may. you say to tell you all about his going, but there is nothing to tell. we have a machine, but it was being repaired. father got up from breakfast, picked up his hat and walked out of the house. he was irritated at a letter he had read at the table--" "could you find that letter?" i asked quickly. "he took it with him. i knew he was disturbed, for he did not even say he was going. he took a car, and i thought he was on his way to his office. he did not come home that night and i went to the office the next morning. the stenographer said he had not been there. he is not at plattsburg, because they have been trying to call him from there on the long distance telephone every day." in spite of her candid face i was sure she was holding something back. "why don't you tell me everything?" i asked. "you may be keeping back the one essential point." she flushed. then she opened her pocket-book and gave me a slip of rough paper. on it, in careless figures, was the number "eleven twenty-two." that was all. "i was afraid you would think it silly," she said. "it was such a meaningless thing. you see, the second night after father left, i was nervous and could not sleep. i expected him home at any time and i kept listening for his step down-stairs. about three o'clock i was sure i heard some one in the room below mine--there was a creaking as if the person were walking carefully. i felt relieved, for i thought he had come back. but i did not hear the door into his bedroom close, and i got more and more wakeful. finally i got up and slipped along the hall to his room. the door was open a few inches and i reached in and switched on the electric lights. i had a queer feeling before i turned on the light that there was some one standing close to me, but the room was empty, and the hall, too." "and the paper?" "when i saw the room was empty i went in. the paper had been pinned to a pillow on the bed. at first i thought it had been dropped or had blown there. when i saw the pin i was startled. i went back to my room and rang for annie, the second housemaid, who is also a sort of personal maid of mine. it was half-past three o'clock when annie came down. i took her into father's room and showed her the paper. she was sure it was not there when she folded back the bed clothes for the night at nine o'clock." "eleven twenty-two," i repeated. "twice eleven is twenty-two. but that isn't very enlightening." "no," she admitted. "i thought it might be a telephone number, and i called up all the eleven twenty-twos in the city." in spite of myself, i laughed, and after a moment she smiled in sympathy. "we are not brilliant, certainly," i said at last. "in the first place, miss fleming, if i thought the thing was very serious i would not laugh--but no doubt a day or two will see everything straight. but, to go back to this eleven twenty-two--did you rouse the servants and have the house searched?" "yes, annie said carter had come back and she went to waken him, but although his door was locked inside, he did not answer. annie and i switched on all the lights on the lower floor from the top of the stairs. then we went down together and looked around. every window and door was locked, but in father's study, on the first floor, two drawers of his desk were standing open. and in the library, the little compartment in my writing-table, where i keep my house money, had been broken open and the money taken." "nothing else was gone?" "nothing. the silver on the sideboard in the dining-room, plenty of valuable things in the cabinet in the drawing-room--nothing was disturbed." "it might have been carter," i reflected. "did he know where you kept your house money?" "it is possible, but i hardly think so. besides, if he was going to steal, there were so many more valuable things in the house. my mother's jewels as well as my own were in my dressing-room, and the door was not locked." "they were not disturbed?" she hesitated. "they had been disturbed," she admitted. "my grandmother left each of her children some unstrung pearls. they were a hobby with her. aunt jane and aunt letitia never had theirs strung, but my mother's were made into different things, all old-fashioned. i left them locked in a drawer in my sitting-room, where i have always kept them. the following morning the drawer was unlocked and partly open, but nothing was missing." "all your jewelry was there?" "all but one ring, which i rarely remove from my finger." i followed her eyes. under her glove was the outline of a ring, a solitaire stone. "nineteen from--" i shook myself together and got up. "it does not sound like an ordinary burglary," i reflected. "but i am afraid i have no imagination. no doubt what you have told me would be meat and drink to a person with an analytical turn of mind. i can't deduct. nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen, according to my mental process, although i know men who could make the difference nothing." i believe she thought i was a little mad, for her face took on again its despairing look. "we _must_ find him, mr. knox," she insisted as she got up. "if you know of a detective that you can trust, please get him. but you can understand that the unexplained absence of the state treasurer must be kept secret. one thing i am sure of: he is being kept away. you don't know what enemies he has! men like mr. schwartz, who have no scruples, no principle." "schwartz!" i repeated in surprise. henry schwartz was the boss of his party in the state; the man of whom one of his adversaries had said, with the distinct approval of the voting public, that he was so low in the scale of humanity that it would require a special dispensation of heaven to raise him to the level of total degradation. but he and fleming were generally supposed to be captain and first mate of the pirate craft that passed with us for the ship of state. "mr. schwartz and my father are allies politically," the girl explained with heightened color, "but they are not friends. my father is a gentleman." the inference i allowed to pass unnoticed, and as if she feared she had said too much, the girl rose. when she left, a few minutes later, it was with the promise that she would close the monmouth avenue house and go to her aunts at bellwood, at once. for myself, i pledged a thorough search for her father, and began it by watching the scarlet wing on her hat through the top of the elevator cage until it had descended out of sight. i am afraid it was a queer hodgepodge of clues and sentiment that i poured out to hunter, the detective, when he came up late that afternoon. hunter was quiet when i finished my story. "they're rotten clear through," he reflected. "this administration is worse than the last, and it was a peach. there have been more suicides than i could count on my two hands, in the last ten years. i warn you--you'd be better out of this mess." "what do you think about the eleven twenty-two?" i asked as he got up and buttoned his coat. "well, it might mean almost anything. it might be that many dollars, or the time a train starts, or it might be the eleventh and the twenty-second letters of the alphabet--k--v." "k--v!" i repeated, "why that would be the latin _cave_--beware." hunter smiled cheerfully. "you'd better stick to the law, mr. knox," he said from the door. "we don't use latin in the detective business." chapter ii uneasy apprehensions plattsburg was not the name of the capital, but it will do for this story. the state doesn't matter either. you may take your choice, like the story mark twain wrote, with all kinds of weather at the beginning, so the reader could take his pick. we will say that my home city is manchester. i live with my married brother, his wife and two boys. fred is older than i am, and he is an exceptional brother. on the day he came home from his wedding trip, i went down with my traps on a hansom, in accordance with a prearranged schedule. fred and edith met me inside the door. "here's your latch-key, jack," fred said, as he shook hands. "only one stipulation--remember we are strangers in the vicinity and try to get home before the neighbors are up. we have our reputations to think of." "there is no hour for breakfast," edith said, as she kissed me. "you have a bath of your own, and don't smoke in the drawing-room." fred was always a lucky devil. i had been there now for six years. i had helped to raise two young knoxes--bully youngsters, too: the oldest one could use boxing-gloves when he was four--and the finest collie pup in our end of the state. i wanted to raise other things--the boys liked pets--but edith was like all women, she didn't care for animals. i had a rabbit-hutch built and stocked in the laundry, and a dove-cote on the roof. i used the general bath, and gave up my tub to a young alligator i got in florida, and every sunday the youngsters and i had a great time trying to teach it to do tricks. i have always taken it a little hard that edith took advantage of my getting the measles from billy, to clear out every animal in the house. she broke the news to me gently, the day the rash began to fade, maintaining that, having lost one cook through the alligator escaping from his tub and being mistaken, in the gloom of the back-stairs, for a rubber boot, and picked up under the same misapprehension, she could not risk another cook. on the day that margery fleming came to me about her father, i went home in a state of mixed emotion. dinner was not a quiet meal: fred and i talked politics, generally, and as fred was on one side and i on the other there was always an argument on. "what about fleming?" i asked at last, when fred had declared that in these days of corruption, no matter what the government was, he was "forninst" it. "hasn't he been frightened into reform?" "bad egg," he said, jabbing his potato as if it had been a politician, "and there's no way to improve a bad egg except to hold your nose. that's what the public is doing; holding its nose." "hasn't he a daughter?" i asked casually. "yes--a lovely girl, too," edith assented. "it is his only redeeming quality." "fleming is a rascal, daughter or no daughter," fred persisted. "ever since he and his gang got poor butler into trouble and then left him to kill himself as the only way out, i have felt that there was something coming to all of them--hansen, schwartz and the rest. i saw fleming on the street to-day." "what!" i exclaimed, almost jumping out of my chair. fred surveyed me quizzically over his coffee cup. "'hasn't he a daughter!'" he quoted. "yes, i saw him, jack, this very day, in an unromantic four-wheeler, and he was swearing at a policeman." "where was it?" "chestnut and union. his cab had been struck by a car, and badly damaged, but the gentleman refused to get out. no doubt you could get the details from the corner-man." "look here, fred," i said earnestly. "keep that to yourself, will you? and you too, edith? it's a queer story, and i'll tell you sometime." as we left the dining-room edith put her hand on my shoulder. "don't get mixed up with those people, jack," she advised. "margery's a dear girl, but her father practically killed henry butler, and henry butler married my cousin." "you needn't make it a family affair," i protested. "i have only seen the girl once." but edith smiled. "i know what i know," she said. "how extravagant of you to send bobby that enormous hobby-horse!" "the boy has to learn to ride sometime. in four years he can have a pony, and i'm going to see that he has it. he'll be eight by that time." edith laughed. "in four years!" she said, "why, in four years you'll--" then she stopped. "i'll what?" i demanded, blocking the door to the library. "you'll be forty, jack, and it's a mighty unattractive man who gets past forty without being sought and won by some woman. you'll be buying--" "i will be thirty-nine," i said with dignity, "and as far as being sought and won goes, i am so overwhelmed by fred's misery that i don't intend to marry at all. if i do--_if i do_--it will be to some girl who turns and runs the other way every time she sees me." "the oldest trick in the box," edith scoffed. "what's that thing fred's always quoting: 'a woman is like a shadow; follow her, she flies; fly from her, she follows.'" "upon my word!" i said indignantly. "and you are a woman!" "i'm different," she retorted. "i'm only a wife and mother." in the library fred got up from his desk and gathered up his papers. "i can't think with you two whispering there," he said, "i'm going to the den." as he slammed the door into his workroom edith picked up her skirts and scuttled after him. "how dare you run away like that?" she called. "you promised me--" the door closed behind her. i went over and spoke through the panels. "'follow her, she flies; fly from her, she follows'--oh, wife and mother!" i called. "for heaven's sake, edith," fred's voice rose irritably. "if you and jack are going to talk all evening, go and sit on _his_ knee and let me alone. the way you two flirt under my nose is a scandal. do you hear that, jack?" "good night, edith," i called, "i have left you a kiss on the upper left hand panel of the door. and i want to ask you one more question: what if i fly from the woman and she doesn't follow?" "thank your lucky stars," fred called in a muffled voice, and i left them to themselves. i had some work to do at the office, work that the interview with hunter had interrupted, and half past eight that night found me at my desk. but my mind strayed from the papers before me. after a useless effort to concentrate, i gave it up as useless, and by ten o'clock i was on the street again, my evening wasted, the papers in the libel case of the _star_ against the _eagle_ untouched on my desk, and i the victim of an uneasy apprehension that took me, almost without volition, to the neighborhood of the fleming house on monmouth avenue. for it had occurred to me that miss fleming might not have left the house that day as she had promised, might still be there, liable to another intrusion by the mysterious individual who had a key to the house. it was a relief, consequently, when i reached its corner, to find no lights in the building. the girl had kept her word. assured of that, i looked at the house curiously. it was one of the largest in the city, not wide, but running far back along the side street; a small yard with a low iron fence and a garage, completed the property. the street lights left the back of the house in shadow, and as i stopped in the shelter of the garage, i was positive that i heard some one working with a rear window of the empty house. a moment later the sounds ceased and muffled footsteps came down the cement walk. the intruder made no attempt to open the iron gate; against the light i saw him put a leg over the low fence, follow it up with the other, and start up the street, still with peculiar noiselessness of stride. he was a short, heavy-shouldered fellow in a cap, and his silhouette showed a prodigious length of arm. i followed, i don't mind saying in some excitement. i had a vision of grabbing him from behind and leading him--or pushing him, under the circumstances, in triumph to the police station, and another mental picture, not so pleasant, of being found on the pavement by some passer-by, with a small punctuation mark ending my sentence of life. but i was not apprehensive. i even remember wondering humorously if i should overtake him and press the cold end of my silver mounted fountain pen into the nape of his neck, if he would throw up his hands and surrender. i had read somewhere of a burglar held up in a similar way with a shoe-horn. our pace was easy. once the man just ahead stopped and lighted a cigarette, and the odor of a very fair turkish tobacco came back to me. he glanced back over his shoulder at me and went on without quickening his pace. we met no policemen, and after perhaps five minutes walking, when the strain was growing tense, my gentleman of the rubber-soled shoes swung abruptly to the left, and--entered the police station! i had occasion to see davidson many times after that, during the strange development of the fleming case; i had the peculiar experience later of having him follow me as i had trailed him that night, and i had occasion once to test the strength of his long arms when he helped to thrust me through the transom at the white cat, but i never met him without a recurrence of the sheepish feeling with which i watched him swagger up to the night sergeant and fall into easy conversation with the man behind the desk. standing in the glare from the open window, i had much the lost pride and self contempt of a wet cat sitting in the sun. two or three roundsmen were sitting against the wall, lazily, helmets off and coats open against the warmth of the early spring night. in a back room others were playing checkers and disputing noisily. davidson's voice came distinctly through the open windows. "the house is closed," he reported. "but one of the basement windows isn't shuttered and the lock is bad. i couldn't find shields. he'd better keep an eye on it." he stopped and fished in his pockets with a grin. "this was tied to the knob of the kitchen door," he said, raising his voice for the benefit of the room, and holding aloft a piece of paper. "for shields!" he explained, "and signed 'delia.'" the men gathered around him, even the sergeant got up and leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. "read it," he said lazily. "shields has got a wife; and her name ain't delia." "dear tom," davidson read, in a mincing falsetto, "we are closing up unexpected, so i won't be here to-night. i am going to mamie brennan's and if you want to talk to me you can get me by calling up anderson's drug-store. the clerk is a gentleman friend of mine. mr. carter, the butler, told me before he left he would get me a place as parlor maid, so i'll have another situation soon. delia." the sergeant scowled. "i'm goin' to talk to tom," he said, reaching out for the note. "he's got a nice family, and things like that're bad for the force." i lighted the cigar, which had been my excuse for loitering on the pavement, and went on. it sounded involved for a novice, but if i could find anderson's drug-store i could find mamie brennan; through mamie brennan i would get delia; and through delia i might find carter. i was vague from that point, but what miss fleming had said of carter had made me suspicious of him. under an arc light i made the first note in my new business of man-hunter and it was something like this: anderson's drug-store. ask for mamie brennan. find delia. advise delia that a policeman with a family is a bad bet. locate carter. it was late when i reached the corner of chestnut and union streets, where fred had said allan fleming had come to grief in a cab. but the corner-man had gone, and the night man on the beat knew nothing, of course, of any particular collision. "there's plinty of 'em every day at this corner," he said cheerfully. "the department sinds a wagon here every night to gather up the pieces, autymobiles mainly. that trolley pole over there has been sliced off clean three times in the last month. they say a fellow ain't a graduate of the autymobile school till he can go around it on the sidewalk without hittin' it!" i left him looking reminiscently at the pole, and went home to bed. i had made no headway, i had lost conceit with myself and a day and evening at the office, and i had gained the certainty that margery fleming was safe in bellwood and the uncertain address of a servant who _might_ know something about mr. fleming. i was still awake at one o'clock and i got up impatiently and consulted the telephone directory. there were twelve andersons in the city who conducted drug-stores. when i finally went to sleep, i dreamed that i was driving margery fleming along a street in a broken taxicab, and that all the buildings were pharmacies and numbered eleven twenty-two. chapter iii ninety-eight pearls after such a night i slept late. edith still kept her honeymoon promise of no breakfast hour and she had gone out with fred when i came down-stairs. i have a great admiration for edith, for her tolerance with my uncertain hours, for her cheery breakfast-room, and the smiling good nature of the servants she engages. i have a theory that, show me a sullen servant and i will show you a sullen mistress, although edith herself disclaims all responsibility and lays credit for the smile with which katie brings in my eggs and coffee, to largess on my part. be that as it may, katie is a smiling and personable young woman, and i am convinced that had she picked up the alligator on the back-stairs and lost part of the end of her thumb, she would have told edith that she cut it off with the bread knife, and thus have saved to us bessie the beloved and her fascinating trick of taking the end of her tail in her mouth and spinning. on that particular morning, katie also brought me a letter, and i recognized the cramped and rather uncertain writing of miss jane maitland. "dear mr. knox: "sister letitia wishes me to ask you if you can dine with us to-night, informally. she has changed her mind in regard to the colored orphans' home, and would like to consult you about it. "very truly yours, "susan jane maitland." it was a very commonplace note: i had had one like it after every board-meeting of the orphans' home, miss maitland being on principle an aggressive minority. also, having considerable mind, changing it became almost as ponderous an operation as moving a barn, although not nearly so stable. (fred accuses me here of a very bad pun, and reminds me, quite undeservedly, that the pun is the lowest form of humor.) i came across miss jane's letter the other day, when i was gathering the material for this narrative, and i sat for a time with it in my hand thinking over again the chain of events in which it had been the first link, a series of strange happenings that began with my acceptance of the invitation, and that led through ways as dark and tricks as vain as bret harte's heathen chinee ever dreamed of, to the final scene at the white cat. with the letter i had filed away a half dozen articles and i ranged them all on the desk in front of me: the letter, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it, that margery gave me the first time i saw her; a note-book filled with jerky characters that looked like arabic and were newspaper shorthand; a railroad schedule; a bullet, the latter slightly flattened; a cube-shaped piece of chalk which i put back in its box with a shudder, and labeled 'poison,' and a small gold buckle from a slipper, which i--at which i did not shudder. i did not need to make the climaxes of my story. they lay before me. i walked to the office that morning, and on the way i found and interviewed the corner-man at chestnut and union. but he was of small assistance. he remembered the incident, but the gentleman in the taxicab had not been hurt and refused to give his name, saying he was merely passing through the city from one railroad station to another, and did not wish any notoriety. at eleven o'clock hunter called up; he said he was going after the affair himself, but that it was hard to stick a dip net into the political puddle without pulling out a lot more than you went after, or than it was healthy to get. he was inclined to be facetious, and wanted to know if i had come across any more k. v's. whereupon i put away the notes i had made about delia and mamie brennan and i heard him chuckle as i rang off. i went to bellwood that evening. it was a suburban town a dozen miles from the city, with a picturesque station, surrounded by lawns and cement walks. street-cars had so far failed to spoil its tree-bordered streets, and it was exclusive to the point of stagnation. the maitland place was at the head of the main street, which had at one time been its drive. miss letitia, who was seventy, had had sufficient commercial instinct, some years before, to cut her ancestral acres--_their_ ancestral acres, although miss jane hardly counted--into building lots, except perhaps an acre which surrounded the house. thus, the maitland ladies were reputed to be extremely wealthy. and as they never spent any money, no doubt they were. the homestead as i knew it, was one of impeccable housekeeping and unmitigated gloom. there was a chill that rushed from the old-fashioned center hall to greet the new-comer on the porch, and that seemed to freeze up whatever in him was spontaneous and cheerful. i had taken dinner at bellwood before, and the memory was not hilarious. miss letitia was deaf, but chose to ignore the fact. with superb indifference she would break into the conversation with some wholly alien remark that necessitated a reassembling of one's ideas, making the meal a series of mental gymnastics. miss jane, through long practice, and because she only skimmed the surface of conversation, took her cerebral flights easily, but i am more unwieldy of mind. nor was miss letitia's dominance wholly conversational. her sister jane was her creature, alternately snubbed and bullied. to miss letitia, jane, in spite of her sixty-five years, was still a child, and sometimes a bad one. indeed, many a child of ten is more sophisticated. miss letitia gave her expurgated books to read, and forbade her to read divorce court proceedings in the newspapers. once, a recreant housemaid presenting the establishment with a healthy male infant, jane was sent to the country for a month, and was only brought back when the house had been fumigated throughout. poor miss jane! she met me with fluttering cordiality in the hall that night, safe in being herself for once, with the knowledge that miss letitia always received me from a throne-like horsehair sofa in the back parlor. she wore a new lace cap, and was twitteringly excited. "our niece is here," she explained, as i took off my coat--everything was "ours" with jane; "mine" with letitia--"and we are having an ice at dinner. please say that ices are not injurious, mr. knox. my sister is so opposed to them and i had to beg for this." "on the contrary, the doctors have ordered ices for my young nephews," i said gravely, "and i dote on them myself." miss jane beamed. indeed, there was something almost unnaturally gay about the little old lady all that evening. perhaps it was the new lace cap. later, i tried to analyze her manner, to recall exactly what she had said, to remember anything that could possibly help. but i could find no clue to what followed. miss letitia received me as usual, in the back parlor. miss fleming was there also, sewing by a window, and in her straight white dress with her hair drawn back and braided around her head, she looked even younger than before. there was no time for conversation. miss letitia launched at once into the extravagance of both molasses and butter on the colored orphans' bread and after a glance at me, and a quick comprehension from my face that i had no news for her, the girl at the window bent over her sewing again. "molasses breeds worms," miss letitia said decisively. "so does pork. and yet those children think heaven means ham and molasses three times a day." "you have had no news at all?" miss fleming said cautiously, her head bent over her work. "none," i returned, under cover of the table linen to which miss letitia's mind had veered. "i have a good man working on it." as she glanced at me questioningly, "it needed a detective, miss fleming." evidently another day without news had lessened her distrust of the police, for she nodded acquiescence and went on with her sewing. miss letitia's monotonous monologue went on, and i gave it such attention as i might. for the lamps had been lighted, and with every movement of the girl across, i could see the gleaming of a diamond on her engagement finger. "if i didn't watch her, jane would ruin them," said miss letitia. "she gives 'em apples when they keep their faces clean, and the bills for soap have gone up double. soap once a day's enough for a colored child. do you smell anything burning, knox?" i sniffed and lied, whereupon miss letitia swept her black silk, her colored orphans and her majestic presence out of the room. as the door closed, miss fleming put down her sewing and rose. for the first time i saw how weary she looked. "i do not dare to tell them, mr. knox," she said. "they are old, and they hate him anyhow. i couldn't sleep last night. suppose he should have gone back, and found the house closed!" "he would telephone here at once, wouldn't he?" i suggested. "i suppose so, yes." she took up her sewing from the chair with a sigh. "but i'm afraid he won't come--not soon. i have hemmed tea towels for aunt letitia to-day until i am frantic, and all day i have been wondering over something you said yesterday. you said, you remember, that you were not a detective, that some men could take nineteen from thirty-five and leave nothing. what did you mean?" i was speechless for a moment. "the fact is--i--you see," i blundered, "it was a--merely a figure of speech, a--speech of figures is more accurate,--" and then dinner was announced and i was saved. but although she said little or nothing during the meal, i caught her looking across at me once or twice in a bewildered, puzzled fashion. i could fairly see her revolving my detestable figures in her mind. miss letitia presided over the table in garrulous majesty. the two old ladies picked at their food, and miss jane had a spot of pink in each withered cheek. margery fleming made a brave pretense, but left her plate almost untouched. as for me, i ate a substantial masculine meal and half apologized for my appetite, but letitia did not hear. she tore the board of managers to shreds with the roast, and denounced them with the salad. but jane was all anxious hospitality. "please _do_ eat your dinner," she whispered. "i made the salad myself. and i know what it takes to keep a big man going. harry eats more than letitia and i together. doesn't he, margery?" "harry?" i asked. "mrs. stevens is an unmitigated fool. i said if they elected her president i'd not leave a penny to the home. that's why i sent for you, knox." and to the maid, "tell heppie to wash those cups in luke-warm water. they're the best ones. and not to drink her coffee out of them. she let her teeth slip and bit a piece out of one the last time." miss jane leaned forward to me after a smiling glance at her niece across. "harry wardrop, a cousin's son, and--" she patted margery's hand with its ring--"soon to be something closer." the girl's face colored, but she returned miss jane's gentle pressure. "they put up an iron fence," miss letitia reverted somberly to her grievance, "when a wooden one would have done. it was extravagance, ruinous extravagance." "harry stays with us when he is in manchester," miss jane went on, nodding brightly across at letitia as if she, too, were damning the executive board. "lately, he has been almost all the time in plattsburg. he is secretary to margery's father. it is a position of considerable responsibility, and we are very proud of him." i had expected something of the sort, but the remainder of the meal had somehow lost its savor. there was a lull in the conversation while dessert was being brought in. miss jane sat quivering, watching her sister's face for signs of trouble; the latter had subsided into muttered grumbling, and miss fleming sat, one hand on the table, staring absently at her engagement ring. "you look like a fool in that cap, jane," volunteered letitia, while the plates were being brought in. "what's for dessert?" "ice-cream," called miss jane, over the table. "well, you needn't," snapped letitia, "i can hear you well enough. you told me it was junket." "i said ice-cream, and you said it would be all right," poor jane shrieked. "if you drink a cup of hot water after it, it won't hurt you." "fiddle," letitia snapped unpleasantly. "i'm not going to freeze my stomach and then thaw it out like a drain pipe. tell heppie to put my ice-cream on the stove." so we waited until miss letitia's had been heated, and was brought in, sicklied over with pale hues, not of thought, but of confectioners' dyes. miss letitia ate it resignedly. "like as not i'll break out, i did the last time," she said gloomily. "i only hope i don't break out in colors." the meal was over finally, but if i had hoped for another word alone with margery fleming that evening, i was foredoomed to disappointment. letitia sent the girl, not ungently, to bed, and ordered jane out of the room with a single curt gesture toward the door. "you'd better wash those cups yourself, jane," she said. "i don't see any sense anyhow in getting out the best china unless there's real company. besides, i'm going to talk business." poor, meek, spiritless miss jane! the situation was absurd in spite of its pathos. she confided to me once that never in her sixty-five years of life had she bought herself a gown, or chosen the dinner. she was snubbed with painstaking perseverance, and sent out of the room when subjects requiring frank handling were under discussion. she was as unsophisticated as a child of ten, as unworldly as a baby, as--well, poor miss jane, again. when the door had closed behind her, miss letitia listened for a moment, got up suddenly and crossing the room with amazing swiftness for her years, pounced on the knob and threw it open again. but the passage was empty; miss jane's slim little figure was disappearing into the kitchen. the older sister watched her out of sight, and then returned to her sofa without deigning explanation. "i didn't want to see you about the will, mr. knox," she began without prelude. "the will can wait. i ain't going to die just yet--not if i know anything. but although i think you'd look a heap better and more responsible if you wore some hair on your face, still in most things i think you're a man of sense. and you're not too young. that's why i didn't send for harry wardrop; he's too young." i winced at that. miss letitia leaned forward and put her bony hand on my knee. "i've been robbed," she announced in a half whisper, and straightened to watch the effect of her words. "indeed!" i said, properly thunderstruck. i _was_ surprised. i had always believed that only the use of the fourth dimension in space would enable any one, not desired, to gain access to the maitland house. "of money?" "not money, although i had a good bit in the house." this also i knew. it was said of miss letitia that when money came into her possession it went out of circulation. "not--the pearls?" i asked. she answered my question with another. "when you had those pearls appraised for me at the jewelers last year, how many were there?" "not quite one hundred. i think--yes, ninety-eight." "exactly," she corroborated, in triumph. "they belonged to my mother. margery's mother got some of them. that's a good many years ago, young man. they are worth more than they were then--a great deal more." "twenty-two thousand dollars," i repeated. "you remember, miss letitia, that i protested vigorously at the time against your keeping them in the house." miss letitia ignored this, but before she went on she repeated again her cat-like pouncing at the door, only to find the hall empty as before. this time when she sat down it was knee to knee with me. "yesterday morning," she said gravely, "i got down the box; they have always been kept in the small safe in the top of my closet. when jane found a picture of my niece, margery fleming, in harry's room, i thought it likely there was some truth in the gossip jane heard about the two, and--if there was going to be a wedding--why, the pearls were to go to margery anyhow. but--i found the door of the safe unlocked and a little bit open--and ten of the pearls were gone!" "gone!" i echoed. "ten of them! why, it's ridiculous! if ten, why not the whole ninety-eight?" "how do i know?" she replied with asperity. "that's what i keep a lawyer for: that's why i sent for you." for the second time in two days i protested the same thing. "but you need a detective," i cried. "if you can find the thief i will be glad to send him where he ought to be, but i couldn't find him." "i will not have the police," she persisted inflexibly. "they will come around asking impertinent questions, and telling the newspapers that a foolish old woman had got what she deserved." "then you are going to send them to a bank?" "you have less sense than i thought," she snapped. "i am going to leave them where they are, and watch. whoever took the ten will be back for more, mark my words." "i don't advise it," i said decidedly. "you have most of them now, and you might easily lose them all; not only that, but it is not safe for you or your sister." "stuff and nonsense!" the old lady said, with spirit. "as for jane, she doesn't even know they are gone. i know who did it. it was the new housemaid, bella mackenzie. nobody else could get in. i lock up the house myself at night, and i'm in the habit of doing a pretty thorough job of it. they went in the last three weeks, for i counted them saturday three weeks ago myself. the only persons in the house in that time, except ourselves, were harry, bella and hepsibah, who's been here for forty years and wouldn't know a pearl from a pickled onion." "then--what do you want me to do?" i asked. "have bella arrested and her trunk searched?" i felt myself shrinking in the old lady's esteem every minute. "her trunk!" she said scornfully. "i turned it inside out this morning, pretending i thought she was stealing the laundry soap. like as not she has them buried in the vegetable garden. what i want you to do is to stay here for three or four nights, to be on hand. when i catch the thief, i want my lawyer right by." it ended by my consenting, of course. miss letitia was seldom refused. i telephoned to fred that i would not be home, listened for voices and decided margery fleming had gone to bed. miss jane lighted me to the door of the guest room, and saw that everything was comfortable. her thin gray curls bobbed as she examined the water pitcher, saw to the towels, and felt the bed linen for dampness. at the door she stopped and turned around timidly. "has--has anything happened to disturb my sister?" she asked. "she--has been almost irritable all day." almost! "she is worried about her colored orphans," i evaded. "she does not approve of fireworks for them on the fourth of july." miss jane was satisfied. i watched her little, old, black-robed figure go lightly down the hall. then i bolted the door, opened all the windows, and proceeded to a surreptitious smoke. chapter iv a thief in the night the windows being wide open, it was not long before a great moth came whirring in. he hurled himself at the light and then, dazzled and singed, began to beat with noisy thumps against the barrier of the ceiling. finding no egress there, he was back at the lamp again, whirling in dizzy circles until at last, worn out, he dropped to the table, where he lay on his back, kicking impotently. the room began to fill with tiny winged creatures that flung themselves headlong to destruction, so i put out the light and sat down near the window, with my cigar and my thoughts. miss letitia's troubles i dismissed shortly. while it was odd that only ten pearls should have been taken, still--in every other way it bore the marks of an ordinary theft. the thief might have thought that by leaving the majority of the gems he could postpone discovery indefinitely. but the fleming case was of a different order. taken by itself, fleming's disappearance could have been easily accounted for. there must be times in the lives of all unscrupulous individuals when they feel the need of retiring temporarily from the public eye. but the intrusion into the fleming home, the ransacked desk and the broken money drawer--most of all, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it--here was a hurdle my legal mind refused to take. i had finished my second cigar, and was growing more and more wakeful, when i heard a footstep on the path around the house. it was black outside; when i looked out, as i did cautiously, i could not see even the gray-white of the cement walk. the steps had ceased, but there was a sound of fumbling at one of the shutters below. the catch clicked twice, as if some thin instrument was being slipped underneath to raise it, and once i caught a muttered exclamation. i drew in my head and, puffing my cigar until it was glowing, managed by its light to see that it was a quarter to two. when i listened again, the house-breaker had moved to another window, and was shaking it cautiously. with miss letitia's story of the pearls fresh in my mind, i felt at once that the thief, finding his ten a prize, had come back for more. my first impulse was to go to the head of my bed, where i am accustomed to keep a revolver. with the touch of the tall corner post, however, i remembered that i was not at home, and that it was not likely there was a weapon in the house. finally, after knocking over an ornament that shattered on the hearth and sounded like the crash of doom, i found on the mantel a heavy brass candlestick, and with it in my hand i stepped into the gloom of the hallway and felt my way to the stairs. there were no night lights; the darkness was total. i found the stairs before i expected to, and came within an ace of pitching down, headlong. i had kicked off my shoes--a fact which i regretted later. once down the stairs i was on more familiar territory. i went at once into the library, which was beneath my room, but the sounds at the window had ceased. i thought i heard steps on the walk, going toward the front of the house. i wheeled quickly and started for the door, when something struck me a terrific blow on the nose. i reeled back and sat down, dizzy and shocked. it was only when no second blow followed the first that i realized what had occurred. with my two hands out before me in the blackness, i had groped, one hand on either side of the open door, which of course i had struck violently with my nose. afterward i found it had bled considerably, and my collar and tie must have added to my ghastly appearance. my candlestick had rolled under the table, and after crawling around on my hands and knees, i found it. i had lost, i suppose, three or four minutes, and i was raging at my awkwardness and stupidity. no one, however, seemed to have heard the noise. for all her boasted watchfulness, miss letitia must have been asleep. i got back into the hall and from there to the dining-room. some one was fumbling at the shutters there, and as i looked they swung open. it was so dark outside, with the trees and the distance from the street, that only the creaking of the shutter told it had opened. i stood in the middle of the room, with one hand firmly clutching my candlestick. but the window refused to move. the burglar seemed to have no proper tools; he got something under the sash, but it snapped, and through the heavy plate-glass i could hear him swearing. then he abruptly left the window and made for the front of the house. i blundered in the same direction, my unshod feet striking on projecting furniture and causing me agonies, even through my excitement. when i reached the front door, however, i was amazed to find it unlocked, and standing open perhaps an inch. i stopped uncertainly. i was in a peculiar position; not even the most ardent admirers of antique brass candlesticks indorse them as weapons of offense or defense. but, there seeming to be nothing else to do, i opened the door quietly and stepped out into the darkness. the next instant i was flung heavily to the porch floor. i am not a small man by any means, but under the fury of that onslaught i was a child. it was a porch chair, i think, that knocked me senseless; i know i folded up like a jack-knife, and that was all i did know for a few minutes. when i came to i was lying where i had fallen, and a candle was burning beside me on the porch floor. it took me a minute to remember, and another minute to realize that i was looking into the barrel of a revolver. it occurred to me that i had never seen a more villainous face than that of the man who held it--which shows my state of mind--and that my position was the reverse of comfortable. then the man behind the gun spoke. "what did you do with that bag?" he demanded, and i felt his knee on my chest. "what bag?" i inquired feebly. my head was jumping, and the candle was a volcanic eruption of sparks and smoke. "don't be a fool," the gentleman with the revolver persisted. "if i don't get that bag within five minutes, i'll fill you as full of holes as a cheese." "i haven't seen any bag," i said stupidly. "what sort of bag?" i heard my own voice, drunk from the shock. "paper bag, laundry bag--" "you've hidden it in the house," he said, bringing the revolver a little closer with every word. my senses came back with a jerk and i struggled to free myself. "go in and look," i responded. "let me up from here, and i'll take you in myself." the man's face was a study in amazement and anger. "you'll take me in! you!" he got up without changing the menacing position of the gun. "you walk in there--here, carry the candle--and take me to that bag. quick, do you hear?" i was too bewildered to struggle. i got up dizzily, but when i tried to stoop for the candle i almost fell on it. my head cleared after a moment, and when i had picked up the candle i had a good chance to look at my assailant. he was staring at me, too. he was a young fellow, well dressed, and haggard beyond belief. "i don't know anything about a bag," i persisted, "but if you will give me your word there was nothing in it belonging to this house, i will take you in and let you look for it." the next moment he had lowered the revolver and clutched my arm. "who in the devil's name _are_ you?" he asked wildly. i think the thing dawned on us both at the same moment. "my name is knox," i said coolly, feeling for my handkerchief--my head was bleeding from a cut over the ear--"john knox." "knox!" instead of showing relief; his manner showed greater consternation than ever. he snatched the candle from me and, holding it up, searched my face. "then--good god--where is my traveling-bag?" "i have something in my head where you hit me," i said. "perhaps that is it." but my sarcasm was lost on him. "i am harry wardrop," he said, "and i have been robbed, mr. knox. i was trying to get in the house without waking the family, and when i came back here to the front door, where i had left my valise, it was gone. i thought you were the thief when you came out, and--we've lost all this time. somebody has followed me and robbed me!" "what was in the bag?" i asked, stepping to the edge of the porch and looking around, with the help of the candle. "valuable papers," he said shortly. he seemed to be dazed and at a loss what to do next. we had both instinctively kept our voices low. "you are certain you left it here?" i asked. the thing seemed incredible in the quiet and peace of that neighborhood. "where you are standing." once more i began a desultory search, going down the steps and looking among the cannas that bordered the porch. something glistened beside the step, and stooping down i discovered a small brown leather traveling-bag, apparently quite new. "here it is," i said, not so gracious as i might have been; i had suffered considerably for that traveling-bag. the sight of it restored wardrop's poise at once. his twitching features relaxed. "by jove, i'm glad to see it," he said. "i can't explain, but--tremendous things were depending on that bag, mr. knox. i don't know how to apologize to you; i must have nearly brained you." "you did," i said grimly, and gave him the bag. the moment he took it i knew there was something wrong; he hurried into the house and lighted the library lamp. then he opened the traveling-bag with shaking fingers. it was empty! he stood for a moment, staring incredulously into it. then he hurled it down on the table and turned on me, as i stood beside him. "it's a trick!" he said furiously. "you've hidden it somewhere. this is not my bag. you've substituted one just like it." "don't be a fool," i retorted. "how could i substitute an empty satchel for yours when up to fifteen minutes ago i had never seen you or your grip either? use a little common sense. some place to-night you have put down that bag, and some clever thief has substituted a similar one. it's an old trick." he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "it's impossible," he said after a pause, while he seemed to be going over, minute by minute, the events of the night. "i was followed, as far as that goes, in plattsburg. two men watched me from the minute i got there, on tuesday; i changed my hotel, and for all of yesterday--wednesday, that is--i felt secure enough. but on my way to the train i felt that i was under surveillance again, and by turning quickly i came face to face with one of the men." "would you know him?" i asked. "yes. i thought he was a detective, you know i've had a lot of that sort of thing lately, with election coming on. he didn't get on the train, however." "but the other one may have done so." "yes, the other one may. the thing i don't understand is this, mr. knox. when we drew in at bellwood station i distinctly remember opening the bag and putting my newspaper and railroad schedule inside. it was the right bag then; my clothing was in it, and my brushes." i had been examining the empty bag as he talked. "where did you put your railroad schedule?" i asked. "in the leather pocket at the side." "it is here," i said, drawing out the yellow folder. for a moment my companion looked almost haunted. he pressed his hands to his head and began to pace the room like a crazy man. "the whole thing is impossible. i tell you, that valise was heavy when i walked up from the station. i changed it from one hand to the other because of the weight. when i got here i set it down on the edge of the porch and tried the door. when i found it locked--" "but it wasn't locked," i broke in. "when i came down-stairs to look for a burglar, i found it open at least an inch." he stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked at me curiously. "we're both crazy, then," he asserted gravely. "i tell you, i tried every way i knew to unlock that door, and could hear the chain rattling. unlocked! you don't know the way this house is fastened up at night." "nevertheless, it was unlocked when i came down." we were so engrossed that neither of us had heard steps on the stairs. the sound of a smothered exclamation from the doorway caused us both to turn suddenly. standing there, in a loose gown of some sort, very much surprised and startled, was margery fleming. wardrop pulled himself together at once. as for me, i knew what sort of figure i cut, my collar stained with blood, a lump on my forehead that felt as big as a door-knob, and no shoes. "what _is_ the matter?" she asked uncertainly. "i heard such queer noises, and i thought some one had broken into the house." "mr. wardrop was trying to break in," i explained, "and i heard him and came down. on the way i had a bloody encounter with an open door, in which i came out the loser." i don't think she quite believed me. she looked from my swollen head to the open bag, and then to wardrop's pale face. then i think, woman-like, she remembered the two great braids that hung over her shoulders and the dressing-gown she wore, for she backed precipitately into the hall. "i'm glad that's all it is," she called back cautiously, and we could hear her running up the stairs. "you'd better go to bed," wardrop said, picking up his hat. "i'm going down to the station. there's no train out of here between midnight and a flag train at four-thirty a. m. it's not likely to be of any use, but i want to see who goes on that train." "it is only half past two," i said, glancing at my watch. "we might look around outside first." the necessity for action made him welcome any suggestion. reticent as he was, his feverish excitement made me think that something vital hung on the recovery of the contents of that russia leather bag. we found a lantern somewhere in the back of the house, and together we went over the grounds. it did not take long, and we found nothing. as i look back on that night, the key to what had passed and to much that was coming was so simple, so direct--and yet we missed it entirely. nor, when bigger things developed, and hunter's trained senses were brought into play, did he do much better. it was some time before we learned the true inwardness of the events of that night. at five o'clock in the morning wardrop came back exhausted and nerveless. no one had taken the four-thirty; the contents of the bag were gone, probably beyond recall. i put my dented candlestick back on the mantel, and prepared for a little sleep, blessing the deafness of old age which had enabled the maitland ladies to sleep through it all. i tried to forget the queer events of the night, but the throbbing of my head kept me awake, and through it all one question obtruded itself--who had unlocked the front door and left it open? chapter v little miss jane i was almost unrecognizable when i looked at myself in the mirror the next morning, preparatory to dressing for breakfast. my nose boasted a new arch, like the back of an angry cat, making my profile roman and ferocious, and the lump on my forehead from the chair was swollen, glassy and purple. i turned my back to the mirror and dressed in wrathful irritation and my yesterday's linen. miss fleming was in the breakfast-room when i got down, standing at a window, her back to me. i have carried with me, during all the months since that time, a mental picture of her as she stood there, in a pink morning frock of some sort. but only the other day, having mentioned this to her, she assured me that the frock was blue, that she didn't have a pink garment at the time this story opens and that if she did she positively didn't have it on. and having thus flouted my eye for color, she maintains that she did _not_ have her back to me, for she distinctly saw my newly-raised bridge as i came down the stairs. so i amend this. miss fleming in a blue frock was facing the door when i went into the breakfast-room. of one thing i am certain. she came forward and held out her hand. "good morning," she said. "what a terrible face!" "it isn't mine," i replied meekly. "my own face is beneath these excrescences. i tried to cover the bump on my forehead with french chalk, but it only accentuated the thing, like snow on a mountain top." "'the purple peaks of darien,'" she quoted, pouring me my coffee. "do you know, i feel so much better since you have taken hold of things. aunt letitia thinks you are wonderful." i thought ruefully of the failure of my first attempt to play the sleuth, and i disclaimed any right to miss letitia's high opinion of me. from my dogging the watchman to the police station, to delia and her note, was a short mental step. "before any one comes down, miss fleming," i said, "i want to ask a question or two. what was the name of the maid who helped you search the house that night?" "annie." "what other maids did you say there were?" "delia and rose." "do you know anything about them? where they came from, or where they went?" she smiled a little. "what does one know about new servants?" she responded. "they bring you references, but references are the price most women pay to get rid of their servants without a fuss. rose was fat and old, but delia was pretty. i thought she rather liked carter." carter as well as shields, the policeman. i put miss delia down as a flirt. "and you have no idea where carter went?" "none." wardrop came in then, and we spoke of other things. the two elderly ladies it seemed had tea and toast in their rooms when they wakened, and the three of us breakfasted together. but conversation languished with wardrop's appearance; he looked haggard and worn, avoided miss fleming's eyes, and after ordering eggs instead of his chop, looked at his watch and left without touching anything. "i want to get the nine-thirty, margie," he said, coming back with his hat in his hand. "i may not be out to dinner. tell miss letitia, will you?" he turned to go, but on second thought came back to me and held out his hand. "i may not see you again," he began. "not if i see you first," i interrupted. he glanced at my mutilated features and smiled. "i have made you a maitland," he said. "i didn't think that anything but a prodigal nature could duplicate miss letitia's nose! i'm honestly sorry, mr. knox, and if you do not want miss jane at that bump with a cold silver knife and some butter, you'd better duck before she comes down. good-by, margie." i think the girl was as much baffled as i was by the change in his manner when he spoke to her. his smile faded and he hardly met her eyes: i thought that his aloofness puzzled rather than hurt her. when the house door had closed behind him, she dropped her chin in her hand and looked across the table. "you did not tell me the truth last night, mr. knox," she said. "i have never seen harry look like that. something has happened to him." "he was robbed of his traveling-bag," i explained, on fred's theory that half a truth is better than a poor lie. "it's a humiliating experience, i believe. a man will throw away thousands, or gamble them away, with more equanimity than he'll see some one making off with his hair brushes or his clean collars." "his traveling-bag!" she repeated scornfully. "mr. knox, something has happened to my father, and you and harry are hiding it from me." "on my honor, it is nothing of the sort," i hastened to assure her. "i saw him for only a few minutes, just long enough for him to wreck my appearance." "he did not speak of father?" "no." she got up and crossing to the wooden mantel, put her arms upon it and leaned her head against them. "i wanted to ask him," she said drearily, "but i am afraid to. suppose he doesn't know and i should tell him! he would go to mr. schwartz at once, and mr. schwartz is treacherous. the papers would get it, too." her eyes filled with tears, and i felt as awkward as a man always does when a woman begins to cry. if he knows her well enough he can go over and pat her on the shoulder and assure her it is going to be all right. if he does not know her, and there are two maiden aunts likely to come in at any minute, he sits still, as i did, and waits until the storm clears. miss margery was not long in emerging from her handkerchief. "i didn't sleep much," she explained, dabbing at her eyes, "and i am nervous, anyhow. mr. knox, are you sure it was only harry trying to get into the house last night?" "only harry," i repeated. "if mr. wardrop's attempt to get into the house leaves me in this condition, what would a real burglar have done to me!" she was too intent to be sympathetic over my disfigured face. "there was some one moving about up-stairs not long before i came down," she said slowly. "you heard me; i almost fell down the stairs." "did you brush past my door, and strike the knob?" she demanded. "no, i was not near any door." "very well," triumphantly. "some one did. not only that, but they were in the store-room on the floor above. i could hear one person and perhaps two, going from one side of the room to the other and back again." "you heard a goblin quadrille. first couple forward and back," i said facetiously. "i heard real footsteps--unmistakable ones. the maids sleep back on the second floor, and--don't tell me it was rats. there are no rats in my aunt letitia's house." i was more impressed than i cared to show. i found i had a half hour before train time, and as we were neither of us eating anything, i suggested that we explore the upper floor of the house. i did it, i explained, not because i expected to find anything, but because i was sure we would not. we crept past the two closed doors behind which the ladies maitland were presumably taking out their crimps and taking in their tea. then up a narrow, obtrusively clean stairway to the upper floor. it was an old-fashioned, sloping-roofed attic, with narrow windows and a bare floor. at one end a door opened into a large room, and in there were the family trunks of four generations of maitlands. one on another they were all piled there--little hair trunks, squab-topped trunks, huge saratogas--of the period when the two maiden ladies were in their late teens--and there were handsome, modern trunks, too. for miss fleming's satisfaction i made an examination of the room, but it showed nothing. there was little or no dust to have been disturbed; the windows were closed and locked. in the main attic were two step-ladders, some curtains drying on frames and an old chest of drawers with glass knobs and the veneering broken in places. one of the drawers stood open, and inside could be seen a red and white patchwork quilt, and a grayish thing that looked like flannel and smelled to heaven of camphor. we gave up finally, and started down. part way down the attic stairs margery stopped, her eyes fixed on the white-scrubbed rail. following her gaze, i stopped, too, and i felt a sort of chill go over me. no spot or blemish, no dirty finger print marked the whiteness of that stair rail, except in one place. on it, clear and distinct, every line of the palm showing, was the reddish imprint of a hand! margery did not speak; she had turned very white, and closed her eyes, but she was not faint. when the first revulsion had passed, i reached over and touched the stain. it was quite dry, of course, but it was still reddish-brown; another hour or two would see it black. it was evidently fresh--hunter said afterward it must have been about six hours old, and as things transpired, he was right. the stain showed a hand somewhat short and broad, with widened finger-tips; marked in ink, it would not have struck me so forcibly, perhaps, but there, its ugly red against the white wood, it seemed to me to be the imprint of a brutal, murderous hand. margery was essentially feminine. "what did i tell you?" she asked. "some one was in this house last night; i heard them distinctly. there must have been two, and they quarreled--" she shuddered. we went on down-stairs into the quiet and peace of the dining-room again. i got some hot coffee for margery, for she looked shaken, and found i had missed my train. "i am beginning to think i am being pursued by a malicious spirit," she said, trying to smile. "i came away from home because people got into the house at night and left queer signs of their visits, and now, here at bellwood, where nothing _ever_ happens, the moment i arrive things begin to occur. and--just as it was at home--the house was so well locked last night." i did not tell her of the open hall door, just as i had kept from her the fact that only the contents of harry wardrop's bag had been taken. that it had all been the work of one person, and that that person, having in some way access to the house, had also stolen the pearls, was now my confident belief. i looked at bella--the maid--as she moved around the dining-room; her stolid face was not even intelligent; certainly not cunning. heppie, the cook and only other servant, was partly blind and her horizon was the diameter of her largest kettle. no--it had not been a servant, this mysterious intruder who passed the maitland silver on the sideboard without an attempt to take it, and who floundered around an attic at night, in search of nothing more valuable than patchwork quilts and winter flannels. it is strange to look back and think how quietly we sat there; that we could see nothing but burglary--or an attempt at it--in what we had found. it must have been after nine o'clock when bella came running into the room. ordinarily a slow and clumsy creature, she almost flew. she had a tray in her hand, and the dishes were rattling and threatening overthrow at every step. she brought up against a chair, and a cup went flying. the breaking of a cup must have been a serious offense in miss letitia maitland's house, but bella took no notice whatever of it. "miss jane," she gasped, "miss jane, she's--she's--" "hurt!" margery exclaimed, rising and clutching at the table for support. "no. gone--she's gone! she's been run off with!" "nonsense!" i said, seeing margery's horrified face. "don't come in here with such a story. if miss jane is not in her room, she is somewhere else, that's all." bella stooped and gathered up the broken cup, her lips moving. margery had recovered herself. she made bella straighten and explain. "do you mean--she is not in her room?" she asked incredulously. "isn't she somewhere around the house?" "go up and look at the room," the girl replied, and, with margery leading, we ran up the stairs. miss jane's room was empty. from somewhere near miss letitia could be heard lecturing hepsibah about putting too much butter on the toast. her high voice, pitched for heppie's old ears, rasped me. margery closed the door, and we surveyed the room together. the bed had been occupied; its coverings had been thrown back, as if its occupant had risen hurriedly. the room itself was in a state of confusion; a rocker lay on its side, and miss jane's clothing, folded as she had taken it off, had slid off on to the floor. her shoes stood neatly at the foot of the bed, and a bottle of toilet vinegar had been upset, pouring a stream over the marble top of the dresser and down on to the floor. over the high wooden mantel the maitland who had been governor of the state years ago hung at a waggish angle, and a clock had been pushed aside and stopped at half-past one. margery stared around her in bewilderment. of course, it was not until later in the day that i saw all the details. my first impression was of confusion and disorder: the room seemed to have been the scene of a struggle. the overturned furniture, the clothes on the floor, the picture, coupled with the print of the hand on the staircase and miss jane's disappearance, all seemed to point to one thing. and as if to prove it conclusively, margery picked up miss jane's new lace cap from the floor. it was crumpled and spotted with blood. "she has been killed," margery said, in a choking voice. "killed, and she had not an enemy in the world!" "but where is she?" i asked stupidly. margery had more presence of mind than i had; i suppose it is because woman's courage is mental and man's physical, that in times of great strain women always make the better showing. while i was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the confusion around me, margery was already on her knees, looking under the high, four-post bed. finding nothing there she went to the closet. it was undisturbed. pathetic rows of limp black dresses and on the shelves two black crepe bonnets were mute reminders of the little old lady. but there was nothing else in the room. "call robert, the gardener," margery said quickly, "and have him help you search the grounds and cellars. i will take bella and go through the house. above everything, keep it from aunt letitia as long as possible." i locked the door into the disordered room, and with my head whirling, i went to look for robert. it takes a short time to search an acre of lawn and shrubbery. there was no trace of the missing woman anywhere outside the house, and from bella, as she sat at the foot of the front stairs with her apron over her head, i learned in a monosyllable that nothing had been found in the house. margery was with miss letitia, and from the excited conversation i knew she was telling her--not harrowing details, but that miss jane had disappeared during the night. the old lady was inclined to scoff at first. "look in the fruit closet in the store-room," i heard her say. "she's let the spring lock shut on her twice; she was black in the face the last time we found her." "i did look; she's not there," margery screamed at her. "then she's out looking for stump water to take that wart off her neck. she said yesterday she was going for some." "but her clothes are all here," margery persisted. "we think some one must have got in the house." "if all her clothes are there she's been sleep-walking," miss letitia said calmly. "we used to have to tie her by a cord around her ankle and fasten it to the bedpost. when she tried to get up the cord would pull and wake her." i think after a time, however, some of margery's uneasiness communicated itself to the older woman. she finished dressing, and fumed when we told her we had locked miss jane's door and mislaid the key. finally, margery got her settled in the back parlor with some peppermints and her knitting; she had a feeling, she said, that jane had gone after the stump water and lost her way, and i told margery to keep her in that state of mind as long as she could. i sent for hunter that morning and he came at three o'clock. i took him through the back entrance to avoid miss letitia. i think he had been skeptical until i threw open the door and showed him the upset chair, the old lady's clothing, and the bloodstained lace cap. his examination was quick and thorough. he took a crumpled sheet of note paper out of the waste-basket and looked at it, then he stuffed it in his pocket. he sniffed the toilet water, called margery and asked her if any clothing was missing, and on receiving a negative answer asked if any shawls or wraps were gone from the halls or other rooms. margery reported nothing missing. before he left the room, hunter went back and moved the picture which had been disturbed over the mantel. what he saw made him get a chair and, standing on it, take the picture from its nail. thus exposed, the wall showed an opening about a foot square, and perhaps eighteen inches deep. a metal door, opening in, was unfastened and ajar, and just inside was a copy of a recent sentimental novel and a bottle of some sort of complexion cream. in spite of myself, i smiled; it was so typical of the dear old lady, with the heart of a girl and a skin that was losing its roses. but there was something else in the receptacle, something that made margery fleming draw in her breath sharply, and made hunter raise his eyebrows a little and glance at me. the something was a scrap of unruled white paper, and on it the figures eleven twenty-two! chapter vi a fountain pen harry wardrop came back from the city at four o'clock, while hunter was in the midst of his investigation. i met him in the hall and told him what had happened, and with this new apprehension added to the shock of the night before, he looked as though his nerves were ready to snap. wardrop was a man of perhaps twenty-seven, as tall as i, although not so heavy, with direct blue eyes and fair hair; altogether a manly and prepossessing sort of fellow. i was not surprised that margery fleming had found him attractive--he had the blond hair and off-hand manner that women seem to like. i am dark, myself. he seemed surprised to find hunter there, and not particularly pleased, but he followed us to the upper floor and watched silently while hunter went over the two rooms. beside the large chest of drawers in the main attic hunter found perhaps half a dozen drops of blood, and on the edge of the open drawer there were traces of more. in the inner room two trunks had been moved out nearly a foot, as he found by the faint dust that had been under them. with the stain on the stair rail, that was all he discovered, and it was little enough. then he took out his note-book and there among the trunks we had a little seance of our own, in which hunter asked questions, and whoever could do so answered them. "have you a pencil or pen, mr. knox?" he asked me, but i had none. wardrop felt his pockets, with no better success. "i have lost my fountain pen somewhere around the house to-day," he said irritably. "here's a pencil--not much of one." hunter began his interrogations. "how old was miss maitland--miss jane, i mean?" "sixty-five," from margery. "she had always seemed rational? not eccentric, or childish?" "not at all; the sanest woman i ever knew." this from wardrop. "has she ever, to your knowledge, received any threatening letters?" "never in all her life," from both of them promptly. "you heard sounds, you say, miss fleming. at what time?" "about half-past one or perhaps a few minutes later. the clock struck two while i was still awake and nervous." "this person who was walking through the attics here--would you say it was a heavy person? a man, i mean?" margery stopped to think. "yes," she said finally. "it was very stealthy, but i think it was a man's step." "you heard no sound of a struggle? no voices? no screams?" "none at all," she said positively. and i added my quota. "there could have been no such sounds," i said. "i sat in my room and smoked until a quarter to two. i heard nothing until then, when i heard mr. wardrop trying to get into the house. i went down to admit him, and--i found the front door open about an inch." hunter wheeled on wardrop. "a quarter to two?" he asked. "you were coming home from--the city?" "yes, from the station." hunter watched him closely. "the last train gets in here at twelve-thirty," he said slowly. "does it always take you an hour and a quarter to walk the three squares to the house?" wardrop flushed uneasily, and i could see margery's eyes dilate with amazement. as for me, i could only stare. "i did not come directly home," he said, almost defiantly. hunter's voice was as smooth as silk. "then--will you be good enough to tell me where you did go?" he asked. "i have reasons for wanting to know." "damn your reasons--i beg your pardon, margery. look here, mr. hunter, do you think i would hurt a hair of that old lady's head? do you think i came here last night and killed her, or whatever it is that has happened to her? and then went out and tried to get in again through the window?" "not necessarily," hunter said, unruffled. "it merely occurred to me that we have at least an hour of your time last night, while this thing was going on, to account for. however, we can speak of that later. i am practically certain of one thing, miss maitland is not dead, or was not dead when she was taken away from this house." "taken away!" margery repeated. "then you think she was kidnapped?" "well, it is possible. it's a puzzling affair all through. you are certain there are no closets or unused rooms where, if there had been a murder, the body could be concealed." "i never heard of any," margery said, but i saw wardrop's face change on the instant. he said nothing, however, but stood frowning at the floor, with his hands deep in his coat pockets. margery was beginning to show the effect of the long day's strain; she began to cry a little, and with an air of proprietorship that i resented, somehow, wardrop went over to her. "you are going to lie down, margery," he said, holding out his hand to help her up. "mrs. mellon will come over to aunt letitia, and you must get some sleep." "sleep!" she said with scorn, as he helped her to her feet. "sleep, when things like this are occurring! father first, and now dear old aunt jane! harry, do you know where my father is?" he faced her, as if he had known the question must come and was prepared for it. "i know that he is all right, margery. he has been--out of town. if it had not been for something unforeseen that--happened within the last few hours, he would have been home to-day." she drew a long breath of relief. "and aunt jane?" she asked hunter, from the head of the attic stairs, "you do not think she is dead?" "not until we have found something more," he answered tactlessly. "it's like where there's smoke there's fire; where there's murder there's a body." when they had both gone, hunter sat down on a trunk and drew out a cigar that looked like a bomb. "what do you think of it?" i asked, when he showed no disposition to talk. "i'll be damned if i know," he responded, looking around for some place to expectorate and finding none. "the window," i suggested, and he went over to it. when he came back he had a rather peculiar expression. he sat down and puffed for a moment. "in the first place," he began, "we can take it for granted that, unless she was crazy or sleep-walking, she didn't go out in her night-clothes, and there's nothing of hers missing. she wasn't taken in a carriage, providing she was taken at all. there's not a mark of wheels on that drive newer than a week, and besides, you say you heard nothing." "nothing," i said positively. "then, unless she went away in a balloon, where it wouldn't matter what she had on, she is still around the premises. it depends on how badly she was hurt." "are you sure it was she who was hurt?" i asked. "that print of a hand--that is not miss jane's." in reply hunter led the way down the stairs to the place where the stain on the stair rail stood out, ugly and distinct. he put his own heavy hand on the rail just below it. "suppose," he said, "suppose you grip something very hard, what happens to your hand?" "it spreads," i acknowledged, seeing what he meant. "now, look at that stain. look at the short fingers--why, it's a child's hand beside mine. the breadth is from pressure. it might be figured out this way. the fingers, you notice, point down the stairs. in some way, let us say, the burglar, for want of a better name, gets into the house. he used a ladder resting against that window by the chest of drawers." "ladder!" i exclaimed. "yes, there is a pruning ladder there. now then--he comes down these stairs, and he has a definite object. he knows of something valuable in that cubby hole over the mantel in miss jane's room. how does he get in? the door into the upper hall is closed and bolted, but the door into the bath-room is open. from there another door leads into the bedroom, and it has no bolt--only a key. that kind of a lock is only a three-minutes delay, or less. now then, miss maitland was a light sleeper. when she wakened she was too alarmed to scream; she tried to get to the door and was intercepted. finally she got out the way the intruder got in, and ran along the hall. every door was locked. in a frenzy she ran up the attic stairs and was captured up there. which bears out miss margery's story of the footsteps back and forward." "good heavens, what an awful thing!" i gasped. "and i was sitting smoking just across the hall." "he brings her down the stairs again, probably half dragging her. once, she catches hold of the stair rail, and holds desperately to it, leaving the stain here." "but why did he bring her down?" i asked bewildered. "why wouldn't he take what he was after and get away?" hunter smoked and meditated. "she probably had to get the key of the iron door," he suggested. "it was hidden, and time was valuable. if there was a scapegrace member of the family, for instance, who knew where the old lady kept money, and who needed it badly; who knew all about the house, and who--" "fleming!" i exclaimed, aghast. "or even our young friend, wardrop," hunter said quietly. "he has an hour to account for. the trying to get in may have been a blind, and how do you know that what he says was stolen out of his satchel was not what he had just got from the iron box over the mantel in miss maitland's room?" i was dizzy with trying to follow hunter's facile imagination. the thing we were trying to do was to find the old lady, and, after all, here we brought up against the same _impasse_. "then where is she now?" i asked. he meditated. he had sat down on the narrow stairs, and was rubbing his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. "one-thirty, miss margery says, when she heard the noise. one-forty-five when you heard wardrop at the shutters. i tell you, knox, it is one of two things: either that woman is dead somewhere in this house, or she ran out of the hall door just before you went down-stairs, and in that case the lord only knows where she is. if there is a room anywhere that we have not explored--" "i am inclined to think there is," i broke in, thinking of wardrop's face a few minutes before. and just then wardrop himself joined us. he closed the door at the foot of the boxed-in staircase, and came quietly up. "you spoke about an unused room or a secret closet, mr. hunter," he said, without any resentment in his tone. "we have nothing so sensational as that, but the old house is full of queer nooks and crannies, and perhaps, in one of them, we might find--" he stopped and gulped. whatever hunter might think, whatever i might have against harry wardrop, i determined then that he had had absolutely nothing to do with little miss maitland's strange disappearance. the first place we explored was a closed and walled-in wine-cellar, long unused, and to which access was gained by a small window in the stone foundation of the house. the cobwebs over the window made it practically an impossible place, but we put robert, the gardener, through it, in spite of his protests. "there's nothin' there, i tell you," he protested, with one leg over the coping. "god only knows what's down there, after all these years. i've been livin' here with the miss maitlands for twenty year, and i ain't never been put to goin' down into cellars on the end of a rope." he went, because we were three to his one, but he was up again in sixty seconds, with the announcement that the place was as bare as the top of his head. we moved every trunk in the store-room, although it would have been a moral impossibility for any one to have done it the night before without rousing the entire family, and were thus able to get to and open a large closet, which proved to contain neatly tied and labeled packages of religious weeklies, beginning in the sixties. the grounds had been gone over inch by inch, without affording any clue, and now the three of us faced one another. the day was almost gone, and we were exactly where we started. hunter had sent men through the town and the adjacent countryside, but no word had come from them. miss letitia had at last succumbed to the suspense and had gone to bed, where she lay quietly enough, as is the way with the old, but so mild that she was alarming. at five o'clock hawes called me up from the office and almost tearfully implored me to come back and attend to my business. when i said it was impossible, i could hear him groan as he hung up the receiver. hawes is of the opinion that by keeping fresh magazines in my waiting-room and by persuading me to the extravagance of turkish rugs, that he has built my practice to its present flourishing state. when i left the telephone, hunter was preparing to go back to town and wardrop was walking up and down the hall. suddenly wardrop stopped his uneasy promenade and hailed the detective on his way to the door. "by george," he exclaimed, "i forgot to show you the closet under the attic stairs!" we hurried up and wardrop showed us the panel in the hall, which slid to one side when he pushed a bolt under the carpet. the blackness of the closet was horrible in its suggestion to me. i stepped back while hunter struck a match and looked in. the closet was empty. "better not go in," wardrop said. "it hasn't been used for years and it's black with dust. i found it myself and showed it to miss jane. i don't believe miss letitia knows it is here." "it hasn't been used for years!" reflected hunter, looking around him curiously. "i suppose it has been some time since you were in here, mr. wardrop?" "several years," wardrop replied carelessly. "i used to keep contraband here in my college days, cigarettes and that sort of thing. i haven't been in it since then." hunter took his foot off a small object that lay on the floor, and picking it up, held it out to wardrop, with a grim smile. "here is the fountain pen you lost this morning, mr. wardrop," he said quietly. chapter vii concerning margery when hunter had finally gone at six o'clock, summoned to town on urgent business, we were very nearly where we had been before he came. he could only give us theories, and after all, what we wanted was fact--and miss jane. many things, however, that he had unearthed puzzled me. why had wardrop lied about so small a matter as his fountain pen? the closet was empty: what object could he have had in saying he had not been in it for years? i found that my belief in his sincerity of the night before was going. if he had been lying then, i owed him something for a lump on my head that made it difficult for me to wear my hat. it would have been easy enough for him to rob himself, and, if he had an eye for the theatrical, to work out just some such plot. it was even possible that he had hidden for a few hours in the secret closet the contents of the russia leather bag. but, whatever wardrop might or might not be, he gave me little chance to find out, for he left the house before hunter did that afternoon, and it was later, and under strange circumstances, that i met him again. hunter had not told me what was on the paper he had picked out of the basket in miss jane's room, and i knew he was as much puzzled as i at the scrap in the little cupboard, with eleven twenty-two on it. it occurred to me that it might mean the twenty-second day of the eleventh month, perhaps something that had happened on some momentous, long-buried twenty-second of november. but this was may, and the finding of two slips bearing the same number was too unusual. after hunter left i went back to the closet under the upper stairs, and with some difficulty got the panel open again. the space inside, perhaps eight feet high at one end and four at the other, was empty. there was a row of hooks, as if at some time clothing had been hung there, and a flat shelf at one end, gray with dust. i struck another match and examined the shelf. on its surface were numerous scratchings in the dust layer, but at one end, marked out as if drawn on a blackboard, was a rectangular outline, apparently that of a smallish box, and fresh. my match burned my fingers and i dropped it to the floor, where it expired in a sickly blue flame. at the last, however, it died heroically--like an old man to whom his last hours bring back some of the glory of his prime, burning brightly for a second and then fading into darkness. the last flash showed me, on the floor of the closet and wedged between two boards, a small white globule. it did not need another match to tell me it was a pearl. i dug it out carefully and took it to my room. in the daylight there i recognized it as an unstrung pearl of fair size and considerable value. there could hardly be a doubt that i had stumbled on one of the stolen gems; but a pearl was only a pearl to me, after all. i didn't feel any of the inspirations which fiction detectives experience when they happen on an important clue. i lit a cigar and put the pearl on the table in front of me. but no explanation formed itself in the tobacco smoke. if wardrop took the pearls, i kept repeating over and over, if wardrop took the pearls, who took miss jane? i tried to forget the pearls, and to fathom the connection between miss maitland's disappearance and the absence of her brother-in-law. the scrap of paper, eleven twenty-two, must connect them, but how? a family scandal? dismissed on the instant. there could be nothing that would touch the virginal remoteness of that little old lady. insanity? well, miss jane might have had a sudden aberration and wandered away, but that would leave fleming out, and the paper dragged him in. a common enemy? i smoked and considered for some time over this. an especially malignant foe might rob, or even murder, but it was almost ludicrous to think of his carrying away by force miss jane's ninety pounds of austere flesh. the solution, had it not been for the blood-stains, might have been a peaceful one, leaving out the pearls, altogether, but later developments showed that the pearls refused to be omitted. to my mind, however, at that time, the issue seemed a double one. i believed that some one, perhaps harry wardrop, had stolen the pearls, hidden them in the secret closet, and disposed of them later. i made a note to try to follow up the missing pearls. then--i clung to the theory that miss maitland had been abducted and was being held for ransom. if i could have found traces of a vehicle of any sort near the house, i would almost have considered my contention proved. that any one could have entered the house, intimidated and even slightly injured the old lady, and taken her quietly out the front door, while i sat smoking in my room with the window open, and wardrop trying the shutters at the side of the house, seemed impossible. yet there were the stains, the confusion, the open front door to prove it. but--and i stuck here--the abductor who would steal an old woman, and take her out into the may night without any covering--not even shoes--clad only in her night-clothes, would run an almost certain risk of losing his prize by pneumonia. for a second search had shown not an article of wearing apparel missing from the house. even the cedar chests were undisturbed; not a blanket was gone. just before dinner i made a second round of the grounds, this time looking for traces of wheels. i found none near-by, and it occurred to me that the boldest highwayman would hardly drive up to the door for his booty. when i had extended my search to cover the unpaved lane that separated the back of the maitland place from its nearest neighbor, i was more fortunate. the morning delivery wagons had made fresh trails, and at first i despaired. i sauntered up the lane to the right, however, and about a hundred feet beyond the boundary hedge i found circular tracks, broad and deep, where an automobile had backed and turned. the lane was separated by high hedges of osage orange from the properties on either side, and each house in that neighborhood had a drive of its own, which entered from the main street, circled the house and went out as it came. there was no reason, or, so far as i could see, no legitimate reason, why a car should have stopped there, yet it had stopped and for some time. deeper tracks in the sand at the side of the lane showed that. i felt that i had made some progress: i had found where the pearls had been hidden after the theft, and this put bella out of the question. and i had found--or thought i had--the way in which miss jane had been taken away from bellwood. i came back past the long rear wing of the house which contained, i presumed, the kitchen and the other mysterious regions which only women and architects comprehend. a long porch ran the length of the wing, and as i passed i heard my name called. "in here in the old laundry," margery's voice repeated, and i retraced my steps and went up on the porch. at the very end of the wing, dismantled, piled at the sides with firewood and broken furniture, was an old laundry. its tubs were rusty, its walls mildewed and streaked, and it exhaled the musty odor of empty houses. on the floor in the middle of the room, undeniably dirty and dishevelled, sat margery fleming. "i thought you were never coming," she said petulantly. "i have been here alone for an hour." "i'm sure i never guessed it," i apologized. "i should have been only too glad to come and sit with you." she was fumbling with her hair, which threatened to come down any minute, and which hung, loosely knotted, over one small ear. "i hate to look ridiculous," she said sharply, "and i detest being laughed at. i've been crying, and i haven't any handkerchief." i proffered mine gravely, and she took it. she wiped the dusty streaks off her cheeks and pinned her hair in a funny knob on top of her head that would have made any other woman look like a caricature. but still she sat on the floor. "now," she said, when she had jabbed the last hair-pin into place and tucked my handkerchief into her belt, "if you have been sufficiently amused, perhaps you will help me out of here." "out of where?" "do you suppose i'm sitting here because i like it?" "you have sprained your ankle," i said, with sudden alarm. in reply she brushed aside her gown, and for the first time i saw what had occurred. she was sitting half over a trap-door in the floor, which had closed on her skirts and held her fast. "the wretched thing!" she wailed. "and i have called until i am hoarse. i could shake heppie! then i tried to call you mentally. i fixed my mind on you and said over and over, 'come, please come.' didn't you feel anything at all?" "good old trap-door!" i said. "i know i was thinking about you, but i never suspected the reason. and then to have walked past here twenty minutes ago! why didn't you call me then?" i was tugging at the door, but it was fast, with the skirts to hold it tight. "i looked such a fright," she explained. "can't you pry it up with something?" i tried several things without success, while margery explained her plight. "i was sure robert had not looked carefully in the old wine cellar," she said, "and then i remembered this trap-door opened into it. it was the only place we hadn't explored thoroughly. i put a ladder down and looked around. ugh!" "what did you find?" i asked, as my third broomstick lever snapped. "nothing--only i know now where aunt letitia's edwin booth went to. he was a cat," she explained, "and aunt letitia made the railroad pay for killing him." i gave up finally and stood back. "couldn't you--er--get out of your garments, and--i could go out and close the door," i suggested delicately. "you see you are sitting on the trap-door, and--" but margery scouted the suggestion with the proper scorn, and demanded a pair of scissors. she cut herself loose with vicious snips, while i paraphrased the old nursery rhyme, "she cut her petticoats all around about." then she gathered up her outraged garments and fled precipitately. she was unusually dignified at dinner. neither of us cared to eat, and the empty places--wardrop's and miss letitia's--miss jane's had not been set--were like skeletons at the board. it was margery who, after our pretense of a meal, voiced the suspicion i think we both felt. "it is a strange time for harry to go away," she said quietly, from the library window. "he probably has a reason." "why don't you say it?" she said suddenly, turning on me. "i know what you think. you believe he only pretended he was robbed!" "i should be sorry to think anything of the kind," i began. but she did not allow me to finish. "i saw what you thought," she burst out bitterly. "the detective almost laughed in his face. oh, you needn't think i don't know: i saw him last night, and the woman too. he brought her right to the gate. you treat me like a child, all of you!" in sheer amazement i was silent. so a new character had been introduced into the play--a woman, too! "you were not the only person, mr. knox, who could not sleep last night," she went on. "oh, i know a great many things. i know about the pearls, and what you think about them, and i know more than that, i--" she stopped then. she had said more than she intended to, and all at once her bravado left her, and she looked like a frightened child. i went over to her and took one trembling hand. "i wish you didn't know all those things," i said. "but since you do, won't you let me share the burden? the only reason i am still here is--on your account." i had a sort of crazy desire to take her in my arms and comfort her, wardrop or no wardrop. but at that moment, luckily for me, perhaps, miss letitia's shrill old voice came from the stairway. "get out of my way, heppie," she was saying tartly. "i'm not on my death-bed yet, not if i know it. where's knox?" whereupon i obediently went out and helped miss letitia into the room. "i think i know where jane is," she said, putting down her cane with a jerk. "i don't know why i didn't think about it before. she's gone to get her new teeth; she's been talkin' of it for a month. not but what her old teeth would have done well enough." "she would hardly go in the middle of the night," i returned. "she was a very timid woman, wasn't she?" "she wasn't raised right," miss letitia said with a shake of her head. "she's the baby, and the youngest's always spoiled." "have you thought that this might be more than it appears to be?" i was feeling my way: she was a very old woman. "it--for instance, it might be abduction, kidnapping--for a ransom." "ransom!" miss letitia snapped. "mr. knox, my father made his money by working hard for it: i haven't wasted it--not that i know of. and if jane maitland was fool enough to be abducted, she'll stay a while before i pay anything for her. it looks to me as if this detective business was going to be expensive, anyhow." my excuse for dwelling with such attention to detail on the preliminary story, the disappearance of miss jane maitland and the peculiar circumstances surrounding it, will have to find its justification in the events that followed it. miss jane herself, and the solution of that mystery, solved the even more tragic one in which we were about to be involved. i say _we_, because it was borne in on me at about that time, that the things that concerned margery fleming must concern me henceforth, whether i willed it so or otherwise. for the first time in my life a woman's step on the stair was like no other sound in the world. chapter viii too late at nine o'clock that night things remained about the same. the man hunter had sent to investigate the neighborhood and the country just outside of the town, came to the house about eight, and reported "nothing discovered." miss letitia went to bed early, and margery took her up-stairs. hunter called me by telephone from town. "can you take the nine-thirty up?" he asked. i looked at my watch. "yes, i think so. is there anything new?" "not yet; there may be. take a cab at the station and come to the corner of mulberry street and park lane. you'd better dismiss your cab there and wait for me." i sent word up-stairs by bella, who was sitting in the kitchen, her heavy face sodden with grief, and taking my hat and raincoat--it was raining a light spring drizzle--i hurried to the station. in twenty-four minutes i was in the city, and perhaps twelve minutes more saw me at the designated corner, with my cab driving away and the rain dropping off the rim of my hat and splashing on my shoulders. i found a sort of refuge by standing under the wooden arch of a gate, and it occurred to me that, for all my years in the city, this particular neighborhood was altogether strange to me. two blocks away, in any direction, i would have been in familiar territory again. back of me a warehouse lifted six or seven gloomy stories to the sky. the gate i stood in was evidently the entrance to its yard, and in fact, some uncomfortable movement of mine just then struck the latch, and almost precipitated me backward by its sudden opening. beyond was a yard full of shadowy wheels and packing cases; the street lights did not penetrate there, and with an uneasy feeling that almost anything, in this none too savory neighborhood, might be waiting there, i struck a match and looked at my watch. it was twenty minutes after ten. once a man turned the corner and came toward me, his head down, his long ulster flapping around his legs. confident that it was hunter, i stepped out and touched him on the arm. he wheeled instantly, and in the light which shone on his face, i saw my error. "excuse me," i mumbled, "i mistook my man." he went on again without speaking, only pulling his soft hat down lower over his face. i looked after him until he turned the next corner, and i knew i had not been mistaken; it was wardrop. the next minute hunter appeared, from the same direction, and we walked quickly together. i told him who the man just ahead had been, and he nodded without surprise. but before we turned the next corner he stopped. "did you ever hear of the white cat?" he asked. "little political club?" "never." "i'm a member of it," he went on rapidly. "it's run by the city ring, or rather it runs itself. be a good fellow while you're there, and keep your eyes open. it's a queer joint." the corner we turned found us on a narrow, badly paved street. the broken windows of the warehouse still looked down on us, and across the street was an ice factory, with two deserted wagons standing along the curb. as well as i could see for the darkness, a lumber yard stretched beyond the warehouse, its piles of boards giving off in the rain the aromatic odor of fresh pine. at a gate in the fence beyond the warehouse hunter stopped. it was an ordinary wooden gate and it opened with a thumb latch. beyond stretched a long, narrow, brick-paved alleyway, perhaps three feet wide, and lighted by the merest glimmer of a light ahead. hunter went on regardless of puddles in the brick paving, and i stumbled after him. as we advanced, i could see that the light was a single electric bulb, hung over a second gate. while hunter fumbled for a key in his pocket, i had time to see that this gate had a yale lock, was provided, at the side, with an electric bell button, and had a letter slot cut in it. hunter opened the gate and preceded me through it. the gate swung to and clicked behind me. after the gloom of the passageway, the small brick-paved yard seemed brilliant with lights. two wires were strung its length, dotted with many electric lamps. in a corner a striped tent stood out in grotesque relief; it seemed to be empty, and the weather was an easy explanation. from the two-story house beyond there came suddenly a burst of piano music and a none too steady masculine voice. hunter turned to me, with his foot on the wooden steps. "above everything else," he warned, "keep your temper. nobody gives a hang in here whether you're the mayor of the town, the champion pool-player of the first ward, or the roundsman on the beat." the door at the top of the steps was also yale-locked. we stepped at once into the kitchen, from which i imagined that the house faced on another street, and that for obvious reasons only its rear entrance was used. the kitchen was bright and clean; it was littered, however, with half-cut loaves of bread, glasses and empty bottles. over the range a man in his shirt sleeves was giving his whole attention to a slice of ham, sizzling on a skillet, and at a table near-by a young fellow, with his hair cut in a barber's oval over the back of his neck, was spreading slices of bread and cheese with mustard. "how are you, mr. mayor?" hunter said, as he shed his raincoat. "this is mr. knox, the man who's engineering the _star-eagle_ fight." the man over the range wiped one greasy hand and held it out to me. "the cat is purring a welcome," he said, indicating the frying ham. "if my cooking turns out right i'll ask you to have some ham with me. i don't know why in thunder it gets black in the middle and won't cook around the edges." i recognized the mayor. he was a big fellow, handsome in a heavy way, and "tommy" to every one who knew him. it seemed i was about to see my city government at play. hunter was thoroughly at home. he took my coat and his own and hung them somewhere to dry. then he went into a sort of pantry opening off the kitchen and came out with four bottles of beer. "we take care of ourselves here," he explained, as the newly barbered youth washed some glasses. "if you want a sandwich, there is cooked ham in the refrigerator and cheese--if our friend at the sink has left any." the boy looked up from his glasses. "it's rat-trap cheese, that stuff," he growled. "the other ran out an hour ago and didn't come back," put in the mayor, grinning. "you can kill that with mustard, if it's too lively." "get some cigars, will you?" hunter asked me. "they're on a shelf in the pantry. i have my hands full." i went for the cigars, remembering to keep my eyes open. the pantry was a small room: it contained an ice-box, stocked with drinkables, ham, eggs and butter. on shelves above were cards, cigars and liquors, and there, too, i saw a box with an indorsement which showed the "honor system" of the cat club. "sign checks and drop here," it read, and i thought about the old adage of honor among thieves and politicians. when i came out with the cigars hunter was standing with a group of new arrivals; they included one of the city physicians, the director of public charities and a judge of a local court. the latter, mcfeely, a little, thin irishman, knew me and accosted me at once. the mayor was busy over the range, and was almost purple with heat and unwonted anxiety. when the three new-comers went up-stairs, instead of going into the grill-room, i looked at hunter. "is this where the political game is played?" i asked. "yes, if the political game is poker," he replied, and led the way into the room which adjoined the kitchen. no one paid any attention to us. bare tables, a wooden floor, and almost as many cuspidors as chairs, comprised the furniture of the long room. in one corner was a battered upright piano, and there were two fireplaces with old-fashioned mantels. perhaps a dozen men were sitting around, talking loudly, with much scraping of chairs on the bare floor. at one table they were throwing poker dice, but the rest were drinking beer and talking in a desultory way. at the piano a man with a red mustache was mimicking the sextette from _lucia_ and a roar of applause met us as we entered the room. hunter led the way to a corner and put down his bottles. "it's fairly quiet to-night," he said. "to-morrow's the big night--saturday." "what time do they close up?" i asked. in answer hunter pointed to a sign over the door. it was a card, neatly printed, and it said, "the white cat never sleeps." "there are only two rules here," he explained. "that is one, and the other is, 'if you get too noisy, and the patrol wagon comes, make the driver take you home.'" the crowd was good-humored; it paid little or no attention to us, and when some one at the piano began to thump a waltz, hunter, under cover of the noise, leaned over to me. "we traced fleming here, through your corner-man and the cabby," he said carefully. "i haven't seen him, but it is a moral certainty he is skulking in one of the up-stairs rooms. his precious private secretary is here, too." i glanced around the room, but no one was paying any attention to us. "i don't know fleming by sight," the detective went on, "and the pictures we have of him were taken a good while ago, when he wore a mustache. when he was in local politics, before he went to the legislature, he practically owned this place, paying for favors with membership tickets. a man could hide here for a year safely. the police never come here, and a man's business is his own." "he is up-stairs now?" "yes. there are four rooms up there for cards, and a bath-room. it's an old dwelling house. would fleming know you?" "no, but of course wardrop would." as if in answer to my objection, wardrop appeared at that moment. he ran down the painted wooden stairs and hurried through the room without looking to right or left. the piano kept on, and the men at the tables were still engrossed with their glasses and one another. wardrop was very pale; he bolted into a man at the door, and pushed him aside without ceremony. "you might go up now," hunter said, rising. "i will see where the young gentleman is making for. just open the door of the different rooms up-stairs, look around for fleming, and if any one notices you, ask if al hunter is there. that will let you out." he left me then, and after waiting perhaps a minute, i went up-stairs alone. the second floor was the ordinary upper story of a small dwelling house. the doors were closed, but loud talking, smoke, and the rattle of chips floated out through open transoms. from below the noise of the piano came up the staircase, unmelodious but rhythmical, and from the street on which the house faced an automobile was starting its engine, with a series of shot-like explosions. the noise was confusing, disconcerting. i opened two doors, to find only the usual poker table, with the winners sitting quietly, their cards bunched in the palms of their hands, and the losers, growing more voluble as the night went on, buying chips recklessly, drinking more than they should. the atmosphere was reeking with smoke. the third door i opened was that of a dingy bath-room, with a zinc tub and a slovenly wash-stand. the next, however, was different. the light streamed out through the transom as in the other rooms, but there was no noise from within. with my hand on the door, i hesitated--then, with hunter's injunction ringing in my ears, i opened it and looked in. a breath of cool night air from an open window met me. there was no noise, no smoke, no sour odor of stale beer. a table had been drawn to the center of the small room, and was littered with papers, pen and ink. at one corner was a tray, containing the remnants of a meal; a pillow and a pair of blankets on a couch at one side showed the room had been serving as a bedchamber. but none of these things caught my eye at first. at the table, leaning forward, his head on his arms, was a man. i coughed, and receiving no answer, stepped into the room. "i beg your pardon," i said, "but i am looking, for--" then the truth burst on me, overwhelmed me. a thin stream was spreading over the papers on the table, moving slowly, sluggishly, as is the way with blood when the heart pump is stopped. i hurried over and raised the heavy, wobbling, gray head. it was allan fleming and he had been shot through the forehead. chapter ix only one eye closed my first impulse was to rouse the house; my second, to wait for hunter. to turn loose that mob of half-drunken men in such a place seemed profanation. there was nothing of the majesty or panoply of death here, but the very sordidness of the surroundings made me resolve to guard the new dignity of that figure. i was shocked, of course; it would be absurd to say that i was emotionally unstrung. on the contrary, i was conscious of a distinct feeling of disappointment. fleming had been our key to the bellwood affair, and he had put himself beyond helping to solve any mystery. i locked the door and stood wondering what to do next. i should have called a doctor, no doubt, but i had seen enough of death to know that the man was beyond aid of any kind. it was not until i had bolted the door that i discovered the absence of any weapon. everything that had gone before had pointed to a position so untenable that suicide seemed its natural and inevitable result. with the discovery that there was no revolver on the table or floor, the thing was more ominous. i decided at once to call the young city physician in the room across the hall, and with something approximating panic, i threw open the door--to face harry wardrop, and behind him, hunter. i do not remember that any one spoke. hunter jumped past me into the room and took in in a single glance what i had labored to acquire in three minutes. as wardrop came in, hunter locked the door behind him, and we three stood staring at the prostrate figure over the table. i watched wardrop: i have never seen so suddenly abject a picture. he dropped into a chair, and feeling for his handkerchief, wiped his shaking lips; every particle of color left his face, and he was limp, unnerved. "did you hear the shot?" hunter asked me. "it has been a matter of minutes since it happened." "i don't know," i said, bewildered. "i heard a lot of explosions, but i thought it was an automobile, out in the street." hunter was listening while he examined the room, peering under the table, lifting the blankets that had trailed off the couch on to the floor. some one outside tried the door-knob, and finding the door locked, shook it slightly. "fleming!" he called under his breath. "fleming!" we were silent, in response to a signal from hunter, and the steps retreated heavily down the hall. the detective spread the blankets decently over the couch, and the three of us moved the body there. wardrop was almost collapsing. "now," hunter said quietly, "before i call in doctor gray from the room across, what do you know about this thing, mr. wardrop?" wardrop looked dazed. "he was in a bad way when i left this morning," he said huskily. "there isn't much use now trying to hide anything; god knows i've done all i could. but he has been using cocaine for years, and to-day he ran out of the stuff. when i got here, about half an hour ago, he was on the verge of killing himself. i got the revolver from him--he was like a crazy man, and as soon as i dared to leave him, i went out to try and find a doctor--" "to get some cocaine?" "yes." "not--because he was already wounded, and you were afraid it was fatal?" wardrop shuddered; then he pulled himself together, and his tone was more natural. "what's the use of lying about it?" he said wearily. "you won't believe me if i tell the truth, either, but--he was dead when i got here. i heard something like the bang of a door as i went up-stairs, but the noise was terrific down below, and i couldn't tell. when i went in, he was just dropping forward, and--" he hesitated. "the revolver?" hunter queried, lynx-eyed. "was in his hand. he was dead then." "where is the revolver?" "i will turn it over to the coroner." "you will give it to me," hunter replied sharply. and after a little fumbling, wardrop produced it from his hip pocket. it was an ordinary thirty-eight. the detective opened it and glanced at it. two chambers were empty. "and you waited--say ten minutes, before you called for help, and even then you went outside hunting a doctor! what were you doing in those ten minutes?" wardrop shut his lips and refused to reply. "if mr. fleming shot himself," the detective pursued relentlessly, "there would be powder marks around the wound. then, too, he was in the act of writing a letter. it was a strange impulse, this--you see, he had only written a dozen words." i glanced at the paper on the table. the letter had no superscription; it began abruptly: "i shall have to leave here. the numbers have followed me. to-night--" that was all. "this is not suicide," hunter said gravely. "it is murder, and i warn you, mr. wardrop, to be careful what you say. will you ask doctor gray to come in, mr. knox?" i went across the hall to the room where the noise was loudest. fortunately, doctor gray was out of the game. he was opening a can of caviar at a table in the corner and came out in response to a gesture. he did not ask any questions, and i let him go into the death chamber unprepared. the presence of death apparently had no effect on him, but the identity of the dead man almost stupefied him. "fleming!" he said, awed, as he looked down at the body. "fleming, by all that's sacred! and a suicide!" hunter watched him grimly. "how long has he been dead?" he asked. the doctor glanced at the bullet wound in the forehead, and from there significantly to the group around the couch. "not an hour--probably less than half," he said. "it's strange we heard nothing, across the hall there." hunter took a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket and opening it laid it gently over the dead face. i think it was a relief to all of us. the doctor got up from his kneeling posture beside the couch, and looked at hunter inquiringly. "what about getting him away from here?" he said. "there is sure to be a lot of noise about it, and--you remember what happened when butler killed himself here." "he was reported as being found dead in the lumber yard," hunter said dryly. "well, doctor, this body stays where it is, and i don't give a whoop if the whole city government wants it moved. it won't be. this is murder, not suicide." the doctor's expression was curious. "murder!" he repeated. "why--who--" but hunter had many things to attend to; he broke in ruthlessly on the doctor's amazement. "see if you can get the house empty, doctor; just tell them he is dead--the story will get out soon enough." as the doctor left the room hunter went to the open window, through which a fresh burst of rain was coming, and closed it. the window gave me an idea, and i went over and tried to see through the streaming pane. there was no shed or low building outside, but not five yards away the warehouse showed its ugly walls and broken windows. "look here, hunter," i said, "why could he not have been shot from the warehouse?" "he could have been--but he wasn't," hunter affirmed, glancing at wardrop's drooping figure. "mr. wardrop, i am going to send for the coroner, and then i shall ask you to go with me to the office and tell the chief what you know about this. knox, will you telephone to the coroner?" in an incredibly short time the club-house was emptied, and before midnight the coroner himself arrived and went up to the room. as for me, i had breakfasted, lunched and dined on horrors, and i sat in the deserted room down-stairs and tried to think how i was to take the news to margery. at twelve-thirty wardrop, hunter and the coroner came down-stairs, leaving a detective in charge of the body until morning, when it could be taken home. the coroner had a cab waiting, and he took us at once to hunter's chief. he had not gone to bed, and we filed into his library sepulchrally. wardrop told his story, but it was hardly convincing. the chief, a large man who said very little, and leaned back with his eyes partly shut, listened in silence, only occasionally asking a question. the coroner, who was yawning steadily, left in the middle of wardrop's story, as if in his mind, at least, the guilty man was as good as hanged. "i am--i was--mr. allan fleming's private secretary," wardrop began. "i secured the position through a relationship on his wife's side. i have held the position for three years. before that i read law. for some time i have known that mr. fleming used a drug of some kind. until a week ago i did not know what it was. on the ninth of may, mr. fleming sent for me. i was in plattsburg at the time, and he was at home. he was in a terrible condition--not sleeping at all, and he said he was being followed by some person who meant to kill him. finally he asked me to get him some cocaine, and when he had taken it he was more like himself. i thought the pursuit was only in his own head. he had a man named carter on guard in his house, and acting as butler. "there was trouble of some sort in the organization; i do not know just what. mr. schwartz came here to meet mr. fleming, and it seemed there was money needed. mr. fleming had to have it at once. he gave me some securities to take to plattsburg and turn into money. i went on the tenth--" "was that the day mr. fleming disappeared?" the chief interrupted. "yes. he went to the white cat, and stayed there. no one but the caretaker and one other man knew he was there. on the night of the twenty-first, i came back, having turned my securities into money. i carried it in a package in a small russia leather bag that never left my hand for a moment. mr. knox here suggested that i had put it down, and it had been exchanged for one just like it, but i did not let it out of my hand on that journey until i put it down on the porch at the bellwood house, while i tried to get in. i live at bellwood, with the misses maitland, sisters of mr. fleming's deceased wife. i don't pretend to know how it happened, but while i was trying to get into the house it was rifled. mr. knox will bear me out in that. i found my grip empty." i affirmed it in a word. the chief was growing interested. "what was in the bag?" he asked. wardrop tried to remember. "a pair of pajamas," he said, "two military brushes and a clothes-brush, two or three soft-bosomed shirts, perhaps a half-dozen collars, and a suit of underwear." "and all this was taken, as well as the money?" "the bag was left empty, except for my railroad schedule." the chief and hunter exchanged significant glances. then-- "go on, if you please," the detective said cheerfully. i think wardrop realized the absurdity of trying to make any one believe that part of the story. he shut his lips and threw up his head as if he intended to say nothing further. "go on," i urged. if he could clear himself he must. i could not go back to margery fleming and tell her that her father had been murdered and her lover was accused of the crime. "the bag was empty," he repeated. "i had not been five minutes trying to open the shutters, and yet the bag had been rifled. mr. knox here found it among the flowers below the veranda, empty." the chief eyed me with awakened interest. "you also live at bellwood, mr. knox?" "no, i am attorney to miss letitia maitland, and was there one night as her guest. i found the bag as mr. wardrop described, empty." the chief turned back to wardrop. "how much money was there in it when you--left it?" "a hundred thousand dollars. i was afraid to tell mr. fleming, but i had to do it. we had a stormy scene, this morning. i think he thought the natural thing--that i had taken it." "he struck you, i believe, and knocked you down?" asked hunter smoothly. wardrop flushed. "he was not himself; and, well, it meant a great deal to him. and he was out of cocaine; i left him raging, and when i went home i learned that miss jane maitland had disappeared, been abducted, at the time my satchel had been emptied! it's no wonder i question my sanity." "and then--to-night?" the chief persisted. "to-night, i felt that some one would have to look after mr. fleming; i was afraid he would kill himself. it was a bad time to leave while miss jane was missing. but--when i got to the white cat i found him dead. he was sitting with his back to the door, and his head on the table." "was the revolver in his hand?" "yes." "you are sure?" from hunter. "isn't it a fact, mr. wardrop, that you took mr. fleming's revolver from him this morning when he threatened you with it?" wardrop's face twitched nervously. "you have been misinformed," he replied, but no one was impressed by his tone. it was wavering, uncertain. from hunter's face i judged it had been a random shot, and had landed unexpectedly well. "how many people knew that mr. fleming had been hiding at the white cat?" from the chief. "very few--besides myself, only a man who looks after the club-house in the mornings, and clarkson, the cashier of the borough bank, who met him there once by appointment." the chief made no comment. "now, mr. knox, what about you?" "i opened the door into mr. fleming's room, perhaps a couple of minutes after mr. wardrop went out," i said. "he was dead then, leaning on his outspread arms over the table; he had been shot in the forehead." "you heard no shot while you were in the hall?" "there was considerable noise; i heard two or three sharp reports like the explosions of an automobile engine." "did they seem close at hand?" "not particularly; i thought, if i thought at all, that they were on the street." "you are right about the automobile," hunter said dryly. "the mayor sent his car away as i left to follow mr. wardrop. the sounds you heard were not shots." "it is a strange thing," the chief reflected, "that a revolver could be fired in the upper room of an ordinary dwelling house, while that house was filled with people--and nobody hear it. were there any powder marks on the body?" "none," hunter said. the chief got up stiffly. "thank you very much, gentlemen," he spoke quietly. "i think that is all. hunter, i would like to see you for a few minutes." i think wardrop was dazed at finding himself free; he had expected nothing less than an immediate charge of murder. as we walked to the corner for a car or cab, whichever materialized first, he looked back. "i thought so," he said bitterly. a man was loitering after us along the street. the police were not asleep, they had only closed one eye. the last train had gone. we took a night electric car to wynton, and walked the three miles to bellwood. neither of us was talkative, and i imagine we were both thinking of margery, and the news she would have to hear. it had been raining, and the roads were vile. once wardrop turned around to where we could hear the detective splashing along, well behind. "i hope he's enjoying it," he said. "i brought you by this road, so he'd have to wade in mud up to his neck." "the devil you did!" i exclaimed. "i'll have to be scraped with a knife before i can get my clothes off." we both felt better for the laugh; it was a sort of nervous reaction. the detective was well behind, but after a while wardrop stood still, while i plowed along. they came up together presently, and the three of us trudged on, talking of immaterial things. at the door wardrop turned to the detective with a faint smile. "it's raining again," he said, "you'd better come in. you needn't worry about me; i'm not going to run away, and there's a couch in the library." the detective grinned, and in the light from the hall i recognized the man i had followed to the police station two nights before. "i guess i will," he said, looking apologetically at his muddy clothes. "this thing is only a matter of form, anyhow." but he didn't lie down on the couch. he took a chair in the hall near the foot of the stairs, and we left him there, with the evening paper and a lamp. it was a queer situation, to say the least. chapter x breaking the news wardrop looked so wretched that i asked him into my room, and mixed him some whisky and water. when i had given him a cigar he began to look a little less hopeless. "you've been a darned sight better to me than i would have been to you, under the circumstances," he said gratefully. "i thought we would better arrange about miss margery before we try to settle down," i replied. "what she has gone through in the last twenty-four hours is nothing to what is coming to-morrow. will you tell her about her father?" he took a turn about the room. "i believe it would come better from you," he said finally. "i am in the peculiar position of having been suspected by her father of robbing him, by you of carrying away her aunt, and now by the police and everybody else of murdering her father." "i do not suspect you of anything," i justified myself. "i don't think you are entirely open, that is all, wardrop. i think you are damaging yourself to shield some one else." his expressive face was on its guard in a moment. he ceased his restless pacing, pausing impressively before me. "i give you my word as a gentleman--i do not know who killed mr. fleming, and that when i first saw him dead, my only thought was that he had killed himself. he had threatened to, that day. why, if you think i killed him, you would have to think i robbed him, too, in order to find a motive." i did not tell him that that was precisely what hunter _did_ think. i evaded the issue. "mr. wardrop, did you ever hear of the figures eleven twenty-two?" i inquired. "eleven twenty-two?" he repeated. "no, never in any unusual connection." "you never heard mr. fleming use them?" i persisted. he looked puzzled. "probably," he said. "in the very nature of mr. fleming's position, we used figures all the time. eleven twenty-two. that's the time the theater train leaves the city for bellwood. not what you want, eh?" "not quite," i answered non-committally and began to wind my watch. he took the hint and prepared to leave. "i'll not keep you up any longer," he said, picking up his raincoat. he opened the door and stared ruefully down at the detective in the hall below. "the old place is queer without miss jane," he said irrelevantly. "well, good night, and thanks." he went heavily along the hall and i closed my door, i heard him pass margery's room and then go back and rap lightly. she was evidently awake. "it's harry," he called. "i thought you wouldn't worry if you knew i was in the house to-night." she asked him something, for-- "yes, he is here," he said. he stood there for a moment, hesitating over something, but whatever it was, he decided against it. "good night, dear," he said gently and went away. the little familiarity made me wince. every unattached man has the same pang now and then. i have it sometimes when edith sits on the arm of fred's chair, or one of the youngsters leaves me to run to "daddy." and one of the sanest men i ever met went to his office and proposed to his stenographer in sheer craving for domesticity, after watching the wife of one of his friends run her hand over her husband's chin and give him a reproving slap for not having shaved! i pulled myself up sharply and after taking off my dripping coat, i went to the window and looked out into the may night. it seemed incredible that almost the same hour the previous night little miss jane had disappeared, had been taken bodily away through the peace of the warm spring darkness, and that i, as wide-awake as i was at that moment, acute enough of hearing to detect wardrop's careful steps on the gravel walk below, had heard no struggle, had permitted this thing to happen without raising a finger in the old lady's defense. and she was gone as completely as if she had stepped over some psychic barrier into the fourth dimension! i found myself avoiding the more recent occurrence at the white cat. i was still too close to it to have gained any perspective. on that subject i was able to think clearly of only one thing: that i would have to tell margery in the morning, and that i would have given anything i possessed for a little of edith's diplomacy with which to break the bad news. it was edith who broke the news to me that the moths had got into my evening clothes while i was hunting in the rockies, by telling me that my dress-coat made me look narrow across the shoulders and persuading me to buy a new one and give the old one to fred. then she broke the news of the moths to fred! i was ready for bed when wardrop came back and rapped at my door. he was still dressed, and he had the leather bag in his hand. "look here," he said excitedly, when i had closed the door, "this is not my bag at all. fool that i was. i never examined it carefully." he held it out to me, and i carried it to the light. it was an ordinary eighteen-inch russia leather traveling-bag, tan in color, and with gold-plated mountings. it was empty, save for the railroad schedule that still rested in one side pocket. wardrop pointed to the empty pocket on the other side. "in my bag," he explained rapidly, "my name was written inside that pocket, in ink. i did it myself--my name and address." i looked inside the pockets on both sides: nothing had been written in. "don't you see?" he asked excitedly. "whoever stole my bag had this one to substitute for it. if we can succeed in tracing the bag here to the shop it came from, and from there to the purchaser, we have the thief." "there's no maker's name in it," i said, after a casual examination. wardrop's face fell, and he took the bag from me despondently. "no matter which way i turn," he said, "i run into a blind alley. if i were worth a damn, i suppose i could find a way out. but i'm not. well, i'll let you sleep this time." at the door, however, he turned around and put the bag on the floor, just inside. "if you don't mind, i'll leave it here," he said. "they'll be searching my room, i suppose, and i'd like to have the bag for future reference." he went for good that time, and i put out the light. as an afterthought i opened my door perhaps six inches, and secured it with one of the pink conch-shells which flanked either end of the stone hearth. i had failed the night before: i meant to be on hand that night. i went to sleep immediately, i believe. i have no idea how much later it was that i roused. i wakened suddenly and sat up in bed. there had been a crash of some kind, for the shock was still vibrating along my nerves. dawn was close; the window showed gray against the darkness inside, and i could make out dimly the larger objects in the room. i listened intently, but the house seemed quiet. still i was not satisfied. i got up and, lighting the candle, got into my raincoat in lieu of a dressing-gown, and prepared to investigate. with the fatality that seemed to pursue my feet in that house, with my first step i trod squarely on top of the conch-shell, and i fell back on to the edge of the bed swearing softly and holding the injured member. only when the pain began to subside did i realize that i had left the shell on the door-sill, and that it had moved at least eight feet while i slept! when i could walk i put it on the mantel, its mate from the other end of the hearth beside it. then i took my candle and went out into the hall. my door, which i had left open, i found closed; nothing else was disturbed. the leather bag sat just inside, as wardrop had left it. through miss maitland's transom were coming certain strangled and irregular sounds, now falsetto, now deep bass, that showed that worthy lady to be asleep. a glance down the staircase revealed davidson, stretching in his chair and looking up at me. "i'm frozen," he called up cautiously. "throw me down a blanket or two, will you?" i got a couple of blankets from my bed and took them down. he was examining his chair ruefully. "there isn't any grip to this horsehair stuff," he complained. "every time i doze off i dream i'm coasting down the old hill back on the farm, and when i wake up i'm sitting on the floor, with the end of my back bone bent like a hook." he wrapped himself in the blankets and sat down again, taking the precaution this time to put his legs on another chair and thus anchor himself. then he produced a couple of apples and a penknife and proceeded to pare and offer me one. "found 'em in the pantry," he said, biting into one. "i belong to the apple society. eat one apple every day and keep healthy!" he stopped and stared intently at the apple. "i reckon i got a worm that time," he said, with less ardor. "i'll get something to wash him down," i offered, rising, but he waved me back to my stair. "not on your life," he said with dignity. "let him walk. how are things going up-stairs?" "you didn't happen to be up there a little while ago, did you?" i questioned in turn. "no. i've been kept busy trying to sit tight where i am. why?" "some one came into my room and wakened me," i explained. "i heard a racket and when i got up i found a shell that i had put on the door-sill to keep the door open, in the middle of the room. i stepped on it." he examined a piece of apple before putting it in his mouth. then he turned a pair of shrewd eyes on me. "that's funny," he said. "anything in the room disturbed?" "nothing." "where's the shell now?" "on the mantel. i didn't want to step on it again." he thought for a minute, but his next remark was wholly facetious. "no. i guess you won't step on it up there. like the old woman: she says, 'motorman, if i put my foot on the rail will i be electrocuted?' and he says, 'no, madam, not unless you put your other foot on the trolley wire.'" i got up impatiently. there was no humor in the situation that night for me. "some one had been in the room," i reiterated. "the door was closed, although i had left it open." he finished his apple and proceeded with great gravity to drop the parings down the immaculate register in the floor beside his chair. then-- "i've only got one business here, mr. knox," he said in an undertone, "and you know what that is. but if it will relieve your mind of the thought that there was anything supernatural about your visitor, i'll tell you that it was mr. wardrop, and that to the best of my belief he was in your room, not once, but twice, in the last hour and a half. as far as that shell goes, it was i that kicked it, having gone up without my shoes." i stared at him blankly. "what could he have wanted?" i exclaimed. but with his revelation, davidson's interest ceased; he drew the blanket up around his shoulders and shivered. "search me," he said and yawned. i went back to bed, but not to sleep. i deliberately left the door wide open, but no intrusion occurred. once i got up and glanced down the stairs. for all his apparent drowsiness, davidson heard my cautious movements, and saluted me in a husky whisper. "have you got any quinine?" he said. "i'm sneezing my head off." but i had none. i gave him a box of cigarettes, and after partially dressing, i threw myself across the bed to wait for daylight. i was roused by the sun beating on my face, to hear miss letitia's tones from her room across. "nonsense," she was saying querulously. "don't you suppose i can smell? do you think because i'm a little hard of hearing that i've lost my other senses? somebody's been smoking." "it's me," heppie shouted. "i--" "you?" miss letitia snarled. "what are you smoking for? that ain't my shirt; it's my--" "i ain't smokin'," yelled heppie. "you won't let me tell you. i spilled vinegar on the stove; that's what you smell." miss letitia's sardonic chuckle came through the door. "vinegar," she said with scorn. "next thing you'll be telling me it's vinegar that harry and mr. knox carry around in little boxes in their pockets. you've pinned my cap to my scalp." i hurried down-stairs to find davidson gone. my blanket lay neatly folded, on the lower step, and the horsehair chairs were ranged along the wall as before. i looked around anxiously for telltale ashes, but there was none, save, at the edge of the spotless register, a trace. evidently they had followed the apple parings. it grew cold a day or so later, and miss letitia had the furnace fired, and although it does not belong to my story, she and heppie searched the house over to account for the odor of baking apples--a mystery that was never explained. wardrop did not appear at breakfast. margery came down-stairs as bella was bringing me my coffee, and dropped languidly into her chair. she looked tired and white. "another day!" she said wearily. "did you ever live through such an eternity as the last thirty-six hours?" i responded absently; the duty i had assumed hung heavy over me. i had a frantic impulse to shirk the whole thing: to go to wardrop and tell him it was his responsibility, not mine, to make this sad-eyed girl sadder still. that as i had not his privilege of comforting her, neither should i shoulder his responsibility of telling her. but the issue was forced on me sooner than i had expected, for at that moment i saw the glaring head-lines of the morning paper, laid open at wardrop's plate. she must have followed my eyes, for we reached for it simultaneously. she was nearer than i, and her quick eye caught the name. then i put my hand over the heading and she flushed with indignation. "you are not to read it now," i said, meeting her astonished gaze as best i could. "please let me have it. i promise you i will give it to you--almost immediately." "you are very rude," she said without relinquishing the paper. "i saw a part of that; it is about my father!" "drink your coffee, please," i pleaded. "i will let you read it then. on my honor." she looked at me; then she withdrew her hand and sat erect. "how can you be so childish!" she exclaimed. "if there is anything in that paper that it--will hurt me to learn, is a cup of coffee going to make it any easier?" i gave up then. i had always thought that people heard bad news better when they had been fortified with something to eat, and i had a very distinct recollection that fred had made edith drink something--tea probably--before he told her that billy had fallen off the back fence and would have to have a stitch taken in his lip. perhaps i should have offered margery tea instead of coffee. but as it was, she sat, stonily erect, staring at the paper, and feeling that evasion would be useless, i told her what had happened, breaking the news as gently as i could. i stood by her helplessly through the tearless agony that followed, and cursed myself for a blundering ass. i had said that he had been accidentally shot, and i said it with the paper behind me, but she put the evasion aside bitterly. "accidentally!" she repeated. the first storm of grief over, she lifted her head from where it had rested on her arms and looked at me, scorning my subterfuge. "he was murdered. that's the word i didn't have time to read! murdered! and you sat back and let it happen. i went to you in time and you didn't do anything. no one did anything!" i did not try to defend myself. how could i? and afterward when she sat up and pushed back the damp strands of hair from her eyes, she was more reasonable. "i did not mean what i said about your not having done anything," she said, almost childishly. "no one could have done more. it was to happen, that's all." but even then i knew she had trouble in store that she did not suspect. what would she do when she heard that wardrop was under grave suspicion? between her dead father and her lover, what? it was to be days before i knew and in all that time, i, who would have died, not cheerfully but at least stoically, for her, had to stand back and watch the struggle, not daring to hold out my hand to help, lest by the very gesture she divine my wild longing to hold her for myself. she recovered bravely that morning from the shock, and refusing to go to her room and lie down--a suggestion, like the coffee, culled from my vicarious domestic life--she went out to the veranda and sat there in the morning sun, gazing across the lawn. i left her there finally, and broke the news of her brother-in-law's death to miss letitia. after the first surprise, the old lady took the news with what was nearer complacency than resignation. "shot!" she said, sitting up in bed, while heppie shook her pillows. "it's a queer death for allan fleming; i always said he would be hanged." after that, she apparently dismissed him from her mind, and we talked of her sister. her mood had changed and it was depressing to find that she spoke of jane always in the past tense. she could speak of her quite calmly--i suppose the sharpness of our emotions is in inverse ratio to our length of years, and she regretted that, under the circumstances, jane would not rest in the family lot. "we are all there," she said, "eleven of us, counting my sister mary's husband, although he don't properly belong, and i always said we would take him out if we were crowded. it is the best lot in the hopedale cemetery; you can see the shaft for two miles in any direction." we held a family council that morning around miss letitia's bed: wardrop, who took little part in the proceedings, and who stood at a window looking out most of the time, margery on the bed, her arm around miss letitia's shriveled neck, and heppie, who acted as interpreter and shouted into the old lady's ear such parts of the conversation as she considered essential. "i have talked with miss fleming," i said, as clearly as i could, "and she seems to shrink from seeing people. the only friends she cares about are in europe, and she tells me there are no other relatives." heppie condensed this into a vocal capsule, and thrust it into miss letitia's ear. the old lady nodded. "no other relatives," she corroborated. "god be praised for that, anyhow." "and yet," i went on, "there are things to look after, certain necessary duties that no one else can attend to. i don't want to insist, but she ought, if she is able, to go to the city house, for a few hours, at least." "city house!" heppie yelled in her ear. "it ought to be cleaned," miss letitia acquiesced, "and fresh curtains put up. jane would have been in her element; she was always handy at a funeral. and don't let them get one of those let-down-at-the-side coffins. they're leaky." luckily margery did not notice this. "i was going to suggest," i put in hurriedly, "that my brother's wife would be only too glad to help, and if miss fleming will go into town with me, i am sure edith would know just what to do. she isn't curious and she's very capable." margery threw me a grateful glance, grateful, i think, that i could understand how, under the circumstances, a stranger was more acceptable than curious friends could be. "mr. knox's sister-in-law!" interpreted heppie. "when you have to say the letter 's,' turn your head away," miss letitia rebuked her. "well, i don't object, if knox's sister-in-law don't." she had an uncanny way of expanding heppie's tabloid speeches. "you can take my white silk shawl to lay over the body, but be sure to bring it back. we may need it for jane." if the old lady's chin quivered a bit, while margery threw her arms around her, she was mightily ashamed of it. but heppie was made of weaker stuff. she broke into a sudden storm of sobs and left the room, to stick her head in the door a moment after. "kidneys or chops?" she shouted almost belligerently. "kidneys," miss letitia replied in kind. wardrop went with us to the station at noon, but he left us there, with a brief remark that he would be up that night. after i had put margery in a seat, i went back to have a word with him alone. he was standing beside the train, trying to light a cigarette, but his hands shook almost beyond control, and after the fourth match he gave it up. my minute for speech was gone. as the train moved out i saw him walking back along the platform, paying no attention to anything around him. also, i had a fleeting glimpse of a man loafing on a baggage truck, his hat over his eyes. he was paring an apple with a penknife, and dropping the peelings with careful accuracy through a crack in the floor of the platform. i had arranged over the telephone that edith should meet the train, and it was a relief to see that she and margery took to each other at once. we drove to the house immediately, and after a few tears when she saw the familiar things around her, margery rose to the situation bravely. miss letitia had sent bella to put the house in order, and it was evident that the idea of clean curtains for the funeral had been drilled into her until it had become an obsession. not until edith had concealed the step-ladder were the hangings safe, and late in the afternoon we heard a crash from the library, and found bella twisted on the floor, the result of putting a teakwood tabouret on a table and from thence attacking the lace curtains of the library windows. edith gave her a good scolding and sent her off to soak her sprained ankle. then she righted the tabouret, sat down on it and began on me. "do you know that you have not been to the office for two days?" she said severely. "and do you know that hawes had hysterics in our front hall last night? you had a case in court yesterday, didn't you?" "nothing very much," i said, looking over her head. "anyhow, i'm tired. i don't know when i'm going back. i need a vacation." she reached behind her and pulling the cord, sent the window shade to the top of the window. at the sight of my face thus revealed, she drew a long sigh. "the biggest case you ever had, jack! the biggest retainer you ever had--" "i've spent that," i protested feebly. "a vacation, and you only back from pinehurst!" "the girl was in trouble--_is_ in trouble, edith," i burst out. "any one would have done the same thing. even fred would hardly have deserted that household. it's stricken, positively stricken." my remark about fred did not draw her from cover. "of course it's your own affair," she said, not looking at me, "and goodness knows i'm disinterested about it, you ruin the boys, both stomachs and dispositions, and i could use your room _splendidly_ as a sewing-room--" "edith! you abominable little liar!" she dabbed at her eyes furiously with her handkerchief, and walked with great dignity to the door. then she came back and put her hand on my arm. "oh, jack, if we could only have saved you this!" she said, and a minute later, when i did not speak: "who is the man, dear?" "a distant relative, harry wardrop," i replied, with what i think was very nearly my natural tone. "don't worry, edith. it's all right. i've known it right along." "pooh!" edith returned sagely. "so do i know i've got to die and be buried some day. its being inevitable doesn't make it any more cheerful." she went out, but she came back in a moment and stuck her head through the door. "_that's_ the only inevitable thing there is," she said, taking up the conversation--an old habit of hers--where she had left off. "i don't know what you are talking about," i retorted, turning my back on her. "and anyhow, i regard your suggestion as immoral." but when i turned again, she had gone. that saturday afternoon at four o'clock the body of allan fleming was brought home, and placed in state in the music-room of the house. miss jane had been missing since thursday night. i called hunter by telephone, and he had nothing to report. chapter xi a night in the fleming home i had a tearful message from hawes late that afternoon, and a little after five i went to the office. i found him offering late editions of the evening paper to a couple of clients, who were edging toward the door. his expression when he saw me was pure relief, the clients', relief strongly mixed with irritation. i put the best face on the matter that i could, saw my visitors, and left alone, prepared to explain to hawes what i could hardly explain to myself. "i've been unavoidably detained, hawes," i said, "miss jane maitland has disappeared from her home." "so i understood you over the telephone." he had brought my mail and stood by impassive. "also, her brother-in-law is dead." "the papers are full of it." "there was no one to do anything, hawes. i was obliged to stay," i apologized. i was ostentatiously examining my letters and hawes said nothing. i looked up at him sideways, and he looked down at me. not a muscle of his face quivered, save one eye, which has a peculiar twitching of the lid when he is excited. it gave him a sardonic appearance of winking. he winked at me then. "don't wait, hawes," i said guiltily, and he took his hat and went out. every line of his back was accusation. the sag of his shoulders told me i had let my biggest case go by default that day; the forward tilt of his head, that i was probably insane; the very grip with which he seized the door-knob, his "good night" from around the door, that he knew there was a woman at the bottom of it all. as he closed the door behind him i put down my letters and dropped my face in my hands. hawes was right. no amount of professional zeal could account for the interest i had taken. partly through force of circumstances, partly of my own volition, i had placed myself in the position of first friend to a family with which i had had only professional relations; i had even enlisted edith, when my acquaintance with margery fleming was only three days old! and at the thought of the girl, of wardrop's inefficiency and my own hopelessness, i groaned aloud. i had not heard the door open. "i forgot to tell you that a gentleman was here half a dozen times to-day to see you. he didn't give any name." i dropped my hands. from around the door hawes' nervous eye was winking wildly. "you're not sick, mr. knox?" "never felt better." "i thought i heard--" "i was singing," i lied, looking him straight in the eye. he backed nervously to the door. "i have a little sherry in my office, mr. knox--twenty-six years in the wood. if you--" "for god's sake, hawes, there's nothing the matter with me!" i exclaimed, and he went. but i heard him stand a perceptible time outside the door before he tiptoed away. almost immediately after, some one entered the waiting-room, and the next moment i was facing, in the doorway, a man i had never seen before. he was a tall man, with thin, colorless beard trimmed to a vandyke point, and pale eyes blinking behind glasses. he had a soft hat crushed in his hand, and his whole manner was one of subdued excitement. "mr. knox?" he asked, from the doorway. "yes. come in." "i have been here six times since noon," he said, dropping rather than sitting in a chair. "my name is lightfoot. i am--was--mr. fleming's cashier." "yes?" "i was terribly shocked at the news of his death," he stumbled on, getting no help from me. "i was in town and if i had known in time i could have kept some of the details out of the papers. poor fleming--to think he would end it that way." "end it?" "shoot himself." he watched me closely. "but he didn't," i protested. "it was not suicide, mr. lightfoot. according to the police, it was murder." his cold eyes narrowed like a cat's. "murder is an ugly word, mr. knox. don't let us be sensational. mr. fleming had threatened to kill himself more than once; ask young wardrop. he was sick and despondent; he left his home without a word, which points strongly to emotional insanity. he could have gone to any one of a half dozen large clubs here, or at the capital. instead, he goes to a little third-rate political club, where, presumably, he does his own cooking and hides in a dingy room. is that sane? murder! it was suicide, and that puppy wardrop knows it well enough. i--i wish i had him by the throat!" he had worked himself into quite a respectable rage, but now he calmed himself. "i have seen the police," he went on. "they agree with me that it was suicide, and the party newspapers will straighten it out to-morrow. it is only unfortunate that the murder theory was given so much publicity. the _times-post_, which is democratic, of course, i can not handle." i sat stupefied. "suicide!" i said finally. "with no weapon, no powder marks, and with a half-finished letter at his elbow." he brushed my interruption aside. "mr. fleming had been--careless," he said. "i can tell you in confidence, that some of the state funds had been deposited in the borough bank of manchester, and--the borough bank closed its doors at ten o'clock to-day." i was hardly surprised at that, but the whole trend of events was amazing. "i arrived here last night," he said, "and i searched the city for mr. fleming. this morning i heard the news. i have just come from the house: his daughter referred me to you. after all, what i want is a small matter. some papers--state documents--are missing, and no doubt are among mr. fleming's private effects. i would like to go through his papers, and leave to-night for the capital." "i have hardly the authority," i replied doubtfully. "miss fleming, i suppose, would have no objection. his private secretary, wardrop, would be the one to superintend such a search." "can you find wardrop--at once?" something in his eagerness put me on my guard. "i will make an attempt," i said. "let me have the name of your hotel, and i will telephone you if it can be arranged for to-night." he had to be satisfied with that, but his eagerness seemed to me to be almost desperation. oddly enough, i could not locate wardrop after all. i got the maitland house by telephone, to learn that he had left there about three o'clock, and had not come back. i went to the fleming house for dinner. edith was still there, and we both tried to cheer margery, a sad little figure in her black clothes. after the meal, i called lightfoot at his hotel, and told him that i could not find wardrop; that there were no papers at the house, and that the office safe would have to wait until wardrop was found to open it. he was disappointed and furious; like a good many men who are physical cowards, he said a great deal over the telephone that he would not have dared to say to my face, and i cut him off by hanging up the receiver. from that minute, in the struggle that was coming, like fred, i was "forninst" the government. it was arranged that edith should take margery home with her for the night. i thought it a good idea; the very sight of edith tucking in her babies and sitting down beside the library lamp to embroider me a scarfpin-holder for christmas would bring margery back to normal again. except in the matter of christmas gifts, edith is the sanest woman i know; i recognized it at the dinner table, where she had the little girl across from her planning her mourning hats before the dinner was half finished. when we rose at last, margery looked toward the music-room, where the dead man lay in state. but edith took her by the arm and pushed her toward the stairs. "get your hat on right away, while jack calls a cab," she directed. "i must get home, or fred will keep the boys up until nine o'clock. he is absolutely without principle." when margery came down there was a little red spot burning in each pale cheek, and she ran down the stairs like a scared child. at the bottom she clutched the newel-post and looked behind fearfully. "what's the matter?" edith demanded, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. "some one has been up-stairs," margery panted. "somebody has been staying in the house while we were away." "nonsense," i said, seeing that her fright was infecting edith. "what makes you think that?" "come and look," she said, gaining courage, i suppose, from a masculine presence. and so we went up the long stairs, the two girls clutching hands, and i leading the way and inclined to scoff. at the door of a small room next to what had been allan fleming's bedroom, we paused and i turned on the light. "before we left," margery said more quietly, "i closed this room myself. it had just been done over, and the pale blue soils so easily. i came in the last thing, and saw covers put over everything. now look at it!" it was a sort of boudoir, filled with feminine knickknacks and mahogany lounging chairs. wherever possible, a pale brocade had been used, on the empire couch, in panels in the wall, covering cushions on the window-seat. it was evidently margery's private sitting-room. the linen cover that had been thrown over the divan was folded back, and a pillow from the window-seat bore the imprint of a head. the table was still covered, knobby protuberances indicating the pictures and books beneath. on one corner of the table, where the cover had been pushed aside, was a cup, empty and clean-washed, and as if to prove her contention, margery picked up from the floor a newspaper, dated friday morning, the twenty-second. a used towel in the bath-room near-by completed the inventory; margery had been right; some one had used the room while the house was closed. "might it not have been your--father?" edith asked, when we stood again at the foot of the stairs. "he could have come here to look for something, and lain down to rest." "i don't think so," margery said wanly. "i left the door so he could get in with his key, but--he always used his study couch. i don't think he ever spent five minutes in my sitting-room in his life." we had to let it go at that finally. i put them in a cab, and saw them start away: then i went back into the house. i had arranged to sleep there and generally to look after things--as i said before. whatever scruples i had had about taking charge of margery fleming and her affairs, had faded with wardrop's defection and the new mystery of the blue boudoir. the lower floor of the house was full of people that night, local and state politicians, newspaper men and the usual crowd of the morbidly curious. the undertaker took everything in hand, and late that evening i could hear them carrying in tropical plants and stands for the flowers that were already arriving. whatever panoply the death scene had lacked, allan fleming was lying in state now. at midnight things grew quiet. i sat in the library, reading, until then, when an undertaker's assistant in a pink shirt and polka-dot cravat came to tell me that everything was done. "is it customary for somebody to stay up, on occasions like this?" i asked. "isn't there an impression that wandering cats may get into the room, or something of that sort?" "i don't think it will be necessary, sir," he said, trying to conceal a smile. "it's all a matter of taste. some people like to take their troubles hard. since they don't put money on their eyes any more, nobody wants to rob the dead." he left with that cheerful remark, and i closed and locked the house after him. i found bella in the basement kitchen with all the lights burning full, and i stood at the foot of the stairs while she scooted to bed like a scared rabbit. she was a strange creature, bella--not so stupid as she looked, but sullen, morose--"smouldering" about expresses it. i closed the doors into the dining-room and, leaving one light in the hall, went up to bed. a guest room in the third story had been assigned me, and i was tired enough to have slept on the floor. the telephone bell rang just after i got into bed, and grumbling at my luck, i went down to the lower floor. it was the _times-post_, and the man at the telephone was in a hurry. "this is the _times-post_. is mr. wardrop there?" "no." "who is this?" "this is john knox." "the attorney?" "yes." "mr. knox, are you willing to put yourself on record that mr. fleming committed suicide?" "i am not going to put myself on record at all." "to-night's _star_ says you call it suicide, and that you found him with the revolver in his hand." "the _star_ lies!" i retorted, and the man at the other end chuckled. "many thanks," he said, and rang off. i went back to bed, irritated that i had betrayed myself. loss of sleep for two nights, however, had told on me: in a short time i was sound asleep. i wakened with difficulty. my head felt stupid and heavy, and i was burning with thirst. i sat up and wondered vaguely if i were going to be ill, and i remember that i felt too weary to get a drink. as i roused, however, i found that part of my discomfort came from bad ventilation, and i opened a window and looked out. the window was a side one, opening on to a space perhaps eight feet wide, which separated it from its neighbor. across from me was only a blank red wall, but the night air greeted me refreshingly. the wind was blowing hard, and a shutter was banging somewhere below. i leaned out and looked down into the well-like space beneath me. it was one of those apparently chance movements that have vital consequences, and that have always made me believe in the old calvinistic creed of foreordination. below me, on the wall across, was a rectangle of yellow light, reflected from the library window of the fleming home. there was some one in the house. as i still stared, the light was slowly blotted out--not as if the light had been switched off, but by a gradual decreasing in size of the lighted area. the library shade had been drawn. my first thought was burglars; my second--lightfoot. no matter who it was, there was no one who had business there. luckily, i had brought my revolver with me from fred's that day, and it was under my pillow; to get it, put out the light and open the door quietly, took only a minute. i was in pajamas, barefoot, as on another almost similar occasion, but i was better armed than before. i got to the second floor without hearing or seeing anything suspicious, but from there i could see that the light in the hall had been extinguished. the unfamiliarity of the house, the knowledge of the silent figure in the drawing-room at the foot of the stairs, and of whatever might be waiting in the library beyond, made my position uncomfortable, to say the least. i don't believe in the man who is never afraid: he doesn't deserve the credit he gets. it's the fellow who is scared to death, whose knees knock together, and who totters rather than walks into danger, who is the real hero. not that i was as bad as that, but i would have liked to know where the electric switch was, and to have seen the trap before i put my head in. the stairs were solidly built, and did not creak. i felt my way down by the baluster, which required my right hand, and threw my revolver to my left. i got safely to the bottom, and around the newel-post: there was still a light in the library, and the door was not entirely closed. then, with my usual bad luck, i ran into a heap of folding chairs that had been left by the undertaker, and if the crash paralyzed me, i don't know what it did to the intruder in the library. the light was out in an instant, and with concealment at an end, i broke for the door and threw it open, standing there with my revolver leveled. we--the man in the room, and i--were both in absolute darkness. he had the advantage of me. he knew my location, and i could not guess his. "who is here?" i demanded. only silence, except that i seemed to hear rapid breathing. "speak up, or i'll shoot!" i said, not without an ugly feeling that he might be--even probably was--taking careful aim by my voice. the darkness was intolerable: i reached cautiously to the left and found, just beyond the door frame, the electric switch. as i turned it the light flashed up. the room was empty, but a portière in a doorway at my right was still shaking. i leaped for the curtain and dragged it aside, to have a door just close in my face. when i had jerked it open, i found myself in a short hall, and there were footsteps to my left, i blundered along in the semi-darkness, into a black void which must have been the dining-room, for my outstretched hand skirted the table. the footsteps seemed only beyond my reach, and at the other side of the room the swinging door into the pantry was still swaying when i caught it. i made a misstep in the pantry, and brought up against a blank wall. it seemed to me i heard the sound of feet running up steps, and when i found a door at last, i threw it open and dashed in. the next moment the solid earth slipped from under my feet, i threw out my hand, and it met a cold wall, smooth as glass. then i fell--fell an incalculable distance, and the blackness of the night came over me and smothered me. chapter xii my commission when i came to, i was lying in darkness, and the stillness was absolute. when i tried to move, i found i was practically a prisoner: i had fallen into an air shaft, or something of the kind. i could not move my arms, where they were pinioned to my sides, and i was half-lying, half-crouching, in a semi-vertical position. i worked one arm loose and managed to make out that my prison was probably the dumb-waiter shaft to the basement kitchen. i had landed on top of the slide, and i seemed to be tied in a knot. the revolver was under me, and if it had exploded during the fall it had done no damage. i can hardly imagine a more unpleasant position. if the man i had been following had so chosen, he could have made away with me in any one of a dozen unpleasant ways--he could have filled me as full of holes as a sieve, or scalded me, or done anything, pretty much, that he chose. but nothing happened. the house was impressively quiet. i had fallen feet first, evidently, and then crumpled up unconscious, for one of my ankles was throbbing. it was some time before i could stand erect, and even by reaching, i could not touch the doorway above me. it must have taken five minutes for my confused senses to remember the wire cable, and to tug at it. i was a heavy load for the slide, accustomed to nothing weightier than political dinners, but with much creaking i got myself at last to the floor above, and stepped out, still into darkness, but free. i still held the revolver, and i lighted the whole lower floor. but i found nothing in the dining-room or the pantry. everything was locked and in good order. a small alcove off the library came next; it was undisturbed, but a tabouret lay on its side, and a half dozen books had been taken from a low book-case, and lay heaped on a chair. in the library, however, everything was confusion. desk drawers stood open--one of the linen shades had been pulled partly off its roller, a chair had been drawn up to the long mahogany table in the center of the room, with the electric dome overhead, and everywhere, on chairs, over the floor, heaped in stacks on the table, were papers. after searching the lower floor, and finding everything securely locked, i went up-stairs, convinced the intruder was still in the house. i made a systematic search of every room, looking into closets and under beds. several times i had an impression, as i turned a corner, that some one was just ahead of me, but i was always disappointed. i gave up at last, and, going down to the library, made myself as comfortable as i could, and waited for morning. i heard bella coming down the stairs, after seven sometime; she came slowly, with flagging footsteps, as if the slightest sound would send her scurrying to the upper regions again. a little later i heard her rattling the range in the basement kitchen, and i went up-stairs and dressed. i was too tired to have a theory about the night visitor; in fact, from that time on, i tried to have no theories of any kind. i was impressed with only one thing--that the enemy or enemies of the late allan fleming evidently carried their antagonism beyond the grave. as i put on my collar i wondered how long i could stay in this game, as i now meant to, and avoid lying in state in edith's little drawing-room, with flowers around and a gentleman in black gloves at the door. i had my ankle strapped with adhesive that morning by my doctor and it gave me no more trouble. but i caught him looking curiously at the blue bruise on my forehead where wardrop had struck me with the chair, and at my nose, no longer swollen, but mustard-yellow at the bridge. "been doing any boxing lately," he said, as i laced up my shoe. "not for two or three years." "new machine?" "no." he smiled at me quizzically from his desk. "how does the other fellow look?" he inquired, and to my haltingly invented explanation of my battered appearance, he returned the same enigmatical smile. that day was uneventful. margery and edith came to the house for about an hour and went back to fred's again. a cousin of the dead man, an elderly bachelor named parker, appeared that morning and signified his willingness to take charge of the house during that day. the very hush of his voice and his black tie prompted edith to remove margery from him as soon as she could, and as the girl dreaded the curious eyes of the crowd that filled the house, she was glad to go. it was sunday, and i went to the office only long enough to look over my mail. i dined in the middle of the day at fred's, and felt heavy and stupid all afternoon as a result of thus reversing the habits of the week. in the afternoon i had my first conversation with fred and edith, while margery and the boys talked quietly in the nursery. they had taken a great fancy to her, and she was almost cheerful when she was with them. fred had the morning papers around him on the floor, and was in his usual sunday argumentative mood. "well," he said, when the nursery door up-stairs had closed, "what was it, jack? suicide?" "i don't know," i replied bluntly. "what do you think?" he insisted. "how can i tell?" irritably. "the police say it was suicide, and they ought to know." "the _times-post_ says it was murder, and that they will prove it. and they claim the police have been called off." i said nothing of mr. lightfoot, and his visit to the office, but i made a mental note to see the _times-post_ people and learn, if i could, what they knew. "i can not help thinking that he deserved very nearly what he got," edith broke in, looking much less vindictive than her words. "when one thinks of the ruin he brought to poor henry butler, and that ellen has been practically an invalid ever since, i can't be sorry for him." "what was the butler story?" i asked. but fred did not know, and edith was as vague as women usually are in politics. "henry butler was treasurer of the state, and mr. fleming was his cashier. i don't know just what the trouble was. but you remember that henry butler killed himself after he got out of the penitentiary, and ellen has been in one hospital after another. i would like to have her come here for a few weeks, fred," she said appealingly. "she is in some sanatorium or other now, and we might cheer her a little." fred groaned. "have her if you like, petty," he said resignedly, "but i refuse to be cheerful unless i feel like it. what about this young wardrop, jack? it looks to me as if the _times-post_ reporter had a line on him." "hush," edith said softly. "he is margery's fiancé, and she might hear you." "how do you know?" fred demanded. "did she tell you?" "look at her engagement ring," edith threw back triumphantly. "and it's a perfectly beautiful solitaire, too." i caught fred's eye on me, and the very speed with which he shifted his gaze made me uncomfortable. i made my escape as soon as i could, on the plea of going out to bellwood, and in the hall up-stairs i met margery. "i saw bella to-day," she said. "mr. knox, will you tell me why you stayed up last night? what happened in the house?" "i--thought i heard some one in the library," i stammered, "but i found no one." "is that all the truth or only part of it?" she asked. "why do men always evade issues with a woman?" luckily, woman-like, she did not wait for a reply. she closed the nursery door and stood with her hand on the knob, looking down. "i wonder what you believe about all this," she said. "do you think my father--killed himself? you were there; you know. if some one would only tell me everything!" it seemed to me it was her right to know. the boys were romping noisily in the nursery. down-stairs fred and edith were having their sunday afternoon discussion of what in the world had become of the money from fred's latest book. margery and i sat down on the stairs, and, as well as i could remember the details, i told her what had happened at the white cat. she heard me through quietly. "and so the police have given up the case!" she said despairingly. "and if they had not, harry would have been arrested. is there nothing i can do? do i have to sit back with my hands folded?" "the police have not exactly given up the case," i told her, "but there is such a thing, of course, as stirring up a lot of dust and then running to cover like blazes before it settles. by the time the public has wiped it out of its eyes and sneezed it out of its nose and coughed it out of its larynx, the dust has settled in a heavy layer, clues are obliterated, and the public lifts its skirts and chooses another direction. the 'no thoroughfare' sign is up." she sat there for fifteen minutes, interrupted by occasional noisy excursions from the nursery, which resulted in her acquiring by degrees a lapful of broken wheels, three-legged horses and a live water beetle which the boys had found under the kitchen sink and imprisoned in a glass topped box, where, to its bewilderment, they were assiduously offering it dead and mangled flies. but our last five minutes were undisturbed, and the girl brought out with an effort the request she had tried to make all day. "whoever killed my father--and it was murder, mr. knox--whoever did it is going free to save a scandal. all my--friends"--she smiled bitterly--"are afraid of the same thing. but i can not sit quiet and think nothing can be done. i _must_ know, and you are the only one who seems willing to try to find out." so it was, that, when i left the house a half hour later, i was committed. i had been commissioned by the girl i loved--for it had come to that--to clear her lover of her father's murder, and so give him back to her--not in so many words, but i was to follow up the crime, and the rest followed. and i was morally certain of two things--first, that her lover was not worthy of her, and second, and more to the point, that innocent or guilty, he was indirectly implicated in the crime. i had promised her also to see miss letitia that day if i could, and i turned over the events of the preceding night as i walked toward the station, but i made nothing of them. one thing occurred to me, however. bella had told margery that i had been up all night. could bella--? but i dismissed the thought as absurd--bella, who had scuttled to bed in a panic of fright, would never have dared the lower floor alone, and bella, given all the courage in the world, could never have moved with the swiftness and light certainty of my midnight prowler. it had not been bella. but after all i did not go to bellwood. i met hunter on my way to the station, and he turned around and walked with me. "so you've lain down on the case!" i said, when we had gone a few steps without speaking. he grumbled something unintelligible and probably unrepeatable. "of course," i persisted, "being a simple and uncomplicated case of suicide, there was nothing in it anyhow. if it had been a murder, under peculiar circumstances--" he stopped and gripped my arm. "for ten cents," he said gravely, "i would tell the chief and a few others what i think of them. and then i'd go out and get full." "not on ten cents!" "i'm going out of the business," he stormed. "i'm going to drive a garbage wagon: it's cleaner than this job. suicide! i never saw a cleaner case of--" he stopped suddenly. "do you know burton--of the _times-post_?" "no: i've heard of him." "well, he's your man. they're dead against the ring, and burton's been given the case. he's as sharp as a steel trap. you two get together." he paused at a corner. "good-by," he said dejectedly. "i'm off to hunt some boys that have been stealing milk bottles. that's about my size, these days." he turned around, however, before he had gone many steps and came back. "wardrop has been missing since yesterday afternoon," he said. "that is, he thinks he's missing. we've got him all right." i gave up my bellwood visit for the time, and taking a car down-town, i went to the _times-post_ office. the monday morning edition was already under way, as far as the staff was concerned, and from the waiting-room i could see three or four men, with their hats on, most of them rattling typewriters. burton came in in a moment, a red-haired young fellow, with a short thick nose and a muggy skin. he was rather stocky in build, and the pugnacity of his features did not hide the shrewdness of his eyes. i introduced myself, and at my name his perfunctory manner changed. "knox!" he said. "i called you last night over the 'phone." "can't we talk in a more private place?" i asked, trying to raise my voice above the confusion of the next room. in reply he took me into a tiny office, containing a desk and two chairs, and separated by an eight-foot partition from the other room. "this is the best we have," he explained cheerfully. "newspapers are agents of publicity, not privacy--if you don't care what you say." i liked burton. there was something genuine about him; after wardrop's kid-glove finish, he was a relief. "hunter, of the detective bureau, sent me here," i proceeded, "about the fleming case." he took out his note-book. "you are the fourth to-day," he said. "hunter himself, lightfoot from plattsburg, and mcfeely here in town. well, mr. knox, are you willing now to put yourself on record that fleming committed suicide?" "no," i said firmly. "it is my belief that he was murdered." "and that the secretary fellow, what's his name?--wardrop?--that he killed him?" "possibly." in reply burton fumbled in his pocket and brought up a pasteboard box, filled with jeweler's cotton. underneath was a small object, which he passed to me with care. "i got it from the coroner's physician, who performed the autopsy," he said casually. "you will notice that it is a thirty-two, and that the revolver they took from wardrop was a thirty-eight. question, where's the other gun?" i gave him back the bullet, and he rolled it around on the palm of his hand. "little thing, isn't it?" he said. "we think we're lords of creation, until we see a quarter-inch bichloride tablet, or a bit of lead like this. look here." he dived into his pocket again and drew out a roll of ordinary brown paper. when he opened it a bit of white chalk fell on the desk. "look at that," he said dramatically. "kill an army with it, and they'd never know what struck them. cyanide of potassium--and the druggist that sold it ought to be choked." "where did it come from?" i asked curiously. burton smiled his cheerful smile. "it's a beautiful case, all around," he said, as he got his hat. "i haven't had any sunday dinner yet, and it's five o'clock. oh--the cyanide? clarkson, the cashier of the bank fleming ruined, took a bite off that corner right there, this morning." "clarkson!" i exclaimed. "how is he?" "god only knows," said burton gravely, from which i took it clarkson was dead. chapter xiii sizzling metal burton listened while he ate, and his cheerful comments were welcome enough after the depression of the last few days. i told him, after some hesitation, the whole thing, beginning with the maitland pearls and ending with my drop down the dumb-waiter. i knew i was absolutely safe in doing so: there is no person to whom i would rather tell a secret than a newspaper man. he will go out of his way to keep it: he will lock it in the depths of his bosom, and keep it until seventy times seven. also, you may threaten the rack or offer a larger salary, the seal does not come off his lips until the word is given. if then he makes a scarehead of it, and gets in three columns of space and as many photographs, it is his just reward. so--i told burton everything, and he ate enough beefsteak for two men, and missed not a word i said. "the money wardrop had in the grip--that's easy enough explained," he said. "fleming used the borough bank to deposit state funds in. he must have known it was rotten: he and clarkson were as thick as thieves. according to a time-honored custom in our land of the brave and home of the free, a state treasurer who is crooked can, in such a case, draw on such a bank without security, on his personal note, which is usually worth its value by the pound as old paper." "and fleming did that?" "he did. then things got bad at the borough bank. fleming had had to divide with schwartz and the lord only knows who all, but it was fleming who had to put in the money to avert a crash--the word crash being synonymous with scandal in this case. he scrapes together a paltry hundred thousand, which wardrop gets at the capital, and brings on. wardrop is robbed, or says he is: the bank collapses and clarkson, driven to the wall, kills himself, just after fleming is murdered. what does that sound like?" "like clarkson!" i exclaimed. "and clarkson knew fleming was hiding at the white cat!" "now, then, take the other theory," he said, pushing aside his cup. "wardrop goes in to fleming with a story that he has been robbed: fleming gets crazy and attacks him. all that is in the morning--friday. now, then--wardrop goes back there that night. within twenty minutes after he enters the club he rushes out, and when hunter follows him, he says he is looking for a doctor, to get cocaine for a gentleman up-stairs. he is white and trembling. they go back together, and find you there, and fleming dead. wardrop tells two stories: first he says fleming committed suicide just before he left. then he changes it and says he was dead when he arrived there. he produces the weapon with which fleming is supposed to have killed himself, and which, by the way, miss fleming identified yesterday as her father's. but there are two discrepancies. wardrop practically admitted that he had taken that revolver from fleming, not that night, but the morning before, during the quarrel." "and the other discrepancy?" "the bullet. nobody ever fired a thirty-two bullet out of a thirty-eight caliber revolver--unless he was trying to shoot a double-compound curve. now, then, who does it look like?" "like wardrop," i confessed. "by jove, they didn't both do it." "and he didn't do it himself for two good reasons: he had no revolver that night, and there were no powder marks." "and the eleven twenty-two, and miss maitland's disappearance?" he looked at me with his quizzical smile. "i'll have to have another steak, if i'm to settle that," he said. "i can only solve one murder on one steak. but disappearances are my specialty; perhaps, if i have a piece of pie and some cheese--" but i got him away at last, and we walked together down the street. "i can't quite see the old lady in it," he confessed. "she hadn't any grudge against fleming, had she? wouldn't be likely to forget herself temporarily and kill him?" "good lord!" i said. "why, she's sixty-five, and as timid and gentle a little old lady as ever lived." "curls?" he asked, turning his bright blue eyes on me. "yes," i admitted. "wouldn't be likely to have eloped with the minister, or advertised for a husband, or anything like that?" "you would have to know her to understand," i said resignedly. "but she didn't do any of those things, and she didn't run off to join a theatrical troupe. burton, who do you think was in the fleming house last night?" "lightfoot," he said succinctly. he stopped under a street lamp and looked at his watch. "i believe i'll run over to the capital to-night," he said. "while i'm gone--i'll be back to-morrow night or the next morning--i wish you would do two things. find rosie o'grady, or whatever her name is, and locate carter. that's probably not his name, but it will answer for a while. then get your friend hunter to keep him in sight for a while, until i come back anyhow. i'm beginning to enjoy this; it's more fun than a picture puzzle. we're going to make the police department look like a kindergarten playing jackstraws." "and the second thing i am to do?" "go to bellwood and find out a few things. it's all well enough to say the old lady was a meek and timid person, but if you want to know her peculiarities, go to her neighbors. when people leave the beaten path, the neighbors always know it before the families." he stopped before a drug-store. "i'll have to pack for my little jaunt," he said, and purchased a tooth-brush, which proved to be the extent of his preparations. we separated at the station, burton to take his red hair and his tooth-brush to plattsburg, i to take a taxicab, and armed with a page torn from the classified directory to inquire at as many of the twelve anderson's drug-stores as might be necessary to locate delia's gentleman friend, "the clerk," through him delia, and through delia, the mysterious carter, "who was not really a butler." it occurred to me somewhat tardily, that i knew nothing of delia but her given name. a telephone talk with margery was of little assistance: delia had been a new maid, and if she had heard her other name, she had forgotten it. i had checked off eight of the andersons on my list, without result, and the taximeter showed something over nineteen dollars, when the driver drew up at the curb. "gentleman in the other cab is hailing you, sir," he said over his shoulder. "the other cab?" "the one that has been following us." i opened the door and glanced behind. a duplicate of my cab stood perhaps fifty feet behind, and from it a familiar figure was slowly emerging, carrying on a high-pitched argument with the chauffeur. the figure stopped to read the taximeter, shook his fist at the chauffeur, and approached me, muttering audibly. it was davidson. "that liar and thief back there has got me rung up for nineteen dollars," he said, ignoring my amazement. "nineteen dollars and forty cents! he must have the thing counting the revolutions of all four wheels!" he walked around and surveyed my expense account, at the driver's elbow. then he hit the meter a smart slap, but the figures did not change. "nineteen dollars!" he repeated dazed. "nineteen dollars and--look here," he called to his driver, who had brought the cab close, "it's only thirty cents here. your clock's ten cents fast." "but how--" i began. "you back up to nineteen dollars and thirty cents," he persisted, ignoring me. "if you'll back up to twelve dollars, i'll pay it. that's all i've got." then he turned on me irritably. "good heavens, man," he exclaimed, "do you mean to tell me you've been to eight drug-stores this sunday evening and spent nineteen dollars and thirty cents, and haven't got a drink yet?" "do you think i'm after a drink?" i asked him. "now look here, davidson, i rather think you know what i am after. if you don't, it doesn't matter. but since you are coming along anyhow, pay your man off and come with me. i don't like to be followed." he agreed without hesitation, borrowed eight dollars from me to augment his twelve and crawled in with me. "the next address on the list is the right one," he said, as the man waited for directions. "i did the same round yesterday, but not being a plutocrat, i used the street-cars and my legs. and because you're a decent fellow and don't have to be chloroformed to have an idea injected, i'm going to tell you something. there were eleven roundsmen as well as the sergeant who heard me read the note i found at the fleming house that night. you may have counted them through the window. a dozen plain-clothes men read it before morning. when the news of mr. fleming's mur--death came out, i thought this fellow carter might know something, and i trailed delia through this mamie brennan. when i got there i found tom brannigan and four other detectives sitting in the parlor, and miss delia, in a blue silk waist, making eyes at every mother's son of them." i laughed in spite of my disappointment. davidson leaned forward and closed the window at the driver's back. then he squared around and faced me. "understand me, mr. knox," he said, "mr. fleming killed himself. you and i are agreed on that. even if you aren't just convinced of it i'm telling you, and--better let it drop, sir," under his quiet manner i felt a threat: it served to rouse me. "i'll let it drop when i'm through with it," i asserted, and got out my list of addresses. "you'll let it drop because it's too hot to hold," he retorted, with the suspicion of a smile. "if you are determined to know about carter, i can tell you everything that is necessary." the chauffeur stopped his engine with an exasperated jerk and settled down in his seat, every line of his back bristling with irritation. "i prefer learning from carter himself." he leaned back in his seat and produced an apple from the pocket of his coat. "you'll have to travel some to do it, son," he said. "carter left for parts unknown last night, taking with him enough money to keep him in comfort for some little time." "until all this blows over," i said bitterly. "the trip was for the benefit of his health. he has been suffering--and is still suffering, from a curious lapse of memory." davidson smiled at me engagingly. "he has entirely forgotten everything that occurred from the time he entered mr. fleming's employment, until that gentleman left home. i doubt if he will ever recover." with carter gone, his retreat covered by the police, supplied with funds from some problematical source, further search for him was worse than useless. in fact, davidson strongly intimated that it might be dangerous and would be certainly unpleasant. i yielded ungraciously and ordered the cab to take me home. but on the way i cursed my folly for not having followed this obvious clue earlier, and i wondered what this thing could be that carter knew, that was at least surmised by various headquarters men, and yet was so carefully hidden from the world at large. the party newspapers had come out that day with a signed statement from mr. fleming's physician in plattsburg that he had been in ill health and inclined to melancholia for some time. the air was thick with rumors of differences with his party: the dust cloud covered everything; pretty soon it would settle and hide the tracks of those who had hurried to cover under its protection. davidson left me at a corner down-town. he turned to give me a parting admonition. "there's an old axiom in the mills around here, 'never sit down on a piece of metal until you spit on it.' if it sizzles, don't sit." he grinned. "your best position just now, young man, is standing, with your hands over your head. confidentially, there ain't anything within expectorating distance just now that ain't pretty well het up." he left me with that, and i did not see him again until the night at the white cat, when he helped put me through the transom. recently, however, i have met him several times. he invariably mentions the eight dollars and his intention of repaying it. unfortunately, the desire and the ability have not yet happened to coincide. i took the evening train to bellwood, and got there shortly after eight, in the midst of the sunday evening calm, and the calm of a place like bellwood is the peace of death without the hope of resurrection. i walked slowly up the main street, which was lined with residences; the town relegated its few shops to less desirable neighborhoods. my first intention had been to see the episcopal minister, but the rectory was dark, and a burst of organ music from the church near reminded me again of the sunday evening services. promiscuous inquiry was not advisable. so far, miss jane's disappearance was known to very few, and hunter had advised caution. i wandered up the street and turned at random to the right; a few doors ahead a newish red brick building proclaimed itself the post-office, and gave the only sign of life in the neighborhood. it occurred to me that here inside was the one individual who, theoretically at least, in a small place always knows the idiosyncrasies of its people. the door was partly open, for the spring night was sultry. the postmaster proved to be a one-armed veteran of the civil war, and he was sorting rapidly the contents of a mail-bag, emptied on the counter. "no delivery to-night," he said shortly. "sunday delivery, two to three." "i suppose, then, i couldn't get a dollar's worth of stamps," i regretted. he looked up over his glasses. "we don't sell stamps on sunday nights," he explained, more politely. "but if you're in a hurry for them--" "i am," i lied. and after he had got them out, counting them with a wrinkled finger, and tearing them off the sheet with the deliberation of age, i opened a general conversation. "i suppose you do a good bit of business here?" i asked. "it seems like a thriving place." "not so bad; big mail here sometimes. first of the quarter, when bills are coming round, we have a rush, and holidays and easter we've got to hire an express wagon." it was when i asked him about his empty sleeve, however, and he had told me that he lost his arm at chancellorsville, that we became really friendly when he said he had been a corporal in general maitland's command, my path was one of ease. "the maitland ladies! i should say i do," he said warmly. "i've been fighting with letitia maitland as long as i can remember. that woman will scrap with the angel gabriel at the resurrection, if he wakes her up before she's had her sleep out." "miss jane is not that sort, is she?" "miss jane? she's an angel--she is that. she could have been married a dozen times when she was a girl, but letitia wouldn't have it. i was after her myself, forty-five years ago. this was the maitland farm in those days, and my father kept a country store down where the railroad station is now." "i suppose from that the maitland ladies are wealthy." "wealthy! they don't know what they're worth--not that it matters a mite to jane maitland. she hasn't called her soul her own for so long that i guess the good lord won't hold her responsible for it." all of which was entertaining, but it was much like an old-fashioned see-saw; it kept going, but it didn't make much progress. but now at last we took a step ahead. "it's a shameful thing," the old man pursued, "that a woman as old as jane should have to get her letters surreptitiously. for more than a year now she's been coming here twice a week for her mail, and i've been keeping it for her. rain or shine, mondays and thursdays, she's been coming, and a sight of letters she's been getting, too." "did she come last thursday?" i asked over-eagerly. the postmaster, all at once, regarded me with suspicion. "i don't know whether she did or not," he said coldly, and my further attempts to beguile him into conversation failed. i pocketed my stamps, and by that time his resentment at my curiosity was fading. he followed me to the door, and lowered his voice cautiously. "any news of the old lady?" he asked. "it ain't generally known around here that she's missing, but heppie, the cook there, is a relation of my wife's." "we have no news," i replied, "and don't let it get around, will you?" he promised gravely. "i was tellin' the missus the other day," he said, "that there is an old walled-up cellar under the maitland place. have you looked there?" he was disappointed when i said we had, and i was about to go when he called me back. "miss jane didn't get her mail on thursday, but on friday that niece of hers came for it--two letters, one from the city and one from new york." "thanks," i returned, and went out into the quiet street. i walked past the maitland place, but the windows were dark and the house closed. haphazard inquiry being out of the question, i took the ten o'clock train back to the city. i had learned little enough, and that little i was at a loss to know how to use. for why had margery gone for miss jane's mail _after_ the little lady was missing? and why did miss jane carry on a clandestine correspondence? the family had retired when i got home except fred, who called from his study to ask for a rhyme for mosque. i could not think of one and suggested that he change the word to "temple." at two o'clock he banged on my door in a temper, said he had changed the rhythm to fit, and now couldn't find a rhyme for "temple!" i suggested "dimple" drowsily, whereat he kicked the panel of the door and went to bed. chapter xiv a walk in the park the funeral occurred on monday. it was an ostentatious affair, with a long list of honorary pall-bearers, a picked corps of city firemen in uniform ranged around the casket, and enough money wasted in floral pillows and sheaves of wheat tied with purple ribbon, to have given all the hungry children in town a square meal. amid all this state margery moved, stricken and isolated. she went to the cemetery with edith, miss letitia having sent a message that, having never broken her neck to see the man living, she wasn't going to do it to see him dead. the music was very fine, and the eulogy spoke of this patriot who had served his country so long and so well. "following the flag," fred commented under his breath, "as long as there was an appropriation attached to it." and when it was all over, we went back to fred's until the fleming house could be put into order again. it was the best place in the world for margery, for, with the children demanding her attention and applause every minute, she had no time to be blue. mrs. butler arrived that day, which made fred suspicious that edith's plan to bring her, far antedated his consent. but she was there when we got home from the funeral, and after one glimpse at her thin face and hollow eyes, i begged edith to keep her away from margery, for that day at least. fortunately, mrs. butler was exhausted by her journey, and retired to her room almost immediately. i watched her slender figure go up the stairs, and, with her black trailing gown and colorless face, she was an embodiment of all that is lonely and helpless. fred closed the door behind her and stood looking at edith and me. "i tell you, honey," he declared, "_that_ brought into a cheerful home is sufficient cause for divorce. isn't it, jack?" "she is ill," edith maintained valiantly. "she is my cousin, too, which gives her some claim on me, and my guest, which gives her more." "lady-love," fred said solemnly, "if you do not give me the key to the cellarette, i shall have a chill. and let me beg this of you: if i ever get tired of this life, and shuffle off my mortality in a lumber yard, or a political club, and you go around like that, i shall haunt you. i swear it." "shuffle off," i dared him. "i will see that edith is cheerful and happy." from somewhere above, there came a sudden crash, followed by the announcement, made by a scared housemaid, that mrs. butler had fainted. fred sniffed as edith scurried up-stairs. "hipped," he said shortly. "for two cents i'd go up and give her a good whiff of ammonia--not this aromatic stuff, but the genuine article. that would make her sit up and take notice. upon my word, i can't think what possessed edith; these spineless, soft-spoken, timid women are leeches on one's sympathies." but mrs. butler was really ill, and margery insisted on looking after her. it was an odd coincidence, the widow of one state treasurer and the orphaned daughter of his successor; both men had died violent deaths, in each case when a boiling under the political lid had threatened to blow it off. the boys were allowed to have their dinner with the family that evening, in honor of mrs. butler's arrival, and it was a riotous meal. margery got back a little of her color. as i sat across from her, and watched her expressions change, from sadness to resignation, and even gradually to amusement at the boys' antics, i wondered just how much she knew, or suspected, that she refused to tell me. i remembered a woman--a client of mine--who said that whenever she sat near a railroad track and watched an engine thundering toward her, she tortured herself by picturing a child on the track, and wondering whether, under such circumstances, she would risk her life to save the child. i felt a good bit that way; i was firmly embarked on the case now, and i tortured myself with one idea. suppose i should find wardrop guilty, and i should find extenuating circumstances--what would i do? publish the truth, see him hanged or imprisoned, and break margery's heart? or keep back the truth, let her marry him, and try to forget that i had had a hand in the whole wretched business? after all, i decided to try to stop my imaginary train. prove wardrop innocent, i reasoned with myself, get to the bottom of this thing, and then--it would be man and man. a fair field and no favor. i suppose my proper attitude, romantically taken, was to consider margery's engagement ring an indissoluble barrier. but this was not romance; i was fighting for my life happiness, and as to the ring--well, i am of the opinion that if a man really loves a woman, and thinks he can make her happy, he will tell her so if she is strung with engagement rings to the ends of her fingers. dangerous doctrine? well, this is not propaganda. tuesday found us all more normal. mrs. butler had slept some, and very commendably allowed herself to be tea'd and toasted in bed. the boys were started to kindergarten, after ten minutes of frenzied cap-hunting. margery went with me along the hall when i started for the office. "you have not learned anything?" she asked cautiously, glancing back to edith, at the telephone calling the grocer frantically for the monday morning supply of soap and starch. "not much," i evaded. "nothing definite, anyhow. margery, you are not going back to the monmouth avenue house again, are you?" "not just yet; i don't think i could. i suppose, later, it will have to be sold, but not at once. i shall go to aunt letitia's first." "very well," i said. "then you are going to take a walk with me this afternoon in the park. i won't take no; you need the exercise, and i need--to talk to you," i finished lamely. when she had agreed i went to the office. it was not much after nine, but, to my surprise, burton was already there. he had struck up an acquaintance with miss grant, the stenographer, and that usually frigid person had melted under the warmth of his red hair and his smile. she was telling him about her sister's baby having the whooping-cough, when i went in. "i wish i had studied law," he threw at me. "'what shall it profit a man to become a lawyer and lose his own soul?' as the psalmist says. i like this ten-to-four business." when we had gone into the inner office, and shut out miss grant and the whooping-cough, he was serious instantly. "well," he said, sitting on the radiator and dangling his foot, "i guess we've got wardrop for theft, anyhow." "theft?" i inquired. "well, larceny, if you prefer legal terms. i found where he sold the pearls--in plattsburg, to a wholesale jeweler named, suggestively, cashdollar." "then," i said conclusively, "if he took the pearls and sold them, as sure as i sit here, he took the money out of that russia leather bag." burton swung his foot rhythmically against the pipes. "i'm not so darned sure of it," he said calmly. if he had any reason, he refused to give it. i told him, in my turn, of carter's escape, aided by the police, and he smiled. "for a suicide it's causing a lot of excitement," he remarked. when i told him the little incident of the post-office, he was much interested. "the old lady's in it, somehow," he maintained. "she may have been lending fleming money, for one thing. how do you know it wasn't her hundred thousand that was stolen?" "i don't think she ever had the uncontrolled disposal of a dollar in her life." "there's only one thing to do," burton said finally, "and that is, find miss jane. if she's alive, she can tell something. i'll stake my fountain pen on that--and it's my dearest possession on earth, next to my mother. if miss jane is dead--well, somebody killed her, and it's time it was being found out." "it's easy enough to say find her." "it's easy enough to find her," he exploded. "make a noise about it; send up rockets. put a half-column ad in every paper in town, or--better still--give the story to the reporters and let them find her for you. i'd do it, if i wasn't tied up with this fleming case. describe her, how she walked, what she liked to eat, what she wore--in this case what she didn't wear. lord, i wish i had that assignment! in forty-eight hours she will have been seen in a hundred different places, and one of them will be right. it will be a question of selection--that is, if she is alive." in spite of his airy tone, i knew he was serious, and i felt he was right. the publicity part of it i left to him, and i sent a special delivery that morning to bellwood, asking miss letitia to say nothing and to refer reporters to me. i had already been besieged with them, since my connection with the fleming case, and a few more made no difference. burton attended to the matter thoroughly. the one o'clock edition of an afternoon paper contained a short and vivid scarlet account of miss jane's disappearance. the evening editions were full, and while vague as to the manner of her leaving, were minute as regarded her personal appearance and characteristics. to escape the threatened inundation of the morning paper men, i left the office early, and at four o'clock margery and i stepped from a hill car into the park. she had been wearing a short, crepe-edged veil, but once away from the gaze of the curious, she took it off. i was glad to see she had lost the air of detachment she had worn for the last three days. "hold your shoulders well back," i directed, when we had found an isolated path, "and take long breaths. try breathing in while i count ten." she was very tractable--unusually so, i imagined, for her. we swung along together for almost a half-hour, hardly talking. i was content merely to be with her, and the sheer joy of the exercise after her enforced confinement kept her silent. when she began to flag a little i found a bench, and we sat down together. the bench had been lately painted, and although it seemed dry enough, i spread my handkerchief for her to sit on. whereupon she called me "sir walter," and at the familiar jest we laughed like a pair of children. i had made the stipulation that, for this one time, her father's death and her other troubles should be taboo, and we adhered to it religiously. a robin in the path was industriously digging out a worm; he had tackled a long one, and it was all he could manage. he took the available end in his beak and hopped back with the expression of one who sets his jaws and determines that this which should be, is to be. the worm stretched into a pinkish and attenuated line, but it neither broke nor gave. "horrid thing!" margery said. "that is a disgraceful, heartless exhibition." "the robin is a parent," i reminded her. "it is precisely the same as fred, who twists, jerks, distorts and attenuates the english language in his magazine work, in order to have bread and ice-cream and jelly cake for his two blooming youngsters." she had taken off her gloves, and sat with her hands loosely clasped in her lap. "i wish some one depended on me," she said pensively. "it's a terrible thing to feel that it doesn't matter to any one--not vitally, anyhow--whether one is around or not. to have all my responsibilities taken away at once, and just to drift around, like this--oh, it's dreadful." "you were going to be good," i reminded her. "i didn't promise to be cheerful," she returned. "besides my father, there was only one person in the world who cared about me, and i don't know where she is. dear aunt jane!" the sunlight caught the ring on her engagement finger, and she flushed suddenly as she saw me looking at it. we sat there for a while saying nothing; the long may afternoon was coming to a close. the paths began to fill with long lines of hurrying home-seekers, their day in office or factory at an end. margery got up at last and buttoned her coat. then impulsively she held out her hand to me. "you have been more than kind to me," she said hurriedly. "you have taken me into your home--and helped me through these dreadful days--and i will never forget it; never." "i am not virtuous," i replied, looking down at her. "i couldn't help it. you walked into my life when you came to my office--was it only last week? the evil days are coming, i suppose, but just now nothing matters at all, save that you are you, and i am i." she dropped her veil quickly, and we went back to the car. the prosaic world wrapped us around again; there was a heavy odor of restaurant coffee in the air; people bumped and jolted past us. to me they were only shadows; the real world was a girl in black and myself, and the girl wore a betrothal ring which was not mine. chapter xv find the woman mrs. butler came down to dinner that night. she was more cheerful than i had yet seen her, and she had changed her mournful garments to something a trifle less depressing. with her masses of fair hair dressed high, and her face slightly animated, i realized what i had not done before--that she was the wreck of a very beautiful woman. frail as she was, almost shrinkingly timid in her manner, there were times when she drew up her tall figure in something like its former stateliness. she had beautiful eyebrows, nearly black and perfectly penciled; they were almost incongruous in her colorless face. she was very weak; she used a cane when she walked, and after dinner, in the library, she was content to sit impassive, detached, propped with cushions, while margery read to the boys in their night nursery and edith embroidered. fred had been fussing over a play for some time, and he had gone to read it to some manager or other. edith was already spending the royalties. "we could go a little ways out of town," she was saying, "and we could have an automobile; margery says theirs will be sold, and it will certainly be a bargain. jack, are you laughing at me?" "certainly _not_," i replied gravely. "dream on, edith. shall we train the boys as chauffeurs, or shall we buy in the fleming man, also cheap." "i am sure," edith said aggrieved, "that it costs more for horse feed this minute for your gray, jack, than it would for gasolene." "but lady gray won't eat gasolene," i protested. "she doesn't like it." edith turned her back on me and sewed. near me, mrs. butler had languidly taken up the paper; suddenly she dropped it, and when i stooped and picked it up i noticed she was trembling. "is it true?" she demanded. "is robert clarkson dead?" "yes," i assented. "he has been dead since sunday morning--a suicide." edith had risen and come over to her. but mrs. butler was not fainting. "i'm glad, glad," she said. then she grew weak and semi-hysterical, laughing and crying in the same breath. when she had been helped up-stairs, for in her weakened state it had been more of a shock than we realized, margery came down and we tried to forget the scene we had just gone through. "i am glad fred was not here," edith confided to me. "ellen is a lovely woman, and as kind as she is mild; but in one of her--attacks, she is a little bit trying." it was strange to contrast the way in which the two women took their similar bereavements. margery represented the best type of normal american womanhood; ellen butler the neurasthenic; she demanded everything by her very helplessness and timidity. she was a constant drain on edith's ready sympathy. that night, while i closed the house--fred had not come in--i advised her to let mrs. butler go back to her sanatorium. at twelve-thirty i was still down-stairs; fred was out, and i waited for him, being curious to know the verdict on the play. the bell rang a few minutes before one, and i went to the door; some one in the vestibule was tapping the floor impatiently with his foot. when i opened the door, i was surprised to find that the late visitor was wardrop. he came in quietly, and i had a chance to see him well, under the hall light; the change three days had made was shocking. his eyes were sunk deep in his head, his reddened lids and twitching mouth told of little sleep, of nerves ready to snap. he was untidy, too, and a three days' beard hardly improved him. "i'm glad it's you," he said, by way of greeting. "i was afraid you'd have gone to bed." "it's the top of the evening yet," i replied perfunctorily, as i led the way into the library. once inside, wardrop closed the door and looked around him like an animal at bay. "i came here," he said nervously, looking at the windows, "because i had an idea you'd keep your head. mine's gone; i'm either crazy, or i'm on my way there." "sit down, man," i pushed a chair to him. "you don't look as if you have been in bed for a couple of nights." he went to each of the windows and examined the closed shutters before he answered me. "i haven't. you wouldn't go to bed either, if you thought you would never wake up." "nonsense." "well, it's true enough. knox, there are people following me wherever i go; they eat where i eat; if i doze in my chair they come into my dreams!" he stopped there, then he laughed a little wildly. "that last isn't sane, but it's true. there's a man across the street now, eating an apple under a lamppost." "suppose you _are_ under surveillance," i said. "it's annoying to have a detective following you around, but it's hardly serious. the police say now that mr. fleming killed himself; that was your own contention." he leaned forward in his chair and, resting his hands on his knees, gazed at me somberly. "suppose i say he didn't kill himself?" slowly. "suppose i say he was murdered? suppose--good god--suppose i killed him myself?" i drew back in stupefaction, but he hurried on. "for the last two days i've been wondering--if i did it! he hadn't any weapon; i had one, his. i hated him that day; i had tried to save him, and couldn't. my god, knox, i might have gone off my head and done it--and not remember it. there have been cases like that." his condition was pitiable. i looked around for some whisky, but the best i could do was a little port on the sideboard. when i came back he was sitting with bent head, his forehead on his palms. "i've thought it all out," he said painfully. "my mother had spells of emotional insanity. perhaps i went there, without knowing it, and killed him. i can see him, in the night, when i daren't sleep, toppling over on to that table, with a bullet wound in his head, and i am in the room, and i have his revolver in my pocket!" "you give me your word you have no conscious recollection of hearing a shot fired." "my word before heaven," he said fervently. "but i tell you, knox, he had no weapon. no one came out of that room as i went in and yet he was only swaying forward, as if i had shot him one moment, and caught him as he fell, the next. i was dazed; i don't remember yet what i told the police." the expression of fear in his eyes was terrible to see. a gust of wind shook the shutters, and he jumped almost out of his chair. "you will have to be careful," i said. "there have been cases where men confessed murders they never committed, driven by heaven knows what method of undermining their mental resistance. yon expose your imagination to 'third degree' torture of your own invention, and in two days more you will be able to add full details of the crime." "i knew you would think me crazy," he put in, a little less somberly, "but just try it once: sit in a room by yourself all day and all night, with detectives watching you; sit there and puzzle over a murder of a man you are suspected of killing; you know you felt like killing him, and you have a revolver, and he is shot. wouldn't you begin to think as i do?" "wardrop," i asked, trying to fix his wavering eyes with mine, "do you own a thirty-two caliber revolver?" "yes." i was startled beyond any necessity, under the circumstances. many people have thirty-twos. "that is, i had," he corrected himself. "it was in the leather bag that was stolen at bellwood." "i can relieve your mind of one thing," i said. "if your revolver was stolen with the leather bag, you had nothing to do with the murder. fleming was shot with a thirty-two." he looked first incredulous, then relieved. "now, then," i pursued, "suppose mr. fleming had an enemy, a relentless one who would stoop to anything to compass his ruin. in his position he would be likely to have enemies. this person, let us say, knows what you carry in your grip, and steals it, taking away the funds that would have helped to keep the lid on fleming's mismanagement for a time. in the grip is your revolver; would you know it again?" he nodded affirmatively. "this person--this enemy finds the revolver, pockets it and at the first opportunity, having ruined fleming, proceeds humanely to put him out of his suffering. is it far-fetched?" "there were a dozen--a hundred--people who would have been glad to ruin him." his gaze wavered again suddenly. it was evident that i had renewed an old train of thought. "for instance?" i suggested, but he was on guard again. "you forget one thing, knox," he said, after a moment. "there was nobody else who could have shot him: the room was empty." "nonsense," i replied. "don't forget the warehouse." "the warehouse!" "there is no doubt in my mind that he was shot from there. he was facing the open window, sitting directly under the light, writing. a shot fired through a broken pane of one of the warehouse windows would meet every requirement of the case: the empty room, the absence of powder marks--even the fact that no shot was heard. there was a report, of course, but the noise in the club-house and the thunder-storm outside covered it." "by george!" he exclaimed. "the warehouse, of course. i never thought of it." he was relieved, for some reason. "it's a question now of how many people knew he was at the club, and which of them hated him enough to kill him." "clarkson knew it," wardrop said, "but he didn't do it." "why?" "because it was he who came to the door of the room while the detective and you and i were inside, and called fleming." i pulled out my pocket-book and took out the scrap of paper which margery had found pinned to the pillow in her father's bedroom. "do you know what that means?" i asked, watching wardrop's face. "that was found in mr. fleming's room two days after he left home. a similar scrap was found in miss jane maitland's room when she disappeared. when fleming was murdered, he was writing a letter; he said: 'the figures have followed me here.' when we know what those figures mean, wardrop, we know why he was killed and who did it." he shook his head hopelessly. "i do not know," he said, and i believed him. he had got up and taken his hat, but i stopped him inside the door. "you can help this thing in two ways," i told him. "i am going to give you something to do: you will have less time to be morbid. find out, if you can, all about fleming's private life in the last dozen years, especially the last three. see if there are any women mixed up in it, and try to find out something about this eleven twenty-two." "eleven twenty-two," he repeated, but i had not missed his change of expression when i said women. "also," i went on, "i want you to tell me who was with you the night you tried to break into the house at bellwood." he was taken completely by surprise: when he had gathered himself together his perplexity was overdone. "with me!" he repeated. "i was alone, of course." "i mean--the woman at the gate." he lost his composure altogether then. i put my back against the door and waited for him to get himself in hand. "there was a woman," i persisted, "and what is more, wardrop, at this minute you believe she took your russia leather bag and left a substitute." he fell into the trap. "but she couldn't," he quavered. "i've thought until my brain is going, and i don't see how she could have done it." he became sullen when he saw what he had done, refused any more information, and left almost immediately. fred came soon after, and in the meantime i had made some notes like this: . examine warehouse and yard. . attempt to trace carter. . see station agent at bellwood. . inquire wardrop's immediate past. . take wardrop to doctor anderson, the specialist. . send margery violets. chapter xvi eleven twenty-two again burton's idea of exploiting miss jane's disappearance began to bear fruit the next morning. i went to the office early, anxious to get my more pressing business out of the way, to have the afternoon with burton to inspect the warehouse. at nine o'clock came a call from the morgue. "small woman, well dressed, gray hair?" i repeated. "i think i'll go up and see. where was the body found?" "in the river at monica station," was the reply. "there is a scar diagonally across the cheek to the corner of the mouth." "a fresh injury?" "no, an old scar." with a breath of relief i said it was not the person we were seeking and tried to get down to work again. but burton's prophecy had been right. miss jane had been seen in a hundred different places: one perhaps was right; which one? a reporter for the _eagle_ had been working on the case all night: he came in for a more detailed description of the missing woman, and he had a theory, to fit which he was quite ready to cut and trim the facts. "it's rowe," he said confidently. "you can see his hand in it right through. i was put on the benson kidnapping case, you remember, the boy who was kept for three months in a deserted lumber camp in the mountains? well, sir, every person in the benson house swore that youngster was in bed at midnight, when the house was closed for the night. every door and window bolted in the morning, and the boy gone. when we found rowe--after the mother had put on mourning--and found the kid, ten pounds heavier than he had been before he was abducted, and strutting around like a turkey cock, rowe told us that he and the boy took in the theater that night, and were there for the first act. how did he do it? he offered to take the boy to the show if he would pretend to go to bed, and then slide down a porch pillar and meet him. the boy didn't want to go home when we found him." "there can't be any mistake about the time in this case," i commented. "i saw her myself after eleven, and said good night." the _eagle_ man consulted his note-book. "oh, yes," he asked; "did she have a diagonal cut across her cheek?" "no," i said for the second time. my next visitor was a cabman. on the night in question he had taken a small and a very nervous old woman to the omega ferry. she appeared excited and almost forgot to pay him. she carried a small satchel, and wore a black veil. what did she look like? she had gray hair, and she seemed to have a scar on her face that drew the corner of her mouth. at ten o'clock i telephoned burton: "for heaven's sake," i said, "if anybody has lost a little old lady in a black dress, wearing a black veil, carrying a satchel, and with a scar diagonally across her cheek from her eye to her mouth, i can tell them all about her, and where she is now." "that's funny," he said. "we're stirring up the pool and bringing up things we didn't expect. the police have been looking for that woman quietly for a week: she's the widow of a coal baron, and her son-in-law's under suspicion of making away with her." "well, he didn't," i affirmed. "she committed suicide from an omega ferry boat and she's at the morgue this morning." "bully," he returned. "keep on; you'll get lots of clues, and remember one will be right." it was not until noon, however, that anything concrete developed. in the two hours between, i had interviewed seven more people. i had followed the depressing last hours of the coal baron's widow, and jumped with her, mentally, into the black river that night. i had learned of a small fairish-haired girl who had tried to buy cyanide of potassium at three drug-stores on the same street, and of a tall light woman who had taken a room for three days at a hotel and was apparently demented. at twelve, however, my reward came. two men walked in, almost at the same time: one was a motorman, in his official clothes, brass buttons and patches around the pockets. the other was a taxicab driver. both had the uncertain gait of men who by occupation are unused to anything stationary under them, and each eyed the other suspiciously. the motorman claimed priority by a nose, so i took him first into my private office. his story, shorn of his own opinions at the time and later, was as follows: on the night in question, thursday of the week before, he took his car out of the barn for the eleven o'clock run. barney was his conductor. they went from the barn, at hays street, down-town, and then started out for wynton. the controller blew out, and two or three things went wrong: all told they lost forty minutes. they got to wynton at five minutes after two; their time there was one-twenty-five. the car went to the bad again at wynton, and he and barney tinkered with it until two-forty. they got it in shape to go back to the barn, but that was all. just as they were ready to start, a passenger got on, a woman, alone: a small woman with a brown veil. she wore a black dress or a suit--he was vague about everything but the color, and he noticed her especially because she was fidgety and excited. half a block farther a man boarded the car, and sat across from the woman. barney said afterward that the man tried twice to speak to the woman, but she looked away each time. no, he hadn't heard what he said. the man got out when the car went into the barn, but the woman stayed on. he and barney got another car and took it out, and the woman went with them. she made a complete round trip this time, going out to wynton and back to the end of the line down-town. it was just daylight when she got off at last, at first and day streets. asked if he had thought at the time that the veiled woman was young or old, he said he had thought she was probably middle-aged. very young or very old women would not put in the night riding in a street-car. yes, he had had men who rode around a couple of times at night, mostly to sober up before they went home. but he never saw a woman do it before. i took his name and address and thanked him. the chauffeur came next, and his story was equally pertinent. on the night of the previous thursday he had been engaged to take a sick woman from a down-town hotel to a house at bellwood. the woman's husband was with her, and they went slowly to avoid jolting. it was after twelve when he drove away from the house and started home. at a corner--he did not know the names of the streets--a woman hailed the cab and asked him if he belonged in bellwood or was going to the city. she had missed the last train. when he told her he was going into town, she promptly engaged him, and showed him where to wait for her, a narrow road off the main street. "i waited an hour," he finished, "before she came; i dropped to sleep or i would have gone without her. about half-past one she came along, and a gentleman with her. he put her in the cab, and i took her to the city. when i saw in the paper that a lady had disappeared from bellwood that night, i knew right off that it was my party." "would you know the man again?" "i would know his voice, i expect, sir; i could not see much: he wore a slouch hat and had a traveling-bag of some kind." "what did he say to the woman?" i asked. "he didn't say much. before he closed the door, he said, 'you have put me in a terrible position,' or something like that. from the traveling-bag and all, i thought perhaps it was an elopement, and the lady had decided to throw him down." "was it a young woman or an old one," i asked again. this time the cabby's tone was assured. "young," he asserted, "slim and quick: dressed in black, with a black veil. soft voice. she got out at market square, and i have an idea she took a cross-town car there." "i hardly think it was miss maitland," i said. "she was past sixty, and besides--i don't think she went that way. still it is worth following up. is that all?" he fumbled in his pocket, and after a minute brought up a small black pocket-book and held it out to me. it was the small coin purse out of a leather hand-bag. "she dropped this in the cab, sir," he said. "i took it home to the missus--not knowing what else to do with it. it had no money in it--only that bit of paper." i opened the purse and took out a small white card, without engraving. on it was written in a pencil the figures: c chapter xvii his second wife when the cabman had gone, i sat down and tried to think things out. as i have said many times in the course of this narrative, i lack imagination: moreover, a long experience of witnesses in court had taught me the unreliability of average observation. the very fact that two men swore to having taken solitary women away from bellwood that night, made me doubt if either one had really seen the missing woman. of the two stories, the taxicab driver's was the more probable, as far as miss jane was concerned. knowing her child-like nature, her timidity, her shrinking and shamefaced fear of the dark, it was almost incredible that she would walk the three miles to wynton, voluntarily, and from there lose herself in the city. besides, such an explanation would not fit the blood-stains, or the fact that she had gone, as far as we could find out, in her night-clothes. still--she had left the village that night, either by cab or on foot. if the driver had been correct in his time, however, the taxicab was almost eliminated; he said the woman got into the cab at one-thirty. it was between one-thirty and one-forty-five when margery heard the footsteps in the attic. i think for the first time it came to me, that day, that there was at least a possibility that miss jane had not been attacked, robbed or injured: that she had left home voluntarily, under stress of great excitement. but if she had, why? the mystery was hardly less for being stripped of its gruesome details. nothing in my knowledge of the missing woman gave me a clue. i had a vague hope that, if she had gone voluntarily, she would see the newspapers and let us know where she was. to my list of exhibits i added the purse with its inclosure. the secret drawer of my desk now contained, besides the purse, the slip marked eleven twenty-two that had been pinned to fleming's pillow; the similar scrap found over miss jane's mantel; the pearl i had found on the floor of the closet, and the cyanide, which, as well as the bullet, burton had given me. add to these the still tender place on my head where wardrop had almost brained me with a chair, and a blue ankle, now becoming spotted with yellow, where i had fallen down the dumb-waiter, and my list of visible reminders of the double mystery grew to eight. i was not proud of the part i had played. so far, i had blundered, it seemed to me, at every point where a blunder was possible. i had fallen over folding chairs and down a shaft; i had been a half-hour too late to save allan fleming; i had been up and awake, and miss jane had got out of the house under my very nose. last, and by no means least, i had waited thirty-five years to find the right woman, and when i found her, some one else had won her. i was in the depths that day when burton came in. he walked into the office jauntily and presented miss grant with a club sandwich neatly done up in waxed paper. then he came into my private room and closed the door behind him. "avaunt, dull care!" he exclaimed, taking in my dejected attitude and exhibits on the desk at a glance. "look up and grin, my friend." he had his hands behind him. "don't be a fool," i snapped. "i'll not grin unless i feel like it." "grin, darn you," he said, and put something on the desk in front of me. it was a russia leather bag. "_the_ leather bag!" he pointed proudly. "where did you get it?" i exclaimed, incredulous. burton fumbled with the lock while he explained. "it was found in boston," he said. "how do you open the thing, anyhow?" it was not locked, and i got it open in a minute. as i had expected, it was empty. "then--perhaps wardrop was telling the truth," i exclaimed. "by jove, burton, he was robbed by the woman in the cab, and he can't tell about her on account of miss fleming! she made a haul, for certain." i told him then of the two women who had left bellwood on the night of miss jane's disappearance, and showed him the purse and its inclosure. the c puzzled him as it had me. "it might be anything," he said as he gave it back, "from a book, chapter and verse in the bible to a prescription for rheumatism at a drug-store. as to the lady in the cab, i think perhaps you are right," he said, examining the interior of the bag, where wardrop's name in ink told its story. "of course, we have only wardrop's word that he brought the bag to bellwood; if we grant that we can grant the rest--that he was robbed, that the thief emptied the bag, and either took it or shipped it to boston." "how on earth did you get it?" "it was a coincidence. there have been a shrewd lot of baggage thieves in two or three eastern cities lately, mostly boston. the method, the police say, was something like this--one of them, the chief of the gang, would get a wagon, dress like an expressman and go round the depots looking at baggage. he would make a mental note of the numbers, go away and forge a check to match, and secure the pieces he had taken a fancy to. then he merely drove around to headquarters, and the trunk was rifled. the police got on, raided the place, and found, among others, our russia leather bag. it was shipped back, empty, to the address inside, at bellwood." "at bellwood? then how--" "it came while i was lunching with miss letitia," he said easily. "we're very chummy--thick as thieves. what i want to know is"--disregarding my astonishment--"where is the hundred thousand?" "find the woman." "did you ever hear of anderson, the nerve specialist?" he asked, without apparent relevancy. "i have been thinking of him," i answered. "if we could get wardrop there, on some plausible excuse, it would take anderson about ten minutes with his instruments and experimental psychology, to know everything wardrop ever forgot." "i'll go on one condition," burton said, preparing to leave. "i'll promise to get wardrop and have him on the spot at two o'clock to-morrow, if you'll promise me one thing: if anderson fixes me with his eye, and i begin to look dotty and tell about my past life, i want you to take me by the flap of my ear and lead me gently home." "i promise," i said, and burton left. the recovery of the bag was only one of the many astonishing things that happened that day and the following night. hawes, who knew little of what it all meant, and disapproved a great deal, ended that afternoon by locking himself, blinking furiously, in his private office. to hawes any practice that was not lucrative was bad practice. about four o'clock, when i had shut myself away from the crowd in the outer office, and was letting miss grant take their depositions as to when and where they had seen a little old lady, probably demented, wandering around the streets, a woman came who refused to be turned away. "young woman," i heard her say, speaking to miss grant, "he may have important business, but i guess mine's just a little more so." i interfered then, and let her come in. she was a woman of medium height, quietly dressed, and fairly handsome. my first impression was favorable; she moved with a certain dignity, and she was not laced, crimped or made up. i am more sophisticated now; the lady who tells me things says that the respectable women nowadays, out-rouge, out-crimp and out-lace the unrespectable. however, the illusion was gone the moment she began to speak. her voice was heavy, throaty, expressionless. she threw it like a weapon: i am perfectly honest in saying that for a moment the surprise of her voice outweighed the remarkable thing she was saying. "i am mrs. allan fleming," she said, with a certain husky defiance. "i beg your pardon," i said, after a minute. "you mean--the allan fleming who has just died?" she nodded. i could see she was unable, just then, to speak. she had nerved herself to the interview, but it was evident that there was a real grief. she fumbled for a black-bordered handkerchief, and her throat worked convulsively. i saw now that she was in mourning. "do you mean," i asked incredulously, "that mr. fleming married a second time?" "he married me three years ago, in plattsburg. i came from there last night. i--couldn't leave before." "does miss fleming know about this second marriage?" "no. nobody knew about it. i have had to put up with a great deal, mr. knox. it's a hard thing for a woman to know that people are talking about her, and all the time she's married as tight as ring and book can do it." "i suppose," i hazarded, "if that is the case, you have come about the estate." "estate!" her tone was scornful. "i guess i'll take what's coming to me, as far as that goes--and it won't be much. no, i came to ask what they mean by saying allan fleming killed himself." "don't you think he did?" "i know he did not," she said tensely. "not only that: i know who did it. it was schwartz--henry schwartz." "schwartz! but what on earth--" "you don't know schwartz," she said grimly. "i was married to him for fifteen years. i took him when he had a saloon in the fifth ward, at plattsburg. the next year he was alderman: i didn't expect in those days to see him riding around in an automobile--not but what he was making money--henry schwartz is a money-maker. that's why he's boss of the state now." "and you divorced him?" "he was a brute," she said vindictively. "he wanted me to go back to him, and i told him i would rather die. i took a big house, and kept bachelor suites for gentlemen. mr. fleming lived there, and--he married me three years ago. he and schwartz had to stand together, but they hated each other." "schwartz?" i meditated. "do you happen to know if senator schwartz was in plattsburg at the time of the mur--of mr. fleming's death?" "he was here in manchester." "he had threatened mr. fleming's life?" "he had already tried to kill him, the day we were married. he stabbed him twice, but not deep enough." i looked at her in wonder. for this woman, not extraordinarily handsome, two men had fought and one had died--according to her story. "i can prove everything i say," she went on rapidly. "i have letters from mr. fleming telling me what to do in case he was shot down; i have papers--canceled notes--that would put schwartz in the penitentiary--that is," she said cunningly, "i did have them. mr. fleming took them away." "aren't you afraid for yourself?" i asked. "yes, i'm afraid--afraid he'll get me back yet. it would please him to see me crawl back on my knees." "but--he can not force you to go back to him." "yes, he can," she shivered. from which i knew she had told me only a part of her story. after all she had nothing more to tell. fleming had been shot; schwartz had been in the city about the borough bank; he had threatened fleming before, but a political peace had been patched; schwartz knew the white cat. that was all. before she left she told me something i had not known. "i know a lot about inside politics," she said, as she got up. "i have seen the state divided up with the roast at my table, and served around with the dessert, and i can tell you something you don't know about your white cat. a back staircase leads to one of the up-stairs rooms, and shuts off with a locked door. it opens below, out a side entrance, not supposed to be used. only a few know of it. henry butler was found dead at the foot of that staircase." "he shot himself, didn't he?" "the police said so," she replied, with her grim smile. "there is such a thing as murdering a man by driving him to suicide." she wrote an address on a card and gave it to me. "just a minute," i said, as she was about to go. "have you ever heard mr. fleming speak of the misses maitland?" "they were--his first wife's sisters. no, he never talked of them, but i believe, just before he left plattsburg, he tried to borrow some money from them." "and failed?" "the oldest one telegraphed the refusal, collect," she said, smiling faintly. "there is something else," i said. "did you ever hear of the number eleven twenty-two?" "no--or--why, yes--" she said. "it is the number of my house." it seemed rather ridiculous, when she had gone, and i sat down to think it over. it was anticlimax, to say the least. if the mysterious number meant only the address of this very ordinary woman, then--it was probable her story of schwartz was true enough. but i could not reconcile myself to it, nor could i imagine schwartz, with his great bulk, skulking around pinning scraps of paper to pillows. it would have been more like the fearlessness and passion of the man to have shot fleming down in the state house corridor, or on the street, and to have trusted to his influence to set him free. for the first time it occurred to me that there was something essentially feminine in the revenge of the figures that had haunted the dead man. i wondered if mrs. fleming had told me all, or only half the truth. that night, at the most peaceful spot i had ever known, fred's home, occurred another inexplicable affair, one that left us all with racked nerves and listening, fearful ears. chapter xviii edith's cousin that was to be margery's last evening at fred's. edith had kept her as long as she could, but the girl felt that her place was with miss letitia. edith was desolate. "i don't know what i am going to do without you," she said that night when we were all together in the library, with a wood fire, for light and coziness more than heat. margery was sitting before the fire, and while the others talked she sat mostly silent, looking into the blaze. the may night was cold and rainy, and fred had been reading us a poem he had just finished, receiving with indifference my comment on it, and basking in edith's rapture. "do you know yourself what it is about?" i inquired caustically. "if it's about anything, it isn't poetry," he replied. "poetry appeals to the ear: it is primarily sensuous. if it is more than that it ceases to be poetry and becomes verse." edith yawned. "i'm afraid i'm getting old," she said, "i'm getting the nap habit after dinner. fred, run up, will you, and see if katie put blankets over the boys?" fred stuffed his poem in his pocket and went resignedly up-stairs. edith yawned again, and prepared to retire to the den for forty winks. "if ellen decides to come down-stairs," she called back over her shoulder, "please come and wake me. she said she felt better and might come down." at the door she turned, behind margery's back, and made me a sweeping and comprehensive signal. she finished it off with a double wink, edith having never been able to wink one eye alone, and crossing the hall, closed the door of the den with an obtrusive bang. margery and i were alone. the girl looked at me, smiled a little, and drew a long breath. "it's queer about edith," i said; "i never before knew her to get drowsy after dinner. if she were not beyond suspicion, i would think it a deep-laid scheme, and she and fred sitting and holding hands in a corner somewhere." "but why--a scheme?" she had folded her hands in her lap, and the eternal ring sparkled malignantly. "they might think i wanted to talk to you," i suggested. "to me?" "to you--the fact is, i do." perhaps i was morbid about the ring: it seemed to me she lifted her hand and looked at it. "it's drafty in here: don't you think so?" she asked suddenly, looking back of her. probably she had not meant it, but i got up and closed the door into the hall. when i came back i took the chair next to her, and for a moment we said nothing. the log threw out tiny red devil sparks, and the clock chimed eight, very slowly. "harry wardrop was here last night," i said, poking down the log with my heel. "here?" "yes. i suppose i was wrong, but i did not say you were here." she turned and looked at me closely, out of the most beautiful eyes i ever saw. "i'm not afraid to see him," she said proudly, "and he ought not to be afraid to see me." "i want to tell you something before you see him. last night, before he came, i thought that--well, that at least he knew something of--the things we want to know." "yes?" "in justice to him, and because i want to fight fair, i tell you to-night that i don't believe he knows anything about your father's death, and that i believe he was robbed that night at bellwood." "what about the pearls he sold at plattsburg?" she asked suddenly. "i think when the proper time comes, he will tell about that too, margery." i did not notice my use of her name until too late. if she heard, she failed to resent it. "after all, if you love him, hardly anything else matters, does it? how do we know but that he was in trouble, and that aunt jane herself gave them to him?" she looked at me with a little perplexity. "you plead his cause very well," she said. "did he ask you to speak to me?" "i won't run a race with a man who is lame," i said quietly. "ethically, i ought to go away and leave you to your dreams, but i am not going to do it. if you love wardrop as a woman ought to love the man she marries, then marry him and i hope you will be happy. if you don't--no, let me finish. i have made up my mind to clear him if i can: to bring him to you with a clear slate. then, i know it is audacious, but i am going to come, too, and--i'm going to plead for myself then, unless you send me away." she sat with her head bent, her color coming and going nervously. now she looked up at me with what was the ghost of a smile. "it sounds like a threat," she said in a low voice. "and you--i wonder if you always get what you want?" then, of course, fred came in, and fell over a hassock looking for matches. edith opened the door of the den and called him to her irritably, but fred declined to leave the wood fire, and settled down in his easy chair. after a while edith came over and joined us, but she snubbed fred the entire evening, to his bewilderment. and when conversation lagged, during the evening that followed, i tried to remember what i had said, and knew i had done very badly. only one thing cheered me: she had not been angry, and she had understood. blessed be the woman that understands! we broke up for the night about eleven. mrs. butler had come down for a while, and had even played a little, something of tschaikovsky's, a singing, plaintive theme that brought sadness back into margery's face, and made me think, for no reason, of a wet country road and a plodding, back-burdened peasant. fred and i sat in the library for a while after the rest had gone, and i told him a little of what i had learned that afternoon. "a second wife!" he said, "and a primitive type, eh? well, did she shoot him, or did schwartz? the lady or the democratic tiger?" "the tiger," i said firmly. "the lady," fred, with equal assurance. fred closed the house with his usual care. it required the combined efforts of the maids followed up by fred, to lock the windows, it being his confident assertion that in seven years of keeping house, he had never failed to find at least one unlocked window. on that night, i remember, he went around with his usual scrupulous care. then we went up to bed, leaving a small light at the telephone in the lower hall: nothing else. the house was a double one, built around a square hall below, which served the purpose of a general sitting-room. from the front door a short, narrow hall led back to this, with a room on either side, and from it doors led into the rest of the lower floor. at one side the stairs took the ascent easily, with two stops for landings, and up-stairs the bedrooms opened from a similar, slightly smaller square hall. the staircase to the third floor went up from somewhere back in the nursery wing. my bedroom was over the library, and mrs. butler and margery fleming had connecting rooms, across the hall. fred and edith slept in the nursery wing, so they would be near the children. in the square upper hall there was a big reading table, a lamp, and some comfortable chairs. here, when they were alone, fred read aloud the evening paper, or his latest short story, and edith's sewing basket showed how she put in what women miscall their leisure. i did not go to sleep at once: naturally the rather vital step i had taken in the library insisted on being considered and almost regretted. i tried reading myself to sleep, and when that failed, i tried the soothing combination of a cigarette and a book. that worked like a charm; the last thing i remember is of holding the cigarette in a death grip as i lay with my pillows propped back of me, my head to the light, and a delightful languor creeping over me. i was wakened by the pungent acrid smell of smoke, and i sat up and blinked my eyes open. the side of the bed was sending up a steady column of gray smoke, and there was a smart crackle of fire under me somewhere. i jumped out of bed and saw the trouble instantly. my cigarette had dropped from my hand, still lighted, and as is the way with cigarettes, determined to burn to the end. in so doing it had fired my bed, the rug under the bed and pretty nearly the man on the bed. it took some sharp work to get it all out without rousing the house. then i stood amid the wreckage and looked ruefully at edith's pretty room. i could see, mentally, the spot of water on the library ceiling the next morning, and i could hear fred's strictures on the heedlessness and indifference to property of bachelors in general and me in particular. three pitchers of water on the bed had made it an impossible couch. i put on a dressing-gown, and, with a blanket over my arm, i went out to hunt some sort of place to sleep. i decided on the davenport in the hall just outside, and as quietly as i could, i put a screen around it and settled down for the night. i was wakened by the touch of a hand on my face. i started, i think, and the hand was jerked away--i am not sure: i was still drowsy. i lay very quiet, listening for footsteps, but none came. with the feeling that there was some one behind the screen, i jumped up. the hall was dark and quiet. when i found no one i concluded it had been only a vivid dream, and i sat down on the edge of the davenport and yawned. i heard edith moving back in the nursery: she has an uncomfortable habit of wandering around in the night, covering the children, closing windows, and sniffing for fire. i was afraid some of the smoke from my conflagration had reached her suspicious nose, but she did not come into the front hall. i was wide-awake by that time, and it was then, i think, that i noticed a heavy, sweetish odor in the air. at first i thought one of the children might be ill, and that edith was dosing him with one of the choice concoctions that she kept in the bath-room medicine closet. when she closed her door, however, and went back to bed, i knew i had been mistaken. the sweetish smell was almost nauseating. for some reason or other--association of certain odors with certain events--i found myself recalling the time i had a wisdom tooth taken out, and that when i came around i was being sat on by the dentist and his assistant, and the latter had a black eye. then, suddenly, i knew. the sickly odor was chloroform! i had the light on in a moment, and was rapping at margery's door. it was locked, and i got no answer. a pale light shone over the transom, but everything was ominously quiet, beyond the door. i went to mrs. butler's door, next; it was unlocked and partly open. one glance at the empty bed and the confusion of the place, and i rushed without ceremony through the connecting door into margery's room. the atmosphere was reeking with chloroform. the girl was in bed, apparently sleeping quietly. one arm was thrown up over her head, and the other lay relaxed on the white cover. a folded towel had been laid across her face, and when i jerked it away i saw she was breathing very slowly, stertorously, with her eyes partly open and fixed. i threw up all the windows, before i roused the family, and as soon as edith was in the room i telephoned for the doctor. i hardly remember what i did until he came: i know we tried to rouse margery and failed, and i know that fred went down-stairs and said the silver was intact and the back kitchen door open. and then the doctor came, and i was put out in the hall, and for an eternity, i walked up and down, eight steps one way, eight steps back, unable to think, unable even to hope. not until the doctor came out to me, and said she was better, and would i call a maid to make some strong black coffee, did i come out of my stupor. the chance of doing something, anything, made me determine to make the coffee myself. they still speak of that coffee at fred's. it was edith who brought mrs. butler to my mind. fred had maintained that she had fled before the intruders, and was probably in some closet or corner of the upper floor. i am afraid our solicitude was long in coming. it was almost an hour before we organized a searching party to look for her. fred went up-stairs, and i took the lower floor. it was i who found her, after all, lying full length on the grass in the little square yard back of the house. she was in a dead faint, and she was a much more difficult patient than margery. we could get no story from either of them that night. the two rooms had been ransacked, but apparently nothing had been stolen. fred vowed he had locked and bolted the kitchen door, and that it had been opened from within. it was a strange experience, that night intrusion into the house, without robbery as a motive. if margery knew or suspected the reason for the outrage, she refused to say. as for mrs. butler, to mention the occurrence put her into hysteria. it was fred who put forth the most startling theory of the lot. "by george," he said the next morning when we had failed to find tracks in the yard, and edith had reported every silver spoon in its place, "by george, it wouldn't surprise me if the lady in the grave clothes did it herself. there isn't anything a hysterical woman won't do to rouse your interest in her, if it begins to flag. how did any one get in through that kitchen door, when it was locked inside and bolted? i tell you, she opened it herself." i did not like to force margery's confidence, but i believed that the outrage was directly for the purpose of searching her room, perhaps for papers that had been her father's. mrs. butler came around enough by morning, to tell a semi-connected story in which she claimed that two men had come in from a veranda roof, and tried to chloroform her. that she had pretended to be asleep and had taken the first opportunity, while they were in the other room, to run down-stairs and into the yard. edith thought it likely enough, being a credulous person. as it turned out, edith's intuition was more reliable than my skepticism,--or fred's. chapter xix back to bellwood the inability of margery fleming to tell who had chloroformed her, and mrs. butler's white face and brooding eyes made a very respectable mystery out of the affair. only fred, edith and i came down to breakfast that morning. fred's expression was half amused, half puzzled. edith fluttered uneasily over the coffee machine, her cheeks as red as the bow of ribbon at her throat. i was preoccupied, and, like fred, i propped the morning paper in front of me and proceeded to think in its shelter. "did you find anything, fred?" edith asked. fred did not reply, so she repeated the question with some emphasis. "eh--what?" fred inquired, peering around the corner of the paper. "did--you--find--any--clue?" "yes, dear--that is, no. nothing to amount to anything. upon my soul, jack, if i wrote the editorials of this paper, i'd _say_ something." he subsided into inarticulate growls behind the paper, and everything was quiet. then i heard a sniffle, distinctly. i looked up. edith was crying--pouring cream into a coffee cup, and feeling blindly for the sugar, with her pretty face twisted and her pretty eyes obscured. in a second i was up, had crumpled the newspapers, including fred's, into a ball, and had lifted him bodily out of his chair. "when i am married," i said fiercely, jerking him around to edith and pushing him into a chair beside her, "if i ever read the paper at breakfast when my wife is bursting for conversation, may i have some good and faithful friend who will bring me back to a sense of my duty." i drew a chair to edith's other side. "now, let's talk," i said. she wiped her eyes shamelessly with her table napkin. "there isn't a soul in this house i can talk to," she wailed. "all kinds of awful things happening--and we had to send for coffee this morning, jack. you must have used four pounds last night--and nobody will tell me a thing. there's no use asking margery--she's sick at her stomach from the chloroform--and ellen never talks except about herself, and she's horribly--uninteresting. and fred and you make a ba--barricade out of newspapers, and fire 'yes' at me when you mean 'no.'" "i put the coffee back where i got it, edith," i protested stoutly. "i know we're barbarians, but i'll swear to that." and then i stopped, for i had a sudden recollection of going up-stairs with something fat and tinny in my arms, of finding it in my way, and of hastily thrusting it into the boys' boot closet under the nursery stair. fred had said nothing. he had taken her hand and was patting it gently, the while his eye sought the head-lines on the wad of morning paper. "you burned that blue rug," she said to me disconsolately, with a threat of fresh tears. "it took me ages to find the right shade of blue." "i will buy you that shirvan you wanted," i hastened to assure her. "yes, to take away when you get married." there is a hint of the shrew in all good women. "i will buy the shirvan and _not_ get married." here, i regret to say, edith suddenly laughed. she threw her head back and jeered at me. "you!" she chortled, and pointed one slim finger at me mockingly. "you, who are so mad about one girl that you love all women for her sake! you, who go white instead of red when she comes into the room! you, who have let your practice go to the dogs to be near her, and then never speak to her when she's around, but sit with your mouth open like a puppy begging for candy, ready to snap up every word she throws you and wiggle with joy!" i was terrified. "honestly, edith, do i do that?" i gasped. but she did not answer; she only leaned over and kissed fred. "women like men to be awful fools about them," she said. "that's why i'm so crazy about freddie." he writhed. "if i tell you something nice, jack, will you make it a room-size rug?" "room size it is." "then--margery's engagement ring was stolen last night and when i commiserated her she said--dear me, the lamp's out and the coffee is cold!" "remarkable speech, under the circumstances," said fred. edith rang the bell and seemed to be thinking. "perhaps we'd better make it four small rugs instead of one large one," she said. "not a rug until you have told me what margery said," firmly. "oh, that! why, she said it really didn't matter about the ring. she had never cared much about it anyway." "but that's only a matter of taste," i protested, somewhat disappointed. but edith got up and patted me on the top of my head. "silly," she said. "if the right man came along and gave her a rubber teething ring, she'd be crazy about it for his sake." "edith!" fred said, shocked. but edith had gone. she took me up-stairs before i left for the office to measure for the shirvan, edith being a person who believes in obtaining a thing while the desire for it is in its first bloom. across the hall fred was talking to margery through the transom. "mustard leaves are mighty helpful," he was saying. "i always take 'em on shipboard. and cheer up: land's in sight." i would have given much for fred's ease of manner when, a few minutes later, edith having decided on four shirvans and a hall runner, she took me to the door of margery's room. she was lying very still and pale in the center of the white bed, and she tried bravely to smile at us. "i hope you are better," i said. "don't let edith convince you that my coffee has poisoned you." she said she was a little better, and that she didn't know she had had any coffee. that was the extent of the conversation. i, who have a local reputation of a sort before a jury, i could not think of another word to say. i stood there for a minute uneasily, with edith poking me with her finger to go inside the door and speak and act like an intelligent human being. but i only muttered something about a busy day before me and fled. it was a singular thing, but as i stood in the doorway, i had a vivid mental picture of edith's description of me, sitting up puppy-like to beg for a kind word, and wiggling with delight when i got it. if i slunk into my office that morning like a dog scourged to his kennel, edith was responsible. at the office i found a note from miss letitia, and after a glance at it i looked for the first train, in my railroad schedule. the note was brief; unlike the similar epistle i had received from miss jane the day she disappeared, this one was very formal. "mr. john knox: "dear sir--kindly oblige me by coming to see me as soon as you get this. some things have happened, not that i think they are worth a row of pins, but hepsibah is an old fool, and she says she did not put the note in the milk bottle. "yours very respectfully, "letitia ann maitland." i had an appointment with burton for the afternoon, to take wardrop, if we could get him on some pretext, to doctor anderson. that day, also, i had two cases on the trial list. i got humphreys, across the hall, to take them over, and evading hawes' resentful blink, i went on my way to bellwood. it was nine days since miss jane had disappeared. on my way out in the train i jotted down the things that had happened in that time: allan fleming had died and been buried; the borough bank had failed; some one had got into the fleming house and gone through the papers there; clarkson had killed himself; we had found that wardrop had sold the pearls; the leather bag had been returned; fleming's second wife had appeared, and some one had broken into my own house and, intentionally or not, had almost sent margery fleming over the borderland. it seemed to me everything pointed in one direction, to a malignity against fleming that extended itself to the daughter. i thought of what the woman who claimed to be the dead man's second wife had said the day before. if the staircase she had spoken of opened into the room where fleming was shot, and if schwartz was in town at the time, then, in view of her story that he had already tried once to kill him, the likelihood was that schwartz was at least implicated. if wardrop knew that, why had he not denounced him? was i to believe that, after all the mystery, the number eleven twenty-two was to resolve itself into the number of a house? would it be typical of the schwartz i knew to pin bits of paper to a man's pillow? on the other hand, if he had reason to think that fleming had papers that would incriminate him, it would be like schwartz to hire some one to search for them, and he would be equal to having wardrop robbed of the money he was taking to fleming. granting that schwartz had killed fleming--then who was the woman with wardrop the night he was robbed? why did he take the pearls and sell them? how did the number eleven twenty-two come into aunt jane's possession? how did the leather bag get to boston? who had chloroformed margery? who had been using the fleming house while it was closed? most important of all now--where was aunt jane? the house at bellwood looked almost cheerful in the may sunshine, as i went up the walk. nothing ever changed the straight folds of the old-fashioned lace curtains; no dog ever tracked the porch, or buried sacrilegious and odorous bones on the level lawn; the birds were nesting in the trees, well above the reach of robert's ladder, but they were decorous, well-behaved birds, whose prim courting never partook of the exuberance of their neighbors', bursting their little throats in an elm above the baby perambulator in the next yard. when bella had let me in, and i stood once more in the straight hall, with the green rep chairs and the japanese umbrella stand, involuntarily i listened for the tap of miss jane's small feet on the stairs. instead came bella's heavy tread, and a request from miss letitia that i go up-stairs. the old lady was sitting by a window of her bedroom, in a chintz upholstered chair. she did not appear to be feeble; the only change i noticed was a relaxation in the severe tidiness of her dress. i guessed that miss jane's exquisite neatness had been responsible for the white ruchings, the soft caps, and the spotless shoulder shawls which had made lovely their latter years. "you've taken your own time about coming, haven't you?" miss letitia asked sourly. "if it hadn't been for that cousin of yours you sent here, burton, i'd have been driven to sending for amelia miles, and when i send for amelia miles for company, i'm in a bad way." "i have had a great deal to attend to," i said as loud as i could. "i came some days ago to tell you mr. fleming was dead; after that we had to bury him, and close the house. it's been a very sad--" "did he leave anything?" she interrupted. "it isn't sad at all unless he didn't leave anything." "he left very little. the house, perhaps, and i regret to have to tell you that a woman came to me yesterday who claims to be a second wife." she took off her glasses, wiped them and put them on again. "then," she said with a snap, "there's one other woman in the world as big a fool as my sister martha was. i didn't know there were two of 'em. what do you hear about jane?" "the last time i was here," i shouted, "you thought she was dead; have you changed your mind?" "the last time you were here," she said with dignity, "i thought a good many things that were wrong. i thought i had lost some of the pearls, but i hadn't." "what!" i exclaimed incredulously. she put her hands on the arms of her chair, and leaning forward, shot the words at me viciously. "i--said--i--had--lost--some--of--the--pearls--well--i--haven't." she didn't expect me to believe her, any more than she believed it herself. but why on earth she had changed her attitude about the pearls was beyond me. i merely nodded comprehensively. "very well," i said, "i'm glad to know it was a mistake. now, the next thing is to find miss jane." "we have found her," she said tartly. "that's what i sent for you about." "found her!" this time i did get out of my chair. "what on earth do you mean, miss letitia? why, we've been scouring the country for her." she opened a religious monthly on the table beside her, and took out a folded paper. i had to control my impatience while she changed her glasses and read it slowly. "heppie found it on the back porch, under a milk bottle," she prefaced. then she read it to me. i do not remember the wording, and miss letitia refused, both then and later, to let it out of her hands. as a result, unlike the other manuscripts in the case, i have not even a copy. the substance, shorn of its bad spelling and grammar, was this: the writer knew where miss jane was; the inference being that he was responsible. she was well and happy, but she had happened to read a newspaper with an account of her disappearance, and it had worried her. the payment of the small sum of five thousand dollars would send her back as well as the day she left. the amount, left in a tin can on the base of the maitland shaft in the cemetery, would bring the missing lady back within twenty-four hours. on the contrary, if the recipient of the letter notified the police, it would go hard with miss jane. "what do you think of it?" she asked, looking at me over her glasses. "if she was fool enough to be carried away by a man that spells cemetery with one m, she deserves what she's got. and i won't pay five thousand, anyhow, it's entirely too much." "it doesn't sound quite genuine to me," i said, reading it over. "i should certainly not leave any money until we had tried to find who left this." "i'm not so sure but what she'd better stay a while anyhow," miss letitia pursued. "now that we know she's living, i ain't so particular when she gets back. she's been notionate lately anyhow." i had been reading the note again. "there's one thing here that makes me doubt the whole story," i said. "what's this about her reading the papers? i thought her reading glasses were found in the library." miss letitia snatched the paper from me and read it again. "reading the paper!" she sniffed. "you've got more sense than i've been giving you credit for, knox. her glasses are here this minute; without them she can't see to scratch her nose." it was a disappointment to me, although the explanation was simple enough. it was surprising that we had not had more attempts to play on our fears. but the really important thing bearing on miss jane's departure was when heppie came into the room, with her apron turned up like a pocket and her dust cap pushed down over her eyes like the slouch hat of a bowery tough. when she got to the middle of the room she stopped and abruptly dropped the corners of her apron. there rolled out a heterogeneous collection of things: a white muslin garment which proved to be a nightgown, with long sleeves and high collar; a half-dozen hair curlers--i knew those; edith had been seen, in midnight emergencies, with her hair twisted around just such instruments of torture--a shoe buttoner; a railroad map, and one new and unworn black kid glove. miss letitia changed her glasses deliberately, and took a comprehensive survey of the things on the floor. "where did you get 'em?" she said, fixing heppie with an awful eye. "i found 'em stuffed under the blankets in the chest of drawers in the attic," heppie shouted at her. "if we'd washed blankets last week, as i wanted to--" "shut up!" miss letitia said shortly, and heppie's thin lips closed with a snap. "now then, knox, what do you make of that?" "if that's the nightgown she was wearing the night she disappeared, i think it shows one thing very clearly, miss maitland. she was not abducted, and she knew perfectly well what she was about. none of her clothes was missing, and that threw us off the track; but look at this new glove! she may have had new things to put on and left the old. the map--well, she was going somewhere, with a definite purpose. when we find out what took her away, we will find her." "humph!" "she didn't go unexpectedly--that is, she was prepared for whatever it was." "i don't believe a word of it," the old lady burst out. "she didn't have a secret; she was the kind that couldn't keep a secret. she wasn't responsible, i tell you; she was extravagant. look at that glove! and she had three pairs half worn in her bureau." "miss maitland," i asked suddenly, "did you ever hear of eleven twenty-two?" "eleven twenty-two what?" "just the number, eleven twenty-two," i repeated. "does it mean anything to you? has it any significance?" "i should say it has," she retorted. "in the last ten years the colored orphans' home has cared for, fed, clothed, and pampered exactly eleven hundred and twenty-two colored children, of every condition of shape and misshape, brains and no brains." "it has no other connection?" "eleven twenty-two? twice eleven is twenty-two, if that's any help. no, i can't think of anything. i loaned allan fleming a thousand dollars once; i guess my mind was failing. it would be about eleven twenty-two by this time." neither of which explanations sufficed for the little scrap found in miss jane's room. what connection, if any, had it with her flight? where was she now. what was eleven twenty-two? and why did miss letitia deny that she had lost the pearls, when i already knew that nine of the ten had been sold, who had bought them, and approximately how much he had paid? chapter xx association of ideas i ate a light lunch at bellwood, alone, with bella to look after me in the dining-room. she was very solicitous, and when she had brought my tea, i thought she wanted to say something. she stood awkwardly near the door, and watched me. "you needn't wait, bella," i said. "i beg your pardon, sir, but--i wanted to ask you--is miss fleming well?" "she was not very well this morning, but i don't think it is serious, bella," i replied. she turned to go, but i fancied she hesitated. "oh, bella," i called, as she was going out, "i want to ask you something. the night at the fleming home, when you and i watched the house, didn't you hear some person running along the hall outside your door? about two o'clock, i think?" she looked at me stolidly. "no, sir, i slept all night." "that's strange. and you didn't hear me when i fell down the dumb-waiter shaft?" "holy saints!" she ejaculated. "was _that_ where you fell!" she stopped herself abruptly. "you heard that?" i asked gently, "and yet you slept all night? bella, there's a hitch somewhere. you didn't sleep that night, at all; you told miss fleming i had been up all night. how did you know that? if i didn't know that you couldn't possibly get around as fast as the--person in the house that night, i would say you had been in mr. fleming's desk, looking for--let us say, postage stamps. may i have another cup of coffee?" she turned a sickly yellow white, and gathered up my cup and saucer with trembling hands. when the coffee finally came back it was brought grumblingly by old heppie. "she says she's turned her ankle," she sniffed. "turned it on a lathe, like a table leg, i should say, from the shape of it." before i left the dining-room i put another line in my note-book: "what does bella know?" i got back to the city somewhat late for my appointment with burton. i found wardrop waiting for me at the office, and if i had been astonished at the change in him two nights before, i was shocked now. he seemed to have shrunk in his clothes; his eyeballs were bloodshot from drinking, and his fair hair had dropped, neglected, over his forehead. he was sitting in his familiar attitude, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his palms. he looked at me with dull eyes, when i went in. i did not see burton at first. he was sitting on my desk, holding a flat can in his hand, and digging out with a wooden toothpick one sardine after another and bolting them whole. "your good health," he said, poising one in the air, where it threatened oily tears over the carpet. "as an appetite-quencher and thirst-producer, give me the festive sardine. how lovely it would be if we could eat 'em without smelling 'em!" "don't you do anything but eat?" wardrop asked, without enthusiasm. burton eyed him reproachfully. "is that what i get for doing without lunch, in order to prove to you that you are not crazy?" he appealed to me. "he says he's crazy--lost his think works. now, i ask you, knox, when i go to the trouble to find out for him that he's got as many convolutions as anybody, and that they've only got a little convolved, is it fair, i ask you, for him to reproach me about my food?" "i didn't know you knew each other," i put in, while burton took another sardine. "he says we do," wardrop said wearily; "says he used to knock me around at college." burton winked at me solemnly. "he doesn't remember me, but he will," he said. "it's his nerves that are gone, and we'll have him restrung with new wires, like an old piano, in a week." wardrop had that after-debauch suspicion of all men, but i think he grasped at me as a dependability. "he wants me to go to a doctor," he said. "i'm not sick; it's only--" he was trying to light a cigarette, but the match dropped from his shaking fingers. "better see one, wardrop," i urged--and i felt mean enough about doing it. "you need something to brace you up." burton gave him a very small drink, for he could scarcely stand, and we went down in the elevator. my contempt for the victim between us was as great as my contempt for myself. that wardrop was in a bad position there could be no doubt; there might be more men than fleming who had known about the money in the leather bag, and who thought he had taken it and probably killed fleming to hide the theft. it seemed incredible that an innocent man would collapse as he had done, and yet--at this minute i can name a dozen men who, under the club of public disapproval, have fallen into paresis, insanity and the grave. we are all indifferent to our fellow-men until they are against us. burton knew the specialist very well--in fact, there seemed to be few people he did not know. and considering the way he had got hold of miss letitia and wardrop, it was not surprising. he had evidently arranged with the doctor, for the waiting-room was empty and we were after hours. the doctor was a large man, his size emphasized by the clothes he wore, very light in color, and unprofessional in cut. he was sandy-haired, inclined to be bald, and with shrewd, light blue eyes behind his glasses. not particularly impressive, except as to size, on first acquaintance; a good fellow, with a brisk voice, and an amazingly light tread. he began by sending wardrop into a sort of examining room in the rear of the suite somewhere, to take off his coat and collar. when he had gone the doctor looked at a slip of paper in his hand. "i think i've got it all from mr. burton," he said. "of course, mr. knox, this is a little out of my line; a nerve specialist has as much business with psychotherapy as a piano tuner has with musical technique. but the idea is munsterburg's, and i've had some good results. i'll give him a short physical examination, and when i ring the bell one of you may come in. are you a newspaper man, mr. knox?" "an attorney," i said briefly. "press man, lawyer, or doctor," burton broke in, "we all fatten on the other fellow's troubles, don't we?" "we don't fatten very much," i corrected "we live." the doctor blinked behind his glasses. "i never saw a lawyer yet who would admit he was making money," he said. "look at the way a doctor grinds for a pittance! he's just as capable as the lawyer; he works a damn sight harder, and he makes a tenth the income. a man will pay his lawyer ten thousand dollars for keeping him out of jail for six months, and he'll kick like a steer if his doctor charges him a hundred to keep him out of hell for life! which of you will come in? i'm afraid two would distract him." "i guess it is knox's butt-in," burton conceded, "but i get it later, doctor; you promised." the physical examination was very brief; when i was called in wardrop was standing at the window looking down into the street below, and the doctor was writing at his desk. behind wardrop's back he gave me the slip he had written. "test is for association of ideas. watch length of time between word i give and his reply. i often get hold of facts forgotten by the patient. a wait before the answering word is given shows an attempt at concealment." "now, mr. wardrop," he said, "will you sit here, please?" he drew a chair to the center-table for wardrop, and another, just across for himself. i sat back and to one side of the patient, where i could see wardrop's haggard profile and every movement of the specialist. on the table was an electric instrument like a small clock, and the doctor's first action was to attach to it two wires with small, black rubber mouthpieces. "now, mr. wardrop," he said, "we will go on with the test. your other condition is fair, as i told you; i think you can dismiss the idea of insanity without a second thought, but there is something more than brain and body to be considered; in other words, you have been through a storm, and some of your nervous wires are down. put the mouthpiece between your lips, please; you see, i do the same with mine. and when i give you a word, speak as quickly as possible the association it brings to your mind. for instance, i say 'noise.' your first association might be 'street,' 'band,' 'drum,' almost anything associated with the word. as quickly as possible, please." the first few words went simply enough. wardrop's replies came almost instantly. to "light" he replied "lamp;" "touch" brought the response "hand;" "eat" brought "burton," and both the doctor and i smiled. wardrop was intensely serious. then-- "taxicab," said the doctor, and, after an almost imperceptible pause, "road" came the association. all at once i began to see the possibilities. "desk." "pen." "pipe." "smoke." "head." after a perceptible pause the answer came uncertainly. "hair." but the association of ideas would not be denied, for in answer to the next word, which was "ice," he gave "blood," evidently following up the previous word "head." i found myself gripping the arms of my chair. the dial on the doctor's clock-like instrument was measuring the interval; i could see that now. the doctor took a record of every word and its response. wardrop's eyes were shifting nervously. "hot." "cold." "white." "black." "whisky." "glass," all in less than a second. "pearls." a little hesitation, then "box." "taxicab" again. "night." "silly." "wise." "shot." after a pause, "revolver." "night." "dark." "blood." "head." "water." "drink." "traveling-bag." he brought out the word "train" after an evident struggle, but in answer to the next word "lost," instead of the obvious "found," he said "woman." he had not had sufficient mental agility to get away from the association with "bag." the "woman" belonged there. "murder" brought "dead," but "shot," following immediately after, brought "staircase." i think wardrop was on his guard by that time, but the conscious effort to hide truths that might be damaging made the intervals longer, from that time on. already i felt sure that allan fleming's widow had been right; he had been shot from the locked back staircase. but by whom? "blow" brought "chair." "gone." "bag" came like a flash. in quick succession, without pause, came the words-- "bank." "note." "door." "bolt." "money." "letters," without any apparent connection. wardrop was going to the bad. when, to the next word, "staircase," again, he said "scar," his demoralization was almost complete. as for me, the scene in wardrop's mind was already in mine--schwartz, with the scar across his ugly forehead, and the bolted door to the staircase open! on again with the test. "flour," after perhaps two seconds, from the preceding shock, brought "bread." "trees." "leaves." "night." "dark." "gate." he stopped here so long, i thought he was not going to answer at all. presently, with am effort, he said "wood," but as before, the association idea came out in the next word; for "electric light" he gave "letters." "attic" brought "trunks" at once. "closet." after perhaps a second and a half came "dust," showing what closet was in his mind, and immediately after, to "match" he gave "pen." a long list of words followed which told nothing, to my mind, although the doctor's eyes were snapping with excitement. then "traveling-bag" again, and instead of his previous association, "woman," this time he gave "yellow." but, to the next word, "house," he gave "guest." it came to me that in his mental processes i was the guest, the substitute bag was in his mind, as being in my possession. quick as a flash the doctor followed up-- "guest." and wardrop fell. "letters," he said. to a great many words, as i said before, i could attach no significance. here and there i got a ray. "elderly" brought "black." "warehouse." "yard," for no apparent reason. "eleven twenty-two." "c" was the answer, given without a second's hesitation. eleven twenty-two c! he gave no evidence of having noticed any peculiarity in what he said; i doubt if he realized his answer. to me, he gave the impression of repeating something he had apparently forgotten. as if a number and its association had been subconscious, and brought to the surface by the psychologist; as if, for instance, some one prompted a--b, and the corollary "c" came without summoning. the psychologist took the small mouthpiece from his lips, and motioned wardrop to do the same. the test was over. "i don't call that bad condition, mr.--wardrop," the doctor said. "you are nervous, and you need a little more care in your habits. you want to exercise, regularly, and you will have to cut out everything in the way of stimulants for a while. oh, yes, a couple of drinks a day at first, then one a day, and then none. and you are to stop worrying--when trouble comes round, and stares at you, don't ask it in to have a drink. take it out in the air and kill it; oxygen is as fatal to anxiety as it is to tuberculosis." "how would bellwood do?" i asked. "or should it be the country?" "bellwood, of course," the doctor responded heartily. "ten miles a day, four cigarettes, and three meals--which is more than you have been taking, mr. wardrop, by two." i put him on the train for bellwood myself, and late that afternoon the three of us--the doctor, burton and myself--met in my office and went over the doctor's record. "when the answer comes in four-fifths of a second," he said, before we began, "it is hardly worth comment. there is no time in such an interval for any mental reservation. only those words that showed noticeable hesitation need be considered." we worked until almost seven. at the end of that time the doctor leaned back in his chair, and thrust his hands deep in his trousers pockets. "i got the story from burton," he said, after a deep breath. "i had no conclusion formed, and of course i am not a detective. things looked black for mr. wardrop, in view of the money lost, the quarrel with fleming that morning at the white cat, and the circumstance of his leaving the club and hunting a doctor outside, instead of raising the alarm. still, no two men ever act alike in an emergency. psychology is as exact a science as mathematics; it gets information from the source, and a man can not lie in four-fifths of a second. 'head,' you noticed, brought 'hair' in a second and three quarters, and the next word, 'ice,' brought the 'blood' that he had held back before. that doesn't show anything. he tried to avoid what was horrible to him. "but i gave him 'traveling-bag;' after a pause, he responded with 'train.' the next word, 'lost,' showed what was in his mind; instead of 'found,' he said 'woman.' now then, i believe he was either robbed by a woman, or he thinks he was. after all, we can only get what he believes himself. "'money--letters,'--another slip. "'shot--staircase'--where are the stairs at the white cat?" "i learned yesterday of a back staircase that leads into one of the upper rooms," i said. "it opens on a side entrance, and is used in emergency." the doctor smiled confidently. "we look there for our criminal," he said. "nothing hides from the chronoscope. now then, 'staircase--scar.' isn't that significant? the association is clear: a scar that is vivid enough, disfiguring enough, to be the first thing that enters his mind." "schwartz!" burton said with awe. "doctor, what on earth does 'eleven twenty-two c' mean?" "i think that is up to you, gentlemen. the c belongs there, without doubt. briefly, looking over these slips, i make it something like this: wardrop thinks a woman took his traveling-bag. three times he gave the word 'letters,' in response to 'gate,' 'guest' and 'money.' did he have a guest at the time all this happened at bellwood?" "i was a guest in the house at the time." "did you offer him money for letters?" "no." "did he give you any letters to keep for him?" "he gave me the bag that was substituted for his." "locked?" "yes. by jove, i wonder if there is anything in it? i have reason to know that he came into my room that night at least once after i went asleep." "i think it very likely," he said dryly. "one thing we have not touched on, and i believe mr. wardrop knows nothing of it. that is, the disappearance of the old lady. there is a psychological study for you! my conclusion? well, i should say that mr. wardrop is not guilty of the murder. he knows, or thinks he knows, who is. he has a theory of his own, about some one with a scar: it may be only a theory. he does not necessarily know, but he hopes. he is in a state of abject fear. also, he is hiding something concerning letters, and from the word 'money' in that connection, i believe he either sold or bought some damaging papers. he is not a criminal, but he is what is almost worse." the doctor rose and picked up his hat. "he is a weakling," he said, from the doorway. burton looked at his watch. "by george!" he said. "seven-twenty, and i've had nothing since lunch but a box of sardines. i'm off to chase the festive mutton chop. oh, by the way, knox, where is that locked bag?" "in my office safe." "i'll drop around in the morning and assist you to compound a felony," he said easily. but as it happened, he did not. chapter xxi a proscenium box i was very late for dinner. fred and edith were getting ready for a concert, and the two semi-invalids were playing pinochle in fred's den. neither one looked much the worse for her previous night's experience; mrs. butler was always pale, and margery had been so since her father's death. the game was over when i went into the den. as usual, mrs. butler left the room almost immediately, and went to the piano across the hall. i had grown to accept her avoidance of me without question. fred said it was because my overwhelming vitality oppressed her. personally, i think it was because the neurasthenic type of woman is repulsive to me. no doubt mrs. butler deserved sympathy, but her open demand for it found me cold and unresponsive. i told margery briefly of my visit to bellwood that morning. she was as puzzled as i was about the things heppie had found in the chest. she was relieved, too. "i am just as sure, now, that she is living, as i was a week ago that she was dead," she said, leaning back in her big chair. "but what terrible thing took her away? unless--" "unless what?" "she had loaned my father a great deal of money," margery said, with heightened color. "she had not dared to tell aunt letitia, and the money was to be returned before she found it out. then--things went wrong with the borough bank, and--the money did not come back. if you know aunt jane, and how afraid she is of aunt letitia, you will understand how terrible it was for her. i have wondered if she would go--to plattsburg, and try to find father there." "the _eagle_ man is working on that theory now," i replied. "margery, if there was a letter 'c' added to eleven twenty-two, would you know what it meant?" she shook her head in the negative. "will you answer two more questions?" i asked. "yes, if i can." "do you know why you were chloroformed last night, and who did it?" "i think i know who did it, but i don't understand. i have been trying all day to think it out. i'm afraid to go to sleep to-night." "you need not be," i assured her. "if necessary, we will have the city police in a ring around the house. if you know and don't tell, margery, you are running a risk, and more than that, you are protecting a person who ought to be in jail." "i'm not sure," she persisted. "don't ask me about it, please." "what does mrs. butler say?" "just what she said this morning. and she says valuable papers were taken from under her pillow. she was very ill--hysterical, all afternoon." the gloom and smouldering fire of the _sonata apassionata_ came to us from across the hall. i leaned over and took margery's small hand between my two big ones. "why don't you tell me?" i urged. "or--you needn't tell me, i know what you think. but there isn't any motive that i can see, and why would she chloroform you?" "i don't know," margery shuddered. "sometimes--i wonder--do you think she is altogether sane?" the music ended with the crash of a minor chord. fred and edith came down the stairs, and the next moment we were all together, and the chance for a quiet conversation was gone. at the door fred turned and came back. "watch the house," he said. "and by the way, i guess"--he lowered his voice--"the lady's story was probably straight. i looked around again this afternoon, and there are fresh scratches on the porch roof under her window. it looks queer, doesn't it?" it was a relief to know that, after all, mrs. butler was an enemy and a dangerous person to nobody but herself. she retired to her room almost as soon as fred and edith had gone. i was wondering whether or not to tell margery about the experiment that afternoon; debating how to ask her what letters she had got from the postmaster at bellwood addressed to miss jane, and what she knew of bella. at the same time--bear with me, oh masculine reader, the gentle reader will, for she cares a great deal more for the love story than for all the crime and mystery put together--bear with me, i say, if i hold back the account of the terrible events that came that night, to tell how beautiful margery looked as the lamplight fell on her brown hair and pure profile, and how the impulse came over me to kiss her as she sat there; and how i didn't, after all--poor gentle reader!--and only stooped over and kissed the pink palm of her hand. she didn't mind it; speaking as nearly as possible from an impersonal standpoint, i doubt if she was even surprised. you see, the ring was gone and--it had only been an engagement ring anyhow, and everybody knows how binding they are! and then an angel with a burning sword came and scourged me out of my eden. and the angel was burton, and the sword was a dripping umbrella. "i hate to take you out," he said. "the bottom's dropped out of the sky; but i want you to make a little experiment with me." he caught sight of margery through the portières, and the imp of mischief in him prompted his next speech. "she said she must see you," he said, very distinctly, and leered at me. "don't be an ass," i said angrily. "i don't know that i care to go out to-night." he changed his manner then. "let's go and take a look at the staircase you fellows have been talking about," he said. "i don't believe there is a staircase there, except the main one. i have hounded every politician in the city into or out of that joint, and i have never heard of it." i felt some hesitation about leaving the house--and margery--after the events of the previous night. but margery had caught enough of the conversation to be anxious to have me to go, and when i went in to consult her she laughed at my fears. "lightning never strikes twice in the same place," she said bravely. "i will ask katie to come down with me if i am nervous, and i shall wait up for the family." i went without enthusiasm. margery's departure had been delayed for a day only, and i had counted on the evening with her. in fact, i had sent the concert tickets to edith with an eye single to that idea. but burton's plan was right. it was, in view of what we knew, to go over the ground at the white cat again, and saturday night, with the place full of men, would be a good time to look around, unnoticed. "i don't hang so much to this staircase idea," burton said, "and i have a good reason for it. i think we will find it is the warehouse, yet." "you can depend on it, burton," i maintained, "that the staircase is the place to look. if you had seen wardrop's face to-day, and his agony of mind when he knew he had associated 'staircase' with 'shot,' you would think just as i do. a man like schwartz, who knew the ropes, could go quietly up the stairs, unbolt the door into the room, shoot fleming and get out. wardrop suspects schwartz, and he's afraid of him. if he opened the door just in time to see schwartz, we will say, backing out the door and going down the stairs, or to see the door closing and suspect who had just gone, we would have the whole situation, as i see it, including the two motives of deadly hate and jealousy." "suppose the stairs open into the back of the room? he was sitting facing the window. do you think schwartz would go in, walk around the table and shoot him from in front? pooh! fudge!" "he had a neck," i retorted. "i suppose he might have turned his head to look around." we had been walking through the rain. the white cat, as far off as the poles socially, was only a half-dozen blocks actually from the best residence portion of the city. at the corner of the warehouse, burton stopped and looked up at it. "i always get mad when i look at this building," he said. "my great grandfather had a truck garden on this exact spot seventy years ago, and the old idiot sold out for three hundred dollars and a pair of mules! how do you get in?" "what are you going in for?" i asked. "i was wondering if i had a grudge--i have, for that matter--against the mayor, and i wanted to shoot him, how i would go about it. i think i should find a point of vantage, like an overlooking window in an empty building like this, and i would wait for a muggy night, also like this, when the windows were up and the lights going. i could pot him with a thirty-eight at a dozen yards, with my eyes crossed." we had stopped near the arched gate where i had stood and waited for hunter, a week before. suddenly burton darted away from me and tried the gate. it opened easily, and i heard him splashing through a puddle in the gloomy yard. "come in," he called softly. "the water's fine." the gate swung to behind me, and i could not see six inches from my nose. burton caught my elbow and steered me, by touching the fence, toward the building. "if it isn't locked too tight," he was saying, "we can get in, perhaps through a window, and get up-stairs. from there we ought to be able to see down into the club. what the devil's that?" it was a rat, i think, and it scrambled away among the loose boards in a frenzy of excitement. burton struck a match; it burned faintly in the dampness, and in a moment went out, having shown us only the approximate location of the heavy, arched double doors. a second match showed us a bar and a rusty padlock; there was no entrance to be gained in that way. the windows were of the eight-paned variety, and in better repair than the ones on the upper floors. by good luck, we found one unlocked and not entirely closed; it shrieked hideously as we pried it up, but an opportune clap of thunder covered the sound. by this time i was ready for anything that came; i was wet to my knees, muddy, disreputable. while burton held the window i crawled into the warehouse, and turned to perform the same service for him. at first i could not see him, outside. then i heard his voice, a whisper, from beyond the sill. "duck," he said. "cop!" i dropped below the window, and above the rain i could hear the squash of the watchman's boots in the mud. he flashed a night lamp in at the window next to ours, but he was not very near, and the open window escaped his notice. i felt all the nervous dread of a real malefactor, and when i heard the gate close behind him, and saw burton put a leg over the sill, i was almost as relieved as i would have been had somebody's family plate, tied up in a tablecloth, been reposing at my feet. burton had an instinct for getting around in the dark. i lighted another match as soon as he had closed the window, and we made out our general direction toward where the stairs ought to be. when the match went out, we felt our way in the dark; i had only one box of wax matches, and burton had dropped his in a puddle. we got to the second floor, finally, and without any worse mishap than burton banging his arm against a wheel of some sort. unlike the first floor, the second was subdivided into rooms; it took a dozen precious matches to find our way to the side of the building overlooking the club, and another dozen to find the window we wanted. when we were there at last, burton leaned his elbows on the sill, and looked down and across. "could anything be better!" he said. "there's our theater, and we've got a proscenium box. that room over there stands out like a spot-light." he was right. not more than fifteen feet away, and perhaps a foot lower than our window, was the window of the room where fleming had been killed. it was empty, as far as we could see; the table, neat enough now, was where it had been before, directly under the light. any one who sat there would be an illuminated target from our window. not only that, but an arm could be steadied on the sill, allowing for an almost perfect aim. "now, where's your staircase?" burton jeered. the club was evidently full of men, as he had prophesied. above the rattle of the rain came the thump--thump of the piano, and a half-dozen male voices. the shutters below were closed; we could see nothing. i think it was then that burton had his inspiration. "i'll bet you a five-dollar bill," he said, "that if i fire off my revolver here, now, not one of those fellows down there would pay the slightest attention." "i'll take that bet," i returned. "i'll wager that every time anybody drops a poker, since fleming was shot, the entire club turns out to investigate." in reply burton got out his revolver, and examined it by holding it against the light from across the way. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he said. "everybody down there knows me; i'll drop in for a bottle of beer, and you fire a shot into the floor here, or into somebody across, if you happen to see any one you don't care for. i suggest that you stay and fire the shot, because if you went, my friend, and nobody heard it, you would accuse me of shooting from the back of the building somewhere." he gave me the revolver and left me with a final injunction. "wait for ten minutes," he said. "it will take five for me to get out of here, and five more to get into the club-house. perhaps you'd better make it fifteen." chapter xxii in the room over the way he went away into the darkness, and i sat down on an empty box by the window and waited. had any one asked me, at that minute, how near we were to the solution of our double mystery, i would have said we had made no progress--save by eliminating wardrop. not for one instant did i dream that i was within less than half an hour of a revelation that changed my whole conception of the crime. i timed the interval by using one of my precious matches to see my watch when he left. i sat there for what seemed ten minutes, listening to the rush of the rain and the creaking of a door behind me in the darkness somewhere, that swung back and forth rustily in the draft from the broken windows. the gloom was infinitely depressing; away from burton's enthusiasm, his scheme lacked point; his argument, that the night duplicated the weather conditions of that other night, a week ago, seemed less worthy of consideration. besides, i have a horror of making myself ridiculous, and i had an idea that it would be hard to explain my position, alone in the warehouse, firing a revolver into the floor, if my own argument was right, and the club should rouse to a search. i looked again at my watch; only six minutes. eight minutes. nine minutes. every one who has counted the passing of seconds knows how they drag. with my eyes on the room across, and my finger on the trigger, i waited as best i could. at ten minutes i was conscious there was some one in the room over the way. and then he came into view from the side somewhere, and went to the table. he had his back to me, and i could only see that he was a large man, with massive shoulders and dark hair. it was difficult to make out what he was doing. after a half-minute, however, he stepped to one side, and i saw that he had lighted a candle, and was systematically reading and then burning certain papers, throwing the charred fragments on the table. with the same glance that told me that, i knew the man. it was schwartz. i was so engrossed in watching him that when he turned and came directly to the window, i stood perfectly still, staring at him. with the light at his back, i felt certain i had been discovered, but i was wrong. he shook the newspaper which had held the fragments, out of the window, lighted a cigarette and flung the match out also, and turned back into the room. as a second thought, he went back and jerked at the cord of the window-shade, but it refused to move. he was not alone, for from the window he turned and addressed some one in the room behind. "you are sure you got them all?" he said. the other occupant of the room came within range of vision. it was davidson. "all there were, mr. schwartz," he replied. "we were nearly finished before the woman made a bolt." he was fumbling in his pockets. i think i expected him to produce an apple and a penknife, but he held out a small object on the palm of his hand. "i would rather have done it alone, mr. schwartz," he said. "i found this ring in brigg's pocket this morning. it belongs to the girl." schwartz swore, and picking up the ring, held it to the light. then he made an angry motion to throw it out of the window, but his german cupidity got the better of him. he slid it into his vest pocket instead. "you're damned poor stuff, davidson," he said, with a snarl. "if she hasn't got them, then wardrop has. you'll bungle this job and there'll be hell to pay. tell mcfeely i want to see him." davidson left, for i heard the door close. schwartz took the ring out and held it to the light. i looked at my watch. the time was almost up. a fresh burst of noise came from below. i leaned out cautiously and looked down at the lower windows; they were still closed and shuttered. when i raised my eyes again to the level of the room across, i was amazed to see a second figure in the room--a woman, at that. schwartz had not seen her. he stood with his back to her, looking at the ring in his hand. the woman had thrown her veil back, but i could see nothing of her face as she stood. she looked small beside schwartz's towering height, and she wore black. she must have said something just then, very quietly, for schwartz suddenly lifted his head and wheeled on her. i had a clear view of him, and if ever guilt, rage, and white-lipped fear showed on a man's face, it showed on his. he replied--a half-dozen words, in a low tone, and made a motion to offer her a chair. but she paid no attention. i have no idea how long a time they talked. the fresh outburst of noise below made it impossible to hear what they said, and there was always the maddening fact that i could not see her face. i thought of mrs. fleming, but this woman seemed younger and more slender. schwartz was arguing, i imagined, but she stood immobile, scornful, watching him. she seemed to have made a request, and the man's evasions moved her no whit. it may have been only two or three minutes, but it seemed longer. schwartz had given up the argument, whatever it was, and by pointing out the window, i supposed he was telling her he had thrown what she wanted out there. even then she did not turn toward me; i could not see even her profile. what happened next was so unexpected that it remains little more than a picture in my mind. the man threw out his hands as if to show he could not or would not accede to her request; he was flushed with rage, and even at that distance the ugly scar on his forehead stood out like a welt. the next moment i saw the woman raise her right hand, with something in it. i yelled to schwartz to warn him, but he had already seen the revolver. as he struck her hand aside, the explosion came; i saw her stagger, clutch at a chair, and fall backward beyond my range of vision. then the light went out, and i was staring at a black, brick wall. i turned and ran frantically toward the stairs. luckily, i found them easily. i fell rather than ran down to the floor below. then i made a wrong turning and lost some time. my last match set me right and i got into the yard somehow, and to the street. it was raining harder than ever, and the thunder was incessant. i ran around the corner of the street, and found the gate to the white cat without trouble. the inner gate was unlocked, as burton had said he would leave it, and from the steps of the club i could hear laughter and the refrain of a popular song. the door opened just as i reached the top step, and i half-tumbled inside. burton was there in the kitchen, with two other men whom i did not recognize, each one holding a stein of beer. burton had two, and he held one out to me as i stood trying to get my breath. "you win," he said. "although i'm a hard-working journalist and need the money, i won't lie. this is osborne of the _star_ and mctighe of the _eagle_, mr. knox. they heard the shot in there, and if i hadn't told the story, there would have been a panic. what's the matter with you?" i shut the door into the grill-room and faced the three men. "for god's sake, burton," i panted, "let's get up-stairs quietly. i didn't fire any shot. there's a woman dead up there." with characteristic poise, the three reporters took the situation quietly. we filed through the grill-room as casually as we could; with the door closed, however, we threw caution aside. i led the way up the stairs to the room where i had found fleming's body, and where i expected to find another. on the landing at the top of the stairs i came face to face with davidson, the detective, and behind him judge mcfeely. davidson was trying to open the door of the room where fleming had been shot, with a skeleton key. but it was bolted inside. there was only one thing to do: i climbed on the shoulders of one of the men, a tall fellow, whose face to this day i don't remember, and by careful maneuvering and the assistance of davidson's long arms, i got through the transom and dropped into the room. i hardly know what i expected. i was in total darkness. i know that when i had got the door open at last, when the cheerful light from the hall streamed in, and i had not felt schwartz's heavy hand at my throat, i drew a long breath of relief. burton found the electric light switch and turned it on. and then--i could hardly believe my senses. the room was empty. one of the men laughed a little. "stung!" he said lightly. "what sort of a story have you and your friend framed up, burton?" but i stopped at that minute and picked up a small nickel-plated revolver from the floor. i held it out, on my palm, and the others eyed it respectfully. burton, after all, was the quickest-witted of the lot. he threw open one of the two doors in the room, revealing a shallow closet, with papered walls and a row of hooks. the other door stuck tight. one of the men pointed to the floor; a bit of black cloth had wedged it, from the other side. our combined efforts got it open at last, and we crowded in the doorway, looking down a flight of stairs. huddled just below us, her head at our feet, was the body of the missing woman. "my god," burton said hoarsely, "who is it?" chapter xxiii a box of crown derby we got her into the room and on the couch before i knew her. her fair hair had fallen loose over her face, and one long, thin hand clutched still at the bosom of her gown. it was ellen butler! she was living, but not much more. we gathered around and stood looking down at her in helpless pity. a current of cold night air came up the staircase from an open door below, and set the hanging light to swaying, throwing our shadows in a sort of ghastly dance over her quiet face. i was too much shocked to be surprised. burton had picked up her hat, and put it beside her. "she's got about an hour, i should say," said one of the newspaper men. "see if gray is around, will you, jim? he's mostly here saturday night." "is it--miss maitland?" burton asked, in a strangely subdued voice. "no; it is henry butler's widow," i returned, and the three men were reporters again, at once. gray was there and came immediately. whatever surprise he may have felt at seeing a woman there, and dying, he made no comment. he said she might live six hours, but the end was certain. we got a hospital ambulance, and with the clang of its bell as it turned the corner and hurried away, the white cat drops out of this story, so far as action is concerned. three detectives and as many reporters hunted schwartz all of that night and the next day, to get his story. but he remained in hiding. he had a start of over an hour, from the time he switched off the light and escaped down the built-in staircase. even in her agony, ellen butler's hate had carried her through the doorway after him, to collapse on the stairs. i got home just as the cab, with fred and edith, stopped at the door. i did not let them get out; a half dozen words, without comment or explanation, and they were driving madly to the hospital. katie let me in, and i gave her some money to stay up and watch the place while we were away. then, not finding a cab, i took a car and rode to the hospital. the building was appallingly quiet. the elevator cage, without a light, crept spectrally up and down; my footsteps on the tiled floor echoed and reëchoed above my head. a night watchman, in felt shoes, admitted me, and took me up-stairs. there was another long wait while the surgeon finished his examination, and a nurse with a basin of water and some towels came out of the room, and another one with dressings went in. and then the surgeon came out, in a white coat with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and said i might go in. the cover was drawn up to the injured woman's chin, where it was folded neatly back. her face was bloodless, and her fair hair had been gathered up in a shaggy knot. she was breathing slowly, but regularly, and her expression was relaxed--more restful than i had ever seen it. as i stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at her, i knew that as surely as death was coming, it would be welcome. edith had been calm, before, but when she saw me she lost her self-control. she put her head on my shoulder, and sobbed out the shock and the horror of the thing. as for fred, his imaginative temperament made him particularly sensitive to suffering in others. as he sat there beside the bed i knew by his face that he was repeating and repenting every unkind word he had said about ellen butler. she was conscious; we realized that after a time. once she asked for water, without opening her eyes, and fred slipped a bit of ice between her white lips. later in the night she looked up for an instant, at me. "he--struck my--hand," she said with difficulty, and closed her eyes again. during the long night hours i told the story, as i knew it, in an undertone, and there was a new kindliness in fred's face as he looked at her. she was still living by morning, and was rallying a little from the shock. i got fred to take edith home, and i took her place by the bed. some one brought me coffee about eight, and at nine o'clock i was asked to leave the room, while four surgeons held a consultation there. the decision to operate was made shortly after. "there is only a chance," a gray-haired surgeon told me in brisk, short-clipped words. "the bullet went down, and has penetrated the abdomen. sometimes, taken early enough, we can repair the damage, to a certain extent, and nature does the rest. the family is willing, i suppose?" i knew of no family but edith, and over the telephone she said, with something of her natural tone, to do what the surgeons considered best. i hoped to get some sort of statement before the injured woman was taken to the operating-room, but she lay in a stupor, and i had to give up the idea. it was two days before i got her deposition, and in that time i had learned many things. on monday i took margery to bellwood. she had received the news about mrs. butler more calmly than i had expected. "i do not think she was quite sane, poor woman," she said with a shudder. "she had had a great deal of trouble. but how strange--a murder and an attempt at murder--at that little club in a week!" she did not connect the two, and i let the thing rest at that. once, on the train, she turned to me suddenly, after she had been plunged in thought for several minutes. "don't you think," she asked, "that she had a sort of homicidal mania, and that she tried to kill me with chloroform?" "i hardly think so," i returned evasively. "i am inclined to think some one actually got in over the porch roof." "i am afraid," she said, pressing her gloved hands tight together. "wherever i go, something happens that i can not understand. i never wilfully hurt any one, and yet--these terrible things follow me. i am afraid--to go back to bellwood, with aunt jane still gone, and you--in the city." "a lot of help i have been to you," i retorted bitterly. "can you think of a single instance where i have been able to save you trouble or anxiety? why, i allowed you to be chloroformed within an inch of eternity, before i found you." "but you did find me," she cheered me. "and just to know that you are doing all you can--" "my poor best," i supplemented. "it is very comforting to have a friend one can rely on," she finished, and the little bit of kindness went to my head. if she had not got a cinder in her eye at that psychological moment, i'm afraid i would figuratively have trampled wardrop underfoot, right there. as it was, i got the cinder, after a great deal of looking into one beautiful eye--which is not as satisfactory by half as looking into two--and then we were at bellwood. we found miss letitia in the lower hall, and heppie on her knees with a hatchet. between them sat a packing box, and they were having a spirited discussion as to how it should be opened. "here, give it to me," miss letitia demanded, as we stopped in the doorway. "you've got stove lengths there for two days if you don't chop 'em up into splinters." with the hatchet poised in mid air she saw us, but she let it descend with considerable accuracy nevertheless, and our greeting was made between thumps. "come in"--thump--"like as not it's a mistake"--bang--"but the expressage was prepaid. if it's mineral water--" crash. something broke inside. "if it's mineral water," i said, "you'd better let me open it. mineral water is meant for internal use, and not for hall carpets." i got the hatchet from her gradually. "i knew a case once where a bottle of hair tonic was spilled on a rag carpet, and in a year they had it dyed with spots over it and called it a tiger skin." she watched me suspiciously while i straightened the nails she had bent, and lifted the boards. in the matter of curiosity, miss letitia was truly feminine; great handfuls of excelsior she dragged out herself, and heaped on heppie's blue apron, stretched out on the floor. the article that had smashed under the vigor of miss letitia's seventy years lay on the top. it had been a tea-pot, of some very beautiful ware. i have called just now from my study, to ask what sort of ware it was, and the lady who sets me right says it was crown derby. then there were rows of cups and saucers, and heterogeneous articles in the same material that the women folk seemed to understand. at the last, when the excitement seemed over, they found a toast rack in a lower corner of the box and the "ohs" and "ahs" had to be done all over again. not until miss letitia had arranged it all on the dining-room table, and margery had taken off her wraps and admired from all four corners, did miss letitia begin to ask where they had come from. and by that time heppie had the crate in the wood-box, and the excelsior was a black and smoking mass at the kitchen end of the grounds. there was not the slightest clue to the sender, but while miss letitia rated heppie loudly in the kitchen, and bella swept up the hall, margery voiced the same idea that had occurred to me. "if--if aunt jane were--all right," she said tremulously, "it would be just the sort of thing she loves to do." i had intended to go back to the city at once, but miss letitia's box had put her in an almost cheerful humor, and she insisted that i go with her to miss jane's room, and see how it was prepared for its owner's return. "i'm not pretending to know what took jane maitland away from this house in the middle of the night," she said. "she was a good bit of a fool, jane was; she never grew up. but if i know jane maitland, she will come back and be buried with her people, if it's only to put mary's husband out of the end of the lot. "and another thing, knox," she went on, and i saw her old hands were shaking. "i told you the last time you were here that i hadn't been robbed of any of the pearls, after all. half of those pearls were jane's and--she had a perfect right to take forty-nine of them if she wanted. she--she told me she was going to take some, and it--slipped my mind." i believe it was the first lie she had ever told in her hard, conscientious old life. was she right? i wondered. had miss jane taken the pearls, and if she had, why? wardrop had been taking a long walk; he got back about five, and as miss letitia was in the middle of a diatribe against white undergarments for colored children, margery and he had a half-hour alone together. i had known, of course, that it must come, but under the circumstances, with my whole future existence at stake, i was vague as to whether it was colored undergarments on white orphans or the other way round. when i got away at last, i found bella waiting for me in the hall. her eyes were red with crying, and she had a crumpled newspaper in her hand. she broke down when she tried to speak, but i got the newspaper from her, and she pointed with one work-hardened finger to a column on the first page. it was the announcement of mrs. butler's tragic accident, and the mystery that surrounded it. there was no mention of schwartz. "is she--dead?" bella choked out at last. "not yet, but there is very little hope." amid fresh tears and shakings of her heavy shoulders, as she sat in her favorite place, on the stairs, bella told me, briefly, that she had lived with mrs. butler since she was sixteen, and had only left when the husband's suicide had broken up the home. i could get nothing else out of her, but gradually bella's share in the mystery was coming to light. slowly, too--it was a new business for me--i was forming a theory of my own. it was a strange one, but it seemed to fit the facts as i knew them. with the story wardrop told that afternoon came my first glimmer of light. he was looking better than he had when i saw him before, but the news of mrs. butler's approaching death and the manner of her injury affected him strangely. he had seen the paper, like bella, and he turned on me almost fiercely when i entered the library. margery was in her old position at the window, looking out, and i knew the despondent droop of her shoulders. "is she conscious?" wardrop asked eagerly, indicating the article in the paper. "no, not now--at least, it is not likely." he looked relieved at that, but only for a moment. then he began to pace the room nervously, evidently debating some move. his next action showed the development of a resolution, for he pushed forward two chairs for margery and myself. "sit down, both of you," he directed. "i've got a lot to say, and i want you both to listen. when margery has heard the whole story, she will probably despise me for the rest of her life. i can't help it. i've got to tell all i know, and it isn't so much after all. you didn't fool me yesterday, knox; i knew what that doctor was after. but he couldn't make me tell who killed mr. fleming, because, before god, i didn't know." chapter xxiv wardrop's story "i have to go back to the night miss jane disappeared--and that's another thing that has driven me desperate. will you tell me why i should be suspected of having a hand in that, when she had been a mother to me? if she is dead, she can't exonerate me; if she is living, and we find her, she will tell you what i tell you--that i know nothing of the whole terrible business." "i am quite certain of that, wardrop," i interposed. "besides, i think i have got to the bottom of that mystery." margery looked at me quickly, but i shook my head. it was too early to tell my suspicions. "the things that looked black against me were bad enough, but they had nothing to do with miss jane. i will have to go back to before the night she--went away, back to the time mr. butler was the state treasurer, and your father, margery, was his cashier. "butler was not a business man. he let too much responsibility lie with his subordinates--and then, according to the story, he couldn't do much anyhow, against schwartz. the cashier was entirely under machine control, and butler was neglectful. you remember, knox, the crash, when three banks, rotten to the core, went under, and it was found a large amount of state money had gone too. it was fleming who did it--i am sorry, margery, but this is no time to mince words. it was fleming who deposited the money in the wrecked banks, knowing what would happen. when the crash came, butler's sureties, to save themselves, confiscated every dollar he had in the world. butler went to the penitentiary for six months, on some minor count, and when he got out, after writing to fleming and schwartz, protesting his innocence, and asking for enough out of the fortune they had robbed him of to support his wife, he killed himself, at the white cat." margery was very pale, but quiet. she sat with her fingers locked in her lap, and her eyes on wardrop. "it was a bad business," wardrop went on wearily. "fleming moved into butler's place as treasurer, and took lightfoot as his cashier. that kept the lid on. once or twice, when there was an unexpected call for funds, the treasury was almost empty, and schwartz carried things over himself. i went to plattsburg as mr. fleming's private secretary when he became treasurer, and from the first i knew things were even worse than the average state government. "schwartz and fleming had to hold together; they hated each other, and the feeling was trebled when fleming married schwartz's divorced wife." margery looked at me with startled, incredulous eyes. what she must have seen confirmed wardrop's words, and she leaned back in her chair, limp and unnerved. but she heard and comprehended every word wardrop was saying. "the woman was a very ordinary person, but it seems schwartz cared for her, and he tried to stab mr. fleming shortly after the marriage. about a year ago mr. fleming said another attempt had been made on his life, with poison; he was very much alarmed, and i noticed a change in him from that time on. things were not going well at the treasury; schwartz and his crowd were making demands that were hard to supply, and behind all that, fleming was afraid to go out alone at night. "he employed a man to protect him, a man named carter, who had been a bartender in plattsburg. when things began to happen here in manchester, he took carter to the home as a butler. "then the borough bank got shaky. if it went down there would be an ugly scandal, and fleming would go too. his notes for half a million were there, without security, and he dared not show the canceled notes he had, with schwartz's indorsement. "i'm not proud of the rest of the story, margery." he stopped his nervous pacing and stood looking down at her. "i was engaged to marry a girl who was everything on earth to me, and--i was private secretary to the state treasurer, with the princely salary of such a position! "mr. fleming came back here when the borough bank threatened failure, and tried to get money enough to tide over the trouble. a half million would have done it, but he couldn't get it. he was in butler's position exactly, only he was guilty and butler was innocent. he raised a little money here, and i went to plattsburg with securities and letters. it isn't necessary to go over the things i suffered there; i brought back one hundred and ten thousand dollars, in a package in my russia leather bag. and--i had something else." he wavered for the first time in his recital. he went on more rapidly, and without looking at either of us. "i carried, not in the valise, a bundle of letters, five in all, which had been written by henry butler to mr. fleming, letters that showed what a dupe butler had been, that he had been negligent, but not criminal; accusing fleming of having ruined him, and demanding certain notes that would have proved it. if butler could have produced the letters at the time of his trial, things would have been different." "were you going to sell the letters?" margery demanded, with quick scorn. "i intended to, but--i didn't. it was a little bit too dirty, after all. i met mrs. butler for the second time in my life, at the gate down there, as i came up from the train the night i got here from plattsburg. she had offered to buy the letters, and i had brought them to sell to her. and then, at the last minute, i lied. i said i couldn't get them--that they were locked in the monmouth avenue house. i put her in a taxicab that she had waiting, and she went back to town. i felt like a cad; she wanted to clear her husband's memory, and i--well, mr. fleming was your father, margery, i couldn't hurt you like that." "do you think mrs. butler took your leather bag?" i asked. "i do not think so. it seems to be the only explanation, but i did not let it out of my hand one moment while we were talking. my hand was cramped from holding it, when she gave up in despair at last, and went back to the city." "what did you do with the letters she wanted?" "i kept them with me that night, and the next morning hid them in the secret closet. that was when i dropped my fountain pen!" "and the pearls?" margery asked suddenly. "when did you get them, harry?" to my surprise his face did not change. he appeared to be thinking. "two days before i left," he said. "we were using every method to get money, and your father said to sacrifice them, if necessary." "my father!" he wheeled on us both. "did you think i stole them?" he demanded. and i confess that i was ashamed to say i had thought precisely that. "your father gave me nine unmounted pearls to sell," he reiterated. "i got about a thousand dollars for them--eleven hundred and something, i believe." margery looked at me. i think she was fairly stunned. to learn that her father had married again, that he had been the keystone in an arch of villainy that, with him gone, was now about to fall, and to associate him with so small and mean a thing as the theft of a handful of pearls--she was fairly stunned. "then," i said, to bring wardrop back to his story, "you found you had been robbed of the money, and you went in to tell mr. fleming. you had some words, didn't you?" "he thought what you all thought," wardrop said bitterly. "he accused me of stealing the money. i felt worse than a thief. he was desperate, and i took his revolver from him." margery had put her hands over her eyes. it was a terrible strain for her, but when i suggested that she wait for the rest of the story she refused vehemently. "i came back here to bellwood, and the first thing i learned was about miss jane. when i saw the blood print on the stair rail, i thought she was murdered, and i had more than i could stand. i took the letters out of the secret closet, before i could show it to you and hunter, and later i put them in the leather bag i gave you, and locked it. you have it, haven't you, knox?" i nodded. "as for that night at the club, i told the truth then, but not all the truth. i suppose i am a coward, but i was afraid to. if you knew schwartz, you would understand." with the memory of his huge figure and the heavy under-shot face that i had seen the night before, i could understand very well, knowing wardrop. "i went to that room at the white cat that night, because i was afraid not to go. fleming might kill himself or some one else. i went up the stairs, slowly, and i heard no shot. at the door i hesitated, then opened it quietly. the door into the built-in staircase was just closing. it must have taken me only an instant to realize what had happened. fleming was swaying forward as i caught him. i jumped to the staircase and looked down, but i was too late. the door below had closed. i knew in another minute who had been there, and escaped. it was raining, you remember, and schwartz had forgotten to take his umbrella with his name on the handle!" "schwartz!" "now do you understand why i was being followed?" he demanded. "i have been under surveillance every minute since that night. there's probably some one hanging around the gate now. anyhow, i was frantic. i saw how it looked for me, and if i had brought schwartz into it, i would have been knifed in forty-eight hours. i hardly remember what i did. i know i ran for a doctor, and i took the umbrella with me and left it in the vestibule of the first house i saw with a doctor's sign. i rang the bell like a crazy man, and then hunter came along and said to go back; doctor gray was at the club. "that is all i know. i'm not proud of it, margery, but it might have been worse, and it's the truth. it clears up something, but not all. it doesn't tell where aunt jane is, or who has the hundred thousand. but it does show who killed your father. and if you know what is good for you, knox, you will let it go at that. you can't fight the police and the courts single-handed. look how the whole thing was dropped, and the most cold-blooded kind of murder turned into suicide. suicide without a weapon! bah!" "i am not so sure about schwartz," i said thoughtfully. "we haven't yet learned about eleven twenty-two c." chapter xxv measure for measure miss jane maitland had been missing for ten days. in that time not one word had come from her. the reporter from the _eagle_ had located her in a dozen places, and was growing thin and haggard following little old ladies along the street--and being sent about his business tartly when he tried to make inquiries. some things puzzled me more than ever in the light of wardrop's story. for the third time i asked myself why miss letitia denied the loss of the pearls. there was nothing in what we had learned, either, to tell why miss jane had gone away--to ascribe a motive. how she had gone, in view of wardrop's story of the cab, was clear. she had gone by street-car, walking the three miles to wynton alone at two o'clock in the morning, although she had never stirred around the house at night without a candle, and was privately known to sleep with a light when miss letitia went to bed first, and could not see it through the transom. the theory i had formed seemed absurd at first, but as i thought it over, its probabilities grew on me. i took dinner at bellwood and started for town almost immediately after. margery had gone to miss letitia's room, and wardrop was pacing up and down the veranda, smoking. he looked dejected and anxious, and he welcomed my suggestion that he walk down to the station with me. as we went, a man emerged from the trees across and came slowly after us. "you see, i am only nominally a free agent," he said morosely. "they'll poison me yet; i know too much." we said little on the way to the train. just before it came thundering along, however, he spoke again. "i am going away, knox. there isn't anything in this political game for me, and the law is too long. i have a chum in mexico, and he wants me to go down there." "permanently?" "yes. there's nothing to hold me here now," he said. i turned and faced him in the glare of the station lights. "what do you mean?" i demanded. "i mean that there isn't any longer a reason why one part of the earth is better than another. mexico or alaska, it's all the same to me." he turned on his heel and left me. i watched him swing up the path, with his head down; i saw the shadowy figure of the other man fall into line behind him. then i caught the platform of the last car as it passed, and that short ride into town was a triumphal procession with the wheels beating time and singing: "it's all the same--the same--to me--to me." i called burton by telephone, and was lucky enough to find him at the office. he said he had just got in, and, as usual, he wanted something to eat. we arranged to meet at a little chinese restaurant, where at that hour, nine o'clock, we would be almost alone. later on, after the theater, i knew that the place would be full of people, and conversation impossible. burton knew the place well, as he did every restaurant in the city. "hello, mike," he said to the unctuous chinaman who admitted us. and "mike" smiled a slant-eyed welcome. the room was empty; it was an unpretentious affair, with lace curtains at the windows and small, very clean tables. at one corner a cable and slide communicated through a hole in the ceiling with the floor above, and through the aperture, burton's order for chicken and rice, and the inevitable tea, was barked. burton listened attentively to wardrop's story, as i repeated it. "so schwartz did it, after all!" he said regretfully, when i finished. "it's a tame ending. it had all the elements of the unusual, and it resolves itself into an ordinary, every-day, man-to-man feud. i'm disappointed; we can't touch schwartz." "i thought the _times-post_ was hot after him." "schwartz bought the _times-post_ at three o'clock this afternoon," burton said, with repressed rage. "i'm called off. to-morrow we run a photograph of schwartzwold, his place at plattsburg, and the next day we eulogize the administration. i'm going down the river on an excursion boat, and write up the pig-killing contest at the union butchers' picnic." "how is mrs. butler?" i asked, as his rage subsided to mere rumbling in his throat. "delirious"--shortly. "she's going to croak, wardrop's going to mexico, schwartz will be next governor, and miss maitland's body will be found in a cistern. the whole thing has petered out. what's the use of finding the murderer if he's coated with asbestos and lined with money? mike, i want some more tea to drown my troubles." we called up the hospital about ten-thirty, and learned that mrs. butler was sinking. fred was there, and without much hope of getting anything, we went over. i took burton in as a nephew of the dying woman, and i was glad i had done it. she was quite conscious, but very weak. she told the story to fred and myself, and in a corner burton took it down in shorthand. we got her to sign it about daylight sometime, and she died very quietly shortly after edith arrived at eight. to give her story as she gave it would be impossible; the ramblings of a sick mind, the terrible pathos of it all, is impossible to repeat. she lay there, her long, thin body practically dead, fighting the death rattle in her throat. there were pauses when for five minutes she would lie in a stupor, only to rouse and go forward from the very word where she had stopped. she began with her married life, and to understand the beauty of it is to understand the things that came after. she was perfectly, ideally, illogically happy. then one day henry butler accepted the nomination for state treasurer, and with that things changed. during his term in office he altered greatly; his wife could only guess that things were wrong, for he refused to talk. the crash came, after all, with terrible suddenness. there had been an all-night conference at the butler home, and mr. butler, in a frenzy at finding himself a dupe, had called the butler from bed and forcibly ejected fleming and schwartz from the house. ellen butler had been horrified, sickened by what she regarded as the vulgarity of the occurrence. but her loyalty to her husband never wavered. butler was one honest man against a complete organization of unscrupulous ones. his disgrace, imprisonment and suicide at the white cat had followed in rapid succession. with his death, all that was worth while in his wife died. her health was destroyed; she became one of the wretched army of neurasthenics, with only one idea: to retaliate, to pay back in measure full and running over, her wrecked life, her dead husband, her grief and her shame. she laid her plans with the caution and absolute recklessness of a diseased mentality. normally a shrinking, nervous woman, she became cold, passionless, deliberate in her revenge. to disgrace schwartz and fleming was her original intention. but she could not get the papers. she resorted to hounding fleming, meaning to drive him to suicide. and she chose a method that had more nearly driven him to madness. wherever he turned he found the figures eleven twenty-two c. sometimes just the number, without the letter. it had been henry butler's cell number during his imprisonment, and if they were graven on his wife's soul, they burned themselves in lines of fire on fleming's brain. for over a year she pursued this course--sometimes through the mail, at other times in the most unexpected places, wherever she could bribe a messenger to carry the paper. sane? no, hardly sane, but inevitable as fate. the time came when other things went badly with fleming, as i had already heard from wardrop. he fled to the white cat, and for a week ellen butler hunted him vainly. she had decided to kill him, and on the night margery fleming had found the paper on the pillow, she had been in the house. she was not the only intruder in the house that night. some one--presumably fleming himself--had been there before her. she found a ladies' desk broken open and a small drawer empty. evidently fleming, unable to draw a check while in hiding, had needed ready money. as to the jewels that had been disturbed in margery's boudoir i could only surmise the impulse that, after prompting him to take them, had failed at the sight of his dead wife's jewels. surprised by the girl's appearance, she had crept to the upper floor and concealed herself in an empty bedroom. it had been almost dawn before she got out. no doubt this was the room belonging to the butler, carter, which margery had reported as locked that night. she took a key from the door of a side entrance, and locked the door behind her when she left. within a couple of nights she had learned that wardrop was coming home from plattsburg, and she met him at bellwood. we already knew the nature of that meeting. she drove back to town, half maddened by her failure to secure the letters that would have cleared her husband's memory, but the wiser by one thing: wardrop had inadvertently told her where fleming was hiding. the next night she went to the white cat and tried to get in. she knew from her husband of the secret staircase, for many a political meeting of the deepest significance had been possible by its use. but the door was locked, and she had no key. above her the warehouse raised its empty height, and it was not long before she decided to see what she could learn from its upper windows. she went in at the gate and felt her way, through the rain, to the windows. at that moment the gate opened suddenly, and a man muttered something in the darkness. the shock was terrible. i had no idea, that night, of what my innocent stumbling into the warehouse yard had meant to a half-crazed woman just beyond my range of vision. after a little she got her courage again, and she pried up an unlocked window. the rest of her progress must have been much as ours had been, a few nights later. she found a window that commanded the club, and with three possibilities that she would lose, and would see the wrong room, she won the fourth. the room lay directly before her, distinct in every outline, with fleming seated at the table, facing her and sorting some papers. she rested her revolver on the sill and took absolutely deliberate aim. her hands were cold, and she even rubbed them together, to make them steady. then she fired, and a crash of thunder at the very instant covered the sound. fleming sat for a moment before he swayed forward. on that instant she realized that there was some one else in the room--a man who took an uncertain step or two forward into view, threw up his hands and disappeared as silently as he had come. it was schwartz. then she saw the door into the hall open, saw wardrop come slowly in and close it, watched his sickening realization of what had occurred; then a sudden panic seized her. arms seemed to stretch out from the darkness behind her, to draw her into it. she tried to get away, to run, even to scream--then she fainted. it was gray dawn when she recovered her senses and got back to the hotel room she had taken under an assumed name. by night she was quieter. she read the news of fleming's death in the papers, and she gloated over it. but there was more to be done; she was only beginning. she meant to ruin schwartz, to kill his credit, to fell him with the club of public disfavor. wardrop had told her that her husband's letters were with other papers at the monmouth avenue house, where he could not get them. fleming's body was taken home that day, saturday, but she had gone too far to stop. she wanted the papers before lightfoot could get at them and destroy the incriminating ones. that night she got into the fleming house, using the key she had taken. she ransacked the library, finding, not the letters that wardrop had said were there, but others, equally or more incriminating, canceled notes, private accounts, that would have ruined schwartz for ever. it was then that i saw the light and went down-stairs. my unlucky stumble gave her warning enough to turn out the light. for the rest, the chase through the back hall, the dining-room and the pantry, had culminated in her escape up the back stairs, while i had fallen down the dumb-waiter shaft. she had run into bella on the upper floor, bella, who had almost fainted, and who knew her and kept her until morning, petting her and soothing her, and finally getting her into a troubled sleep. that day she realized that she was being followed. when edith's invitation came she accepted it at once, for the sake of losing herself and her papers, until she was ready to use them. it had disconcerted her to find margery there, but she managed to get along. for several days everything had gone well: she was getting stronger again, ready for the second act of the play, prepared to blackmail schwartz, and then expose him. she would have killed him later, probably; she wanted her measure full and running over, and so she would disgrace him first. then--schwartz must have learned of the loss of the papers from the fleming house, and guessed the rest. she felt sure he had known from the first who had killed fleming. however that might be, he had had her room entered, margery chloroformed in the connecting room, and her papers were taken from under her pillow while she was pretending anesthesia. she had followed the two men through the house and out the kitchen door, where she had fainted on the grass. the next night, when she had retired early, leaving margery and me down-stairs, it had been an excuse to slip out of the house. how she found that schwartz was at the white cat, how she got through the side entrance, we never knew. he had burned the papers before she got there, and when she tried to kill him, he had struck her hand aside. when we were out in the cheerful light of day again, burton turned his shrewd, blue eyes on me. "awful story, isn't it?" he said. "those are primitive emotions, if you like. do you know, knox, there is only one explanation we haven't worked on for the rest of this mystery--i believe in my soul you carried off the old lady and the russia leather bag yourself!" chapter xxvi lovers and a letter at noon that day i telephoned to margery. "come up," i said, "and bring the keys to the monmouth avenue house. i have some things to tell you, and--some things to ask you." i met her at the station with lady gray and the trap. my plans for that afternoon were comprehensive; they included what i hoped to be the solution of the aunt jane mystery; also, they included a little drive through the park, and a--well, i shall tell about that, all i am going to tell, at the proper time. to play propriety, edith met us at the house. it was still closed, and even in the short time that had elapsed it smelled close and musty. at the door into the drawing-room i stopped them. "now, this is going to be a sort of game," i explained. "it's a sort of button, button, who's got the button, without the button. we are looking for a drawer, receptacle or closet, which shall contain, bunched together, and without regard to whether they should be there or not, a small revolver, two military brushes and a clothes brush, two or three soft bosomed shirts, perhaps a half-dozen collars, and a suit of underwear. also a small flat package about eight inches long and three wide." "what in the world are you talking about?" edith asked. "i am not talking, i am theorizing," i explained. "i have a theory, and according to it the things should be here. if they are not, it is my misfortune, not my fault." i think margery caught my idea at once, and as edith was ready for anything, we commenced the search. edith took the top floor, being accustomed, she said, to finding unexpected things in the servants' quarters; margery took the lower floor, and for certain reasons i took the second. for ten minutes there was no result. at the end of that time i had finished two rooms, and commenced on the blue boudoir. and here, on the top shelf of a three-cornered empire cupboard, with glass doors and spindle legs, i found what i was looking for. every article was there. i stuffed a small package into my pocket, and called the two girls. "the lost is found," i stated calmly, when we were all together in the library. "when did you lose anything?" edith demanded. "do you mean to say, jack knox, that you brought us here to help you find a suit of gaudy pajamas and a pair of military brushes?" "i brought you here to find aunt jane," i said soberly, taking a letter and the flat package out of my pocket. "you see, my theory worked out. _here_ is aunt jane, and _there_ is the money from the russia leather bag." i laid the packet in margery's lap, and without ceremony opened the letter. it began: "my dearest niece: "i am writing to you, because i can not think what to say to sister letitia. i am running away! i--am--running--away! my dear, it scares me even to write it, all alone in this empty house. i have had a cup of tea out of one of your lovely cups, and a nap on your pretty couch, and just as soon as it is dark i am going to take the train for boston. when you get this, i will be on the ocean, the ocean, my dear, that i have read about, and dreamed about, and never seen. "i am going to realize a dream of forty years--more than twice as long as you have lived. your dear mother saw the continent before she died, but the things i have wanted have always been denied me. i have been of those that have eyes to see and see not. so--i have run away. i am going to london and paris, and even to italy, if the money your father gave me for the pearls will hold out. for a year now i have been getting steamship circulars, and i have taken a little french through a correspondence school. that was why i always made you sing french songs, dearie: i wanted to learn the accent. i think i should do very well if i could only sing my french instead of speaking it. "i am afraid that sister letitia discovered that i had taken some of the pearls. but--half of them were mine, from our mother, and although i had wanted a pearl ring all my life, i have never had one. i am going to buy me a hat, instead of a bonnet, and clothes, and pretty things underneath, and a switch; margery, i have wanted a switch for thirty years. "i suppose letitia will never want me back. perhaps i shall not want to come. i tried to write to her when i was leaving, but i had cut my hand in the attic, where i had hidden away my clothes, and it bled on the paper. i have been worried since for fear your aunt letitia would find the paper in the basket, and be alarmed at the stains. i wanted to leave things in order--please tell letitia--but i was so nervous, and in such a hurry. i walked three miles to wynton and took a street-car. i just made up my mind i was going to do it. i am sixty-five, and it is time i have a chance to do the things i like. "i came in on the car, and came directly here. i got in with the second key on your key-ring. did you miss it? and i did the strangest thing at bellwood. i got down the stairs very quietly and out on to the porch. i set down my empty traveling bag--i was going to buy everything new in the city--to close the door behind me. then i was sure i heard some one at the side of the house, and i picked it up and ran down the path in the dark. "you can imagine my surprise when i opened the bag this morning to find i had picked up harry's. i am emptying it and taking it with me, for he has mine. "if you find this right away, please don't tell sister letitia for a day or two. you know how firm your aunt letitia is. i shall send her a present from boston to pacify her, and perhaps when i come back in three or four months, she will be over the worst. "i am not quite comfortable about your father, margery. he is not like himself. the last time i saw him he gave me a little piece of paper with a number on it and he said they followed him everywhere, and were driving him crazy. try to have him see a doctor. and i left a bottle of complexion cream in the little closet over my mantel, where i had hidden my hat and shoes that i wore. please destroy it before your aunt letitia sees it. "good-by, my dear niece. i suppose i am growing frivolous in my old age, but i am going to have silk linings in my clothes before i die. "your loving aunt jane." when margery stopped reading, there was an amazed silence. then we all three burst into relieved, uncontrolled mirth. the dear, little, old lady with her new independence and her sixty-five-year-old, romantic, starved heart! then we opened the packet, which was a sadder business, for it had represented allan fleming's last clutch at his waning public credit. edith ran to the telephone with the news for fred, and for the first time that day margery and i were alone. she was standing with one hand on the library table; in the other she held aunt jane's letter, half tremulous, wholly tender. i put my hand over hers, on the table. "margery!" i said. she did not stir. "margery, i want my answer, dear. i love you--love you; it isn't possible to tell you how much. there isn't enough time in all existence to tell you. you are mine, margery--mine. you can't get away from that." she turned, very slowly, and looked at me with her level eyes. "yours!" she replied softly, and i took her in my arms. edith was still at the telephone. "i don't know," she was saying. "just wait until i see." as she came toward the door, margery squirmed, but i held her tight. in the doorway edith stopped and stared; then she went swiftly back to the telephone. "yes, dear," she said sweetly. "they are, this minute."